THE LAST BOY (16 page)

In trying to cover Molly's work, what's more, Doreen had stolen precious time from her editing, and she, too, had fallen behind.“Let me help you,” suggested Molly in the afternoon.

“You ever do any editing?” Doreen asked, staring skeptically over the tops of her spectacles that hung low on her nose.

“No, but I think I recognize a whole sentence when I see one.”

“Okay,” said Doreen after a thoughtful pause. “When you have a moment, give this a try.” She handed Molly an article that had just come in. It was a story about the Cayuga Drums, mysterious rumblings that periodically emerged from the bowels of the lake. “But take care of your own tasks first. I know Larry can use all the help you can give him.”

Molly took the story and turned to leave.

“Hey,” said Doreen, looking concerned,“are you really up to all this?”

Molly simply smiled.

She threw herself into her work. She took care of all of Larry's correspondence, negotiated permissions for photos they wanted to use in the next issue, worked with the layout people and printers, and finally, late at night, tried her hand at editing. She worked on tightening up the story about the Cayuga Drums, trimming its excesses and patching up the grammar and awkward sentences.

“Not bad. Not bad at all,” said Doreen scanning the pages she
had done.“But a story's always got to open with a hook. This piece is lame. It takes five paragraphs before you even know what it's about.” Doreen took a red pen and started eliminating whole paragraphs with large, brutal crosses. She used arrows to move sentences from one page to the next, kept on ruthlessly cutting and chopping.

“Brevity is the name of the game. This ain’t supposed to be poetry,” said Doreen, who was known around the office as a bit hard-boiled. She handed the marked copy back to Molly.

“Yes!” said Molly, studying it. Suddenly it was obvious how much excess flab there had been.“I think I’m beginning to get it.”

In the days that followed, Molly came in early every morning, long before anyone arrived, and stayed late, often being the last to lock up and leave. Larry upgraded her computer, gave her an electronic organizer and automatic dialer—like those he had. He got her a beeper so he could reach her whenever he needed. She carried it in her purse, and somehow its proximity gave her comfort. When Doreen handed her another story, Molly turned it around in a day, and it came back with noticeably fewer corrections.

“Not quite there,” said Doreen,“but you’re getting it. That saved me a lot of time. Now try to be just a little more merciless. Look at everything with a jaundiced eye. I do,” she smiled kindly for the first time. Coming from Doreen, the encouragement was no small matter.

As long as she was working, Molly was able to fill the emptiness created by Danny's absence and drive away the demons of doubt. Her baby was alive. Safe. Happy. She kept silently repeating this mantra, reminding herself of the dream. It was only a matter of time until he was back, she told herself, and her only task was to fill that lonely vacuum. Try to sleep through the nights. Slog through the days.

During one lunch break, Tripoli came by the magazine with a bag of Chinese takeout. They drove over to Stewart Park and, after dusting off the thin layer of snow, sat on the tables and stared out at
the deserted lake as they ate the still steaming lo mein.

A couple of ducks waddled by to beg for food and Molly fed them bits of her almond cookie.

“Danny always made me save old bread for these guys. He loved the way they would eat from his hand, tickling his palm.”

Tripoli put his arm around her and she started to shiver. Until that moment, she didn’t realize how cold it was. She nestled in close to him, his body shielding her from the cold wind that blew in from the lake.

“Thanks for lunch.”

“My pleasure,” he smiled, stroking her hair. There were things he wanted to say, but didn’t say them. He wondered what it would have been like had he met her under normal circumstances, Molly a mother with her boy. Would she have gone for him as she had done?

“I’ve gotta get back to work,” she said, getting up from the table.

“No problem,” he said, and wished she didn’t have to, that they could just spend the day together.

They pulled the newest issue together. It ended up being a last-minute affair and Molly, like the others, worked late that night, getting the final bits and pieces ready for the printer. Finally the proofs were handed to the waiting courier, people congratulated each other, and everybody took off for home. Thinking she was alone, Molly began to open the week's haul of thick manila envelopes.

“Hey, enough,” said Larry, emerging from his office.“Enough is enough. It's finished. We take a breather now.”

“But I’ve got to start the new manuscripts moving. We can make up all that lost time—”

“Not tonight you don’t. Come on, let me get you some dinner.”

“But—”

“But nothing. I know I’m a slave driver, but I can’t allow myself to be accused of starving the slaves.”

He took her out to the Glenwood Pines on Route 89, a restaurant with a smoky bar and loud country music, because he thought she’d feel comfortable there. He confessed as much after they had sat down to drinks and she had wondered about his choice.

“So, you think I’m a redneck, huh?” she asked with a knowing smile.

“No, this is a nice place. Very interesting. Excellent drinks,” he said, taking a sip and smacking his lips.

“Well, I
am
a redneck, I guess. Anyway, if it's a choice between town and gown, I’m a townie. That's for sure.”

“Okay, but nevertheless, I like you,” he grinned.“You can be my token townie. Every office needs one.”

“And you’re our token city slicker.”

He laughed.

“It must have been some experience, running a big magazine in the city.”

“Maybe it was. But this is more exciting. There I waltzed into an established operation. It was just a matter of keeping things rolling and not making any major mistakes. But here we’re creating everything from whole cloth. The upside of doing this is phenomenal— and not just for me. For all of us. The whole team.” He looked her straight in the eye. “For you.”

“Geez,” said Molly, who didn’t know how to respond.

“We’re going to repeat this formula in state after state. The same mix. Same upscale audience. Keep the core human interest stories, the gourmet food and recipes, just insert local pieces. It’ll look regional, but it's essentially national. Really big. And I’m counting on you to go with me. All the way. Maybe we’ll move the entire operation to New York.”

She tried to imagine living in New York City. Danny going to some kind of private school where they wore uniforms.

“And I thought you should be the first to know about some
good news,” Larry said, lowering his voice and turning serious. The cell phone in his pocket went off and he just ignored it.

Molly waited.

“We’re moving into new offices. I just signed the lease. It’ll be downtown. Right on West State Street. It's a modern place. We’ll finally have enough room for everything. Expansion included.”

Molly was excited that Larry was sharing this with her.“When's all this going to happen?”

“Right before Thanksgiving.”

The next morning, Tripoli appeared at her door. He looked unusually subdued.“I tried to reach you last night.”

“I was out having dinner. With Larry Pierce. Hey, Trip, why are you looking at me like that? Don’t tell me—”

“No, I’m not jealous…It's not that.”

“What's up?”

“Can I come in?”

Suddenly Molly was alarmed.“You found something.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Out with it!”

“I was wondering. Did Danny ever see a dentist?”

Her heart was pounding and she felt weak in the knees. Before she knew it, the room was spinning and her legs had caved in under her.

Tripoli reached out to catch her, but she collapsed so fast she slipped through his arms. He stretched her out on the trailer floor and elevated her feet.

She revived quickly, her eyes opening in a flutter to stare up at him. “Let me get you some water,” he said, rushing to the sink. When he was sure she was fully conscious, he propped her head up with his arm and gave her a few sips.“Take it slow,” he gently urged.

Molly grunted and then pulled herself up. “Come on. Come
on!” she said irritably. “What did you find? Give it to me straight. You want dental records, right? I’m not a total idiot. Talk!”

As he groped for the right words, something that might be appropriately neutral, she grew more frantic. He didn’t want to talk about bone fragments and decomposed tissue. Finally, he said,“Parts of a child's body have been found.”

“Where?”

“Near…Buffalo. In Batavia.”

“Buffalo? That's not even near!” Molly was shaking.

“Of course, this doesn’t necessarily mean it's Danny,” he added, a little too hastily.

“But it's not Danny. It's not.” Now she was crying.“I just know it.”

“I didn’t want to do this. Ask you, that is.” Tripoli was fighting his own tears.“I just thought it was better me than one of the other officers.” He didn’t want to tell her about the small bones or that the state of decomposition seemed to coincide with the date of Danny's disappearance. They had a couple of fingers, some long bones. Little ones. Teeth. The forensic pathologist was estimating that it came from a male child between four and five years old. They had already run a blood type on the tissue. It was the same as Danny's.

The next morning at work, Larry noticed the state Molly was in. She couldn’t concentrate. Her desk was awash with photos and papers and files, so jumbled she couldn’t seem to assemble them into any coherent order. Finally, he called her into his office and closed the door.

“Is it something I did yesterday—or maybe said? I have a habit of being insensitive, and the last thing in the world I’d want to do is hurt you.”

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “Not you, Larry,” She started crying.

He got up from his desk and went to her, put his arms around her and held her. Molly simply hung on. It took her a good minute to regain control. She wiped her nose, dried her eyes, and told Larry about the body.

“Oh, God!”

“And I was so sure Danny was okay. So very sure. Now I don’t know. I’m not sure of anything. I don’t know if I can take it anymore.”

Tripoli spent the morning rounding up Danny's medical files. When he was just a little over three, the boy had slipped from the monkey bars in Stewart Park. In the fall he had chipped a front tooth and suffered a green fracture of his left leg. The X rays of the leg were at the hospital, and Danny's dentist, who had treated the boy, was at the opposite end of the city.

Finally armed with Danny's records, Tripoli took it upon himself to deliver them to the forensic pathologist. The snow was blowing and drifting, and it took him over three hours to drive to Buffalo.

When he got there, the doctor held the X rays to the overhead lights.“Damn! Wrong bones,” he said, immediately.“I’ve got a right fibula, not a left. And these teeth. We don’t have front incisors. Looks like we’re going to have to go the DNA route.”

“I don’t see what you’ve got to lose,” said Rosie at about the same time Tripoli was leaving Buffalo. She had brought over a casserole and put it into Molly's oven.

“So, who is this woman, anyhow?” Molly asked.

“Her name is Evelyn Kovacs.”

“Evelyn? I’d at least expect her to have a name like Madame Zhivago, or something like that.”

“She looks just like you and me, kind of everyday normal, but
she's got these powers.
Real
powers.” Rosie was very solemn.

“Does she live in a cave surrounded by candles?”

“No, she lives in Lansing up by the mall. Look, I’m not trying to convince you. All I can say is when Ed was working a job and things were sailing along smoothly, she told me that he was going to lose his job. And then, bang, the next day Ed was out on his ass. Laid off.”

“Maybe she arranged it?”

“I couldn’t find my purse with my license and cards and important stuff in it. I swear I looked everywhere. Evelyn asked me, ‘Did you try the garage?’ Just like that.”

“And where was the purse?”

Rosie grabbed a pot holder and opened the stove, squinting to see how her dish was doing. “Sitting smack on the shelf in the garage, just like she said. I couldn’t remember for the life of me putting it there, but there it was. And don’t tell me that Evelyn put it there, or I’ll bean you with this casserole.”

“Careful, it's hot,” said Molly with a full mouth as they later ate. “But good! Hmmm,” she smacked her lips.“One amazing cook. You ought to open a restaurant.”

“So, are we going?” Rosie persisted.

“Madame Evelyn”—as Molly kept referring to her on the drive up to Lansing—lived in a split-level ranch on Burleigh Place, just behind the Triphammer Mall. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with frizzy black hair and thick glasses. She had three kids, a dog, and drove a rusty Subaru wagon which rested in the driveway up on blocks, waiting for new brakes. Her husband was a lecturer in Math at the University, and she did this as a sideline. “Not for the money, mind you,” she offered, as she led the women towards her tiny office in her finished basement. Molly had to step over toys scattered in the playroom.

“You’ll see,” whispered Rosie, giving Molly a nudge. “I’ll wait outside, Evelyn,” she said to the psychic.

Evelyn closed the door, sat Molly in a chair, placing herself directly opposite her. Then she reached behind and lowered the lights with a dimmer.

“Give me your hands,” she said.

Though she felt a little foolish, Molly obeyed.

Evelyn took ahold of her hands and gripped them tightly. Evelyn's fingers, she noticed, were reddened and chafed.

“You have to close your eyes,” Evelyn said.“Try to concentrate.”

Molly closed her eyes. The basement smelled faintly of cat pee, and she could hear the phone ringing somewhere in the house. The family dog scampered overhead, nails scratching the floor. A door slammed.