Our Missing Hearts (17)

They’re investigating a professor over at the law school. Wanted a list of every book she’s ever borrowed. And then, once they had the titles, they wanted to take every single one. Took me six and a half hours to pull them all. Four hundred and twenty-two books.

Breath rushes into Bird; he hadn’t known he was holding it.

Why did they want them, he asks cautiously.

It is a question he would not have asked a week ago; a week ago, he would not have found this ominous, let alone unusual. Maybe, he thinks suddenly—maybe it isn’t unusual at all.

His father sets his bag on the floor, drops his keys with a clatter on the counter.

She’s writing a book on the first amendment and PACT, apparently, he says. They think she might be funded by the Chinese. Trying to stir up unrest over here.

Slowly he pulls the noose of his tie free from his collar.

Is she? Bird asks.

His father turns toward him, looking more tired than Bird has ever seen. For the first time he notices the gray threading through his father’s hair, the lines etched from the corners of his eyes, like tear tracks.

Honestly? his father says. Probably not. But that’s what they think.

He checks his watch, then opens the cupboard, which contains nothing but a half-empty jar of peanut butter. No bread.

Let’s get some dinner, he says to Bird.

They hurry down the stairs and out to the pizza place just a few blocks away. Bird’s father doesn’t care for pizza—too greasy, he tells Bird, all that cheese—but it is late and they are hungry and this is the closest place, open until nine.

The man behind the counter takes their order and slides four slices into the oven to heat up, and Bird and his father lean against the sticky wall, waiting. His stomach is growling. Cool dark air wafts in through the propped-open door, and the handful of notices taped to the store’s window flutter in the breeze. Found cat. Guitar lessons. Apartment for rent. Down in the corner, right above the health inspection sticker, a star-spangled placard: god bless all loyal americans. The same placard nearly every store displays, sold in every city, proceeds benefiting neighborhood-watch groups. The few stores that don’t hang it are viewed with skepticism. Aren’t you a loyal American? Then why the fuss over a little sign? Don’t you want to support the neighborhood watch? The huge steel oven ticks and steams. Behind the counter, the pizza guy rests one elbow on the cash register, scrolling on his phone, smirking at a joke.

It is 8:52 when the old man comes in. An Asian face, white button-down and black pants, silvering hair neatly clipped. Chinese? Filipino? Bird can’t tell. The man sets a folded five on the counter.

Slice of pepperoni, he says.

The pizza guy doesn’t even look up. We’re closed, he says.

You don’t look closed. The man glances over at Bird and his father, who half steps in front of Bird like a screen. They’re here, he says.

We’re closed, the pizza guy repeats, louder. His thumb flicks upward across the phone, and an endless river of pictures and posts whizzes by. Bird’s father jostles him on one shoulder. The same jostle as when they pass a policeman, or roadkill in the street. It means: Turn around. Don’t look. But this time Bird doesn’t turn. It’s not curiosity; it’s a need. A morbid need to know what’s been crouching behind him, unseen.

Look, I just want a piece of pizza, the old man says. I just got off work, I’m hungry.

He slides the bill across the counter. His hands are leathery and tough, the fingers knobbled with age. He looks like someone’s grandfather, Bird thinks, and then the thought arrives: if he had a grandfather, he might look like this man.

The pizza guy sets his phone down.

You don’t understand English? he says calmly, as if commenting on the weather. There’s a Chinese restaurant over on Mass Ave. Go get yourself some fried rice and spring rolls, if you’re hungry. We’re closed.

He folds his hands like a patient teacher, and stares squarely at the old man. What are you going to do about it?

Bird is frozen in place. He can only look and look: at the old man, jaw set, one leg squared behind him as if braced for a push. At the pizza guy, the oil spots speckling his T-shirt, his large meaty hands. At his father, the lines on his face making whiskery shadows, his eyes fixed on the flyers on the window, as if nothing is happening, as if this is just an ordinary day. He wants the old man to deliver a biting comeback, he wants the old man to punch the pizza guy in his smirking face, he wants the old man to back away before the pizza guy says—or does—something worse. Before he lifts those hands that pound and flatten thick dough into compliance. The moment tautens and tightens, like an overtuned string.

And then the old man plucks the money from the counter again, wordlessly, and tucks it back into his pocket. He turns, away from the pizza guy’s grin, and looks at Bird instead, a long hard look, then at Bird’s father. And then he murmurs something to Bird’s father, something Bird doesn’t understand.

He has never heard these words before, has never even heard this language before, but it is clear from the look on his father’s face that his father has, that he not only recognizes the language but understands it, understands what this man has said. He has the feeling, somehow, that they’re talking about him, the way the man looks at him and then at his father, that meaningful gaze that cuts right through Bird’s skin and flesh to scrutinize his bones. But his father doesn’t reply, doesn’t even move, just quickly glances away. Then the old man strides out, head held high, and is gone.