had ghetto blasters; they held on to them proprietarily or swung them like playful weapons at each other. Sound enveloped each boy and his circle, and fought with the music of his rival. “Hey, baby, what’s happening?” the boys called to the girls, who giggled and pretended to run away. “Nothin’ man, not a thing.”
It wasn’t exactly Times Square; one seedy block didn’t qualify as a lurid red-light district. It was more like an urban shopping mall somehow, where the boys strutted and the girls combed their hair. The difference was only that most of these kids didn’t go home at night.
I waited for the Number 7 trolley in front of the Pay ’n’ Save. The spirit of the city’s evening no longer seemed quite as festive, in spite of all the nicely dressed people around, going home a little late from work with packages and bags in their gloved hands. I kept seeing drunks in frayed sweaters, bag ladies pushing shopping carts, crazy people, beggars and kids with nowhere to go. It was as if there were two paintings, one on top of the other. And the one on top, the slick attractive one with the good-looking, youngish, employed shoppers, was peeling and cracking, so that the bottom painting was showing through, a faded, miserably drawn fresco that looked like it depicted people from another century.
I got on the trolley, feeling shaken, found a seat, and kept my eyes closed nearly all the way home.
Ernesto was mewing loudly when I opened the door.
“Trish?” I called cautiously. “Trish?”
The lights were all on, in the bedroom and kitchen as well as the living room. The sofa bed had been folded back up and the flannel nightgown was tucked neatly away under one of the pillows. Jane Eyre was open with the spine up. I mechanically picked it up and closed it, using a piece of scribbled paper as a bookmark, noting that Jane was now at Mr. Rochester’s house, wondering what those strange sounds from the attic could be.
“Trish,” I called half-heartedly one more time, but I knew she wasn’t here.
I picked up Jane Eyre again and looked at the scrap of paper inside.
“Dear Pam, I’ve gone out for a little while, don’t worry. See you later. Trish.”
Had she gone out to score drugs or to meet Wayne or to turn a few tricks? Who had she been talking to on the phone? Had anyone else been here, had they taken her away against her will?
There was no sign of a struggle, as they say in mysteries. There was no sign of anything at all except this note.
“Do you think she’ll come back?” I asked Ernesto. “Do you think she’s all right?”
He sat on his haunches and stared at me accusingly.
“I never should have left her alone without finding out who she’s afraid of.”
And Ernesto yowled to show he agreed.
11
I WAITED UNTIL ABOUT NINE , hoping that Trish might show up. When I wasn’t pacing the floor I was watching the phone. I ate some of the cannelloni left from the night before; I didn’t have much interest in cooking. Once the phone rang, but it was only Betty, the classical guitarist, who had an extra ticket to Julian Bream at the Opera House in February. Would I like to go? I decided that February was far enough away to say yes to anything; besides, it showed that Betty no longer had any immediate designs on me and really did want to be friends.
I also thought about calling June, but I was afraid she might not give me either the sympathy or the advice I wanted. If my car were broken down she’d be the first person to help; I wasn’t so sure about her when it came to emotional support. She’d probably tell me I could have expected it, which wasn’t what I needed to hear, and recommend a good movie on TV. There was always Carole; she had a good heart—and a blow torch—but it was hard to know how reliable she’d be as a sidekick.
Around eight-forty-five I looked in the Yellow Pages under professional photographers for anyone with the first name of Wayne, but didn’t find a single
It wasn’t exactly Times Square; one seedy block didn’t qualify as a lurid red-light district. It was more like an urban shopping mall somehow, where the boys strutted and the girls combed their hair. The difference was only that most of these kids didn’t go home at night.
I waited for the Number 7 trolley in front of the Pay ’n’ Save. The spirit of the city’s evening no longer seemed quite as festive, in spite of all the nicely dressed people around, going home a little late from work with packages and bags in their gloved hands. I kept seeing drunks in frayed sweaters, bag ladies pushing shopping carts, crazy people, beggars and kids with nowhere to go. It was as if there were two paintings, one on top of the other. And the one on top, the slick attractive one with the good-looking, youngish, employed shoppers, was peeling and cracking, so that the bottom painting was showing through, a faded, miserably drawn fresco that looked like it depicted people from another century.
I got on the trolley, feeling shaken, found a seat, and kept my eyes closed nearly all the way home.
Ernesto was mewing loudly when I opened the door.
“Trish?” I called cautiously. “Trish?”
The lights were all on, in the bedroom and kitchen as well as the living room. The sofa bed had been folded back up and the flannel nightgown was tucked neatly away under one of the pillows. Jane Eyre was open with the spine up. I mechanically picked it up and closed it, using a piece of scribbled paper as a bookmark, noting that Jane was now at Mr. Rochester’s house, wondering what those strange sounds from the attic could be.
“Trish,” I called half-heartedly one more time, but I knew she wasn’t here.
I picked up Jane Eyre again and looked at the scrap of paper inside.
“Dear Pam, I’ve gone out for a little while, don’t worry. See you later. Trish.”
Had she gone out to score drugs or to meet Wayne or to turn a few tricks? Who had she been talking to on the phone? Had anyone else been here, had they taken her away against her will?
There was no sign of a struggle, as they say in mysteries. There was no sign of anything at all except this note.
“Do you think she’ll come back?” I asked Ernesto. “Do you think she’s all right?”
He sat on his haunches and stared at me accusingly.
“I never should have left her alone without finding out who she’s afraid of.”
And Ernesto yowled to show he agreed.
11
I WAITED UNTIL ABOUT NINE , hoping that Trish might show up. When I wasn’t pacing the floor I was watching the phone. I ate some of the cannelloni left from the night before; I didn’t have much interest in cooking. Once the phone rang, but it was only Betty, the classical guitarist, who had an extra ticket to Julian Bream at the Opera House in February. Would I like to go? I decided that February was far enough away to say yes to anything; besides, it showed that Betty no longer had any immediate designs on me and really did want to be friends.
I also thought about calling June, but I was afraid she might not give me either the sympathy or the advice I wanted. If my car were broken down she’d be the first person to help; I wasn’t so sure about her when it came to emotional support. She’d probably tell me I could have expected it, which wasn’t what I needed to hear, and recommend a good movie on TV. There was always Carole; she had a good heart—and a blow torch—but it was hard to know how reliable she’d be as a sidekick.
Around eight-forty-five I looked in the Yellow Pages under professional photographers for anyone with the first name of Wayne, but didn’t find a single
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