Jan Burke - Bloodlines

Looking back on it now, he could not remember where he had planned to take Ethel. He hardly remembered why he had wanted to date her, what it was that had seemed so attractive about her. He could only vaguely recall her face.

He could, however, recall perfectly that moment when her mother opened the front door and looked in a puzzled way at the young man who stood before her, wearing his best clothes, smelling of his father’s cologne. He remembered Mrs. Gibbs’s blushes as she stammered confused apologies on her daughter’s behalf. Ethel had left an hour ago, she said in dismay, with- but she halted mid-sentence, not naming O’Connor’s rival. O’Connor had felt his own face redden and only managed to murmur, “My mistake, I’m sure.”

He had delayed going back home, had wandered around the streets of downtown Las Piernas for a couple of hours before deciding that he might as well swallow his shame and let Maureen know that Ethel had stood him up. Going up the steps of the porch, he wondered how she would take it. Probably be more disappointed than he was, really.

As he opened the front door, he saw that although there was no blackout ordered that night, the house was nearly in total darkness. He heard his father shout frantically, “Maureen! Maureen! Is that you?”

“No, Da, it’s me, Conn,” he called back, turning on the lights as he went toward the back room that had been adapted for his father’s use.

A small lamp near the bedside cast the only light in the room. His father had moved himself to a sitting position-an act that he could barely manage on his own, and only by enduring tremendous pain. Kieran O’Connor’s hair was silver, but that night, looking at his father in the light of that single lamp, was the first time that O’Connor found himself thinking, He’s become an old man.

“Conn!” his father said sharply. “Conn, listen to me-your sister-she’s not come home.”

“Not come home?” O’Connor repeated blankly. “Maureen, not come home?”

His father’s face twisted in agony.

“Da, lie back down now. I’ll get you something to eat.”

“To hell with that!” his father roared. “It’s your sister I’m worried about, not my damned belly!” And to O’Connor’s shock, the older man burst into tears.

“Da,” he said, coming to his side, easing him back on the bed. “Da, don’t now. Don’t. It might not be anything-maybe she had to work overtime. I’ll call the factory…”

“I’ve already called,” his father said, quickly wiping a hand across his face. “There’s been no overtime since February.”

O’Connor felt a coldness in the pit of his stomach. Maureen was dedicated to taking care of their father. She would never leave him, not even for a few moments, without arranging for someone to care for him.

“Conn,” his father said, “never mind me, now. You’ve got to go look for her. You know she always comes straight home to me. Something’s wrong. What if she’s-if she’s been in an accident?”

“I’ll find her. I promise.”

He began by calling the neighbor who often walked with them. She was surprised at his questions-Maureen had walked as far as the corner of their street with her, before turning to walk toward home. Maureen had mentioned no other plans. The neighbor hadn’t noticed anyone else nearby.

O’Connor left the house carrying a flashlight, feeling more worried now. He retraced the path between the corner and the house, looking at first for Maureen herself, and then on the ground for some sign of her having passed this way, a lost earring, a footprint, anything. He knocked on every door of every house that had any view of the corner, or of the street, but no one had seen her or noticed anything out of the ordinary.

It was growing late now. He went back to the house and told his father that he’d had no luck. He called the police. He also called his mother, who got permission to leave work.

A patrolman came to the house. O’Connor guessed him to be about fifty. He took a report, acting no more excited than if O’Connor had told him a car had been stolen. Less so. He said, “I’ll file this with Missing Persons.”

“What do you mean, file it?” O’Connor asked, struggling to keep his temper.

“Most adult disappearances are voluntary, sir.”

“No-this isn’t voluntary. Someone has taken her. She takes care of my father. She’d never leave him. This is a crime…for God’s sake, she’s in danger!”

The officer shrugged. “People get tired of responsibilities. But we’ll keep an eye out for her.”

O’Connor said, “I work for the Express.” He didn’t tell him that he was only a copyboy.

The patrolman paused, then said, “Look, it’s not up to me. You call Detective Riley first thing tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! By then she could be God knows where! He could have…” But the thought of what could be happening to her so distressed him, he couldn’t say it aloud.

The officer patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, son. I’ll be on the radio, asking all our patrol cars to keep an eye out for her. You just wait-I’ll bet she’ll come back a little later this evening. Ninety-nine percent of the time, if an adult disappears, it’s because they forgot to tell someone their plans or they don’t want to be found.”

“She’s in that one percent then,” O’Connor said angrily.

“If so, we’ll be a little more sure of it tomorrow.”

“That one percent,” O’Connor said. “They aren’t numbers, you know. Those are human beings. A young woman, in this case. Someone who is loved and who has a job and a home and who has never said a cross word to anyone in her life…a good girl.”

“Call Riley in the morning,” he said, and left.

Instead, O’Connor called Jack Corrigan. Corrigan listened to O’Connor’s anxious recital in silence, until O’Connor described what the patrolman had said and done. Jack interrupted him.

“Never mind Riley,” he said grimly. “Unfortunately, Missing Persons is the retiring cop’s pasture in most police departments around here. Riley-that asshole wasn’t any good when he was really on the job, and now he’s just sitting around waiting for them to engrave his gold watch. Speaking of which… hang on.” There was a brief pause. “It’s late, and Wrigley might not go for it, but let’s give it a try. Listen, Conn, grab the clearest, most recent black-and-white photo of her you can find and meet me down at the Express. Bring two or three of them if you can.”

O’Connor waited only until his mother arrived to care for his father, a few minutes after he had found three photos of Maureen that he thought the engravers might be able to work with.

Old Man Wrigley had been reached at home. By the time O’Connor got to the paper, Jack was already sitting at a typewriter, writing the lead. Wrigley’s son, who was news editor, picked out a photo and told O’Connor to sit next to Jack and answer his questions.

O’Connor listened as Jack called the chief of police and asked if he’d care to comment.

There was a pause, then Jack repeated the story of Maureen’s disappearance, and the patrolman’s lack of concern. There was another pause, then Jack said, “Yes, sir, the sister of one of our own staff. I know the family personally… Exactly, sir…No, she wouldn’t have abandoned her father.” O’Connor saw a kind of triumphant light come into Jack’s eyes. “That’s what I thought, sir.”He began writing notes.

When he hung up, he said, “Chief claims it was all a misunderstanding. You go on home, I’ll file this and come by for some follow-up.”

Detectives came to the house. Jack came to the house-often over the next few days-and then other reporters, for other reasons. Friends and family, neighbors and curiosity seekers. None of them were of any use.