Evan Hunter - The Moment She Was Gone

“Oh, yeah, there are plenty of them, don’t worry.”

“Annie... is Mama sending you enough money?”

“Oh sure.”

“How much does she send you?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I don’t like to think you’re... wanting for anything.”

“No, I’m fine. She sends me enough. Really.”

“How much?”

“A thousand a month. I can get by really well on that in Italy.”

“Because... if that’s not enough...”

“It’s plenty, bro. What is this?”

“I was thinking... maybe I could help out.”

“Come on, you’re a school teacher.”

“I could maybe send you three, four hundred dollars a month,” I said. “If you think that’d help.”

“I don’t need it, Andy, really. It’ll be cheap in Italy,” she said. “I’ll be fine, really.”

“You sure?”

“I’m positive. But thanks, you’re very sweet.”

She reached over, took my hands in hers.

“I adore you, you know,” she said.

“I adore you, too,” I said.

“No,” she said, and shook her head, and looked up into my face. “I really adore you.”

“Good. So take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will, don’t worry.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Don’t get into trouble with any Indecency Patrols.”

“Police. And that’s not their real name, I told you. That’s just the name I gave them. Do you want some more tea?”

“Yes, please. What is their real name?”

“How should I know?” Annie asked, and got up and went to the stove. “Do secret organizations tell you their real names?”

“I don’t know any secret organizations, Annie.”

“That’s exactly my point.”

“What I’m asking... why would they go after somebody who makes jewelry?”

“Well, these are art pieces, you know.”

“I realize that. But why would they consider your work a threat?”

“Who knows?” she said, and handed me the fresh mug of tea. “Why was elephant shit considered a threat? I’m a menace to their conservative values. Well, look at it, Andy. I have a two-by-four shop in a strip mall in the asshole of creation, and they’re coming after me. Ask yourself why.”

“I already asked you why, Annie.”

“And I’m telling you why. Don’t be so dense.”

“Well,” I said, and took a sip of the tea. It was very hot. We were silent for several moments. The clock on the fireplace mantel ticked noisily. Outside, I could hear the ocean crashing in against the rocks.

“What’s with Jessie and Buck?” I asked.

“What do you want to know?”

“They seem like losers.”

“They are.”

“So why do you hang around with them?”

“Not for long, kiddo.”

“Why are you hanging around with them now?”

“I’m not. I thought you might like company for dinner, that’s all. Thought you might like to meet some genuine Maine types,” she said, and grinned.

“I came up to see you, Annie. Not some woman who shoots you down all night long...”

“Oh, I’m aware of that, don’t worry.”

“And some jackass who calls Dad a ‘big famous artist, ’ I wanted to punch him right in the mouth!”

“He’s jealous is all. His paintings stink. He’s a loser, like you said. Look, Andy, don’t you think I’m onto them?”

“Then why’d you invite them to dinner? Why’d you turn the other cheek every time they...?”

“I know exactly how to deal with such people, don’t worry. The minute I know someone’s out to get me...”

“Out to get you? They’re two piss-poor...”

“Didn’t you hear all that sexual innuendo? They think Tantra is an excuse for promiscuity, but it isn’t that at all. Jessie’s an anachronistic hippie who’s been to bed with every dirt farmer in Maine. Who knows what Buck was involved in over there with his tank burying people? All these macho warlords are closet fags, you know, don’t you read the papers? They abduct twelve-year-olds from the marketplace, you can’t even go out to buy an orange! Please, don’t get me started, Andy. Buck and Jessie are the main reason I’m getting out of here!”

“You don’t have to go all the way to Sicily to end a relationship, Annie.”

“Oh no? Where else can an artist go to work in peace, without everyone telling her what to do? You think I enjoy the constant spying and ridicule?”

“I’m sure there are art communities...”

“Not in America, don’t kid yourself. No one in this country is willing to give an emerging artist a break! No one! They come around in skintight pants, you can see their genitals and everything, and they stand outside your shop window and slit their throats with their fingers, how are you supposed to work in that kind of threatening climate?”

“Annie, you’re remembering wrong. That happened in England.”

“It happened here, too, don’t kid yourself. I can’t wait to get out.”

She was silent for a moment.

Then she asked, “Do you think I’ll ever be as good as Dad?”

“Well, you’re working in two different mediums,” I said.

“Oh, I know. I meant comparatively. He’s very good, you know.”

“I know, Annie.”

“I loved him so much,” she said.

I left Maine the next day after lunch.

Annie and I stood on the rockbound shore, hugging each other, saying our goodbyes. The wind was sharp, the sky was clear.

The next time I saw her would be in the mental ward of a hospital in Sicily.

The moment I step into the apartment, my mother asks, “Where were you?”

“I went to see Maggie.”

“Why on earth did you...?”

“To apologize. You might want to do the same thing, Mom.”

“I have no need to apologize to your former wife.”

“Annie hit her with a hammer,” I remind her.

“What!” Aaron says.

“Annie did no such thing.”

“Okay, Mom, fine. Let’s just keep pretending Annie is the girl next door, okay? Let’s just keep doing what we’ve been doing all along, pretending Annie isn’t sick, allowing her to believe she isn’t sick...”

“That’s right, she isn’t.”

“Yes, but she is, damn it! We should have got help for her right after Georgia.”

“Georgia,” she says, and waves it aside. “That was almost comical.”

“It wasn’t comical, Mom.”

“Urinating on a cop? I think that’s comical,” she says, and tries a laugh that dies abruptly in her throat because all at once she sees the dead serious expression on my face, and knows I’m not here to provoke laughter, kiddies, you can count on that.

“She was talking to people who weren’t there,” I say. “That isn’t comical, Mom.”

“According to that black girl, yes,” my mother says. “A drug addict.”

“She wasn’t a drug addict, Mom,” Aaron says.

“Who knows what drugs they were using, your sister and her so-called musician friends.”

“Mom, she was hallucinating,” I say. “First she thought a waitress was spying...”

“What waitress? Aaron didn’t tell me about any waitress. What’s this got to do with the fire house? Sometimes I think you’re as...”

She cuts herself short.

“What waitress?” she asks.

“In Atlanta. Annie slapped a newspaper out of her hands and then shoved her off a stool.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this, Aaron?”

“I did, Mom.”

“I don’t remember anything about a waitress. Why would Annie attack a waitress? She’s not a violent person.”

“Mom, she hit Maggie with...”