serene.
“When I called you, when I called the police, I used my cell.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s the hang-up number I got.”
“Do you know why?”
“Umm … look, Vandervoort told me. When the deputy got here, you wouldn’t let go of the phone.”
“That’s right. I wouldn’t.”
“So.”
“It was early when the phone rang and I was still asleep.”
“And …”
“You call here sometimes, right?”
“You know I do, Katy. Just look at the red light on the phone machine. At least two of those flashes are my messages, but what’s that—”
“Ssshhhh! How many rings before my machine picks up?”
“Four.”
“Very good,” she said. “You always were observant.”
“Thanks, but—”
Before I could get the question out, she pressed the PLAY button on the machine.
You have seven new messages. You have one saved message. Playing new messages.
First message. Without hesitating, Katy hit ERASE.
Message erased.
Second message. Again.
Message erased.
Third message. And again.
Message erased.
Fourth message. And again and again and again until all the new messages were gone.
To play saved messages, press three. She flicked her right index finger.
First saved message. Six forty-three a.m. From outside caller:
“Hi.”
“Hello … Hello, who’s there?” Katy’s voice was full of sleep.
“I miss you, sis.”
“Patrick! Patrick!”
“Gotta go now. I love you.”
“Oh, my God! Patrick don’t hang—”
Click.
End of saved messages .
We both stood there across the bedroom from each other, as far apart as we had ever been. Even at the few low points of our marriage, even in the depths of her anger when the truth of Patrick’s disappearance first surfaced, she had never looked at me so coldly. We were strangers.
“Now,” she said, “I’m tired, please get out of my parents’ house.”
I turned and left without a word.
How, I wondered, had Katy and I grown this far apart? We had once loved each other beyond all reason. From the first, our bodies had fit together as if carved to do just so. Did we fight? Of course we fought, all couples fight, but we could always see the love behind the anger. Now, and over the course of the last few years, there was only anger. Even during the inevitable dead spots in our marriage, when every day was like a long drive through Nebraska, we had rediscovered the passion. We had come through everything. I think for the very first time, when I walked out of her bedroom, I accepted that we would not come through this. That cold look on her face, not a judge’s signature on a piece of paper, was our divorce decree.
STILL A LITTLE stunned, I drove around aimlessly for a while. It was pretty country up here, though not as pretty as it once had been. Farms that I used to pass on my way up had been sold and turned into gated communities of McMansions with nine-hole golf courses and artificial lakes. Some of the farms had been cut up into bigger lots. Those parcels were for super-sized homes, ones with garages the size of aircraft hangars. Sarah had a friend who called them Garage Mahals. To me, no matter how lavish the homes might be, no matter how tasteful, they were ugly. They just didn’t belong.
I loved New York City, but it could be cruel to its neighbors. I once heard it said that being in close proximity to New York was like sleeping in bed next to an elephant. Everything was great until the elephant rolled over. It was what ruined Long Island and what was slowly happening here. To its neighbors, the city was a contrary beast. As its influence spread to surrounding areas, it sucked the local flavor out of the landscape. It’s funny how people try to get away from the city, but never quite escape its gravity.
As the light faded, I rode back into Janus. The sheriff’s office was at the end of Main Street. Robby, the young deputy, was at the desk. I hoped he got paid a lot of money given the hours Vandervoort was working him.
“When I called you, when I called the police, I used my cell.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s the hang-up number I got.”
“Do you know why?”
“Umm … look, Vandervoort told me. When the deputy got here, you wouldn’t let go of the phone.”
“That’s right. I wouldn’t.”
“So.”
“It was early when the phone rang and I was still asleep.”
“And …”
“You call here sometimes, right?”
“You know I do, Katy. Just look at the red light on the phone machine. At least two of those flashes are my messages, but what’s that—”
“Ssshhhh! How many rings before my machine picks up?”
“Four.”
“Very good,” she said. “You always were observant.”
“Thanks, but—”
Before I could get the question out, she pressed the PLAY button on the machine.
You have seven new messages. You have one saved message. Playing new messages.
First message. Without hesitating, Katy hit ERASE.
Message erased.
Second message. Again.
Message erased.
Third message. And again.
Message erased.
Fourth message. And again and again and again until all the new messages were gone.
To play saved messages, press three. She flicked her right index finger.
First saved message. Six forty-three a.m. From outside caller:
“Hi.”
“Hello … Hello, who’s there?” Katy’s voice was full of sleep.
“I miss you, sis.”
“Patrick! Patrick!”
“Gotta go now. I love you.”
“Oh, my God! Patrick don’t hang—”
Click.
End of saved messages .
We both stood there across the bedroom from each other, as far apart as we had ever been. Even at the few low points of our marriage, even in the depths of her anger when the truth of Patrick’s disappearance first surfaced, she had never looked at me so coldly. We were strangers.
“Now,” she said, “I’m tired, please get out of my parents’ house.”
I turned and left without a word.
How, I wondered, had Katy and I grown this far apart? We had once loved each other beyond all reason. From the first, our bodies had fit together as if carved to do just so. Did we fight? Of course we fought, all couples fight, but we could always see the love behind the anger. Now, and over the course of the last few years, there was only anger. Even during the inevitable dead spots in our marriage, when every day was like a long drive through Nebraska, we had rediscovered the passion. We had come through everything. I think for the very first time, when I walked out of her bedroom, I accepted that we would not come through this. That cold look on her face, not a judge’s signature on a piece of paper, was our divorce decree.
STILL A LITTLE stunned, I drove around aimlessly for a while. It was pretty country up here, though not as pretty as it once had been. Farms that I used to pass on my way up had been sold and turned into gated communities of McMansions with nine-hole golf courses and artificial lakes. Some of the farms had been cut up into bigger lots. Those parcels were for super-sized homes, ones with garages the size of aircraft hangars. Sarah had a friend who called them Garage Mahals. To me, no matter how lavish the homes might be, no matter how tasteful, they were ugly. They just didn’t belong.
I loved New York City, but it could be cruel to its neighbors. I once heard it said that being in close proximity to New York was like sleeping in bed next to an elephant. Everything was great until the elephant rolled over. It was what ruined Long Island and what was slowly happening here. To its neighbors, the city was a contrary beast. As its influence spread to surrounding areas, it sucked the local flavor out of the landscape. It’s funny how people try to get away from the city, but never quite escape its gravity.
As the light faded, I rode back into Janus. The sheriff’s office was at the end of Main Street. Robby, the young deputy, was at the desk. I hoped he got paid a lot of money given the hours Vandervoort was working him.
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