Chris Grabenstein - Whack A Mole

Ceepak cups his hand over the telephone's mouthpiece, shakes his head. Then he gives me the single-finger hand-chop point. I figure that's my “go” signal to pick up the phone, so I do.

“Hello?” says a tired voice.

“Hello, is this Ms. Martha Guarneri?”

“Yes….” Now she sounds suspicious. “Who's this?”

“Ms. Guarneri, my name is John Ceepak. I am a police officer in Sea Haven, New Jersey.”

There's this tense pause.

“Have you found her body?”

I hear Ms. Guarneri taking in a deep breath to steel herself.

Her voice trembles anyway. “I always knew this day would come. You'd find her body. I'd get a call….”

“Ms. Guarneri? We have not recovered your daughter's body. We do not even know if she is alive or dead.”

“I see. I see.” She heaves a deep sigh. Relief, I guess.

“We did, however, come upon what we suspect is her charm bracelet.”

“Her….”

“Ma'am, did your daughter wear a charm bracelet?”

“Yes, sir. All the time.”

“Do you remember any of the charms she had on it?”

“Sure. Some of 'em. Not all. They were pretty, I remember that. I bought her a couple whenever my tips were good enough. I worked at the Perkins Family Restaurant back then. In Erie.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Did she still have that one from New Orleans? I bought her that one. We went down to the World's Fair together in July 1984. I remember the trip. It was a good one. We drove all the way down to Louisiana in my beat-up Buick.” I hear a smile creeping into her voice. “It was real hot and muggy because it was right along the Mississippi river, near that French Quarter they have down there. I guess it was the last summer vacation we ever took together.”

“How old was your daughter when she left home?”

“Seventeen. We'd just had a huge fight.”

“May I ask what about?”

“What else? Boys. She was fooling around like teenagers do, spending too much time with this boy and that. I warned her what could happen. Told her she could get in big trouble if she weren't careful. Told her that's what happened to me.”

“You became pregnant as a teenager?”

“Yes, sir. I ain't proud about it, but I won't lie to you, neither. At the time, I thought I was giving Mary good advice, trying to stop her from doing what I done wrong. She, of course, turned it all around, took it the wrong way. Thought I was saying I wished I'd never had her, which weren't true at all. I loved my baby girl. But she was always Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary. Ran away the day after we had that argument. June 14th, 1985. You think it's strange I still remember the date after all these years?”

“No, ma'am.”

“I went crazy looking for her. Couldn't afford to hire no private detective or nothing like that but I did what I could. Put her picture up everywhere I could think. Even slipped it into the menu binders there at Perkins. The police in Erie put me in touch with the milk carton people and they put her face in front of the whole country for about a month….”

Her voice drifts off.

“Ms. Guarneri?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you think we had found your daughter's body?”

“You said you was from Sea Haven. Sea Haven, New Jersey?”

“That's right.”

“Mary sent me a postcard from there one time. Only one I ever did get after she took off. Only time I ever even heard from her. I still have it hanging on my refrigerator. ‘Greetings From Sea Haven, New Jersey,’ it says. Looks like a nice beach.”

“Did Mary tell you anything about the time she spent here? Did she write any kind of message on the back?”

“Not much. Just … hold on … I'm here in the kitchen. Just a second….”

We wait while she walks from the phone to the fridge and back again. I wonder how many times she has stared at that particular postcard, how many times she's read the words scribbled on the back.

“Here we go,” she says when she returns to the phone. She's sniffing back tears. “I'll read it to you. ‘Dear Mom. How are you? I am fine. I am here with some new friends. They are my new brothers and sisters. Do not worry. I am fine. Please forgive me. He already has.’ That's all she wrote.”

“Who is he ?” asks Ceepak. “The one she says forgave her?”

“I don't rightly know. I figure it must be the boy-the one who got her pregnant. I figure she had an abortion.”

“Was your daughter pregnant?”

“I don't know. If she was, she never did tell me. But I always figured that might be what made her run away like that-'specially after I scared her off with my little lecture. Soon as I got that card, I called the police down there in Sea Haven. Spoke to a man … I believe his name was Gus. Yes. Gus. I remember because I had me an uncle named Gus and he sounded a lot like this fellow did. Kind of put-out, you know what I'm saying? Like a customer who hollers at you to hurry up and bring him his coffee because he ain't had any yet.”

Sounds like our retired desk sergeant: Gus Davis. Or, as we used to call him, “Gus The Grouch.”

“Was this police officer able to help you in any way?”

“No. Not really. I called him three or four times that summer and into the fall. Called him near Christmas time, too. He said he'd get back to me if there were any new developments. Guess there never were none. He never did call back.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Well, sir, I don't blame him. Guess it's hard for you folks to find someone if they don't want to be found-'specially when they go and change their name.”

“Your daughter changed her name?”

“Yes, sir. ‘Ruth.’ That's how she signed the card. Of course, I recognized her handwriting and all. Mary never were no Ruth. That weren't even her middle name. I have no idea why she signed herself that way.”

Ceepak and I look at each other.

Ruth.

It's the name somebody wrote on that specimen jar we found at the Whaling Museum.

We drive toward the setting sun, over to the bay side of the island.

Retired desk sergeant Gus Davis spends most of his time on his fishing boat, especially in the summer. He says it helps his marriage: he and his wife get along better if they only see each three times a day-coffee, dinner, and the ten o'clock news.

Gus's boat, a thirty-eight-footer, is usually docked at the public pier near Cherry Street. Ceepak and I park in a crumbling patch of asphalt close to the pier pilings.

“Here he comes,” says Ceepak, pointing to a puttering fishing boat followed up the inlet by a flock of hungry gulls.

Then I hear Gus, yelling at the birds swooping down to check out his catch.

“Get outta here, you freaking mooch birds! Find your own freaking fish….”

It's a wonder the birds don't snag their wings on all the poles and antennae and outriggers jutting out above the boat. Gus pulls back on the throttle, churns up some water, and reverses engines to wharf in his berth.

“Throw me the line, Danny,” he hollers. “Freaking mooch birds!”

I pick up a coil of rope and toss it down to Gus. He wraps it around a cleat. The birds keep circling and squawking.

“Here you go, you greedy bastards!”

Gus scoops his hand into a five-gallon bucket and tosses a tangled chunk of chopped squid as far out as he can. The birds dive bomb and attack it.

“They can have the freaking bait,” Gus says with a raspy laugh. “But the fluke is all mine.” He hoists a Styrofoam chest up and over the side. I grab it.

“Good day?” Ceepak asks as Gus moves around the cockpit closing things down.

“Not bad. You ever eat fluke?”