Randy White - Gone

Because her balance was so poor, I was already on my feet and prepared when the chair went over backward. I threw my arms around the woman and lifted her clear, startled by the way loose skin moved over her bones and the birdlike lightness of her body. It was like catching something warm but barely alive in a plastic sack.

“Get your goddamn hands off me! What do you think you’re doing?”

If the woman was trying to wrestle free, she was so weak I didn’t notice. I held her by the shoulders until she seemed steady, then pulled the chair I’d been using under her. “Have a seat, Mrs. Whitney. Are you okay?”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I tried to calm her, saying, “Sometimes, when I get a head cold, it settles in my ears, and I can barely cross the room without stumbling. Have you felt some congestion lately? There’s something going around, that’s what everyone says.”

“If you hadn’t grabbed me, I’d have been just fine, you dope!” the woman hollered, but the anger was draining out of her, along with her confidence. She sounded frail, exhausted. Embarrassed, too, because she added, “Lately, I have had a sort of cough, which I figured was because of the cigarettes. But I would have managed perfectly well without you crushing the wind out of me!” That was as close as she could come to apologizing, I figured.

“I’m sorry,” I said, looking toward what must have been the kitchen. I could hear Nate opening and closing doors, then the suction sound that an expensive refrigerator makes when the freezer is opened. “Is your shoulder hurting?” Mrs. Whitney was using her fingers to explore an area near her neck, then her right arm.

“You’re as strong as a damn man,” she snapped. “Maybe you are-I don’t see how anyone could tell for sure.” The woman glanced at me, hoping she’d hurt my feelings or made me mad. She’d done both, but I wasn’t going to show it, especially when she added, “Baggy denim shirt and shorts, my God-you look like a damn housepainter. Or some dyke who works at Goodwill. Have you ever heard of something called ‘a hairstylist’?”

Loretta’s damaged brain, rather than hardening me to insults, has taught me that mean words are the only way a person in pain has of striking out and warning others to keep their distance. Not that Loretta doesn’t sometimes make me so mad I want to hurl a cup across the room. And not that all people can use that excuse. I’ve met men and women who’ve got so much poison in them, it’ll seep into everyone around them if you give it the chance. But Mrs. Whitney had the cloudy, glittering eyes of a wounded dog that didn’t want to be touched. She had secluded herself inside this house and inside herself. Now she was warning me not to come any closer.

There was no knowing what events had dragged this woman so low, but Ricky Meeks had done at least some of the damage, I would have bet on it. From the way Mrs. Whitney looked, from the amount of trash that had piled up around her, she’d been sinking for months, which fit with the time line I was piecing together in my head. Meeks had worked for the woman in February, March, and part of April, too, from what Nathan had told me. According to the folder on Olivia Seasons, Meeks had moved his boat to Naples during the first week of May to work on the seawall, spending his nights at the dock behind Olivia’s house.

I couldn’t be absolutely sure the man had something to do with her poor condition, of course, unless Mrs. Whitney was willing to open up. Yet, I felt certain enough to risk taking the woman’s hand in mine and saying, “After I’ve said what I came to say, I’d welcome advice on how to dress better. Thing is, Mrs. Whitney”-the woman was struggling to free her hand, so I released it and slid the photo of Ricky Meeks in front of her-“this man ran off with the niece of somebody I know. That’s what they think, anyway. She’s about my age but not a strong girl. Her family’s got money, and it’s made her sort of trusting and naïve. What I need to know is, is this man dangerous? If he’s dangerous, if you think he’ll hurt the girl, the family needs to do something.”

That got the woman’s attention but also might have wilted what little spirit was left in her. “My God,” she said softly. She’d turned her head as if not trusting herself to make eye contact with Ricky Meeks, whose careful spit curl formed a hook, I noticed for the first time, above his small black eyes. “My God,” she said again, then added, “he’s doing it to someone else now.”

The temptation was to ask, Doing what? but I decided it was better not to push. The woman was hurting inside and it showed-which had to be even more embarrassing for someone like Mrs. Whitney because she was revealing it to a me, a stranger, who had nothing in common with her. That wasn’t true of her and Olivia Seasons, though.

“The girl’s father left her a lot of money when he died,” I continued. “To inherit the money, she has to sign a legal document. That’s why the family asked me to find her. I’m being paid, but that’s not the only reason I’m doing it. I don’t like rough men who hurt women. More than anything, the family’s worried about him.” I tapped a finger on the photo, thinking it might cause Mrs. Whitney to look.

She didn’t. The woman had her face in her hands, so still and quiet it took me a moment to realize she was crying. She was sobbing harder when, a minute later, Nathan reappeared, carrying three miniature-sized bottles of liquor he’d found somewhere, the kind they serve on airplanes. He was proud of himself, all smiles, but then figured out why I had my arm around Mrs. Whitney, letting her rest her head on my shoulder. He stood there for a moment, probably fighting the urge to sprint for the door, then shot me an accusing look that asked What the hell did you say to her?

I told him, “Nate, why don’t you walk over and visit with Darren for a while. I’ll be there soon enough.” Then, because he was flustered, I had to remind him, “Leave those little bottles. Mrs. Whitney would appreciate a nice cold drink, I think.”

IT TOOK A WHILE FOR IT TO COME OUT, BUT WHAT RICKY Meeks had done to Mrs. Whitney was rape her over and over during the weeks he’d worked for her, although not in a legal sense. At least, the woman wouldn’t admit he’d forced her more than a little, at first, before she joined in and did things that still shamed her too much to talk about.

Not that I wanted details. Talking about such things has always made me uneasy, and feel sort of sneaky, even when the person is eager to share. What’s private in a person’s head isn’t like seeing them step out of a shower. It’s the sort of nakedness that can’t ever be covered once it has been revealed.

Within fifteen minutes of Nathan leaving, the woman had downed the three airplane whiskeys, and her tears had turned into spitting anger. Instead of making her more wobbly, the liquor had steadied her enough so that she got up and paced while she raged about Ricky Meeks.

“That sick white trash con artist! He’s only after her money, of course. Doesn’t the stupid little bitch realize that? He’s a predator. A two-timing predator-no more class than a wild dog.”

I was still sitting at the table but ready to move in case the woman lost her balance again. Meeks had robbed money from her in some way, that much was clear. And I’d guessed they’d had a sexual relationship long before she’d finally admitted it. But calling him a two-timing predator stuck in my head as even more important because it had a double meaning. It told me Mrs. Whitney hated Ricky Meeks for what he’d done to her, but she hated him more for taking up with another woman. That was as troubling as it was confusing. How could she still feel jealousy for someone who’d hurt her so badly? It was so far beyond my understanding that I picked up Meeks’s photograph, still listening to Mrs. Whitney, and gave it another close look, thinking maybe I’d missed something.