Pictures of You (17 page)

“Make yourself at home,” Miss Rivers said kindly. She put an arm about him and gave him a quick hug. She showed him the friendly-looking tables where everyone could work at the seat they chose; the class schedule marking off math, reading, science, and free work time; and the list of rules she had put up. “You’re in fourth grade now, so we have some privileges.” He could go outside and get a bottled water if he wanted or a snack from one of
the vending machines. He was allowed to go to the office and the school library himself, without a partner. “You know everyone,” Miss Rivers said, and Sam nodded. He noticed that the other kids shied away from him, as if he had cooties or something.

Sam hung his book bag on a hook and slunk to a seat at a table. All day, he felt out of sorts. His pen leaked during free writing period and stained the tips of his fingers, so he had to go the bathroom and scrub and scrub. During reading, he couldn’t find anything in the school library that really interested him, so he was stuck reading a book about farming that was so boring, he finally closed it and doodled pictures of dogs on a piece of paper instead.

Everyone treated him differently. His friend Don, who had come over to play chess after the accident, just nodded at him but didn’t ask Sam if he wanted to come over for a playdate. Annie, Sam’s science partner from last year, who everyone said had a crush on him, didn’t even look up at him when Sam said hello. “Annie,” he said louder, and this time she met his eyes and then looked away.

No one mentioned his mother or where she might be. They didn’t have to.

Only Teddy Boudreaux treated him the same as he had last year, sticking a leg out when Sam was walking to sharpen his pencil before free-writing period, so that Sam tripped. “Walk much?” Teddy hissed, keeping his eyes on him so long that Sam felt unnerved.

Sam knew he shouldn’t take it personally. No one wanted to be friends with Teddy. Teddy lived with his mother, but because she was never home, he ran wild all over town. He was always in the principal’s office, and last year he had been suspended for two weeks because he had taken a hammer to school and threatened to hit any kid who bothered him. Teddy’s favorite target was always Sam. He made wheezing sounds to humiliate him. “Asthma Boy,” he hissed. Just last spring, Teddy had stolen Sam’s inhaler right out of his pocket and thrown it in the toilet in the boys’ room. By the time Sam found it, he was already wheezing and panicked, and
even though the water in the toilet looked clean, he had had to run it under the hot water for a long time before he dared to use it.

To Sam’s relief, Miss Rivers came right over and put her hand on his shoulder. “You take it easy today,” she said.

“Everything’s so different,” said Sam, meaning the room.

“Well, we’re all friends here,” Miss Rivers said, guiding him back to his seat.

Sam stared at the blank paper in front of him. He had no idea what to write about, but he knew the teacher would get mad if he didn’t put down something, so he wrote a few sentences about a movie he had watched on TV. Then, because he couldn’t think of anything else to write, he got up to go outside and get himself some water.

It was cool having privileges, being out in the corridor without a teacher or a partner. The hallways were long and empty and smelled like disinfectant, and for a moment Sam wondered if he could run down them and not be stopped. The vending machines were around the corner, filled with healthy, boring snacks like nuts and raisins. As soon as Sam reached the machines, he saw Teddy, and he stood perfectly still. How had Teddy gotten here so fast and how come Sam hadn’t seen him leave the classroom? Teddy gave Sam the once-over, and then crouched by the snack machine, his hand up in the mouth of the machine. He tugged out a bag of pretzels and pocketed it and then looked defiantly at Sam, narrowing his eyes. Then he thrust his arm up into the machine again.

“What are you doing to that machine?” Mr. Morgan, the sixth-grade science teacher, suddenly appeared. Teddy jumped up, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Teddy, didn’t we talk about this? Don’t you have any respect for school property? Do you like going to the principal? Do you want us to call your mother? Three strikes you’re out and this is strike three.”

Teddy stayed silent, his face flushed. He looked so miserable that, despite himself, Sam felt a pang of pity. “My snack got stuck and Teddy was trying to get it for me,” Sam said. As soon as he said it, he felt shocked.

As soon as Mr. Morgan looked at Sam, his whole face seemed to soften. He looked from Sam to Teddy doubtfully. “We have privilege,” Sam said weakly.

“Not for hours at a time. Get back in class, the both of you,” Mr. Morgan said. He watched them round the corner, and as soon as they did, Teddy’s hands curled into fists, and Sam leaped back, banging into the lockers. Teddy gave him a long glare and then vanished into the classroom.

The bell rang at two thirty, and Sam’s stomach lurched. He half expected to see his mother. She used to meet him at the front of the school in the car, revving the motor, her radio so loud, everyone could hear it. She never looked like any of the other mothers. She’d be wearing a pretty, bright-colored dress while the other mothers were in shorts and T-shirts, their hair in ponytails. The other mothers were as brown as nuts from the sun and the beach, but his mother was as pale as a piece of paper. The other mothers also huddled together and chatted about school and their kids, but Sam’s mother stood apart. When someone said hello, she looked surprised, as if they had said hi to the wrong person, and barely turned her head.

When she zoomed up to the curb, she jumped out like a chauffeur for him. She held the door of the car open like it was a chariot. “Let’s vamoose,” she’d say, with a flourish, and he couldn’t wait.

Now, he hung out on the sidewalk. He folded his arms, he tried to make himself a small, tight ball. He felt the other mothers watching him.

Someone tapped him. “How are you doing, Sam?”

He turned and there was Archie Simpson’s mom. He and Archie weren’t friends, though they had been in the same class since kindergarten. Archie was big and freckled and he picked his nose, something that always made Sam want to sit as far away from Archie as he possibly could. “Fine,” he said forcefully. “Just fine!”

She looked at him doubtfully. Her eyes filled with sympathy that made Sam want to cry and scream at the same time. “Is your dad
coming to get you?” she said. She raised one hand up like a visor over her eyes. She squinted down at him. “Because I’m just waiting for Archie, and I’m sure he’d love to have you come over.”

Sam squirmed. Archie didn’t read or draw or like to do anything but Pokémon, which bored Sam. “Really,” said Archie’s mother. “Would you like to come with us?”

“No, thank you. I’m allowed to walk home by myself now,” Sam told her.

C
HARLIE WAS IN
the supermarket, stocking up on fruits and vegetables. Neither he nor Sam had any appetite, but it was still important to have family dinners, to brush your teeth and act normal, even if you felt you could never be normal again. Charlie wheeled down the pasta aisle, grabbing sauce and ziti, a green cylinder of grated cheese.

Maybe he’d buy some wine, have a glass at dinner to tempt an appetite. He knew that you could stay lost forever if you wanted, if you didn’t fight it every second. Charlie had seen it with his clients. Husbands or wives whose spouses had left them in the middle of the renovations would insist on moving forward even though they couldn’t walk into a room without bursting into tears. A couple whose baby had died of SIDS would repaint every room in their home except the baby’s. He remembered them. The unhappy ones. The ones whose lives had crashed like comets into solid earth.

Last night, when his mother had called, she’d told him to act as if he was happy and then he would be. She insisted it was a whole philosophy her book group had been discussing.

“I can’t act as if April is still alive,” he snapped, and then, hearing his mother’s hurt silence, felt instantly sorry. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just a little hard right now.”

“You never listen to me. No one is saying that you should act as if April’s alive,” she said. “Of course you can’t. Of course it’s horrible and tragic. But just act as if you have hope. Can you do that one little thing? Can you do it for Sam?”

Charlie thought of how, every day, sadness would build up inside him but he’d tamp it down, waiting until Sam was asleep, and only then would Charlie cry. “I’ll see what I can do,” Charlie said.

He bought the groceries and put them in the car, and then as he was driving home, he spotted the sign: Henderson’s Detective Agency. Impulsively, he pulled the car in. Maybe they could find out what happened, tell him where April was going on that road.

When he walked in, the main room was empty, and almost every inch of wall was covered with maps. When Charlie walked closer, he saw they were maps of Spain and China and Germany. They were beautifully framed, and in the far corner was a clock divided into six time zones. All Charlie could think was, Look at all the places where you can be lost. Look at all the places you can disappear.

Charlie didn’t know what he expected, probably a dumpy guy in a badly cut suit, who smelled of cigarettes. A door in the back of the room opened and a man strode toward him, in an expensive dark suit and silver tie, as polished as the flat-screen computer humming on his desk. “Hank Williams, and no relation,” said the man. “I don’t even like country music.”

“Charlie Nash,” Charlie said. Williams held out his hand for Charlie’s and pumped it, nodding with recognition. He sat down behind his desk, looked at the computer, and then motioned to Charlie. “So, tell me,” he said. “I know about the case from what I’ve read in the papers or heard on the news. So, what are we really looking at here? What’s this about?”

At first, he took a lot of notes, which reassured Charlie. He asked a lot of questions, but then gradually, Hank began tapping his fingers on the desktop, and then he folded his hands and studied him so intently that Charlie sat straighter in his seat.

“Let’s start with the facts. Your wife is dead, Mr. Nash. You know she’s not coming back and nothing you find is going to change that.”

“Of course I know that.”

“And you know I may not find anything, or what I find might not make you feel any better. And you know you still have to pay me for my time.” Hank met Charlie’s eyes.

“I know that,” Charlie said.

“You don’t have much to go on,” Hank said. “You don’t have a description of anyone she might have been seen with. All you know is that she was three hours away from your home with your son. You saw each other every day and you said she wasn’t unhappy.”

“She wasn’t.” Charlie thought of April beaming at him when he came home. He thought of the way she always hooked her legs around his when they went to bed at night. He felt something snaking up his spine. “Isn’t it your job to find out all these things?”

Hank settled back in his chair. “I just want you to be sure you want to know.”

“I want you to find out why my wife left. I want you to find out where she was going and why she took our son with her.”

“I can take your case,” Hank said. “I can call all the people in her address book, and track down some leads. Ask the right questions. Everything’s computerized these days, so my expenses won’t be that much. But even so, I’m not cheap. $5,000 for the month. That should be enough to see if there are leads here.” He tapped his fingers on the desk.

Charlie thought of the bills he had to pay, the jobs he hadn’t worked because he had felt too stressed. “Whom do I make the check out to?” Charlie said. “I’ll take a month.”

C
HARLIE MAILED
H
ANK
pictures of April, her address book, even samples of her handwriting. He told Hank about her waitressing at the Blue Cupcake. He gave him phone bills and MasterCard receipts. Every day, Charlie waited for the phone to ring. He imagined different scenarios. April had been running away to California with Sam to see a specialist, another one of those quack doctors who did quantum touch or qui therapy, the ones April knew made Charlie nuts and that’s why she hadn’t told him.
April was going to call him as soon as they got there. Or April had bought tickets to visit one of the friends Charlie had never met, to show off her son and then come home.

None of it made much sense.

He thought of April and Sam stepping into another life without him. Once he had overheard them talking in the backyard, pretending to be other people, talking about all the places they would go, and at the time, he had thought it was funny.

He didn’t think it was funny now.

He tried to think what he had done, how he had failed her. Had that one argument really been enough to derail them? Hadn’t he come home with little gifts for her all the time? A velvet scarf, a pair of amber earrings, a gleaming silver bracelet as thin as a wedding band. He couldn’t walk down the street without holding her hand. At dinner, he reached across to touch her hair, her chin, the curve of her shoulder. He couldn’t sleep at night without making his body a comma around hers. Wouldn’t he know if she had been unhappy? And Sam. What had she told Sam when he got in the car with her? What had they talked about as they drove, and where did Sam think they were going? What had he ever done to Sam that would make Sam able to leave him, too—or had Sam even known?

W
HEN THE DETECTIVE
finally called, it was nearly Halloween. No one knew anything. There was no trail. There was no reason. The airlines had no listing for April Nash. “Do you want me to keep looking? Was there another name she might have used?” Hank said.

“I don’t know …”

“Look,” Hank said. “Sometimes I have people who disappear and I can’t find them. They just don’t want to be found, for one reason or another, and that’s their right. They step right into another life, like it was another dimension on
The Twilight Zone
or something. Sometimes they show up all on their own, they come
back as if no time had passed at all, as if nothing had happened. It’s the same with peoples’ secrets. Sometimes secrets just want to stay secrets. They don’t want to be unlocked.”