Julia Pierpont - Among the Ten Thousand Things

His phone, when it rang, said “Simon-Cell,” and he answered, “Pumpkin?”

“What? It’s me. Jack?”

“Is your phone okay?”

“I can’t find it.”

“You should call and have it disabled.”

“That’s not — listen, something happened. It’s Kay. We can’t find Kay.”

“What? Did you call the police?”

“I called. They sent someone, but he’s taking so long, and I can’t, I don’t know what — I’ve been out with a flashlight, but.”

“Okay. Okay, I’m coming.”

—

At the mercifully barren Rent-A-Car, Jack got a minivan that could fit the longhorns when he slid them the long way between the front seats, where they bothered the gears. It had started raining here too. The pavement shone wetly before him and the traffic signals bled halos of light. He called Deb at intervals from the road. He beat the pads of his palms against the wheel. He did not stop.

He was in a hurry to be back with his family, feeling in a way that he was already. His happiness clashed with the conditions of his summons. He’d been hoping for a call, though he hadn’t wanted it like this. His bliss at being wanted welled in lumps he had to swallow. Tricky not to get choked up over it, but it was important not to choke. He’d not been asked there to get weepy.

But Kay. He had to believe she was all right, that she’d done this, in a way, for him. She was his greatest ally, though too young and too quiet to sway the family vote: Her small voice held little weight. But she’d done what she could, in disappearing, like a magic act.

Three in the morning at the house and everyone was in each other’s way. Out front a cop car had been parked some hours, white with POLICE splashed across its doors in slanted block letters, looking just like those windup cars Simon used to have, the small metal kind Deb was always stepping on sock footed. The officer who’d stepped out roadside asked too few questions, spent a lot of time adjusting his belt. Big-baby-bodied, he had a hard time getting the equipment clipped to where it was comfortable.

“I don’t understand,” Deb was saying. “What are your people doing?”

“I’m sure they’re doing all they can,” Gary said between rackets with the coffee grinder. Infuriating, how he stayed polite.

“It’s all hands on the deck.” The officer showed her his palms for no reason she could invent.

“What does that mean ?” Deb shouted over the grinder. His hand radio gurgled and bleeped amid static din, a voice spouted ten codes. Sometimes he’d say into it “10-4,” though nothing was 10-4 really.

It was six when Jack reached Jamestown. The sky was just beginning to wake. Lines distinguished themselves in the trees, setting apart each leaf. He stopped to let pass the morning’s first jogger, a woman with earbuds and teal nylon shorts. He drove by the old library. RESUME WRITING TONIGHT 7. Jack knew the streets the way they say one knows the back of one’s hand, though his hands, as he got older, had begun to surprise him.

Later he’d say it was a hunch, no more than that. He felt close to his daughter, felt he understood her thoughts, though his son was the more like him. Maybe that was why it had always been harder with Simon, because Jack could no more predict his son’s actions than he could his own.

So, on a hunch he’d stopped at the water basins. If he’d been wrong, he never would have remembered trying.

She was there, with her knees up and her head against a dirt-dripped tub, asleep like the nerds who camp out all night for movie tickets. Deb’s phone was on the ground beside her. She’d taken out the battery.

“Angel?” he said, sounding like his wife. He called his daughter every nickname.

Her eyes opened as though she’d only been feigning sleep, but she blinked at him uncomprehendingly, and her face was salt streaked.

He took up the phone and the battery and slid them into his pocket. “Come,” he said, but already lifting her.

He carried her to the car. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d carried her. “We’re going home now,” she said, sounding drunk or just young, and he knew she wouldn’t remember any of this which he would not ever forget.

“I assure you, Mrs. Shanley,” the officer said, “I’ve got every one of my guys out there looking for her.”

“It’s light out,” Deb said, reshouldering her purse. “I can’t just sit here.”

Gary, carrying the old coffee filter and catching its drips, pressed an elbow into her arm. “The police know what they’re doing. You should be here if she comes back. Try to be calm.”

“ You be calm, Gary. I can’t find my daughter.”

Simon was at the table, the heels of his hands pressed into his cheeks. “She probably just wanted to be alone.”

“She doesn’t get to be alone. Eleven-year-olds don’t get alone time.”

A car door slammed. Out the window, a dark green minivan sat double-parked beside the police car, effectively blocking off what traffic there wasn’t. Between the cars stood a man, his back to them, though his family would know him anywhere. Bending to get something out from the shotgun side. Jack turned and the something was Kay, wilted in his arms.

“She’s fine,” he said when Deb came running out the front door. He set their daughter gently on the grass, checking to see her knees didn’t buckle. “She’s just sleepy.”

Deb got down to the ground, held Kay by wobbly legs. “Oh, where were you ?”

The others had come out behind her, Simon with his arms crossed and Gary with his coffee. “We know this man?” the officer asked.

“I’m the father,” Jack said. “Hi. Hello, Gary.”

“Jack,” Gary nodded.

“Well, I need to radio this in,” the officer went on. “Then there’ll just be some forms.”

“I’ll do it. I’m the father.” Jack pushed sweated hair from his forehead. “Found your phone too, D.” He smiled, groping his wrong back pocket. He was distracted by so many eyes after being alone so long. Inside, the old house greeted him, chairs untucked at angles from the table and glasses splashed with water in the sink. His family’s fingerprints on everything.

They had to lie down. Simon and Kay in their room, Jack beside Deb, she didn’t care. Sleep clobbered them, left no room for thought.

Deb woke to an empty rest-of-bed. It was almost ten. She padded half-tired to the hall. The voices of men on the stairs.

They were standing in the kitchen together, Jack and Gary. They’d been laughing.

“You’re awake!” Jack had a glass in his hand, her iced tea.

“I was just hearing about Houston,” Gary said. “We weren’t too loud?”

“No, you should have woken me.” She walked to a chair, held the back of it.

“You needed it,” Jack said, too cavalier. He swirled his glass, chattering ice.

“I’m fine.” She looked at Gary twice, at the strap like a seat belt across his chest.

“Ah, yeah.” He turned to one side, exhibiting the large, black bag attached behind. “I’m taking off.”

“You don’t have to.” She looked at Jack, who shrugged, smiling. “I mean there’s no reason.”

“I was going to come get you,” Gary said, though with the bag already on his back that seemed unlikely. He went on, something obscure about work and duty calling, and said to give the kids his love.

He hugged her one handed.

Jack got the door.

Deb stood holding down the chair, the chair holding her up, as they walked out to the car together, her husband and his friend.