My Beautiful Failure (20 page)

Just beyond the Common was the fire department. Four fire trucks, one van. Someone stood in the open door
of one of the trucks. I waited for him to finish what he was doing, but then I saw it was not a person but a pair of empty boots and rolled-down pants waiting for someone to jump into them. I schooned to the office marked
VISITORS
and found a firefighter behind the desk watching
Boardwalk Empire.
Another one was eating the last slice from a box of pizza.

“This is kind of a weird question,” I said, “but do you know of any caterers in town that do clambakes?”

“Woodbine’s?” the one behind the desk suggested.

“I don’t think it’s them. I don’t think it’s a restaurant, I think it’s people who bring the clams to your company or picnic or whatever.”

“Beauport Clam Company?”

“Is it—is it run by a woman who used to own a breakfast place with ‘Egg’ in the name?”

“The Incredible Egg,” the pizza one said.

“What is the woman’s name?”

“Marion Sibley.” These guys were pretty quick. They waited for more questions, as if tonight were trivia night.

“May I use your telephone book?”

“Do you have a sudden craving for clams?” the one at the desk asked. He laughed. Then I made a face, and he gave me the phone book from inside his desk.

I couldn’t waste even a second joking with these guys. Precious seconds were slipping by. In fact, maybe I should have asked the firefighters for help. They were
real
lifesavers, after all. But what about confidentiality? I decided that if five minutes went by and I made no progress, I would tell them I was from Listeners and what I was
doing. But as long as I had a chance of finding Jenney in time, I wanted to save her myself.

I called Marion Sibley’s house. Thank God, a woman answered.

“I’m sorry to bother you late at night,” I said. “You have a new person working for you named Jenney, right?” She paused, and I realized that even Jenney’s first name, like Kevin’s, could be fake. If that were the case, I’d have nothing to go on, no clues even for the firefighters.

“Why?” the woman asked.

“My name is Billy Morrison, and I have something I have to drop off for her, but she forgot to give me her address. Please don’t think this is too strange. I’m not a weirdo or anything; I’m a new friend of Jenney’s and I have something of hers that she needs back and I don’t have her address or phone number, and this is something she needs right away, desperately.” I didn’t tell the woman that the thing I would drop off for Jenney was the rest of her life.

“I guess I can give you her cell number,” the woman said, “and she can decide whether to see you or not.”

“No, please, just the address. If you have it on her job application or somewhere. Please, I’m begging you. Jenney needs me to do this.”

The woman left for a minute. Then she came back and said, “She lives at Maple Ledge. I hope it was okay for me to tell you. . . .” But I was yelling “Thank you!” and closing my phone.

Now I had another problem. I’d heard of Maple Ledge but never seen it. “Can you tell me where Maple Ledge is?” I asked the firefighters. “I’m in kind of a hurry.”

“We specialize in hurries. It’s right across the street.”

“It is?”

“Sure.” The firefighter walked me back to the sidewalk. “See the sign saying ‘Hawthorne Housing Authority’? That’s Maple Ledge.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Three more firefighters came downstairs, having finished their supper, I guess, and bored, to see what I wanted.

“That your bike outside?” one asked. “I hope you’re wearing a helmet.”

I strapped on my headgear while observing the place where Jenney lived. Maple Ledge was for people without much money. My first-grade teacher lived there. And Linda’s friend Marcia Jane Bailey. In all our conversations, I never pictured Jenney living downtown, just two blocks from my office. Maybe because her parents were rich. But Jenney didn’t want anything from them. Her loyalty wasn’t for sale.

In minutes I would be at Jenney’s door. How long would it take for her to open it? Then how soon for her to know it was me? Would she need medical attention? Would she have to be revived? As I waited by her bedside for her eyes to open, would she be puzzled at the sight of me, then recognize my voice the minute I spoke? Would she say, “I can’t believe you saved me,” and then we’d be like on the phone, only better?

Breathe, Jenney, breathe.

P
lastic toys, tricycles, and radios. A few people here and there, meeting, leaving, smoking on their front steps in the cold. The residents emitted a prickle of inhospitality. I decided to ask the first person I saw if they knew Jenney, but the first three were men, and two squinted at me, and I felt protective of her, not knowing if they were nice people. Maybe they were simply wary of outsiders, but Maple Ledge reminded me of war photos where everyone is hardened, and you wonder, Where did the friendly people go? Did some kind of high-tech bomb destroy anyone you might want to borrow a dollar from? I wished I could find my old teacher or Marcia Jane Bailey.

At the third building I saw two girls on the steps. I glided in close, using Triumph as a scooter. Both girls had three earrings in each ear and almost no eyebrows, like a dotted line saying “Place eyebrows here.”
Was
one of them Jenney? Did she wake up and come outside to revive herself? I hovered, listening for her voice. But these girls
were both smoking, so they couldn’t be Jenney. She was a swimmer, after all.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for somebody.”

“That usually means trouble.”

“Well, it could in this case, but I hope not.” I had to hurry but sensed they needed softening up. “How are you ladies tonight?”

“Can’t complain.”

A picket gate separated us. “May I?”

Swinging the gate open, I felt all of Maple Ledge’s eyes on me.

“Do you know a girl named Jenney who lives here? A bit older than me?”

“A big girl with honey-colored hair?”

“I don’t know,” I said. Then I regretted how odd that sounded. I had to protect my connection with Jenney. Sure, I could blast through Maple Ledge with an alarm blaring, yelling, “Likely! Likely!” But tomorrow morning when she woke up, Jenney would have lost her privacy.

“I’m a friend of hers, and I knew she was going to be home tonight, and I wanted to surprise her.”

“But you don’t know what she looks like?”

“No.”

“Are you her boyfriend?”

“No.”

“You met online, then.”

“I’d rather not say. But I think she would want to see me if she knew I was here.”

“Why don’t you call her and find out where she is?”

“I don’t have her number.”

“She’s your girlfriend, but you don’t know her number.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found,” said the girl on the right.

I realized that although the girls appeared to be sisters, they were actually a mother and daughter who looked the same age. The kind that were best friends. Real parent-child friendships were rare. They were usually just wishful thinking. On the part of the parent, not the kid.

I wished I had Gordy with me. It would have been comforting to hear my name among strangers. And Gordy would have known how to talk to these women. Unlike me, he had a knack for putting people at ease. What would Gordy say?

“You know, ladies, when I first rode up here, I thought you were sisters or friends. I had no idea you were mother and daughter.”

“Everyone says that,” the mother replied, unimpressed. “You met online, didn’t you? That’s why you don’t know her number. I don’t see why anyone would meet online. There are a lot of wackos out there.”

“I’m not a wacko.”

“Maybe not,” says the younger one. “But you’re not anyone’s dream date, either. If you’re taking Jenney out, is she going to ride on your handlebars?”

I unstrapped my helmet. My head was sweating. I needed to plan the next move. If only this scenario was happening on the phone instead of in person. At Listeners I was great at opening people up. I was a master.

I should have stuck with Ye Olde Girlfriend-Boyfriend Template. I could have talked my way past the neighbors and I would be in the apartment by now. Breathe, Jenney.

“What if I am her boyfriend?”

“Then she’s a lucky girl,” the younger woman said.

The mother exhaled a warning plume. “We’ve talked to Jenney a few times. She never mentioned a boyfriend.”

“I can imagine how you must be feeling. Suspicious. Worried. Maybe impatient.” I rolled back and forth, listing their prejudices like a cagey courtroom lawyer, except on wheels. “But look. I’m just here because I’m worried about Jenney. Look in my eyes. Can’t you tell I’m not one of the bad guys?”

“It’s a good thing you came by, actually,” the mother said. “What is your name?”

“Benjy.”

“I don’t think Jenney has a lot of friends. We spoke to her a few hours ago, and she seemed pretty fried. She said it was a bad day and she was going back to bed.”

I felt dread sweep from my feet to my head as if my body were filling with sand. She should have told me sooner. I was the person she should have told. I was starting to hate myself.

“Rest your bike against the fence there,” the mother said. “I’ll tell you what you say when you get upstairs.”

“I should get up there right away.”

“Listen to me for a minute. She’s independent. She might pretend everything’s fine.”

“Right. What’s the apartment number?”

“Thirty.”

“What building is that in?”

She jerked her thumb toward the building beside us and let me in the front door with her key.

Jenney, I’m here.

T
he hallway smelled like cigarette smoke and litter boxes. The heat seemed too high, and someone had left a window open in the staircase. I heard the furnace clanging underneath us. Beside the door marked thirty, polka-dotted snowboots and an umbrella rested on a plastic tray.

I knocked on the door. “Jenney, it’s Billy. I know you told me not to come, but I did anyway, because I was worried. Jenney?” I looked for a doorbell or buzzer but couldn’t find one. I must have passed it in the lobby.

“Jenney, it’s Billy. Don’t you recognize my voice? It’s me. For real. Can you believe it? I’m here. Now let me in. Let me in and we’ll talk.” I tried not to shout or sound like I was arguing. I didn’t want a crowd to gather.

“Okay, we can talk through the door if you want. You don’t have to let me in. It would be nice to meet in person someday, but I don’t really care. It’s up to you. Bring a chair to the door and sit down if you’re tired. We’ll talk right through the door.

“Hey, I have a cell phone with me. Why don’t I give you the number?

“Hear this? I have my cell phone. It’s 978-555-0136. You sit there, I’ll sit out here, and we’ll talk. Here I go. Getting comfortable. Waiting for your call. Operators are standing by.

“Did I give you that number too fast? Just pick up the phone, Jenney, if you hear me. You don’t have to write anything down. I’ll say the numbers one at a time, and you punch them in. 9. 7. 8. 5. 5. 5. 0. 1. 3. 6. . . . 9. 7. 8. 5. 5. 5. 0. 1. 3. 6. . . . 9. 7. 8. 5. 5. 5. 0. 1. 3. 6.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Jenney. I won’t even come in. We don’t need to see each other. Just say something. Tell me what you’re doing right now.

“Do you want me to go away, Jenney? If you’re all right and you want me to go away and leave you alone, knock twice.

“Knock twice, Jenney.

“If you can’t get to the door, knock twice on the wall wherever you are. Knock twice.

“Knock once.

“Are you tired? Just knock once.

“Knock like this. Hear this?”

The apartment was too quiet. If only I heard a sound. One sound. Groaning. Furniture moving. Anything.

I didn’t think I was going to save her.

“Jenney, give me something. Give me something I can work with.”

I opened my phone and called 911.

I
waited for the police, looking out a curtainless window in a staircase that smelled like disinfectant and old trash. I heard the siren, and a scowling nub of people in the playground dispersed. The first cop came up the stairs, a tall policewoman with a blond crew cut and long earrings, named, according to her badge, Lieutenant Tall. Behind her was Officer Novello, who I recognized as a friend of Marty’s. He came to our house in the winter when I abandoned Dad to attend a blues concert. He must have thought I was a pain in the butt, first disappearing from where I needed to be, then showing up where I had no business being.

“You the friend?” the woman said.

I answered yes.

“Lieutenant Tall of the Hawthorne Police Department. Step aside, please.”

“Police! Anybody here?” She tried the knob. She pressed her ear against the door. Then she knocked. “Police! Anybody here?”

She turned to me again. “Have you spoken to your friend since you talked to our dispatcher?”

“No.”

“The fire squad is coming to get this door open.”

Almost immediately two firefighters were upstairs too, including the one who’d sat at the desk and given me directions. He didn’t seem surprised to see me. Maybe nothing surprised them. He inserted a claw in the doorjamb and struck it with a flatheaded ax. The door opened.

Behind the scratched-up door I glimpsed a normal living room with a nautical-style clock, a television, a laptop computer beside an empty KFC bucket. A couch, some blankets.

“Miss? Miss?” Lieutenant Tall called. “Jenney? Are you here?”

Then they moved through the apartment, pushing doors open. A closet. A bathroom. A bedroom.

“There’s someone in here,” a firefighter said.

“Stay out there,” Officer Novello told me. “Don’t come in.”

“There’s someone in the bed,” Lieutenant Tall said. “Miss? Are you Jenney?”

Novello came out to the hall. “Don’t go in.”

He talked on his radio? To police headquarters? To an ambulance that would now turn back? But Jenney’s voice was nowhere to be heard, and I dialed Pep’s cell number and left a message of two words: “Jenney’s dead.” Officer Novello wrapped his arm around my shoulder and led me to the stairs. Otherwise I would have stood there, listening, forever.