All That Is Mine I Carry With Me, page 15
“Well, I can’t exactly walk into a bank and hand the teller a suitcase full of cash, can I?”
“There’s no law against it.”
“It’s not smart.”
He was bullshitting. And I was prepared to accept a little bullshit, I guess. Anything to get out from under.
“So we’re going to pay the IRS with a suitcase full of cash.”
“No. I’ll manage it, don’t worry. I’ll scatter it around. It’ll be okay.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
I never asked Dan how he got the money into our checking account. I assumed he went around to different branches making small deposits. I never asked him how much money he had stashed away, either. I chose not to know. All I can tell you is when tax day came, we wrote checks to the feds and to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and those checks did not bounce. That was enough for me.
There was one other thing. Listening to Dan, I got to thinking: Maybe he had a point. Maybe it would be smart for a girl to put away a little cash somewhere for a rainy day. A wife should have options, too, just like her husband. So I started to sock it away just like Danny. I called it my fuck-you money.
* * *
—
Draw a circle around our house outside Boston, with a radius of around two hundred miles. That was the range, Detective Glover figured, that Dan could have traveled by car in ten unaccounted-for hours on the day of my disappearance. That circle covers an enormous area: New York City and most of New York State, all of Vermont and New Hampshire, and Maine almost as far north as Bangor. Somewhere in that area, he thought, my body must be hidden, in some shallow grave or lake bed or newly cemented basement.
Now, from the center of that circle, move your finger to the perimeter at about eleven o’clock, and you will be pointing at Trout Lake, Vermont.
Outside this town, there is a vast, dense old-growth forest.
For Glover, the theory that my body might be buried in these woods was intriguing. There had been a hazy report of a white Thunderbird like mine in the town on my last day, though the car was a popular model and color. It was also the only wilderness that he could connect Dan to—as far as Glover could find, the only rural area Dan knew at all. Our family had visited Trout Lake the summer before I disappeared. It was our family vacation that year. Dan had been in this forest before, and the detective doubted that such a meticulous man would risk this mission in an unfamiliar place. It was probably a coincidence—a white car, a family vacation. But what if?
Glover discounted the possibility that Dan would have sunk the body in the lake or in one of the smaller ponds nearby. Dan had no access to a boat and no experience with them, and he would not have wanted to involve anyone else. Also, on a lake in broad daylight there was a greater risk of being seen, and some risk that the body would not stay submerged. No, the forest, he figured, not the lake.
It did not add up to much, honestly. Glover knew it. But there was so little to go on. The one mistake he would not make was to give up too soon.
So, ten months after my disappearance, he came to check it out. He snooped around this tiny Vermont town, asking if anyone had seen Dan or either of our cars on November 12, 1975, or a few days before. (I disappeared on November 12, but Glover guessed that Dan might have come earlier to dig the hole, so he could get in and out quickly.) Of course nobody remembered anything. Too much time had passed.
He pulled credit card slips from gas stations in the area, at least the ones that kept them around, hoping to get lucky. He did not find anything. That also meant nothing; Dan would have been smart enough to pay cash.
The detective did track down the cabin that we’d rented, by the big lake. He even walked in the nearby woods a bit, searching the ground for irregular features, fresh dirt, breaks in the ground. These were impossible to find; the forest floor was irregular everywhere he looked, and the thick undergrowth would have covered any scars long before.
Imagine Tom Glover in those woods, the only one still looking for me. He must have understood the futility of coming up here. Another shot in the dark. But he did it anyway.
Now pan out, think again of that circle on the map, four hundred miles in diameter. From New York City to the Canadian border. And one man to search it.
Here’s the thing: he was very, very close.
* * *
—
One Saturday around noon, Miranda wandered into the kitchen to find Sarah at the sink, putting the finishing touches on a cleanup. To accommodate Dan, this required that the sink itself be washed, Windexed, and dried after all the dishes were done, because he believed that “the sink is the last dish that you wash.” This seemed to be what Sarah was doing as she swabbed the sink with a dish towel to prevent water spots.
That morning, Miranda was already in an unsettled mood. None of her “real” family was around, just Sarah and, somewhere in the house, Jamie. Miranda had spent the morning in her bedroom with the door closed, reading, listening to music on cassette tapes, daydreaming.
Sarah gave her a kindhearted smile. “Hi. You hungry? Can I make you something?”
Miranda adjusted her new bra, tugging down the elastic under her armpit with a now-familiar, peevish gesture.
Sarah seemed to notice Miranda’s tic and her new bra, but she said nothing. “We have some nice turkey I just got.”
“No, thank you.”
“ ‘No, thank you,’ you’re not hungry? Or ‘no, thank you,’ you don’t want turkey?”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
Sarah dried her fingers with the dish towel but never took her eyes off Miranda.
“You’re sure there’s nothing I can do for you?”
“No.” Miranda’s tone was a little puzzled but not hostile.
Sarah came over to Miranda and stood in front of her. “I’m not so bad, you know.”
“I know.”
“You could give me a chance.”
“Okay.”
Sarah leaned forward and hugged Miranda, laying her chin on the girl’s shoulder.
Miranda stiffened. She became aware of Sarah’s perfume and of her own breathing, in, out, in, out, and her spine rigid as a broomstick.
Sarah moved back but kept her hands on Miranda’s arms, a gesture of warmth.
This was as close to Sarah as Miranda could remember being. Up close, the impact of Sarah’s beauty was blunted. You could disassemble her appearance into its component parts: lean face, blond hair, fragile nose, sinewy neck, blue-gray eyes. There was something else, too, behind all that—a thrumming tension about her, like a wire pulled taut—and this Miranda did not think was so pretty at all.
Miranda felt nothing at all for her. No anger or hostility, no warmth or pity. She could not remember ever feeling this flat, wooden response to anyone. A bundle of unruly emotions, like a bag of angry cats—that had always been Miranda. She was disappointed in herself at feeling so little, since Sarah was reaching out to her with obvious kindness. But it was easier to feel too little than too much, it was a luxury to be indifferent.
“Okay,” Sarah said. “I just wanted you to know.”
“Know what?”
“Just that—I don’t know. I’d just like us to be friends someday, that’s all.”
“ ’Kay.”
“This must be hard for you. I know that. It’s a difficult age anyway, isn’t it? If you ever want to talk or you have a problem, I’m here, okay?”
Miranda squinted. She could not quite make out what problem Sarah was referring to. My disappearance? The bra? Something else?
“Because I’m a mother, too, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Only I’m not the right mother, am I?”
“No.”
“No. I suppose not. Okay, well. That’s all I wanted to say.”
Miranda turned and stepped softly back up the stairs to puzzle over all this, having completely forgotten why she’d gone down to the kitchen in the first place: for lunch.
For years, they would both wonder what they should have said, whether it would have made any difference. Miranda still does.
* * *
—
A few days after Miranda’s odd conversation with her quasi stepmother—too soon for coincidence—Dan did a strange thing: he came to the Bowers house one Friday night to pick up Miranda from babysitting. He had never done that before. The timing of his arrival was odd too. Mr. and Mrs. Bowers had come back from a restaurant only a minute or two earlier when they heard Dan’s car horn.
The nasal, European meep of Dan’s Mercedes was not expected, so they did not immediately respond.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Bowers was asking Miranda how the evening had gone, as she fished in her purse for five dollars to pay Miranda.
In the front hall, Mr. Bowers was taking off his sport coat and rolling up his sleeves. He was always a little irritable and standoffish around Miranda, which made her feel—as it was intended to make her feel—like an interloper, an unwelcome guest. Understandably, she tried to avoid him. Here, though, he was keeping his distance for a simpler reason: he was tired, a little drunk, and did not want to be bothered with the oddball babysitter his wife had dug up somewhere. He just wanted Miranda out of the house so he could take off his shoes, flop down on the couch, and release an enormous fart that he’d been brooding like a hen.
When the horn sounded again—meep-meep—Miranda knew what it was, and she knew it was trouble. The one rule of babysitting here—that her father was forbidden—came straight from Mr. Bowers. Miranda understood as much without being told.
He said, “What the— Who is that?”
More sounds: Mr. Bowers going to the window, the car door opening and closing, footsteps on the stairs, the doorbell.
Miranda came out to the front hall as Mr. Bowers was opening the door.
In the doorway, Dan looked up at Mr. Bowers, who was burlier and much taller. Dan wore a bland, pleasant expression, as if unaware that his presence might be provocative. “Is Miranda here?”
Mr. Bowers opened the door wider so Dan could see his daughter. “Who are you?”
“Dan Larkin.” Hand extended. “Glad to meetcha.”
Ignoring the hand: “I don’t appreciate you being here.”
“Daddy, I told you.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I just thought I’d save Miranda the walk. Anyway, I’ve wanted to meet you two. I feel like my daughter has a whole ’nother family!” Big smile, not returned. “I just wanted to say hello and thank you for being so nice. Come on, Mimi, let’s get out of these people’s way. It’s getting late.”
“Don’t come here again. If I see you around here, I’m calling the cops.”
“For coming to pick up my own daughter?”
“You heard what I said. Don’t come back.”
“Ah. Okay. Come on, Miranda, let’s go.”
Miranda hesitated, repelled by both men. She looked back at Mrs. Bowers, who stood a few feet behind her.
“It’s all right, Miranda,” she said. “Do as your father says.”
Miranda gave her a brief hug goodbye and whispered, “I’m so, so sorry. I told him not to come, I promise. I told him.”
Mrs. Bowers patted her on the back. “You better go.”
Mr. Bowers stepped back to make a path for Miranda, who slipped past him. He said to Dan, “You stay away from my family.”
With Miranda now safely in his possession, Dan put his hands into his pockets and said, with false innocence, “Well, I’d like to, but how can I stay away when you’ve got my daughter working here?”
Mr. Bowers felt a strong urge to throttle this little man—Dan had a way of inspiring this feeling—but his face betrayed nothing. He swung the heavy door shut, causing the pictures to rattle on the wall, then, for effect, he shot the dead bolt.
He said to his wife, “This ends now. This is over. I’m done talking. This is lunacy.”
* * *
—
Back in ’75, there was a restaurant in the North End that Dan liked called the Scotch ’n Sirloin. We started going there before my exit, and afterward he kept right on going with his new pretend-wife. The restaurant was about what you would expect from a place called the Scotch ’n Sirloin: a steak house for guys, especially guys more interested in scotch than sirloin. We had fun there, Dan and I. It drew all kinds of people, hairy-handed goons with unbuttoned shirts all the way to manicured suburban professionals in suits, like Dan. It was a couple of blocks from Boston Garden, too, so it was always mobbed before and after Bruins and Celtics games.
One Friday night Dan took Sarah to a hockey game then to the Scotch ’n Sirloin. She hated hockey—hated all sports, really—but she was intent on pleasing him, so she went along. (I used to go along, too, for years. And I’ll tell you what: I liked the games a lot more than Sarah did, especially the Bruins’ wonderboy, Bobby Orr.)
The restaurant was crowded. Over the clatter, Dan was told there was a one-hour wait for a table. He slipped the maitre d’ a little packet of folded bills, and he and Sarah went to the bar to wait, he anticipated, for a lot less than an hour.
Dan took Sarah’s drink order (white wine, in a hockey crowd—oh, Sarah, you poor thing) and made his way through the crowd at the bar.
Waiting to catch the bartender’s eye, he found himself next to a woman who appeared to recognize him. She did an obvious double take then stared right at him, without embarrassment. She wore a thin, strappy top despite the cold weather, revealing freckled shoulders. Her hair was feathered back like Farrah Fawcett’s.
Dan sensed her eyes on him. He ignored her.
The woman said, “You’re that guy, aren’t you?” She had a thick Boston accent: Yaw that guy, ahn-cha?
“What guy is that?”
“Don’t play dumb. You’re the one that killed his wife.”
“No. Sorry. You must be thinking of someone else.”
“Yeah, okay, Mickey the Dunce, whatever you say.”
He turned away. Smoothed his canary-yellow tie. Searched for the bartender.
“What’s your name? Tell me.”
“It’s Dan.”
“You here with someone, Dan?”
“Yeah.”
“Who?”
“Never mind who. None of your business.”
Dan finally caught the bartender’s eye and ordered his drinks, a white wine and a vodka gimlet.
When he turned back to the woman, she was sliding a cocktail napkin across the bar toward him. “Here. Use it.”
There was a phone number written on the napkin.
“That’s for me?”
“No, it’s for the guy next to you. Could you give it to him, please?” She shook her head. “Of course it’s for you, knucklehead.”
“You think I killed my wife, but you want to give me your number?”
She leaned in close and whispered, “You’re a star.”
“Not a very smart decision, is it?”
“You said you didn’t do it.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“What if I’m lying? How would you know?”
“Are you lying, Dan?”
“No.”
The drinks arrived. He paid the bartender, stood waiting for the change.
“Does it bother your girlfriend that you might be lying?”
“Who says I have a girlfriend?”
“You said you’re here with someone. She ever ask you if you’re lying? You know she’s thinkin’ about it, climbin’ into bed with you every night.”
“She doesn’t have to ask. She knows me.”
“You don’t know what she knows, Dan.”
The bartender dropped the change on the bar next to the napkin. Dan picked up the bills, tossed a couple back down on the bar as a tip. Hesitated. Picked up the napkin, folded it once, enclosing the phone number, and slipped it into his pocket. Left without looking at her.
When Dan handed the glass of wine to Sarah, she said, “Friend of yours?”
“No. Some woman.”
“What did she want?”
“My autograph.”
“Did you give it to her?”
His eyes had been scanning the room but now he looked at her. “No.”
“You want to go back and finish your conversation?”
“No.” But his eyes quivered, as if drawn to other, more promising things: the crowd, the bar. He had to point his eyes at Sarah consciously and hold them there. “Of course not.”
It was a look I had seen on Dan’s face more than once. Sarah must have guessed as much.
* * *
—
One afternoon, Miranda steeled herself to ring the doorbell at the Bowers house, intending to apologize for bringing the wolf to their door. She was not allowed inside. Mrs. Bowers, in jeans and Tretorn tennis sneakers, slipped out to sit with my little girl on the front stairs. She explained, kindly but with no ambiguity, that Miranda could not come to their house anymore, not to visit, not to babysit, not to see the two girls, whom she loved like sisters and who loved her too. Miranda had the strange sense, which sometimes accompanies big moments, of doubleness, of stepping back to watch herself as she went through the conversation. She seemed to hear only snippets. A phrase would stick like a dart—“I have to put my family first,” “nothing to do with you”—and she would not quite hear the next few sentences. “Please,” Miranda begged, “just give me one more chance. It will never happen again. I swear. I’ll talk to him. I’ll make him promise.”
There is no sense dwelling on this moment, or the days and weeks that followed. My daughter just broke. You will have to imagine the aftermath, the twelve-year-old girl in tears. As a mother, I just can’t go there with you. This, not my disappearance, was the low point for Miranda. My going away had been an uncertain, unfinished thing, with no clear beginning or end. This was definitive. She was alone now. The full weight of her loss, her unmothering, became clear. Miranda remembers the moment to this very day, sitting on the moldering wood steps in front of that house as Mrs. Bowers explained, “Sweetie, I can’t be that for you.” Picture it all if you want to. I’m going to look away.
