Gone, Baby, Gone (Kenzie & Gennaro #4)(12)

Hence, all that smiling.

In the end, she told us nothing we hadn’t learned already from either news reports or Lionel and Beatrice.

As for Helene herself—the more time I spent with her, the less I wanted to be in the same room. As we discussed her child’s disappearance, she let us in on the fact that she hated her life. She was lonely; there were no good men left; they needed to put a fence up around Mexico to keep out all those Mexicans who were apparently stealing jobs up here in Boston. She was sure there was a liberal agenda to corrupt every decent American but she couldn’t articulate what that agenda was, only that it affected her ability to be happy and it was determined to keep blacks on welfare. Sure, she was on welfare herself, but she’d been trying hard these last seven years to get off.

She spoke of Amanda as one would speak of a stolen car or an errant pet—she seemed more annoyed than anything else. Her child had disappeared and, boy, had that fucked up her life.

God, it appeared, had anointed Helene McCready Life’s Great Victim. The rest of us could step out of line now. The competition was over.

“Helene,” I said, near the end of our conversation, “is there anything you could tell us that you might have forgotten to tell the police?”

Helene looked at the remote control on the coffee table. “What?” she said.

I repeated my question.

“It’s hard,” she said. “You know?”

“What?” I said.

“Raising a kid.” She looked up at me and her dull eyes widened, as if she were about to impart great wisdom. “It’s hard. It’s not like in the commercials.”



When we left the living room, Helene turned on the TV and Dottie swept past us, two beers in hand, as if she’d been given her cue.

“She’s got some emotional problems,” Lionel told us, once we’d settled in the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Beatrice said. “She’s a cunt.” She poured coffee into her mug.

“Don’t say that word,” Lionel said. “For God’s sake.”

Beatrice poured some coffee into Angie’s cup, looked at me.

I held up my can of Coke.

“Lionel,” Angie said, “your sister doesn’t seem too concerned that Amanda’s missing.”

“Oh, she’s concerned,” Lionel said. “Last night? She cried all night. I think she’s just cried out at the moment. Trying to get a handle on her…grief. You know.”

“Lionel,” I said, “with all due respect, I see self-pity. I don’t see grief.”

“It’s there,” Lionel blinked, looked at his wife. “It’s there. Really.”

Angie said, “I know I’ve said this before, but I really don’t see what we can do that the police aren’t already doing.”

“I know.” Lionel sighed. “I know.”

“Maybe later,” I said.

“Sure,” he agreed.

“If the police get completely stumped and pull off the case,” Angie said. “Maybe then.”

“Yeah.” Lionel came off the wall and held out his hand. “Look, thanks for dropping by. Thanks for…everything.”

“Any time.” I went to shake his hand.

Beatrice’s voice, jagged but clear, stopped me. “She’s four.”

I looked at her.

“Four years old,” she said, her eyes on the ceiling. “And she’s out there somewhere. Maybe lost. Maybe worse.”

“Honey,” Lionel said.

Beatrice gave a small shake of her head. She looked at her drink, then tilted her head and slugged it back, her eyes closed. When it was empty, she tossed her mug on the table and bent over, her hands clasped together.

“Mrs. McCready,” I said, but she cut me off with a wave of her hand.

“Every second people aren’t trying to find her is a second she feels.” She raised her head and opened her eyes.

“Honey,” Lionel said.

“Don’t ‘honey’ me.” She looked at Angie. “Amanda is afraid. She is missing. And Lionel’s bitch sister sits out in my living room with her fat friend sucking down beers and watching herself on TV. And who speaks for Amanda? Huh?” She looked at her husband. She looked at Angie and me, her eyes red. She looked at the floor. “Who shows that little girl that someone gives a shit whether she lives or dies?”

For a full minute, the only sound in that kitchen came from the hum of the refrigerator motor.

Then, very softly, Angie said, “I guess we do.”

I looked at her and raised my eyebrows. She shrugged.

An odd hybrid of laugh and sob escaped Beatrice’s mouth, and she placed a fist to her lips and stared at Angie as tears filled her eyes but refused to fall.





4





The section of Dorchester Avenue that runs through my neighborhood used to have more Irish bars on it than any other street outside Dublin. When I was younger, my father used to participate in a marathon pub crawl to raise money for local charities. Two beers and one shot per bar, and the men would move onto the next one. They’d begin in Fields Corner, the next neighborhood over, and move north up the avenue. The idea was to see which man could remain standing long enough to cross the border into South Boston, less than two miles north.