If i am missing or dead, p.19
If I Am Missing or Dead, page 19
I’m going rock climbing with the whole family, she says. It’s what he’s into.
I’m impressed. Amy has lost something like fifty pounds in the past year, her cancer scans are clear, and she’s getting adventurous.
Over the next week she calls a couple of times, getting quieter each time. Eventually I pull it out of her.
So was there a repeat performance?
No, she says. Not for lack of trying.
Ouch. You okay?
Oh yeah. I’m fine. I would have liked more, though.
I’m quiet for a moment.
He was kind of young, you know.
I don’t want to sound like I disapprove. First of all, I’ve done plenty of dumbshit things myself, and Amy knows it. But also because I don’t want her to stop telling me things, and I’m afraid she will if I get judgmental.
Who else would want me? she asks.
Lots of men, I say. Smart men.
Be serious, she says. You have no idea what it’s like.
Lots of men would feel lucky to be with you, I say. What about hockey fans? Why don’t you go out with hockey fans?
She snorts.
Amy is past president of the booster club for the Atlanta Knights. She goes to all of their games. Screams, cheers, runs meet-the-player events. She loves her team.
They’re fat, she says.
I don’t know what to say.
I want to do an NPR commentary, I say.
You don’t have a chance.
I am surprised. This is the only time he has ever said he didn’t think I’d get whatever I went after. It makes me just mad enough to send an email to the host of the show, whom I had met at a luncheon redolent with cologned businessmen. He and I were the only writers, and we leaned toward each other, talking about the craft and the business and the challenges inherent in making a living with words.
Send me a script, he says. I’ll let you know.
I send it.
Pretty good, he says. Where can you do the taping?
I am gleeful when I tell Kurt.
He just wants to fuck you, he says.
Chapter 17
AFTER TWENTY-TWO YEARS in Atlanta, Amy moves to Knoxville. She enrolls in graduate school at the University of Tennessee, where she studies comparative religions, trying to understand the impact of organized religion on society and cultures around the world. She wants to find her spiritual center.
They have a hockey team, she says.
I laugh.
What about your job?
They’re transferring it to their Knoxville offices, she says. I’m that good.
Amy is a pricing analyst for the Kimberly-Clark corporation. She’s been there for fifteen years, working her way up from a temp job to a position important enough that they’d relocate it to keep her happy.
I’m really excited for you, I say.
A couple of days later she calls again.
I’m going to buy a condo, she says. Will you co-sign?
Of course we will, I say. Amy has borrowed money from us before, paying it back exactly on schedule, each check accompanied by a cheery note about her life.
Thank you, she says. I love you.
The next day she calls back.
I got it by myself, she says.
Got what?
The mortgage. I got it by myself.
I do the happy dance with her over the phone.
She is ebullient. She is thirty-six and buying a home under her own credit rating and earnings and proven responsibility.
I’m so proud of you, I say. I’ve never qualified for a loan by myself.
She giggles.
She buys a small condo in a neighborhood of condos, each half a duplex. Hers has two bedrooms and two baths, a kitchen and a living room, a patio out back with a privacy fence. Pat sends her morning glory seeds from her own garden, and Amy plants them to climb up the fence.
This is so exciting, she says.
We talk almost daily. One day we are chattering along, about everything and nothing.
So I was telling Scott about my yeast infection, she says.
Scott is her former boss, a married man who has become her confidant.
You told him about your yeast infection? Gross.
Heck yes, she says. I tell him everything.
I laugh. I’m glad she has him. She needs a male friend.
She goes on about her classes, about how she loves mixing it up and arguing and learning. She loves feeling part of a community of people who are determined to know more.
I can’t believe this, she says. These people are fierce.
I’m sure you’re jumping right in with them.
Of course. It feels great. Like I’m finally really using my brain.
Hey, I say a few months later. Kurt and I are going to Charlotte for a conference. Want to get together?
I don’t tell her that this is yet another last-ditch effort to save our marriage, this trip to another state. We have fought for years over whether we’ll stay in Missouri. I need mountains, lakes, oceans. A good airport. I don’t belong in central Missouri. He does not want to leave. Ever. Not even after the kids go away to college. The trip to Charlotte is a compromise on his part; he’s doing it to make me happy, to appear open-minded.
From the map it looks like Charlotte, North Carolina, and Knoxville are neighbors. In truth they’re four hours apart. Amy and I split the difference and meet near Asheville, at Chimney Rock State Park.
Tawanda! Amy says, as she leads the way up the steep trail.
Tawanda is her new screen name. She got it from the movie Fried Green Tomatoes, in which Kathy Bates plays a woman awakening to her midlife strength.
Amy’s eyes sparkle and she laughs often. I had never seen her look so healthy.
I’ve lost eighty-five pounds, she says.
Wow. You look fantastic.
We climb a trail to the top of the rock, where an American flag flaps in the wind. Amy raises her arms triumphantly, and I take a picture. It is just a few months after the attacks of September 11, and we are feeling patriotic.
Back at the hotel room I take another. In it she is sitting on the couch in a blue velvet top that matches her eyes. She looks straight at me, her chin proud. It is the photo we will use on her “Missing” poster.
A couple of months later Amy meets a man. In an internet chat room, I think, although she is vague. She says something about webcams and seductive talk.
His name is Ron, she says, her voice effervescent. He’s a house painter, living in a cheap motel room in Tuscaloosa. He doesn’t have a place to stay.
Why not?
She says something about him losing his last job, about a girlfriend, about two kids in Florida he rarely gets to see. I don’t pay close attention.
Amy is excited, and I’m happy for her.
Within weeks she invites him to move into her condo, to set up his computer next to hers, to share her bed. It has been a long time since anyone has shared her bed.
We’re trying it out, she says.
He leaves me love notes, she says.
We set the alarm for a half hour early so we can lie in bed and cuddle, she says.
He respects me too much to have sex with me, she says. I’ve persuaded him to let me…you know.
She giggles.
You persuaded him? I ask, involuntarily raising my eyebrows, even though she can’t see me over the phone. I’ll bet that was hard. Does he reciprocate?
There is a pause.
Not yet, she says, but we’re working on it.
I shake my head. Why does she accept that? But I also think I don’t know the story. I know he holds her when they watch movies. I know he sometimes does the cooking, and that when he does he pays attention to her Weight Watchers portion exchanges, measuring out the oil, encouraging her to go to her meetings. Each of these things make her feel loved, and for that I am happy.
She takes him to her company Christmas party. The next day I call her.
How was it?
Good, she says. We wore our cowboy hats.
I laugh. Ron is a rodeo cowboy, and Amy has bought herself a cowboy hat so they match. Within weeks she’ll start volunteering at a therapeutic riding school so she can become comfortable around horses.
So how’d he do with your co-workers?
Okay, she says. Although we were expecting dinner, so he got a little drunk. He said it’ll never happen again.
I hope not, I say. You’ve had enough of that in your life.
No kidding.
A few days later she tells me he has priors.
Priors?
Yeah, she says. I never thought that would be part of my vocabulary.
No kidding, I say.
Nothing bad, though, she says. Money stuff.
I take that to mean there’s no violence. No rape, no murder, no armed robbery. I try to be open-minded, to not hold it against him. I learn later that he has served time. Two and a half years here, a couple of years there. Grand theft auto, burglary, passing bad checks.
He went to test drive a truck and just didn’t give it back, she says.
Seriously?
Seriously.
What was he thinking?
She is silent, and I don’t probe further, thinking she’d tell me if she wanted to, thinking she must be embarrassed.
There is no way this is good.
Kurt and I are lying in bed, talking our way toward sleep.
You know what I want for Christmas? I ask.
No idea, he says, trailing his fingers up my arm.
I want to do an Outward Bound.
His fingers stop.
How come?
I hear the edge in his voice and I roll onto my side to reassure him.
I want to stop being afraid of stuff, I say. Especially heights. I was reading about the one in North Carolina. White water, rock climbing, solo nights. I want to do it.
He is silent. He knows how terrified I am of heights, and of being alone.
I’ll look into it, he says after a pause.
I’ll send you the URL, I say.
I have read the program’s website carefully, my heart thudding in fear and excitement. Thinking about it makes me sweat. I am afraid I’ll become paralyzed halfway up a rock face, unable to go up or down, or that I’ll lie awake all night, alone on the mountain as wolves howl. I fear the wolves, of course. Or the coyotes or mountain lions or whatever it is they have in North Carolina, but mostly I fear the man who will come into my tent. The man who will come in and seduce me or worse.
My fear is irrational, and I want to face it down, erase it from my life.
My family is gathering at my house for the holidays. Amy is coming, too, even though it will keep her away from her new love.
You know you’re welcome to bring him, right?
Maybe I will, she says.
A few days later she calls back.
I guess he’s not ready for the Latus mob scene yet, she says.
Smart guy, I say. We can be pretty overwhelming.
You’ll get to meet him someday.
Well, he’s welcome if he changes his mind.
Amy arrives a few days before Christmas. Ron is not with her, but her eyes are bright, her smile wide. She has flown from Knoxville to St. Louis and then caught a ride to my house with Mom. I rush to the door when I hear their rental car in the drive.
Hello! Oh my gosh you’re here! I hug Mom, then wrap Amy in my arms, kiss her, and pull her into the house.
You look fantastic! I say.
Thank you, she says, pirouetting. Ten more pounds.
Wow. I’m impressed.
I hug her again.
The Christmas tree towers eighteen feet, from the sunken living room up into the cathedral ceiling, its angel barely upright. There is a fire in the fireplace. Christmas music is playing, and my home glows. The mantel is draped in white, the nativity scene arrayed in its china splendor, the painting over the fireplace replaced by a glittering wreath. The ficus twinkles with tiny white lights, a counterpoint to the fat colored bulbs on the tree.
The house, the family, the world sparkles.
I’ve got you in the downstairs back room, I tell Amy. You’ll have privacy. And internet access.
We both laugh.
It’s only a month since she met Ron Ball. It is hard to be away from a new love for a week, I know. Still, her step is buoyant, and even though she spends hours in her room checking email, her laugh is deep and real, and her hugs are heartfelt.
You okay? I ask often.
I’m fine, she says.
At night the family plays poker.
Hit me, Amy says, then laughs her guttural laugh at the card.
Again? Steve asks.
No, I’ll stay, she says.
My sister-in-law is in the living room, reading a book. Kurt is in his office, where it’s quiet. The rest of us are gathered around the table, covered with a tablecloth to keep coins from rolling, the children leaning over their cheat sheets to remember whether three of a kind beats two pair.
During a break Amy runs downstairs and logs on to her laptop. She comes back up, subdued.
Everything okay? I ask.
Sure, she says. Everything’s fine.
Later I walk down to her room. She is staying in the workout room, with its wall-size mirror.
Everything okay?
He’s not online, she says, frowning. He’s not answering the phone, either.
You worried?
Not really. Sort of.
Where do you think he is?
I don’t know. That’s why I’m worried.
I sit quietly. I don’t know how to ask, but I feel like I should.
Do you think he’s gone?
I don’t know. She rubs the ridge between her eyebrows. I don’t think so.
Then she smiles.
He’s probably just at the store or something, she says.
You hear anything? I ask her quietly at breakfast. She shakes her head.
I’m sorry, hon.
I am worried that he has wiped her out, that he has stolen whatever she has of value, her computer and her jewelry. I look at Amy’s hand. After her divorce and her ex-husband’s death and the long slog out of the debt he left behind, she had melted down most of her gold jewelry and combined it with the monster diamond from her engagement ring to create a piece so big it could be a weapon. She is wearing it now, so at least he hasn’t taken that.
Amy maintains her game face, playing with her nieces and nephews, sitting often and close to her sisters and brother. She doesn’t talk much about her man, which doesn’t make sense to me. When I am infatuated I talk constantly, giggly and gleeful. But she is being quiet, and I’m concerned. This isn’t like her.
At midnight we put the last of the Santa presents under the tree. The pile comes up to my waist and spreads out into the living room. It is bountiful, nearly obscene. We go to bed content, sure that the children will feel loved.
In the morning we open presents one by one, everyone watching and oohing and ahhing. It takes two pots of coffee and a break for cereal and eggs—anything to offset the candy canes and chocolate the kids are digging out of the toes of their stockings.
We take turns opening, the kids first and the grown-ups intermittently, my mother smiling gamely as round after round passes her by. She knows we have done something big, she just doesn’t know what.
The children find a gift for me. It is a small slim box. A jewelry box. The family watches. Kurt has a habit of buying extravagant gifts, so all eyes are on the box, even though most days I wear only a small opal necklace and a pair of gold hoop earrings.
I open it, smiling expectantly.
It is a black thong.
I crumble it into my hand and blush, while the family laughs.
I quickly divert attention to one of the kids, then meet Kurt’s eyes. He is smiling, proud.
When my next turn comes around Kurt goes into the bedroom and comes out with a lumpy garbage bag. The gift is cumbersome and unwieldy, and the family clears a space in the middle of the living room and sits back. I tear into the bag.
It is a sheepskin rug, bigger than a man. It is the kind you see in movies, topped by a woman in something sexy, a slinky chemise maybe, her painted toes in feather-festooned mules. Again I wait to meet Kurt’s eyes.
My gifts from my family include a cotton sweater, books, a collection of Beatles CDs.
There are gifts of pans and clothing and Game Boys and art. Dozens and dozens of gifts.
Eventually the area under the tree is empty. The children disperse to their toys while the adults sit back, waiting for the moment we will present our mother with her gift. I am secretly still looking around, expecting Kurt somehow to surprise me with my trip to Outward Bound. Finally he produces one last package. It is the size of a shoebox, wrapped clumsily in red and green.
I am grinning, and I open the package slowly, as he leans in with the camera. This is my big gift.
I remember the year he carved a laptop computer out of Styrofoam, complete with a keyboard and a tracking ball, and a giant heart in lieu of a screen. I wonder how he will depict my Outward Bound trip.
Inside the shoe box is another, much smaller. I laugh as I peel away the paper. Will it be a tiny climbing rope? A miniature life jacket? A pup tent made of toothpicks and tissue?
I open it.
Inside are earrings and a pendant of sapphires and diamonds set in platinum, so heavy that I am surprised by their heft in the palm of my hand.
Again I don’t want to look at him, but this time it isn’t because I am embarrassed, but because I am angry. I asked for independence. Instead he gives me a symbol of wealth and prestige. A symbol I am unlikely to wear, paid for with money that could have bought me strength.
I compose my face and pass the jewelry around, listening to my family’s exclamations. I am even madder because I know this display of affluence makes some of my siblings uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable. We may as well have hung a flashing sign saying Rich! Rich! Rich!
