Songs for the Missing (16 page)

“Is Cooper’s steak in your room?” her mother called.

“No,” Lindsay called, just as she saw the googly-eyed toy by the bookcase. “Yes.”

“Can you bring it down with you?”

Lindsay hated that he had to go in his cage, and kissed him on the nose. He turned a circle and folded down on his bed, resting his muzzle on the steak.

“Go to sleep,” she said.

In the back hall she added her glove and hat to the Sea Wolves gym bag with Kim’s cleats. The bag was cheap, a freebie from a few summers ago. The vinyl was ripped along the zipper, and no matter how much Lysol they sprayed, the inside smelled like feet. Lindsay had been looking forward to throwing it away after the season, except now it was a relic, sentimental and precious. Even she could feel it.

Her mother circled the downstairs, making sure the doors were locked and the answering machine was on. She was wearing jeans and a brand new T-shirt silkscreened with Kim’s face. Lindsay supposed she was lucky she didn’t have to wear one.

“Got an extra hand?” her mother asked, and gave her a box to take to the car.

The air felt heavy, but the clouds above the woods were white.

“Did you want to drive?” her mother asked, holding out the keys as if they’d discussed it.

“I’m good.”

“Come on, you need the practice.”

It was true, just as it was true—though no one had mentioned it for weeks—that her test was in less than a month, but she’d become attuned to any special treatment, and something about her mother’s offer seemed false. For a moment they stood rooted at the hatchback, parrying wordlessly, until, with a grimace, Lindsay relented and reached for the keys and they crossed to the opposite doors.

She wasn’t being oversensitive or paranoid. Her mother never let her drive the Subaru. They’d been out a few times in the Chevette when she’d first gotten her permit, but that was in the parking lot of the high school. Even at those low speeds her mother shied back from the dash, her foot searching the floor for an imaginary pedal. Her father was calmer, hardly saying anything. Kim might make fun of her, but she never made her nervous.

“You can adjust the seat,” her mother said as Lindsay fixed the mirrors.

“I’m all right.”

No matter how casual they both acted, it was going to be a lesson. Lindsay wondered if her mother understood it was also an anniversary. The last time she’d driven had been with Kim. Since she’d disappeared there hadn’t been time for anything else.

At the end of the driveway she just touched the brake and the car jerked to a stop, toppling a box in the back.

“I should have warned you,” her mother said. “They’re a little stiff.”

Lindsay didn’t see why she had to do this. Today was already hard enough.

She babied it out into the street, then goosed it, and the front end lunged. Her mother looked out her window as if fascinated by the neighbors. “That’s it,” she said when Lindsay had reached a steady speed, and an odd thought occurred to her. If they crashed, she wouldn’t have to play.

Her mother navigated as if Lindsay didn’t know where they were going. They took State Street downtown, then turned left onto Harbor. Lindsay swung wide, straying into the other lane before straightening out.

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay. Better wide than tight there.”

They followed Harbor all the way down like they were going to the marina. She hunched over the wheel, keeping the hood between the lines, looking up every so often to check her mirrors. She had a habit, as she concentrated, of compressing her lips and breathing shallowly through her nose, which, after a time, gave her a headache. She relaxed her jaw and drew in a deep breath like at the doctor’s.

“You’re doing great,” her mother said.

“Thanks.”

“You should be driving every day. Maybe when Dad gets back we can figure out a schedule. What do you think? Would you like that?”

“Sure.”

“You must be getting bored up there in your room. I don’t know. Would you rather be at camp?”

“No, it would be too weird.”

“This whole thing is too weird,” her mother said.

They coasted down the long hill toward the park, the harbor and the lake spread before them. The sky was darker over the water, and a line of pickups hauling empty trailers waited at the boat ramp. Beyond the jetty, wind dashed the waves into whitecaps. If Lindsay didn’t know better she would have thought it was going to pour. She couldn’t let herself believe it.

The softball diamonds with their stalky light towers were at the far end, by the inlet. Dustdevils twisted across the infields. At the nearest backstop people were battling a flapping pink banner. A van from WKGO was already there, playing music, and Connie’s Pontiac and a few other cars Lindsay didn’t recognize. She overshot them, choosing an empty stretch, then missed the spot she wanted, her side well over the line. She had to back up and head it in again.

“Good enough,” her mother said, and reminded her to put it in park.

“Stupid,” Lindsay accused herself.

“No ‘stupid.’ You just need practice.”

They were downwind from the concession stand, and the air smelled of popcorn and hot dogs. Lindsay let her go first, tagging along as they lugged the boxes over to the table where Connie was taping a flyer to a wheeled tank of helium. The Kim that never existed smiled out at Lindsay. The flat black-and-white combined with her ridiculous updo made the picture look dated, as if she’d been kidnapped from 1985. Above the flyer was a price list. Balloons were two dollars, ribbons three, bracelets five.

It was like a carnival. The police had their own table where they’d fingerprint and take digital pictures of little kids for free, and WKGO would be broadcasting live from a tent pitched next to their van. A continuous feed of studio patter and bad commercials blasted from the speakers. Her mother cut across the grass to hug a slender woman with long dark hair who was talking with some technicians. At first Lindsay thought she must be the DJ, and wondered how her mother knew her. When the woman turned it was Jocelyn. Lindsay had never seen her in jeans.

None of the other players had shown up yet, and she felt dorky in her uniform. They put her to work filling pink balloons printed with an inkblot of Kim’s face above the Crime Stoppers number. Connie showed her how to use the tank. She didn’t have to tie them; there was a plastic clip that pinched the neck. She had to knot a string around that and then fasten it to the backstop. After she almost lost the first one to the wind, she learned to tuck each under her arm like a football and wrap the string around her wrist. With every gust Kim’s face kissed the fence.

Her mother relieved her when Mr. Pallantino arrived with the equipment. He’d taken over as coach, giving the team the chance to lose two more games.

Like all the adults, he said he was sorry and asked how she was doing.

“I’m okay,” she said wearily, because she didn’t want it to be a big deal.

He shouldered the bat bag while she carried the box with the helmets and the balls—the opposite of her routine with her father. It felt wrong, like she was getting off easy. The bag was heavy and dusty, one touch ruining a clean uniform. Her father made her carry it for a reason. “I’m not hitting today,” he’d say when she complained, “you are.” As much as Lindsay hated playing, at the end of the game she’d collect and then count the bats and haul them to the car as if they were her personal burden, dumping the bag in the back of the wagon as if it held a body. Early on she understood why she took such grim satisfaction in completing the task. It wasn’t just that for now the torture was over. The truth was more pathetic: It was the one thing she could actually do.

They were at home, meaning they were in the first-base dugout. She tucked her sneakers into the Sea Wolves bag and laced up Kim’s cleats. Even after two seasons they didn’t fit right, as if the leather kept the memory of their original owner. She double-knotted the laces and tucked the tips under the way her father had taught her.

Mr. Pallantino sat on the far end of the bench, going over the score-book. They were playing the number one seed, Pizzi’s Cafe, a team that had destroyed them both times this season.

“Who’s pitching for us?” Lindsay asked, as if it mattered.

“Beanie.”

“Not Tessa?”

“She’s on vacation.”

They only had twelve people on the roster—a sore spot with her father—and it came to her that they might not have enough players and would have to forfeit. They’d play the game anyway, but it wouldn’t count, so it wouldn’t matter if she struck out or made an error.

As she warmed up, tossing with Mr. Pallantino on the sidelines, her teammates trickled in and joined them, saying hey as they trotted past. Shelly and Amanda made seven, and Beanie wasn’t there yet. Pizzi’s gathered down the left-field line to stretch in the grass. Beyond them, boats chugged up the inlet, headed home. They had eight, then nine. Officially you were supposed to have ten, but there was still half an hour till game time. Connie deputized Amanda’s little sisters Evie and Edie; they went along the outfield fence with a bunch of balloons, attaching one to every post. A TV truck rolled in—Channel 12 from Erie, she knew it from a distance. The music was loud and the stands were filling, the crowd speckled pink. The wind had died down, and far over the lake the clouds parted, letting through a single sunbeam that fell on the water like a spotlight. They were going to play, she needed to resign herself to that fact, yet, numbly, she resisted. Only when Beanie took the field—to cheers from their side of the bleachers—did Lindsay give up.

In the end they had exactly ten. They sat hip-to-hip on the bench while Mr. Pallantino paced the fence, reading off the lineup. For a dizzy instant she was afraid—since it was Kim’s day—that he would have her leading off, but it was a copy of her father’s. She’d be playing second base and batting last, an insult she was used to.

Halfway between home plate and the mound a tech was setting up a mic stand for the pregame ceremonies. All week her mother had been practicing her speech on Connie, asking an imaginary crowd for “a moment not of silence, but of hope.” She tried the line different ways, like it was part of a play. Any way she said it, it was lame. Then they’d play the song and everyone would release their balloons. The symbolism didn’t make sense to Lindsay, or maybe it was her own guilt that made her reject the metaphor of letting go. She’d thought she was being a chicken, but she’d known that first night when they hadn’t heard anything that Kim was dead. The rest was just not wanting to believe it. The balloons wouldn’t do anything. The whole thing was stupid.

The third-base bleachers were a sea of pink, and it wasn’t just Pizzi’s fans. The stands behind her were jammed with families from church. They’d been to the playoffs last year, but the crowd was nothing compared to this. She craned around for Dana and the rest of the Hedricks. It was hard with all the balloons. She’d almost given up, searching the fence down the right-field line, when she spotted J.P.

Her first reaction was that she had to warn him. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

He was standing just past first base, holding a balloon like everyone else. Beside him, half hidden by her own balloon, was Nina. She said something, and as J.P. bent his head to listen, he pushed his hair out of his eyes. The way Nina tipped her lips to his ear, Lindsay couldn’t help seeing them as a couple. She thought she had no reason to be jealous, even if it was true. He’d been nice to her because she was Kim’s sister, that was all. It was another case of being Little Larsen. She’d built the rest herself out of private jokes and quiet words of encouragement, those long days he’d asked her to save him a seat on the bus and they rode with the sun setting and their arms and legs touching. When they were alone together she didn’t have to act. Unlike everyone else, he didn’t ask her how she felt. He already knew.

He turned toward her and she looked away as if slapped.

The speakers crackled. “Hello, Kingsville,” the MC said, as Mr. Riggio waddled over in his blue umpire’s shirt and motioned for them to take the field. A cameraman knelt by home plate, waiting.

“Come on now,” Mr. Pallantino said, “let’s see some smart defense out there. Outfield, get the ball in. Infield, take the easy base.”

Connie was guarding the opening with a bunch of balloons. Everyone was supposed to take one, even Ashley, who had to carry her catcher’s mask in her glove. Beanie led them out, and the crowd cheered politely.

“Come on, let’s see some hustle!” Mr. Pallantino said, just like her father, and they ran to their positions, the balloons jerking behind them.

At deep second Lindsay was even with J.P. and Nina, and suspected it wasn’t a coincidence. She considered casually waving to them, but couldn’t make herself look over. Beside the backstop as if she was up next, her mother stood at attention, a balloon in one hand, a ribbon pinned to her shirt. The MC was telling Kim’s story as if they all didn’t know it by heart. Standing there alone and exposed, she imagined people in the bleachers pointing and whispering—that’s her sister.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” the MC said, “please help us welcome Kim’s mom, Mrs. Fran Larsen.” The crowd rose and applauded as she walked to the mic. Lindsay patted her mitt soundlessly.

Her mother wasn’t nervous. Her speech was short, just a thank you to everyone for coming, for being so generous and keeping Kim in their hearts. They’d timed it to the music, a lilting, syncopated plinking of a ukelele and then a man moaning soulfully—
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
, by the big Hawaiian guy. The idea was to choose a song people could request and dedicate to Kim, reminding listeners that she was still missing. When Lindsay first heard the song they picked she’d shaken her head. It was from a commercial, this little kid and his grandfather chasing fireflies. It had been in movies, it had even been on
ER.
It was the kind of mushy, overplayed song Kim hated. Lindsay just assumed that knowing it was cheesy made her immune to its emotional pull, yet now that it was playing and she had no choice but to stand still and listen, the singer’s high voice and the spare strumming seemed lonely and haunting (he was dead, a kind of saint in Hawaii), and despite herself she felt her throat closing.