do.” I paused. “The thing is, you knew Clayton. You went fishing with him. You had a handle on the type of person he was.”
“And Patricia.”
“They seem like the types to just walk out on their daughter?”
“No. My guess is, what I’ve always believed in my heart, is that they were murdered. You know, like I told the show, a serial killer or something.”
I nodded slowly in agreement, although the police had never put much stock in that theory. There was nothing about the disappearance of Cynthia’s family that was consistent with anything else they had on their books. “Here’s the thing,” I said. “If some kind of serial killer did come to their house, took them away, and killed them, why not Cynthia? Why did he leave her behind?”
Rolly had no answer for me. “Can I ask you something?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“Why do you think our fabulously engineered gym teacher would put a note in your box, then go back a minute later and take it out again?”
“What?”
“Just remember, Terry, you’re a married man.”
6
After Rolly finished telling me what he had observed while sitting on the far side of the staff room, supposedly reading a newspaper, he had some good news for me. Sylvia, the theater arts teacher, was doing an early morning rehearsal the following day for the school’s big annual production, which this year was
Damn Yankees
. Half the kids from my creative writing class were involved, so my first-period class was effectively wiped out. With that many missing, those who were still obliged to show up would not.
So the next morning, as Grace picked at her toast and jam, I said, “Guess who’s walking you to school today?”
Her face lit up. “You are? Really?”
“Yeah. I already told your mom. I don’t have to be in first thing today, so it’s okay.”
“Are you really going to walk with me, like, right next to me?”
I could hear Cynthia coming down the stairs, so I put an index finger to my lips and Grace immediately went quiet.
“So, Pumpkin, your dad’s walking you today,” she said. Pumpkin. It had been Cynthia’s own mother’s pet name for her. “That okay with you?”
“Sure!”
Cynthia raised an eyebrow. “Well, I see. You don’t like my company.”
“Mom,” said Grace.
Her mother smiled. If she was actually offended, she showed no signs of it. Grace, less sure than I, backtracked. “It’s just fun to walk with Dad for a change.”
“What are you looking at?” Cynthia asked me. I had the newspaper open to the real estate ads. Once a week the paper had a special section filled with houses for sale.
“Oh, nothing.”
“No, what? You thinking of moving?”
“I don’t want to move,” Grace said.
“Nobody’s moving,” I said. “Just, sometimes, I think we could use a place with a little more space.”
“How could we get a place with more space—hey, that rhymes—without moving?” Grace asked.
“Okay,” I said. “So we’d have to move to get more space.”
“Unless we added on,” Cynthia said.
“Oh!” Grace said, overcome with a brain wave. “We could build an observatory!”
Cynthia let loose with a laugh, then said, “I was thinking more along the lines of another bathroom.”
“No, no,” Grace said, not giving up yet. “You could make a room with a hole in the ceiling so you could see the stars when it was dark out and I could get a bigger telescope to look straight up instead of out the window, which totally sucks.”
“Don’t say ‘sucks,’” Cynthia said, but she was smiling.
“Okay,” she said. “Did I commit a fox pass?”
Around our house, that was the deliberately dumb pronunciation of
faux pas
. It had been an in-joke between Cynthia and me for so long, Grace had genuinely come to believe this was how you described a social misstep.
“No, honey, that’s not a fox pass,” I said. “That’s just a word we don’t want to hear.”
Switching gears, Grace asked, “Where’s my
“And Patricia.”
“They seem like the types to just walk out on their daughter?”
“No. My guess is, what I’ve always believed in my heart, is that they were murdered. You know, like I told the show, a serial killer or something.”
I nodded slowly in agreement, although the police had never put much stock in that theory. There was nothing about the disappearance of Cynthia’s family that was consistent with anything else they had on their books. “Here’s the thing,” I said. “If some kind of serial killer did come to their house, took them away, and killed them, why not Cynthia? Why did he leave her behind?”
Rolly had no answer for me. “Can I ask you something?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“Why do you think our fabulously engineered gym teacher would put a note in your box, then go back a minute later and take it out again?”
“What?”
“Just remember, Terry, you’re a married man.”
6
After Rolly finished telling me what he had observed while sitting on the far side of the staff room, supposedly reading a newspaper, he had some good news for me. Sylvia, the theater arts teacher, was doing an early morning rehearsal the following day for the school’s big annual production, which this year was
Damn Yankees
. Half the kids from my creative writing class were involved, so my first-period class was effectively wiped out. With that many missing, those who were still obliged to show up would not.
So the next morning, as Grace picked at her toast and jam, I said, “Guess who’s walking you to school today?”
Her face lit up. “You are? Really?”
“Yeah. I already told your mom. I don’t have to be in first thing today, so it’s okay.”
“Are you really going to walk with me, like, right next to me?”
I could hear Cynthia coming down the stairs, so I put an index finger to my lips and Grace immediately went quiet.
“So, Pumpkin, your dad’s walking you today,” she said. Pumpkin. It had been Cynthia’s own mother’s pet name for her. “That okay with you?”
“Sure!”
Cynthia raised an eyebrow. “Well, I see. You don’t like my company.”
“Mom,” said Grace.
Her mother smiled. If she was actually offended, she showed no signs of it. Grace, less sure than I, backtracked. “It’s just fun to walk with Dad for a change.”
“What are you looking at?” Cynthia asked me. I had the newspaper open to the real estate ads. Once a week the paper had a special section filled with houses for sale.
“Oh, nothing.”
“No, what? You thinking of moving?”
“I don’t want to move,” Grace said.
“Nobody’s moving,” I said. “Just, sometimes, I think we could use a place with a little more space.”
“How could we get a place with more space—hey, that rhymes—without moving?” Grace asked.
“Okay,” I said. “So we’d have to move to get more space.”
“Unless we added on,” Cynthia said.
“Oh!” Grace said, overcome with a brain wave. “We could build an observatory!”
Cynthia let loose with a laugh, then said, “I was thinking more along the lines of another bathroom.”
“No, no,” Grace said, not giving up yet. “You could make a room with a hole in the ceiling so you could see the stars when it was dark out and I could get a bigger telescope to look straight up instead of out the window, which totally sucks.”
“Don’t say ‘sucks,’” Cynthia said, but she was smiling.
“Okay,” she said. “Did I commit a fox pass?”
Around our house, that was the deliberately dumb pronunciation of
faux pas
. It had been an in-joke between Cynthia and me for so long, Grace had genuinely come to believe this was how you described a social misstep.
“No, honey, that’s not a fox pass,” I said. “That’s just a word we don’t want to hear.”
Switching gears, Grace asked, “Where’s my
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