Ramsey Shehadeh: Red

The stores were all closed that night. Louise was on her bike, dipping left and right in front of him. Allison and her friends were walking a block ahead, also on their way home. The sun had set some time ago, and the moon lay sequestered behind clouds, so the only light came from streetlamps along the way and the occasional sweep of oncoming headlights.

“I think it’s going to rain,” said Louise. She glanced back when he didn’t answer, then followed his gaze to Allison, and smirked. “Ah.”

Rehearsal had run late. Opening night was only a week away, and Mr. Peliciotto had been in his usual meltdown mode. “ Mister Patrick! ” he’d screamed, in the middle of their third run through Ansel’s climactic scene. “I said sweep Miss Granier into your arms. Do you know what ‘sweep’ means? It does not mean tackle. I do not wish you to tackle her into your arms, Mister Patrick!”

Ansel could hear his sister giggling in the wings with her friends. He’d looked sheepishly at Allison. “Sorry. I’m not much of a sweeper.”

She’d shrugged. “I’ve been swept worse.” And then she gave him an interesting smile.

That was two hours ago. He’d been thinking about it ever since.

Louise peddled up beside him and studied his profile. “You know,” she said, in a stage whisper, “she won’t bite.”

“Shut up.”

“They’re talking about you.”

He looked at her. “How do you know?”

“Watch their heads. Every so often Eve or Melissa makes like they’re going to turn around, and then they don’t. That’s your girlfriend telling them not to.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Aspirational girlfriend.”

“I don’t know what that means.” English teachers loved Louise. She was the only sophomore in AP English that year, and she’d already won the school’s literary prize twice. It was annoying.

“Yes you do, silly,” she said.

Eve twisted her head around. Allison hissed something at her. She turned back.

“Ok,” said Ansel. He took a breath, steeled himself. “Ok,” he said again, raised his voice, and called out: “Hey Allison!”

All three of them stopped, and turned around.

“Keep it casual,” said Louise.

He closed the distance as nonchalantly as he could with his little sister by his side and three girls staring at him in the awkward silence.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” said Allison.

Another silence, dilating uncomfortably.

“Good rehearsal today,” he said.

“I guess. Pellicioto only spazzed like six times.”

“Only six withdrawals from the spaz bank,” he agreed. “He must be saving up for tomorrow.”

She laughed at that, maybe a bit longer than the joke warranted.

“So,” he said. “I was thinking maybe we could practice our lines a little more tonight.”

An intake of breath from Louise. Too soon.

“What, like right here?”

“No, no,” he said, quickly. “No.” His mind went blank. He hadn’t really thought much beyond his last question.

“I suppose you could walk me home,” she said. “That’ll give us ten minutes.”

He brightened. “Yeah, that works.” He looked at Louise. “I’ll meet you back at the house, ok?”

She frowned. There had been express instructions earlier in the day, before they’d left for school. Come home with your sister, Ansel. Ok? You walk home together.

The way she looked at him then—uncertainty, mingled with reproach and the barest traces of fear—is what Ansel woke up to every morning now. That expression, fading into the morning light, like a heat image. It lived in the darkness behind his eyelids. It haunted his dreams.

“Sure,” she said. “I guess.”

“Ok, great.” He turned back to Allison. “Shall we?”

She shrugged and started down Cheshire. Ansel fell in beside her. Eve and Melissa, probably responding to some subliminal girl-signal, fell in behind them, chatting.

“Teresa,” he said, in his dumb leading-man voice, “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Oh Franklin, ” said Allison, breathlessly, pressing her hand to her sternum. “I know. I already know. “

Ansel laughed, and glanced over his shoulder. He could see Louise’s taillight bobbing away from him down the sidewalk, the ghost of her body above it, standing on the pedals, fading steadily into the darkness.

Ansel emerged from the PHARMACY, and looked over his shoulder. The PHARMACIST was staring back at him, stricken.

He shifted the book under his arm and held up the divining rod with both hands, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. The rod yawed left, pointing down BEAL.

He followed it past the FUR STORE, moving at a half-trot. The FURRIER left her normal spot beside a rack of minks and came up to the window, watching him, her face expressionless.

The rod twitched right at the next intersection, and he followed it down ALBANY AVENUE, past the GROCERY STORE and its overflowing bins of fruit.

The GROCER bustled out of his shop. That wasn’t supposed to happen either, and you could see the effort involved—his rotund, aproned body was still limned in a thin outline of the store’s interior. It looked like he’d been cut inexpertly out of a magazine ad.

“Green Detective,” he panted, putting a hand on Ansel’s arm. He had a thick German accent and kind, worried eyes. “This is not the way.”

Ansel stopped. “Nothing else is working.”

“Patience. Patience, my friend.”

“‘A single session,’” said Ansel, quoting the rules, “‘should last two hours, on average.’ It’s been months.”

“I don’t know from averages. What I know is this ” —he nodded at the divining rod— “will not help you.”

Ansel stepped away. “Do you have any information about the whereabouts of the missing person?”

“Last I heard,” said the GROCER, robotically, “she was going to buy some sweets. You should visit the CANDY STORE.”

Ansel looked at him, levelly. “Do you,” he said, “have any information about the whereabouts of the missing person?”

The GROCER opened his mouth, and closed it. After a moment he shook his head.

The divining rod was bucking in Ansel’s hands, urging him forward. “Thank you for your help, Mr Grocer,” he said, and continued on his way.

He veered left at the POLICE STATION, the rod vibrating in its urgency. Ansel was nearly running by the time he passed the POLICEMAN, standing at the foot of the precinct’s staircase with his thumbs hooked into his belt. He had a ruddy compact face, wrinkles spidering out from the corners of his eyes, a bloom of rosacea fading on his left cheek. The light spilling out of the precinct’s doorway cast his shadow across the street.

Ansel stepped quietly out of his room, slipping the backpack over his shoulders. He closed the door behind him, moved to the top of the stairs, and paused. He realized that this was exactly the spot he’d stood in the night after she disappeared, listening to the dull murmur of conversation from downstairs.

“We have APBs out in every county, Mr. and Mrs. Patrick.” The detective’s voice had been gentle, authoritative, confident. This was, Ansel thought, a conversation he’d had many times. “And we’ll expand it out to Virginia and DC soon. Obviously, I’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything.” He hesitated. “Forgive me for asking this, but is there any chance she ran away?”

“No.” His father’s voice.

“Are you sure, sir? Often the parents are the last to…”

“No.”

“Ok.” A pause. “Was she on bad terms with anyone? An old boyfriend? A relative?”