The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(18)

She looked at us, doubtful. “I always try to be hopeful even though it’s stupid!”

Her hands began to shake and her eyes glazed.

I said, “You go to school during the day and work all night? Tough schedule.”

“It’s actually not that bad. When I’m here I mostly get to sleep unless a resident has an issue and when they do it’s almost always short-term—bad dreams, someone wants water or a snack. Also, I only have classes twice a week—graduate seminars, both in the afternoon, so I can catch up on the other days.”

“How did the other residents react to Benny not coming home?”

“A couple asked, I told them Benny had an appointment, he’d be back. No one argued. They’re like that. Docile—does that sound patronizing? They’re cooperative, very gentle people. And Saturday was a field trip, Descanso Gardens, they came home exhausted. It’ll be like that today ’cause of the zoo. We try to keep them occupied.”

“Where did Benny go on Friday?”

“To his job. An art gallery, sweeping up,” said Justine Merck. “Obviously I phoned them first, they said he’d been there until two, two thirty, as usual, seemed fine when he left. It’s not a strict schedule, they basically let him hang around.”

I said, “He likes the zoo but chose not to go.”

“He liked having a job. It made him feel…meaningful—this is a nightmare!”

The first tissue was soaked and compressed. Milo gave her another and she blew her nose noisily.

“I even looked for him right here. In his room, every other room, the backyard. Even though I knew that was irrational. Wanting to do something, you know?”

I said, “Of course. How many doors are there?”

“The front where you came in and in back, from the laundry area to the backyard.”

“So if no one was at the rear of the house, someone could come and go without being noticed.”

“I guess so.” Justine Merck wrung her hands. “We don’t lock them up, it’s not a jail, the whole point is fostering independence. Benny loved his job. Loved art, loved to draw.”

Milo said, “Was he talented?”

She slumped. “He drew me stick figures. I told him they were fantastic.”

“What’s the name of the gallery where he worked?”

“Verlang Contemporary, it’s on Hart Street, not far.”

“Benny walked.”

“It’s less than a mile, and he always went during daylight. When he started, a student volunteer accompanied him. After a week, he insisted on doing it himself. That’s consistent with our approach.”

“How long had he been working there?”

“Months,” she said.

Milo said, “What’s Marcella’s full name and number?”

“Marcella McGann. Hold on.” Justine Merck stood, took a moment to steady herself, hurried out and returned scrolling a cellphone. She read off the number. “But like I said, she’s on vacation.”

“Where?”

“Mexico—Cabo, I think. With her boyfriend, they’d been planning it for a while.”

I said, “You get up at night when the residents have issues. Did that ever include Benny?”

“Not often. And he’d never make a fuss, just come down and tell me he couldn’t sleep. We’d chat for a while and I’d walk him back up. He wasn’t malfunctioning or anything, if that’s what you’re getting at. I just got the feeling he sometimes had ideas in his head and didn’t know what to do with them. At night and when he was awake.”

“What kind of ideas?”

“I don’t know, maybe I’m totally wrong,” she said. “But people like him think a lot. They’re just like anyone else. Sometimes he’d get a look”—she tapped her head—“and I’d be like, ‘What’s going on up here, Benny?’ Sometimes he wouldn’t answer, sometimes he’d look up at me with this puppy smile and say, ‘You’re so smart, Justy.’?”

Tears welled. She wiped them away.

I said, “A gentle guy.”

“The gentlest. Why would anyone hurt him? Unless it had something to do with the neighborhood. Something he ran into while walking back.”

“You’ve had problems in the neighborhood?”

“Fewer than you’d expect, but sure, it’s like any other urban thing. I mean I’m not judging and disparaging an entire region because it’s low-income, but my first year of grad school I had a placement at one of the downtown shelters and it was scary. Not most of the homeless, just a few. You’d get some who were totally irrational with major anger issues.”

She touched her left forearm. “I got my arm sprained once. Ladling out food and a guy, a total schizophrenic, thought I wasn’t moving fast enough and grabbed me and twisted.”

“Scary,” I said.

“Petrifying. So when Benny still didn’t show up, I thought, What if he ran into someone like that? He’d be defenseless. But you can’t imprison them. There are always risks to be weighed. Right?”

We nodded.

She threw up her hands. “Working with the disabled, nothing they teach you in school prepares you. Like that shelter, how could I be ready for that?”