A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Hard to know,” I say.

“That’s terrible,” she says.

“Awful,” I say, and realize that, except for the calls I made when it happened, I haven’t told anyone.

“It’s really kind of a downer,” she says. “You’re making this up, right? This is like one of those weird urban legends?”

“Why would I make it up? Does it make me more attractive? That’s my big secret, what’s yours?”

I try to get a careful look at her. What color are her eyes? Why does nothing about her stay in my mind? I think of taking a picture with my phone — her and the kitten, something to hold on to, to analyze, and submit as evidence if need be. She is wearing casual clothing, which makes her look young. Her hair is neither blond nor brown, neither thick nor thin; it frames a face that is like so many faces. She looks like everyone and like no one. Her hands are the only giveaway: the skin is a little loose on the fingers, which are thin and nimble, almost monkeylike. There are a few light-tan freckled pigment spots on the tops of her hands — age. I return to her face. She is and is not similar to the missing girl, whose photo I have printed out and placed in the center of George’s desk.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” I ask.

“Can you stop?” she says. “You’re freaking me out.” She takes a breath. “Why did you ask people if they had other pets, and if the cat would live indoors or out, and if the new owner would be so kind as to e-mail photos of the kitty to you?”

“How close did you get?”

“You’re in a bad mood. Maybe I should go,” she says, but makes no move to leave. “I saw the part where you got into an argument with the guy from the pet store and had to move your stand.”

“And you saw that we made up and I gave him the last two kittens?”

She shakes her head no. “I guess I left before that happened.”

“I need to know something about you,” I say.

“I play the flute,” she says.

“More,” I say.

“I majored in French literature, with a minor in library science.”

I nod.

“I wanted to grow up and be a spy,” she offers.

“What side would you spy for — us or them?”

“Them,” she says, without a pause. “I never felt like one of us.”

“What prompted you to come here now?”

“Last time I saw you, you had one of those really cool rain showers, and I thought maybe I could try it, and I brought you a little gift.”

“What?” I ask.

“I ate it,” she says. “There was a bake sale; I bought two seven-layer bars, and then I stopped at McDonald’s and got a coffee, and on my way over here I just powered right through both of them.”

“Maybe you didn’t need to tell me that you brought me a present.”

“I was just being honest. So I’m here all sugared up and ready to go — almost a little hyper.”

“Okay, the shower is yours. I’ll get you a clean towel.”

I sit on the bed watching as she undresses — that seems to be part of it, she wants me to watch. “We don’t have to have sex,” I say. “I don’t need you to use your body to get a shower.”

“What if I want to have sex?” she asks.

“I’m not sure I want to. I’ve had a lot on my mind — I don’t even know if I could.”

She makes a face. “I’ve never heard a guy say that ahead of time — usually it’s after the fact, usually it’s after a lot of hemming and hawing and it turns out they’ve got a wife.”

“I’m divorced,” I say, getting up off the bed, leaving her to shower alone.

I take advantage of the moment to rummage through her bag — looking for clues. I find an enormous old wallet with almost nothing in it, and in the bottom of her bag, a driver’s license. I panic at the sight of the name, immediately put it back, and close the bag. Heather Ann Ryan. Is that the name of the missing girl? I’m confused.

When she comes out of the shower I ask, “Do you have any sports injuries?”

“I’m not very athletic,” she says.

She comes towards me, still damp from the shower.

Is it her? Is she the missing person? Is she having some kind of psychotic break and amnesic state? All of her answers are so vague, so nonspecific.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Who would you like me to be?” she asks, dropping the towel.

And she is upon me.

There is a lot of noise, labored breathing, the dog begins to bark, the cat jumps onto the nightstand, looks at us, arches, pounces onto my back, claws out, I scream.

“I better go,” she says when we are done.

“You sure you don’t want another shower?”

“No, I’m okay,” she says, “but it was nice, I like the rain shower.”

“So how about a number?” I ask while she’s dressing.

She shakes her head no.

“How am I going to know you’re okay? It was very uncomfortable worrying that something happened to you.”

“I am not someone that things happen to,” she says.

“I don’t think I can do this,” I say. “I can’t have some nameless person appear at my house and have me.”

“It’s not your house,” she says, zipping up.

“Are we ever going to have a real conversation?”

She puts her shoes on and stands up. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You’re scaring me,” I say.

“Men aren’t scared,” she says. “Can we not do this? I hear your stress — but I really have to go.”

“Go where?”

“Back to where I came from.”

“Am I making any progress?”

“We’ll talk,” she says, “just not now.”

“Take something,” I tell her.

She looks at me. “What?”

“Take the television.”

“Not funny.”

Her cell phone rings; she looks at it.

“Boyfriend?” I ask.

“No.”

When she leaves, I lock the door. I walk around the house putting down the shades — I’m overexposed.

At ten the next morning, the telephone rings.

“Mr. Silver?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Sara Singer from the Annandale Academy.”

“Yes.”

“Is this a good time to speak?”

“It’s a fine time, but, just to be clear, I’m Silver the uncle, not Silver the father.”

“I am aware.” There is silence, and then she begins again: “Mr. Silver, this is a bit awkward. …”

I hadn’t been worried but suddenly I am — profoundly. “Is Ashley all right?”

Sara Singer doesn’t answer.

“Do you know where Ashley is?” All I can think about is the missing girl.

“Mr. Silver, if you would just hear me out. …”

“Is she alive?” I scream into the phone.

“Of course she’s alive. I didn’t mean to frighten you. She’s in English class until eleven-twenty, and then she has science at eleven-thirty until twelve-thirty.” Again she pauses.

“Perhaps you’re not aware of what’s going on here,” I say. “A local girl has gone missing — it’s been very stressful.”

“My apologies,” Mrs. Singer says. “This has to be hard for someone such as yourself.”

“Which version of myself?”

“A man with no children suddenly playing daddy.”

“I like to think I’ve made the adjustment very well.”

“As I was saying, I’m afraid this is one of those situations that no school likes to be put in. Mr. Silver, were you aware that during the spring break Ashley was on the phone?”

“Yes,” I say. “Ashley has had a hard time sleeping and found it useful to talk with someone.”

“Do you know to whom she was speaking?”

“She said she was talking with a friend.”

“I’m afraid it’s more than that.”

“More than what?”

“More than a friend. What’s the right word? Pardon me, I’m struggling here.” She stops for a moment. “Mr. Silver, Ashley has a lover.”