The Missing (19 page)

He was a skinny guy with a full head of curly brown hair, which he was stupid proud of. He dated lots of widows and divorced ladies in their thirties, but none of them ever stuck around. He couldn’t hold his tongue. “You’re ugly, stupid, lazy, useless,” he probably told them after a week or two. She knew because he couldn’t hold his tongue with her, either.

He was wearing his favorite gray sweat suit. Favorite and only. In the passenger seat were three Tall Boy Bud- weisers. Which meant that the other three lay empty on the floor. He’d been driving around, drinking them,

while waiting for the club to open. For a second she saw him not as her dad, but as a middle-aged lush trying to pick up jail bait on the side of the road. She was ashamed of him. What was worse, he looked disappointed, like he’d thought he might get lucky tonight, and instead he’d found his least favorite girl. So they were both dis- appointed.

But it was cold out, and the sun had set. She wasn’t wearing a coat. Just a flimsy dress. There were no street lamps along this road. Best to look on the bright side. At least she had a ride. She slumped her shoulders like somebody who’s so accustomed to defeat that being sad about it is a formality, and headed for the passenger- side door. Everything felt like it was closing in around her, like life was sucking the air out of her lungs. Home again, home again. Another year with no place to go but the four walls of her room. She shivered as she walked. The shit-eating grin spread across her father’s boozy red face. He gunned the accelerator. The door handle tore loose from her fingers, and before she knew what was happening, he was driving away.

She watched the car roll down the road. Smoke wheezed from its tailpipe and its orange lights faded in the distance. She stood shivering in the middle of the street for a while, expecting him to come back.
Only kidding
, he’d say.
I’m sorry. I took the joke too far. You must be freezing
. But he didn’t come back. He left her there, all by herself. She held out for about ten minutes before she started crying.

She walked for a long while after that, even though it was getting dark, and her teeth were chattering. After about a mile she passed the beer club where her dad’s car was parked. She thought about kicking it, just like her bike, or running a key along its cheap yellow paint, but

she kept walking. Another hour passed. After a while she could see flashlights flickering inside the woods. A few people were calling James Walker’s name.

She headed for the searchlights. Maybe someone out there had an extra sweater. The woods were dry and brittle. Crack, crack, crack was the sound under her shoes. Her dad would be out late tonight. If she turned around now, she could be sleeping in bed before he got home. But she’d still have to see him tomorrow. The branches scratched her face, and she thought about his shit-eating grin. She started crying again. She’d seen the look in her father’s eye, like driving away wasn’t the thing he’d really wanted to do. Really, he’d wanted to hurt her. She couldn’t go home. Not tonight. Not ever again.

That’s when she heard the rustling. It sounded like leaves being raked across dry grass. She stopped. There wasn’t any wind, but the branches between two big pine trees were shaking.
An animal?
she wondered. And then her heart beat faster. The branches were high up, and thick.
A big animal.

She backed away. Slowly. One foot behind the other. You’re not supposed to run from bears. You’re sup- posed to shout and jangle bells to scare them away, but right now shouting at a bear sounded pretty brainless. The branches of the trees shook harder until at the top, even their trunks began to sway. The lower branches swung in wide circles, and she thought, strangely, of the oars of a gigantic boat. This thing was strong.

One foot, the next. She backed away. Her heart slowed. She wasn’t thinking about her dad, or home, or how much she hated everyone in the whole world. She was backing away, one step at a time.

It came out from between the trees. The man. He was bigger than any man she’d ever seen. At least seven

feet tall. Except for an open hospital gown, he was na- ked. She tried not to look at his hairiness down below. Along his belly she could see a line of stitches. Some were torn open, and inside she saw an unbleeding pink lesion, like his wound was from the movies, and made of dye and wax. His sagging skin slid up and down his ribs as he got closer. She wasn’t sure what was happen- ing, but then she understood. His skin was bouncing because he was running straight for her!

The distance closed. Ten feet. Eight feet. Five feet. Displaced wind rushed against her as her mind fired off segmented thoughts like a string of firecrackers.
What dark eyes you have,
she thought, and then:
The better to swallow you with, my dear
. And:
Rah-Rah Team!
And finally:
Run. Run. RUN!

Before she made the decision to do so, she was sprint- ing. Her Payless slingbacks went flying. Sticks and sharp rocks stabbed the soles of her feet. Behind her, the ground shook as the man in the woods gave chase.

She didn’t look back. Her mind was still firing off thoughts, but they hardly made sense now (
Black-Eyed- Monster-Shit-Eating-Grin
!).

It was dark suddenly, and she didn’t remember if clouds had rolled in, or it had always been this way. She leaped over what looked like a log and her feet sank down (
Mud? Blood? A Tall Boy of Bud?
) into some- thing wet and soft. She fell, and then crawled on her knees for two strides before getting back on her feet again.

Behind her the ground shook with each heavy step the man took. But was he really a man? He was hunched, as if more suited for crawling on four legs. He closed the distance between them. Her bouncing breasts ached as she ran, and she wished she’d worn a bra today. She tripped again, this time over a rock, and scrambled to

get up, but now someone was in front of her, too. Not the man, but a group of people. About ten of them. They were short, or else hunched down. The searchers!

“Help me!” she tried to scream, but it came out a panting whisper: “Hhhh meee.”

They came closer, and she saw the way the moonlight reflected off their lunatic black eyes. She scrambled along the leafy ground, but was afraid to stand. The naked man was behind her, but maybe these things were worse.

More of them came out from the shadows. She didn’t know how many. She was too scared to count. Their bare feet were dirty, like they lived out here now. Most of them were kids. Young, like James Walker’s age. A few were her age, too. The ones who’d been out sick from school. Though it didn’t matter, she couldn’t help but wonder:
Are the cool kids hanging out someplace new?

“Hey Jeannie, are ya lost?” Justin Ross asked. He was crouching so that his fingertips were touching the ground. For ten years he’d sat behind her in school. For ten years he’d tormented her. But he was different now. Leaner. Paler. Meaner.

She stood and crossed her arms around her chest, like somehow building that barrier would protect her. It would make her invisible like when she was watching TV with her dad, and they’d leave her alone.

“Naw, she’s just looking for her mom who ran off,” said Liesa Perry, who spent twenty-three dollars on blue eye shadow from Chanel. She was wearing it now, even though the rest of her face was gaunt and pale.

“You steal that dress, Jeannie? I think you did. I think your daddy’s welfare only covers booze,” said Jackie Wyatt, who had written on the chalkboard in

the seventh grade, “Jean Rizzo can’t
give
it away!” All of Jackie’s pretty black hair was gone, and Jean won- dered if she’d stumbled across the real truth in these woods: Popular kids were monsters.

“No,” Jean whispered. Liesa’s mouth was red, and the color wasn’t from lipstick. Jean made a sound. A gasp, sort of. Then she bumped into something warm and firm. She swiveled. The man clapped his hands and smiled, like they were playing a game. His gown was open.

She looked in every direction, but there was no place to run. Could she shout? Would the searchers hear her? At first she didn’t feel it. But then she recognized that familiar pinch. One of the kids behind her was lightly plucking strand after strand of her hair from her scalp. She knew it was Justin, because he’d teased her this way every day for ten years. “I think you stole that cheap dress,” she heard him whisper, “I think you should be

punished.”

Her instincts took over. She took a swing. It con- nected it with the wet hole in the naked man’s gut. Her hand came out red and the man reeled. Blood spilled from his mouth and he dropped to his knees. She used the time. She ran.

She didn’t make it far. Justin grabbed her by the shoulders. She fell backward.
Pins and needles, needles and pins, it’s a happy girl who always grins,
she was thinking:
Rah-Rah Team!
He dragged her along the dirt while she struggled until all of them, even the man, were holding her down against the ground.

“Shh—” she said, which maybe was going to turn into
shit
, maybe was a plea for them to please, for once, leave her alone.

She looked up from the ground at their black-eyed

faces. They grinned, like this was funny. The man had chased her here on purpose, she understood. A trap. “What did I ever do to you?” she whispered.

Their breath was rotten. She tried to crawl away, but they held down her arms. Someone was sitting on her legs. She saw her reflection in their black eyes: a cheap gingham dress. It was torn at the hem, and her cowlike breasts were poking out from the fabric. She tried to cover herself with her hands, but her arms were pinned. The cold air stung her exposed places. They could see her secret things: her birthmark shaped like a butterfly, and the stray black hairs encircling her nipples.
Why don’t you like me
? she wondered.
Am I that bad?

She saw herself in them; twenty black orbs like spider eyes. Her reflection swam inside them. She lived in the reflection, and the reflection lived in her. They smiled and waved hello at each other: dead Jeannie and living Jeannie. She whimpered as she swam, and then stopped swimming, and sank into the black.

Justin bared his perfectly straight, store-bought teeth, and then so did Liesa, and Jackie, and the rest of them. “Hungry,” Justin said, only he was hardly speaking any- more. “Hunnneee,” he said, like maybe, if she wanted to badly enough, she could pretend he was calling her sweet.

She tried not to let them see her tears, but her breasts were cold, and exposed, and she was so ashamed. She tried to keep her mind from comprehending the obvi- ous: They’d been feeding in these woods.

Someone, maybe Jackie, took the first bite. She tried to keep it inside, but the pain was too great. She screamed.

F O U R T E E N
‌

A House Divided

“I

t was the
worst
!” Maddie Wintrob announced. “He
ate
that baby.” She and her boyfriend had

just ridden their bikes from the police department, where they’d reported finding a child’s skeleton, along with a spry and very much alive Albert Sanguine.

“It
sounds
bad,” Fenstad said.

The four of them were sitting in the den. Maddie and Enrique occupied one couch, and Fenstad and Meg held the other. A year ago Maddie had been slamming across the wood floors in child-sized tap shoes even though she didn’t take tap; she just liked being loud. Well, maybe not a year ago. Maybe ten years ago. “
Ta- da!
” she’d shouted with wide-open arms at the end of every leaden-footed routine.

Maddie had just finished explaining her trip to the woods. Her reason for being there instead of at school remained a mystery. Fenstad could guess. He’d done the same things when he was eighteen with a girl named Joanne “Giggles” Streibler. But when he looked at his daughter, a psychedelic gazelle in bright colors and ruf- fles, and compared her to the convenience store clerk with the black peach-fuzz mustache, he didn’t want to guess.

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” Meg said.

Fenstad nodded, but his jaw was locked in place, and his blood was boiling. He looked out the bay win- dow so they wouldn’t see how close he was to bursting. He focused on the lawn, which had recently been mowed, and the dogwood trees in bloom. He focused on the cars driving by with their headlights shining, and his view of the town from the top of the hill. His Victorian was big and impressive. A perfect fit for a family of four. He was proud of what he’d built, even though the world seemed determined, plank by plank, to tear it down.

“Are you sure it was Albert?” Meg asked. Her leg was propped on the coffee table between the two couches. They’d made love this afternoon on the couch where they now sat, and in the bed, too. Her face was still glowing, and the only sign that she was not pleased by the mention of Albert’s name was the way she scratched the skin beneath her cast in firm, swift strokes. Her fin- gernails were long, and the sound was as loud as a chirp- ing cricket.

“I’m sure. But he was strange. He didn’t move like a man.” Enrique’s English was flawless but halting, and clearly foreign. “When he saw us, he ran. He leaped on all fours.” Enrique mimicked the motion, curling his hands into claws and bending forward to prove his point: “Like an animal. It was unnatural. They didn’t believe us at the police station, but it’s true. It was Al- bert Sanguine.”

Meg stiffened next to him, and for a moment he got nervous. Could this be true? He’d jumped out a second- story window, and was now in the woods? Like every other paranoid delusional, Albert’s fantasies had always been intricate, but they’d also been something more rare: consistent. In six years he’d never varied from his story: a

presence in the Bedford woods had found a home inside him, and would not set him free.

Had
something been calling him all this time? Fen- stad wondered. Then he shook his head: No. Albert Sanguine was dead. Soon, someone would smell his body in some dark corner of the hospital where he’d been trying to scavenge rubbing alcohol. The kids had seen something, and in their hysteria, attached Albert’s face to it. That was the only possible expla- nation.