Leslie Glass - Tracking Time

Maybe she was upset about the divorce. People said divorce was bad for kids. Well, it was bad for her, too. She didn't have as much money as before. Her lifestyle had shrunk to nothing. And she couldn't just pick up and go to Jamaica like Aston could. Maybe the toaster oven was better next to the refrigerator. Cheryl checked her watch. Brandy had been in her room ever since the detective left. Cute guy. He didn't seem put off by Brandy in her motor-mouth mode. And her wacko story seemed to sit okay with him. He didn't know Brandy like she did.

Sometimes the kid didn't say anything for days, and then suddenly she was talking a mile a minute and wouldn't shut up. Jesus Christ, why couldn't Brandy be more like her? Cheryl considered going in and talking to her again. But what was the point? The little bitch was sulking now. It occurred to Cheryl that she was not able to handle her daughter, and that was very unsettling, too. She wasn't having a good day.

She chewed on her new lips, which felt weird but looked great. She looked so great she wanted to cry. In her brand-new kitchen a shooting pain in her side made Cheryl double over and almost fall to the floor. She knew the stabbing pain meant she missed Seymour and the life they used to have together. He happened to be a big slob and snored like a horse, but she'd known him for twenty years. And even if she did aim for a richer man to marry next, it wasn't so easy to land one. Seymour had done everything she ever asked of him, except forgive her for one tiny slip. It seemed unfair.

And worse, he was recovering from it, had a new girlfriend who Brandy said was really nice when they went out to dinner together. Prettier and nicer than her, and much younger, the little bitch had been thoughtful enough to report. Cheryl felt the tears coming. Jesus Christ, how could that child of hers cause her so much pain. One child was all she'd wanted. Why did it have to be such a difficult one?

She sighed deeply a few times, sat down at the counter on one of the stools her decorator had bought. She'd specified only two stools because she'd hoped Aston would marry her before the year was out and they would move to a bigger place. She was feeling awfully low. What if she had to stay in a six-room apartment forever? She wondered if Brandy was part of the problem of landing Aston. What if he didn't marry her because Brandy was such a brat? What if Brandy went to college and left her alone? Cheryl poured herself a glass of wine and thought about Seymour with a younger woman enjoying what should be hers. She thought of him, worry-free and happy without her and Brandy.

Why should he be free of responsibility at a time like this, she asked herself. Shouldn't they be in conference on this, consulting on how to handle their mutual daughter? Shouldn't they present a unified front to her? Shouldn't they be thinking about the importance of family and pulling together in a time of crisis? Shouldn't they be talking about getting back together again before it was too late?

She thought about all this and poured herself another glass of wine. Seymour didn't have a God damn thing to say about anything. In their marriage he'd given new meaning to the term silent partner, but maybe he'd changed. She checked her watch, then picked up the phone and dialed his office number. He was still there at seven-thirty.

"See?"

"Who's this?" he said gruffly.

"It's Cheryl. Please don't hang up. If you don't want to talk to me, just listen."

Silence on the other end.

"How are you?" she chirped.

"I'm fine, Cheryl, but I'm very busy. What do you want?"

"I've been thinking about you, honey, just wondering how you are. You know."

"I'm fine, Cheryl. Is that it?"

"No, I wondered if you ever feel, you know, sad about the family?"

Silence on the other end. Cheryl didn't let the silence unnerve her. She knew Seymour very well. He hadn't a clue whether he felt sad or not. He was like a tank on a battlefield. Whatever was going on around him, all he did was keep moving forward. Now she let the idea of sadness sink in a little.

"How do you find Brandy?"

His voice took on an edge. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, you're seeing her regularly. She's pretty happy about that. How do you find her?"

"What are you talking about, Cheryl?"

"Your visits with Brandy," Cheryl said impatiently. "You took her to dinner at the Posthouse just two days ago. She had a steak. How did she seem to you?"

"Cheryl, I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't had dinner with Brandy in three weeks. She doesn't want to see me."

Cheryl was stunned. "You're kidding?"

"Why would I lie about something like that?"

"Um." Cheryl was at a loss for words.

"Did Brandy tell you she's been with me?" Seymour asked.

"Yes, she did."

"A lot?"

"Yes, she's been with you a lot."

"What about Tuesday night?"

"Yes, Seymour, she was with you Tuesday night. You went to the Posthouse. Is it coming back now?"

"No, she was not."

"And you know what? A police detective came to see us tonight. Brandy has been cutting school."

A very long silence. "Well, you know, she comes over to my place when I'm at work sometimes. I know she's done it at least once. The maid told me. What do the police want with her?"

So that's where Brandy went. She hung out at her dad's. Cheryl made an exasperated noise.

"She said she was interested in the tracking dog searching for that man who disappeared in the park. Apparently, she got to talking to some cops about it and they wrote down her name."

"Didn't I see something on the news about it?"

"I don't know, See. What's going on with her?"

"How would I know? She won't see me, Cheryl."

"This is very disturbing. Maybe we should meet and talk about it," Cheryl said brightly.

"I don't want to meet, Cheryl."

"Seymour, your daughter is in trouble." It was only reasonable. She'd wear something serious-looking; nothing provocative. He'd see how great she looked. And she'd be sweet, she'd be forgiving. She'd appeal to his sense of family, responsibility.

Seymour raised his voice on the phone. "And why is she in trouble, Cheryl? Why doesn't her mother know where she is most of the time?'

"Just wait one little second. Don't blame me for Brandy's problems. You're the one who dragged the family through the mud with that horrible lawsuit." Cheryl felt the rage rising again.

Seymour clicked his tongue. "This is ridiculous. Put her on the line."

"But I'm not finished."

"Put her on the line, Cheryl."

"Maybe we should do family therapy." Conciliatory again.

"Maybe we should have when I suggested it three years ago."

"You didn't," Cheryl protested.

Seymour sighed on the other end of the line. Cheryl hated that sigh. "Forget it, I'll call her myself."

He hung up. A few seconds later the phone rang and Brandy's line lit up. It rang four times, then stopped. The eight-thousand-dollar phone system had caller ID. Seymour's name popped up on the screen. Brandy could not fail to know who was on the line. Curious, Cheryl got up and went to Brandy's door and opened it. The phone was ringing again, but Brandy wasn't there to answer it.

Brandy and David met in front of Bloomingdale's. On Thursdays the store was open until nine. Brandy wanted to have a makeover for the TV shows she was going to be on, but David was already waiting for her when she got off the bus on Lexington. She'd taken a bus because all she had was four dollars and an ATM card for an account that had no money in it. Her father was always at least two weeks late with the alimony checks just to make her mother angry, and her mother was a big spender. She always needed it bad. Right now Cheryl and she were penniless. It was no problem to live off the credit cards, but Cheryl had taken away Brandy's cards to punish her for lying, and Brandy hadn't had a chance to steal them back yet.