Other People's Houses, page 27
“You could have told me, it wouldn’t have made me more helpful, I promise.”
Julie nodded. “I know. I just wanted to tell you in person, and then the moment never happened. I’m sorry.”
“Yes, please apologize to me for getting cancer. That’s entirely reasonable. Are you doing OK?”
“Not really, but I seem to be responding to treatment, so that’s good.” She shrugged. “It’s too soon to tell.”
“Can I ask you about it?”
“Sure, if Lucas isn’t there.”
“Hold, please,” said Frances, getting up to check on the kids. She soon came back. “They’re upstairs playing a version of My Little Pony that somehow involves storming a castle.”
Julie nodded. “OK, ask away.”
“What kind of cancer?”
“Boob.”
“What stage?”
“Stage three. Pretty bad.”
“Did you cut your boob off?”
“Both of them, in an overabundance of caution and a desire to be able to wear thin spaghetti-strap tops for the first time since puberty.” Julie had been pretty busty, one of those women who were slender but curvy, irritating but hardly blameworthy. “I kind of yearned for a smaller, French-style breast, you know, tiny pink or brown nipples, able to go topless on the beach, able to wear sundresses without a bra, you know. I’d had big tits since I was fifteen. It was time for a change.”
“So, cancer was a lucky break?”
“Fashion wise, yeah.”
“OK, so, how did you find out? Did you find a lump?”
Julie nodded. “Yeah, it was pretty classic. I knew as soon as I felt it that it was cancer. It was just . . . wrong. I went to my OB/GYN that day, got scans, a biopsy, and was in front of an oncologist the same week. Thank God for excellent insurance.”
“Wow.” Frances took a sip of coffee. “What did Bill say?”
“He said, ‘Oh shit.’ Then he cried. Then he stopped crying, and said, ‘OK, what’s the plan?’ I wanted to come here for treatment, he wanted me to stay there, so we fought about it solidly for a week. It sucked.”
Frances was confused. “I’m sorry, which part were you fighting about?”
Julie sighed. “Like I said, he wanted me to get treatment in Los Angeles, so I could stay home and he could take care of me. I wanted to come to Minnesota so Lucas didn’t have to see me so sick, and Bill could focus on him. I felt like it was as if I were in the army, do you know what I mean?”
“Not really, continue.”
Julie sighed. “Well, I was going away to fight and either I was going to come back in one piece or I wasn’t. Bill said he’d married me in sickness and in health, and that it was his job to take care of me. It got really quite heated, but then I pulled the ‘I’m the one dying of cancer’ card, and he gave up. He’s still pissed, though.”
“And how is it?”
“A fucking nightmare. The treatment makes everything taste bad, like metal. I can’t eat hardly anything because the mouth sores are just the worst, and what I can eat tastes like WD-40 smells. I miss Bill and Lucas all the time, but I would hate it if they were here because then I’d need to worry about them, too. Do you know what I mean?”
“What does Lucas think is going on?”
Julie shrugged. “He thinks I’m working on a film. He was used to one or the other of us going away for work, so we just told him I was on a work trip, and I’d Skype every day if I could, and it’s been fine.” Julie was a script supervisor.
“Did the surgery hurt? Do you have small boobs now?” Julie was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, so it was hard to tell.
“It hurt so fucking much, honestly, but after those mouth sores I could handle anything. And yes, small boobs, but they’re still pretty messed up.” Someone had clearly come in the room because she smiled at them, and then looked back at Frances. “I have to go. But I’m really glad I got to talk to you.”
“Me, too. Try and come back soon. We miss you, and your husband is clearly going to the dogs.”
“Not to mention that I turn my back for five minutes and Anne is porking some random guy. What the actual fuck is going on with that?”
“Call me another time, I’ll fill you in,” said Frances. “Go do something relaxing. You should get one of those coloring books for grown-ups.”
Julie made a hacking noise. “Oh my God, you have no idea how many people have sent me those. They’re very kind, but honestly, if I see another fucking mandala I’m going to scream. On the positive side, I have enough sets of colored pencils to keep my kid stocked until college.” She sighed. “Let’s hope I see him get there.”
“Positive attitude, Julie.”
“Sure, OK.” Julie rolled her eyes. “Talk to you soon.” She hung up.
Frances took the iPad and tucked it back into Lucas’s backpack. Inside she found a drawing of him and his dad. Julie was in it, too, talking to them through a window. All of them were smiling.
Thirty-six.
Soccer that weekend was particularly irritating. There was something in the air, like a giant cloud of irritation, that doubled the usual number of sideline tantrums—and the kids were pretty bad tempered, too.
Lally was in especially fine form. Michael had dug himself a hole by telling her, in the car on the way there, that she could grow up to be anything she wanted. He was getting out of the car, congratulating himself on his right-on girl-empowerment fathering, when she suddenly asked, “Can I be a toilet?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Can I be a toilet when I grow up?”
He made a face at her. “No, you can’t be a toilet. You can’t grow up to be an object, you’re still going to be a person.” He anticipated the next question. “And you can’t change species either, you’re stuck with human.”
“But you said I could be anything I wanted.” Lally had had a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast, about three hours earlier. He had tried to give her a granola bar in the car, but failed. He understood low blood sugar was a factor here, but seriously, a toilet?
He was firm. “Yes, you can be anything, but anything that a person can possibly be in real life, not like, you know, a tree or something.”
“But I want to be a toilet.”
Milo was waiting to get out of the car. “Dad, just let her be a toilet, what does it matter? She’s not applying for toilet college, is she?”
Michael saw the wisdom of this. Frances was good at this, letting the small stuff slide over her; he would be like Frances. “OK, whatever. Sure, honey, you can be a toilet.”
Then they got out of the car and headed to the game. Michael had remembered orange slices in a Ziploc bag and two water bottles. He had remembered shoes to change into after the game. He had remembered his phone and car keys. He was crushing it.
“So,” continued Lally, as they wandered through the crowds of parents strung along the perimeter of games that were in progress, or about to start, or about to end. “If I was a toilet, where would people poop? Would people poop in my mouth?”
As Michael told Frances this story later, he emphasized that this had been the moment he could have headed off the whole thing. “I should have just ignored her,” he confessed. “I should have simply pretended that I didn’t hear, but, you know, I was distracted by finding the right little field, and looking for other kids on the team . . .” His voice trailed off. “I just didn’t . . .”
But in that moment, he didn’t ignore it. Instead he absentmindedly said, “I guess so, baby.”
They found Lally’s team, the Glitter Marlins, and Michael left Lally there for a moment to take Milo to his team, the Raging Robots. As he made his way back he paused for a moment to say hi to Lili Girvan and meet her boyfriend, but he wasn’t away for long. Really, maybe two minutes. Three, tops.
As he got closer to the Glitter Marlins field he could see something was going on, and quickened his pace. A crowd of kids was gathered around the coach, but they seemed to be gazing at something on the ground. Maybe someone was injured already?
“I want you to poop in my mouth!” Lally was yelling. “My daddy said people would poop in my mouth!” She was lying on the ground screaming. “He said so!”
Which was precisely when Michael joined the circle of adults, all of whom slowly turned to look at him.
* * *
• • •
“They threw her off the team?” Frances was half horrified, half thrilled. “We don’t have to go back?”
Michael was sitting at the kitchen table with his forehead on the wood. “Milo is still on his team, so we have to go back until his season ends.”
“But Lally’s done?”
“As far as the Glitter Marlins are concerned, she is no longer welcome.”
“All because she said a bad word?”
“No.” Michael started rolling his forehead back and forth on the table. “All because she insisted people were going to poop in her mouth, then became enraged when it was suggested they wouldn’t. Then she kicked the coach in the knee.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Hard. While shouting, ‘My daddy said people would poop.’”
“No.”
“Yes. Would I make it up? Who could have seen that coming? Who could have seen an innocent statement like ‘you can be anything you want to be in life’ would end up in peewee soccer disgrace.” He lifted his head. “Lili Girvan said she’s never heard of anyone being thrown off a team before. Not a girls team, anyway.”
“Lili saw all this?”
He nodded. “And Shelly was there. She has a Glitter Marlin, too.”
Frances hooted with laughter. “That’s right! Otter! I am SO GLAD that was you and not me.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t have happened to you. Maybe you would have cut her off at the toilet.”
Frances shook her head and sat down next to him at the table. “Baby, children are fucking insane. Four-year-olds are the childhood equivalent of the Joker. They’ll mess you up just because they can. You’re a great dad, and one day she’ll appreciate the limitless possibilities you presented to her.”
“Including people pooping in her mouth?”
“Yes. Plus we’re definitely going to mention it at her wedding.”
“OK.”
She stroked his head. “Do you want a beer now?”
He nodded, banging his forehead gently as he did so.
* * *
• • •
A couple of hours later, as the evening grew darker, Iris stepped out of the shower and heard her phone ringing. Maybe it was the babysitter; she and Sara were planning on going out for dinner, to talk without Wyatt chiming in every three minutes. They were getting close to a decision about the film, about the baby, about the future. “Sara? Can you get that?” No answer. Frowning, Iris wrapped a towel around herself and went to the bedroom. Sara wasn’t there, which made sense once she picked up the phone and saw her wife’s name on the display.
“Hey, don’t tell me you’re too lazy to walk upstairs?”
“No, I’m in the street, outside.” Sara’s voice was hurried, low. “Come as quick as you can, OK?”
Iris looked out of the window. Sara, Michael, Frances, Charlie, Bill . . . What the fuck? All of them were standing in the street looking anxious. Iris turned and blindly put on whatever clothes she could find.
Rushing outside she called, “What happened? What’s going on?”
Frances turned and said, “It’s Theo. He’s gone missing.”
A police car turned onto the street, and Charlie raised his arms and waved like a drowning man.
Thirty-seven.
As Iris stepped out of the house, Anne pulled up in a taxi. Somehow she covered the ground to her husband without touching it. “Is he back?”
Charlie shook his head, reaching for Anne, pulling her close. “He was right there,” he said, his words clear even from where Frances and Ava stood. “He was right there and . . .”
“Mom?” Lally appeared next to Frances. “Mom?”
Frances turned and looked down at Lally. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m really busy right now. We can’t find Theo. Have you seen him? Is he maybe playing hide and seek?”
Lally shrugged. “I guess he’s with Milo.”
Frances frowned, and Michael started toward them, noticing the sudden concern on his wife’s face. “Where’s Milo, Lally? Isn’t he in the house?”
The little girl shook her head. “No. He must have gone with Theo.” She frowned suddenly. “He borrowed some of my birthday money. He has to give it back, right?”
“What birthday money, baby?” Michael picked her up and looked at her closely. “When was this?”
“A little while ago. I was watching My Little Pony and Milo came in and asked if he could borrow some of my birthday money and I said yes if he gave it back and he said he would and then Twilight Sparkle and Spike had a big fight and now they’re not talking.” She hugged her dad. “Do you want to come watch?”
He shook his head and watched his wife run into their house. Ten seconds later she was out again, her face white. He got to the cop just before she did.
* * *
• • •
Forty minutes later Paul Ramirez’s squad car pulled up on the corner of the street, and he looked over at the gaggle of middle-class white people and sighed. No cop liked a missing kid. It always caused that twist in the gut, that fear that this was going to be one where a stranger had plucked a kid from the street and was even now doing unspeakable things. However, those cases were so rare Paul had never encountered one in nearly twenty years of being a cop, but what he did encounter all the time was kids running from their own parents. After some of those cases he almost wished for a stranger, someone whose evil was less . . . personalized.
He looked at the people standing there, already talking to another set of cops from his precinct and wondered if any of them had pushed this particular kid into running away. He examined the faces of the men briefly, as men were usually the ones who raped or beat or yelled, but he knew even as he did it that it was pointless. Evil was so good at hiding. He unlatched his seat belt and opened the car door. Kids were good at hiding, too. Hopefully it would just be one of those.
As he got closer he realized he recognized one of the women, although he didn’t know her. He’d seen her at his daughter’s school. She looked the same as she always did, a little unkempt, a little scruffy, a little overweight. Her jeans and hoodie were like his own uniform, and as consistent. There were several other women there, but only one was crying, so presumably she was the mom. That one was good looking, wearing expensive clothes and boots that would cost a week of his salary. It wasn’t important, he was just used to gathering impressions. If the cops were there, it didn’t matter who you were—and it certainly didn’t matter what you wore. The shit had somehow hit the fan, and in those moments they were all the same.
His colleague turned and raised a hand. “This is Detective Ramirez. He’s going to help us find the boys.”
Boys, plural? He’d missed that detail. OK, that shifted things again.
“Shall we go inside?” he asked, after nodding all around. “I know right now you want to be out there hunting for your children, but we need to issue a more detailed alert and I’m going to ask you some questions.”
Frances and Michael led him inside their house, with Charlie and Anne just behind. Several cops were already there, methodically searching every room. The first cops on the scene had asked for permission to search Anne and Charlie’s house, and that search was long underway and nearly done. Then, when it turned out Milo was gone, too, a second set of cops had entered Frances and Michael’s house.
“We often find the kids curled up behind a sofa somewhere,” a cop had explained, trying to be reassuring.
“They’re a little big for hide and seek,” Michael had said, but inside he hoped against hope he was wrong, that they’d find them and he could yell at them and hug them and send everyone home and it would just be one of those days he and Frances could look back on and shudder. Rather than the day when everything ended.
“So,” began Detective Ramirez, his notepad open on his knee. “Tell me about Milo and Theo. What’s been going on with them lately?”
“Nothing,” said Frances, speaking for the first time. This policeman looked vaguely familiar. “We’ve been getting along pretty well, to be honest. Milo’s a good kid, an easy kid.”
“And he and Theo are close?”
Frances turned up her palms. “They’re in class together at school. We carpool together. We’re neighbors. They hang out a lot. They play soccer together, you know.” She paused, unsure of what to say and what not to. She looked over at Anne, who was sitting very close to Charlie, holding his hand.
Charlie cleared his throat. “Theo’s been having a little bit of a harder time.” He looked at Anne. “His mom and I have recently separated, and it’s hard for the kids to understand.”
Looking at them sitting closely together it was also somewhat hard for the detective to understand, but he took Charlie at his word. “Could he have gone to find you, Mrs. Porter?”
Anne looked lost. “He hasn’t ever been to my apartment. He’s not very . . . resourceful. I don’t know if he could even find it.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s in the Palazzo.”
“You said they play soccer. Are they in AYSO?” The detective smiled at the parents when they nodded. “Well, the Palazzo’s across the street from the park, right? Maybe they know more than you realize.”
