He's Gone (12 page)

“That you do.” The drippy coffee napkins have splotched Nathan’s shirt.

“So you and Ian had a meeting.”

“I had gotten some people together, investors, to see what my options were. I invited a couple of them. I called us together, away from work, on a weekend. Neutral time, neutral territory. We met over at Starbucks, by work. Nine
A.M
., after he had his
coffee; you know how he needs it. Witnesses, in case he put his hands around my throat. I told him I could offer him enough to make it worth his while.”

“What’d he say?”

“I think he felt ganged up on, with those other guys there. He asked, ‘Why?’ He seemed honestly baffled. I said, ‘God help me, Ian, if we keep working together, I’m gonna kill you.’ ”

I’ve been staring into my cup, swirling what was left of that heart, but I look up at Nathan then. He blushes.

“What did he do?” I ask finally.

“He didn’t do anything. He just stared at me. He was shocked. And then his face got hard. Distant. He looked at me as if he’d already dismissed me. It felt permanent. I don’t know … He got up and walked out. I didn’t see him the rest of the day. Not until the party.”

When you love a person, you come to know so many things about them. You know what they’ll order in a restaurant, and you know that they’ll cut the scratchy tags off their shirt collars and that they get cranky when they need to eat or when the bed sheets have become baggy. You know by the lilt and rhythms of their voice if they’re talking on the phone to their mother, or their daughter, or their lawyer. But, maybe most of all, you know their relationship to criticism.

And Ian’s relationship to criticism—well, the people most sensitive to criticism are usually the best at handing it out, aren’t they? Ian always made sure that
no one
would think badly of him—not God, not the lady wearing prissy shoes on the train, not some omniscient “they,” not the ever-present ghost of Paul Hartley Keller. There would be no misplaced commas or wrongly used salad forks, and when you were on his arm, you could not stumble or stammer, either. And no one, by God,
no one
would find him irritating enough to dismiss.

“Wow,” I say. “I don’t know how to see this.”

“I don’t, either, actually.” Nathan rubs the back of his neck.

“What does this mean?”

“I just thought I should tell you. It sounds so bad. God, it sounds
guilty
. Maybe I watch too much TV. I
do
watch too much TV. But it sounds like—I hate to say this, but I want to before anyone else does. It sounds like some kind of
motive
.”

The rain drips down the windows. It’s really coming down. I like rain, but right now it seems so cold and terrible. Ian might be out there in that weather somewhere, hurt. Dead, even. There are enough reasons not to think he’s dead, though, to believe that he’s run off, and Nathan’s news provides another one. It sits like a horrible stone in my stomach. I can’t help it—I feel bad for Ian, wherever he is.

Nathan and I look at each other, saying nothing. The word—
motive
—it hangs there between us. Neither of us moves. We are both paralyzed. But the blond woman takes her extra-skim-no-no-no-whatever to her table and settles in comfortably, and the latte machines continue to grind and steam all of those desperate attempts at control.

Ian’s gone-ness—it’s a deep black chronic pain, and it never lets up. But then I drive back home and the stupid Fremont Bridge goes up. For a brief second I’m only irritated. Irritated the way a normal person is when the stupid bridge goes up, when we are all sitting there waiting and waiting as that impossibly huge rectangle of iron rises inch by frustrating inch. Waiting as the lone sailboat meanders across as we twiddle our thumbs with our shut-off engines. I realize what I’ve done. I’ve had a two-second reprieve from the sick, heavy feeling in my gut and heart. I’ve forgotten. I feel terrible about this. My worry is another kind of
superstition, a form of prayer that will keep him safe, and I’ve let down my guard.

I drive down Fairview, the street that hugs the lakeside. Right away, I notice Ian everywhere. For a second I think I’m in a horrible dream. I wonder if I’m going crazy. Then I realize that Abby has been busy posting flyers. Ian’s face looks out from the telephone poles along the street. He’s staring at me everywhere I look. It’s disturbing. I park the car, and he’s right there. It gives me the creeps. Once, there was a flyer for Louise’s missing parrot in the exact same spot. The parrot was finally found in a tree, and when Mattie climbed a ladder to get it, she fell and broke her leg.

I try not to look at Ian’s parked car, either. That car seems especially cruel. Normally when I see it there, it means he’s home. But now it’s cold and elusive, keeping its own secrets.

I hurry inside, away from all those Ian faces. Pollux, bless him—he’s thrilled to see me. He jumps up on my legs, his tail going a million miles an hour. Before all this, I often wondered how old Poll viewed the passing of time while I was gone. Did he ever worry I wouldn’t come back? How long was an hour to him, or a day? When we went on vacation and had to leave him in a kennel, it always upset me. He looked sad, and that place was sad, too, with its flecked-linoleum floor and barking dogs and the odd gray-haired owner, who preferred animals to people. On the counter, there was a Lucite holder of pamphlets about dog training, and they’d been there long enough to become defeated, the print faded and the edges curled. The place smelled like sawdust and Lysol and dog. Pollux might think we’d left him there for good, and I couldn’t bear that idea. Before we’d go, I’d explain that we’d be away for a week or two, and I would tell him how much I loved him. I could only hope that somewhere in his sweet little brain he would know I’d never leave him. But what would it mean to him, to be left there? As the days went on
and he kept waiting, a day might mean a week, and a week might mean forever.

“I’m back, boy. I’m back.” I put my face to his fur. My voice wobbles with tears, but he refuses to join the drama. He escapes my grasp, sits by the door like a gentleman. He’s moved on to the practical matters of his bladder.

There’s a note on the counter from Abby.
Putting up flyers with Zach and Janna. Back in a few
.

I stand there in my coat with my purse over my shoulder. I am in my own home, and I am wholly and utterly lost.

Pollux’s rump is inappropriately merry as he jogs down the dock. It’s quiet out here right now. The gray drizzly sky makes everything look gray. The lake is gray, and the ducks paddling by are gray, and the windows of the houseboats reflect gray. Rain drips from plant leaves and gutter spouts. Most everyone is at work except for Jennie and her baby, and old Joseph Grayson, who’s smoking another joint, by the smell of things. I walk Pollux to the end of the dock, and he goes through the daily (and ridiculous, if you ask me) ruse of deciding where to pee. He walks in circles and sniffs and walks in more circles, as if thoroughly considering his options, and then, of course, lifts his leg on the same old flower box he lifts his leg on every single time.

I’d tucked Ian’s car key into my jeans, and now I unlock that cold, callous Jaguar. I open the door for Pollux, and he hops in and sits down. You can see how pleased he is—he’s never been allowed in this car before, which shows a lack of faith on Ian’s part. Pollux is always a respectful passenger.

I am about to get in on the driver’s side when I notice a long scratch on his door. I’ve never seen it before. Where did
that
come from and, more important,
when
? With all the looking I’ve
been doing at that car, you’d think I’d have noticed it. Maybe it’s been too dark, or maybe I haven’t been clearheaded enough to observe carefully. I don’t know. I have no idea. It’s a nasty scratch. Deep. Could have been anything—a key, a branch, a hurried, misjudged left turn. You don’t really want to park on the street here, but there’s not much choice. Some kid buying beer at Pete’s could have gotten wrathful after his fifth drink. Ian will be furious.

I get in on Ian’s side. I sit in his seat. Detective Vince Jackson already looked inside here, so I assume I’m not disturbing anything important, evidence of some kind, if there is evidence. The idea of
evidence
seems overly dramatic. That empty file folder and the sweatshirt are still in the back. Maybe I watch too much TV, same as Nathan.

I put my hands on the wheel, because that’s where Ian places his own hands nearly every day. I plead with him.
Where are you? Please, just let me know. Please!
The not knowing and the waiting … Not knowing and not knowing and not knowing, and waiting and waiting and waiting. It is killing me. Ian stares at me from that telephone pole. Ian, on our wedding day, wearing that grin. The way he’s looking at me makes me shiver.

His car smells like leather and his musky-clean cologne. The seat is closer to the wheel than usual, something Detective Vince Jackson must have done, because it’s way too close for Ian. Perfect for me if I were driving, but Ian’s nose would be right up to the windshield like that. I reach down and scoot the seat back so that I’m exactly where he’d be. Where I last remembered seeing him. I stretch my foot to the pedal. I close my eyes and try to bring him close. I try to feel him. I try to get him to speak to me, some mad metaphysical exercise that goes nowhere. When I was twelve, I’d saved my allowance and bought a Ouija board, hoping for supernatural communication. In my heart of hearts,
though, I knew that when the teardrop pointer moved, it was only Jackie Zavier, pushing it with her mood-ring fingers.

I change tactics. I fish through his glove box, finding nothing but the car manual and extra fast-food napkins. There’s a package of wet wipes. An ice-scraper. A brittle rubber band. I look in his ashtray and find a few quarters and too many pennies, the wrinkled foil from a roll of mints, and a white pill, which upon closer inspection proves to be a Tylenol. I have a flash of what I am sure is a brainstorm, the obvious overlooked answer, and I check under the plastic mats, finding only dirt crumbles and gravel, the lacy skeleton of a lone dried leaf. I get out and open the trunk. There’s the spare tire and a set of jumper cables and the red plaid blanket he keeps there in case of emergency.

I give up my investigation. I get back in the car, just so I can be with him. I imagine his profile; his black hair combed neatly, his Adam’s apple. His manicured hands are on the wheel, and one reaches for the radio dial to turn up a song we especially like.

Car dance for me
, he’d say. He says this often, and I’ll do some goofy upper-body-only move, shaking imaginary maracas. We have a version for various places. Bed dance, couch dance. Various jazzy commercials might come on, which inspire us.

Oh, you are
fine, he would say, smiling, sneaking side-glances as he drove.

I’m a pro
, I’d say.
I’m thinking of going full time
.

If anyone should full-time car dance, it’s you, baby
.

That night, driving home after the party? We weren’t joking then. His jawline was tight. Light from streetlamps illuminated his face in flashes. I rode beside him, wearing that stupid tight dress, my shoes off, thank God. We both smelled like party aftermath—alcohol and other people’s cigarettes.

I look over at my passenger now. Pollux sits in his seat politely,
gazing out the window, as if we are driving down a pleasant country road while he enjoys the view.

I need to call Dr. Shana Berg’s office again. I don’t want to. But I need to. I had told Abby that I didn’t remember what that dream was about. I do, though. And, I have to say, it bothers me. It bothers me a great deal.

6

Memory is such a sadistic, temperamental little beast. You can forget where you just put your car keys but remember that you gave your sixth-grade teacher a bottle of Love’s Baby Soft Musk for Christmas. You can sit in some dentist’s office, filling out a form, unable to recall your husband’s cellphone number (a number you call at least once a day), but, great, there’s the address of your old house from childhood:
115 Sterling Court
. My sister is especially adept at summoning lyrics to forgettable songs—“Muskrat Love,” for example. She can do all of “Sail On, Sailor.”
I sailed an ocean! Unsettled ocean! Through restful waters and deep commotion!
That’s all I know, but she does the other verses. She shows off about it. Words from my junior high fight song have come unbidden while trying to fall asleep at night, and I know “Afternoon Delight,” but she’s the queen. I wonder if some brains have an area reserved for songs from the seventies.

“Afternoon Delight,” my God!
Oh, mighty Rose Hill Royals, give us a score!
Both of those inconsequential songs conscientiously remain there, awaiting my need of them. Why, then,
why
does this magical, powerful entity that’s our very own brain hold out on the most critical things? How does the most vital stuff slip
through its Vulcan starship efficiency? Or is it actually there, maliciously hiding somewhere in all those gnarled, twisty crevices? Sneaking out for a bit of that sadistic, tip-of-the-tongue taunting? It’s your own brain. It should be on your side. So often it’s your very own self that betrays you, that’s the thing.

“Did he change his clothes when he came home after the party?” Detective Vince Jackson asks.

“I don’t remember,” I say. “I assume so. I went straight to bed.”

Definitely I watch too much TV. When Detective Vince Jackson called that morning to ask me to come to the police station, I imagined us in some frighteningly blank room, empty of everything except a desk and two chairs and a microphone. There would be a hidden camera up by the ceiling and one of those two-way mirrors with a bunch of people watching on the other side.

Do you need a lawyer?
my mother had asked. I’d phoned her in a panic to tell her that Detective Jackson wanted to speak with me.