The visitors, p.20
The Visitors, page 20
I push my hair out of my eyes and look up at the clock on the wall. It shouldn’t be too much longer. Maybe I can just wait him out. I look at the desk in the corner of the cramped office. It’s cluttered with books, stacks of file folders, and a darkened computer screen decorated with a rainbow of Post-it notes because Fat Bald Detective can’t remember anything. There isn’t one inch of clear space anywhere to be seen on his desk. It’s very unprofessional.
That was one of our words from the calendar—I think from last January. It’s still on my wall.
Unprofessional is when someone or something doesn’t look or act right in the workplace.
Good, Button. Now use it in a sentence, Mama would say if she were here.
Then I would say something like, Fat Bald Detective’s office is very unprofessional because there’s crap everywhere and it smells like Fritos.
That would have made Mama laugh. I could always make her laugh when we played the word-of-the-day game. Mama says it’s okay if you don’t always remember the exact dictionary definition of a word as long as you can describe the meaning in your own words and you can use it in a sentence. Now that I think of it, there should be a picture of Fat Bald Detective’s office beside the word unprofessional in the dictionary.
His office is nothing like the ones in the police stations on TV. There aren’t any bright fluorescent lights in here, or cool floor-to-ceiling walls of glass so he can see the whole department and wave someone in at a moment’s notice just to yell at them. There’s only one small window with a view of the parking lot, and Fat Bald Detective seems to prefer table lamps to fluorescent lighting. And although you can’t smell the offices of the police stations on TV, I always imagined they’d smell like leftover pizza and cigarette smoke—not Fritos. I guess it’s better than doing this in one of their interrogation rooms. At least in here there’s a couch for me to sit on before they lock me up and throw away the keys. Then it hits me. It’s the couch. The couch smells like Fritos.
“And what happened after that, Riley?” Fat Bald Detective says—again.
Fat Bald Detective has a name. It’s Frank. He said I could call him Frank the first time he brought me in for questioning. Mama doesn’t normally approve of us calling adults by their first name, but Frank told me to and he’s the law. I figure I should probably cooperate as much as possible so he doesn’t get any more suspicious than he already is.
Frank actually has three names. They’re all printed on his door and on the triangle nameplate on his desk. Grandma says that people who use three names are puttin’ on airs, but I don’t think Frank has any airs to put on. He’s short, and bald, and round, and looks like Mr. Potato Head without the tiny black hat, so I think Fat Bald Detective every time I look at him.
“I don’t remember,” I say.
He keeps asking me what happened that day and I keep telling him I don’t remember. We’ve played this little game for almost four months now. I was ten when we started. I’m a whole different age now. I’ve had a birthday and a summer break since then. I even moved up a grade in school. Detective Chase Cooper on Criminal Investigative Division: Chicago can solve a case in an hour. Forty-four minutes if you fast-forward through the commercials. But Frank will never be as smart as Detective Chase Cooper. Or as handsome. Frank’s really not a bad guy, though. He means well. But I don’t think he’s ever going to crack this case, at least not before I turn twelve. He’s running out of time. So is Mama.
Frank and his officers should be out there trying to find the perp—following up on leads, canvassing the neighborhood. That’s the way they do it on TV, and they always catch the guy. They don’t sit in poorly lit rooms that smell like Fritos questioning the eleven-year-old son of the missing person over and over. But maybe this is just the way cops do things out here in the country. Maybe they don’t watch much TV.
“Tell me again what you do remember,” Frank says in that smiley-calm voice of his that I hate. Like I’m ten or something and if he talks real soft and slow, I’ll spill my guts.
I sigh as loudly as I can, just so my irritation is clear. “Like I already said, Mama was taking a nap on the sofa in the living room.”
It was strange because we only use the living room for special occasions, like on Christmas morning to open presents, or when the preacher from North Creek Church of God used to visit. Somehow the couch in the living room is called a sofa and the one in the den is just a couch. The living room furniture is not very comfortable, but Mama says it’s not supposed to be. Like that makes any sense—furniture that’s meant to be uncomfortable. I’ve told Frank all that before, so I don’t repeat it. I’ve learned only to repeat the important stuff. Otherwise Frank finds new questions to ask. I don’t like new questions.
Frank laces his fingers together on top of his basketball of a belly and smiles again. I don’t like his smile. It looks like a plastic piece of Mr. Potato Head’s face that he can pop on and off anytime he wants.
“And where were you while your mother was lying down in the living room?”
I roll my eyes at him. Daddy wouldn’t like that.
Be respectful of authority, he would say. Frank is just trying to help.
But I’ve answered this same question so many times. If he can’t remember, then why doesn’t he write it down on one of his five thousand rainbow Post-it notes, or turn on a tape recorder like they do on TV. I wonder where he went to detective school. Probably one of those online courses, but poor Frank got ripped off. If Mama were here, she’d add a bless his heart. It sounds nice, but I don’t think it’s meant to be.
“I was outside playing with my friends,” I say.
Frank raises a bushy eyebrow at me. “And . . .”
“And when I came back inside, Mama was lying on the sofa in the living room. Like I just said.”
“And then what did you do?” the world’s worst police detective asks.
“I touched her hand to see if she was asleep.” I say it like I’m quoting a Bible verse I’ve been forced to memorize and recite on command.
Frank looks down his snap-on nose at me. “And how did it feel, touching her hand?”
This is a new one. What the heck does he mean, how did it feel? It felt like skin and Jergens hand lotion, that’s how. And how is this going to help them find Mama? Why doesn’t Frank ask me more about the suspicious car that was parked in front of the house that day? I told him about it the first time they hauled me down here for questioning, but he hasn’t asked about it since. Instead he’s wasting time asking about me touching Mama’s hand. World’s. Worst. Police. Detective. Ever.
“She felt a little chilled, so I pulled the cover up over her hands. I didn’t want to wake her, so I went back outside to play.”
Frank scrunches his face like that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. He thinks I’m hiding something. Like I’m a suspect, which is crazy because I want them to find her. I promise I do.
“And that’s the last thing you remember?” he says. “Touching your mother’s hand while she was lying down on the sofa? Nothing else?”
He knows it is. Unless he somehow found out about Kenny from Kentucky. Or the ring.
Stick to your story, I tell myself. That’s what people on TV who are accused of a crime always say—stick to your story and everything will be fine. No one has actually accused me of anything yet. But they might as well, the way they all look at me—like they know I’m hiding something.
“Yes, sir,” I say, being respectful of authority. Even Frank’s authority. “That’s the last thing I remember.”
Frank squints his eyes at me. Yep. He thinks I’m lying. Or crazy. Or both. But technically I’m not lying. Kenny from Kentucky is long gone and they’ve never asked me about the ring, so I’ve never told them. Besides, Daddy will blister my hide if he finds out I have it. I wonder if the ring is considered evidence. Can they put me in jail for withholding evidence? I think there was an episode of CID: Chicago about that. I can’t remember what happened, but I’m sure Detective Chase Cooper solved the case in forty-four minutes.
Frank’s talking now, but I can’t understand what he’s saying. His voice sounds like that teacher from The Peanuts Movie, which Mama and I watched together.
. . . wah waah wah wah, waah wah waah . . .
I nod my head every now and then to be polite and respectful. Frank has some real wacky theories about what might have happened to Mama that day, so whenever he starts speculating like this, I turn on my internal Charlie Brown teacher translator.
Speculating is like when poorly educated police detectives make dumb guesses about a case without having any evidence.
Use it in a sentence, Button, I imagine Mama saying.
Frank needs to get off his big round behind, stop speculating about what happened that day, and go find Mama before it’s too late.
Frank glances over at the clock and lets out one of his this isn’t getting us anywhere sighs because he knows I’m not listening anymore.
“Your father’s probably waiting for you outside,” he says. “You know, Riley, it’s been nearly four months now. I’d much rather you tell me what happened on your own, but if you can’t—or won’t—I can help you fill in some of the blanks if you’ll let me.”
Oh crap. I know what Frank’s talking about from the cop shows on TV. It’s when they start telling the perp what they think happened. They make their accusations over and over, louder and louder, until the perp finally confesses.
“How’s the case going?” I ask, changing the subject. “Any new leads? New information? Have you found their car yet?”
Frank inhales slowly, then releases a long stream of sour-smelling air through puckered lips. “There’s no new information, Riley. You know that.” He stands and waves me toward the door. “If you remember anything before I see you again, have your dad call me, okay? It’s very important.”
I get up and walk out, shaking my head so Frank knows what a disappointment he is to me. What are we paying these people for with Daddy’s hard-earned tax dollars if they can’t even find my mama?
2
TWENTY-EIGHT WORDS IN THREE DAYS
We eat supper early that night—just the three of us at the kitchen table. We haven’t eaten in the dining room since Mama disappeared. We used to eat dinner in there every night. Now it sits dark and empty like a tomb or a shrine. I don’t think we’ll use it again until Mama comes home safe and we can all sit in there as a family again. We can eat, and talk, and laugh like we used to. Daddy will tell lame jokes, Mama will ask us about our day at school, and my brother won’t be mean to me anymore. But for now it’s just a dark room collecting dust on our memories of her.
We sit in silence, Danny wolfing down his mashed potatoes like it’s his last meal ever, and Daddy staring at his plate like he’s reading tea leaves. Every couple of minutes, he moves some food around with his fork, but that’s about it. He hasn’t always been like this, just since Mama was taken. I don’t think he knows how to be, without her here holding us all together. That was her department, not his.
Before Mama disappeared, Daddy laughed a lot. And he always loved scaring Danny and me, or pinning us down on the floor and tickling us until we almost peed ourselves. He’d do the same thing to Mama sometimes until she would scream and laugh and holler like a crazy person. Now when I look over at Daddy, all I can see is the bald spot on top of his head. I don’t think he likes to look at us anymore, least of all me. I know it’s because I can’t remember what happened that day. And because I look the most like her. And because Mama and I share a name and a birthday. But also because of my condition.
Or maybe he blames me and that’s why he can’t look at me. Maybe he thinks I could have done something to save her. Called out for help. Gotten the license plate number of the fancy car that was sitting in front of the house that day. Locked the front door after I went outside. But Mama was in the house, so why would I lock the door? And how did I know something bad was going to happen to her? She just disappeared without a trace, right out of our front living room. That’s another reason we don’t go in there anymore. It’s like a crime scene that no one wants to disturb in case there’s still some undiscovered shred of evidence hidden in there. Fibers in the carpet or something. I’m surprised Frank hasn’t put bright yellow police tape across the door. Maybe he should. Who am I to say? Detective Chase Cooper would know what to do.
Since no one is talking or looking up, I glance around the kitchen as I pretend to eat. I see Mama in every nook and cranny. Like the dish towels hanging on the oven door handle with the words As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord embroidered on them in red frilly letters. I was with her when she found those at the Big Lots in Upton. She loved them so much she bought two sets. But that’s not a lot of money at the Big Lots. Probably like three dollars or something. And the Precious Moments cookie jar on the counter—she found that at the Salvation Army store. It has a picture on the front of a boy and a girl with really big heads and droopy eyes sitting back to back on a tree stump.
Love one another.
Mama likes things with nice sayings printed on them.
She says, It can’t hurt to be reminded to love each other every time you reach for a cookie, right, Button?
Mama loves baking cookies. She makes them for me to take to school for my teachers and to sell at Mr. Killen’s Market to raise money for the church. She even made a big batch last Christmas for the prisoners at the work camp outside of Upton. She’s real good at cookies, but one time she tried making me blackberry jam like in the story of the Whispers and it was terrible. It was so bad that we laughed and laughed while we ate some of it on toast that I burnt. Another time she tried to teach me how to make biscuits and gravy, but I burned my hand on the stove, so that was the end of my cooking lessons.
All I’m allowed to make now are frozen fish sticks and Tater Tots in the oven. Frozen fish sticks are gross but we’ve eaten them a lot the last four months. I don’t mind the Tater Tots. But Grandma supplied tonight’s meal even though Daddy tells her she doesn’t have to do that anymore. Grandma hates the idea of us eating fish sticks and Tater Tots so much. I wonder what Mama’s eating right now. Or if she’s been eating at all. What if whoever took her doesn’t give her enough food to stay alive until the police can find her?
“Frank said there aren’t any new leads in the case,” I say, breaking the unbearable silence. My words hang in the air like lint.
Daddy looks up from his plate and stares like he doesn’t even recognize me. Danny stops eating and glares at me from across the table. He never wants to talk about Mama’s case. Even Tucker lets out an anxious groan under the table, like he knows I should have kept my big mouth shut. He misses Mama too. He hasn’t been the same since she disappeared, but the vet can’t figure out what’s wrong with him. I think he’s just depressed.
“Finish your peas and take Tucker outside,” Daddy says, looking back down at his plate.
I think that makes a total of two dozen words Daddy’s said to me in three days, so I hit the jackpot this evening. I eat my peas one at a time and with my fingers. I know it annoys him. If Mama were here, she’d give me the Mama side-eye. But she’s not. And Daddy doesn’t even look up to scold me. He just plows circles in his mashed potatoes with his fork. If Danny or I did that, he would yell at us and tell us to stop playing with our food.
Daddy used to like me. He even took me on my very first roller coaster ride, and he wanted it to be the same one he took his first ride on—the Swamp Fox at Family Kingdom Amusement Park in Myrtle Beach. It’s one of those old-timey wooden coasters that make that loud clack, clack, clack noise when they go up the first climb. The newer coasters don’t make that sound anymore and Daddy says it’s not the same without it. I was so scared and screamed my butt off the entire ride, but Daddy didn’t mind. He just laughed and laughed like a crazy person with his hands raised high in the air the whole time.
When I was six, we were on vacation in Florida and Daddy took us to an alligator farm. He picked me up so I could get a better look at the big, slimy creatures. Then he thought it would be real funny to pretend like he was going to throw me over the fence like gator bait. A fat one spotted us and slowly came crawling our way while Daddy kept up his act for way too long, swinging me back and forth and back and forth.
One, two . . .
On three, I almost crapped my pants. But he never got to three, so I’m pretty sure Daddy wasn’t trying to feed me to the alligators. I screamed bloody murder anyway. But Daddy didn’t mind. He just laughed and laughed like a crazy person. To this day I can’t even look at an alligator on TV. But I have to admit, it was fun. Daddy was fun. Not anymore.
Danny’s phone vibrates on the table, which gets him a hard look from Daddy. His phone is supposed to be off during dinner. Danny grabs it and tucks it into his lap. It’s probably some girl from school calling. Danny likes girls now. Ugh.
“Sorry,” he says to Daddy without looking him in the eye.
Daddy stares at him a moment, and finally his face softens. Just a tad. He doesn’t yell at Danny. He would have yelled at me, but Danny’s a daddy’s boy just as much as I’m a mama’s boy. And I don’t have a phone yet. It’s okay. I wouldn’t want any girls calling me anyway.
