Vanishing Acts Read online

  To say "not guilty" means a big, difficult trial, in which Delia will serve as a material witness.

  As the only other person who was with Andrew at the time of the kidnapping, she will be courted by the prosecution as well as the defense. And in spite of the fact that she is my fiancee, I can be sent to jail for telling her any details about her father's case. It is a felony to consciously or unconsciously influence what a witness says in court.

  But is it a crime for her to influence what I say?

  I smooth my hand over her hair. "Okay," I promise. "Not guilty."

  Andrew

  Does it really matter why I did it?

  By now you've already formed your own impression. You believe that an act committed a lifetime ago defines a man, or you believe that a person's past has nothing to do with his future. You think I am either a hero, or a monster. Maybe knowing more about the circumstances will make you think differently about me, but it won't change what happened twenty-eight years ago.

  There have been nightmares. Sometimes I have picked up the phone and heard Elise's voice in the pause before the telemarketer's brain kicks in. Whenever I pass a police car, I sweat. I was thrown into a panic when one of the seniors submitted my name for election to the Wexton Town Council, until I realized that the easiest place to take cover is in plain sight; no one ever looks twice at someone who acts like he has nothing to hide.

  Believe what you want, but be prepared to answer this question: In my shoes, how do you know you wouldn't have done the same thing?

  Believe it or not, there is a relief to finally getting caught. The moment I gave up my clothes for a baggy orange jumpsuit I also peeled off the skin of the person I've pretended to be. In a strange way, I belong here more than I did out there. Like me, everyone in jail has been living a lie.

  For twenty-three hours a day, I stay in my cell. That last hour, I am granted a shower and a turn around the exercise yard, where I do my best to breathe in deep and get the smell of jail out of my nostrils.

  I have asked twice now to call you; I thought that everyone was given a phone call upon arrival, but it turns out that's only true on television. I wait for Eric, but he hasn't come yet either. I imagine there are all sorts of knots made out of red tape he has to untangle before we are shipped off to Arizona.

  The last time I was there, it was a state unlike anything in the Northeast. A place where the soil was the color of blood, where snow was a fantasy, where the plants had skeletons. Just falling off the abrupt edge of Scottsdale could land you in towns that consisted of a handful of people and a gas station; back then the West was still a haven for lawless rebels. I hear those towns are now the enclaves of the rich, who have built multimillion-dollar houses into the inhospitable red cliffs, but I imagine the part of Phoenix I will be seeing is still peopled with lawless rebels, the ones who have been arrested.

  It never gets dark in jail, and it never gets quiet. The sound is a symphony: the wheezing snore of the guy one block down; the creak of a door being opened. Rain on the roof and the viper hiss of the radiator. The ping-ping-ping-ping of metal on metal as a corrections officer walks down the corridor side by side with his attitude, hitting his keys against the bars of a cell to wake up all the nearby occupants.

  The only way I am able to stand it is to think about you. This time, the memory that spreads across my mind is of the autumn weekend we drove to Killington and took a chairlift up to the top. It was October, and you were only five. When we got to the peak, the ring of Killington's mountains rose to our left and right; the valley below was a lavish tapestry of reds and golds and emeralds, studded with church spires that looked like fallen stars caught in the folds of the landscape. The Ottauquechee River scalloped a blue seam down the center, and the air already smelled of snow.

  It looked just about as different from Arizona as humanly possible. And I began to understand what New Englanders say, what I had learned long before I took refuge in New Hampshire: You never forget your first fall.

  When you're a parent you find yourself looking at the unknown that is your child, trying to find a piece of yourself inside her, because sometimes that is what it takes to stake a claim. I remember watching you making muddy mixtures in the sandbox, and wondering if a love of chemistry was something you might be born with. I remember listening to your tearful recollection of the monster in your nightmare, trying to see whether it resembled me.

  What I saw most in you, though, was your mother.

  You had an uncanny ability to find things: the diamond earring Eric's mother lost somewhere in her driveway; the old stash of comic books hidden behind a loose panel of wood in the basement; a buffalo-head nickel caught between the cracks of the sidewalk. Unlike Elise, who could discover parts of a person they didn't even know were absent, you specialized in the tangible, but that, I feared, was only a matter of time.

  When you were seven, you found a chickadee's egg that had fallen out of a nest. The egg was cracked and the bird, still embryonic and developing, was pink-skinned and pale, oddly humanistic. You and I lined a matchbox with tissues and held a private burial. "Wilbur," you intoned, "lived a short life, full of danger."

  Not unlike your own.

  You cried for a week over that damn bird--the first time that finding something, for you, became equated to loss. That was when I realized that I could take you to the far ends of the earth, but I couldn't keep your mother from surfacing. Elise was in your blood; Elise was printed upon you. And, like Elise, I was terrified that if you grew up able to find whatever it was that hollowed out a person's heart, you would wind up feeling just as empty as she had.

  God forbid, maybe you'd try to fill yourself the same way.

  I made a few phone calls and took you to meet a policeman who happened to be the son of one of the seniors who played mah-jongg every Tuesday at the center. Art was a state trooper who had a German shepherd named Jerry Lee, known for his search-and-rescue ability. He let you play hide and seek with Jerry Lee, who always won. By the time we drove home that day, you knew what you wanted to be when you grew up.

  There is a fine line between seeing something that's lost as missing, and seeing it as something that might be found. The way I figured, it was my job to make sure that you were focused correctly. In high school, I got you an apprenticeship with a local vet. In college, you adopted a hound from a shelter, and trained it for search and rescue. As a senior, you made your first big rescue: a little boy who had wandered off at a county fair. You began to get a reputation for hard work and diligence; you were called in to work with K-9 units all over New Hampshire and Vermont. I have heard you tell the story of how you got started in this business over and over to reporters and to grateful victims; you always say it began when you found a bird.

  I'm not even sure you remember anymore that it was dead.

  Sometimes parents don't find what they're looking for in their child, so they plant seeds for what they'd like to grow there instead. I've witnessed this with the former hockey player who takes his son out to skate before he can even walk. Or in the mother who gave up her ballet dreams when she married, but now scrapes her daughter's hair into a bun and watches from the wings of the stage. We are not, as you'd expect, orchestrating their lives; we are not even trying for a second chance. We're hoping that if this one thing takes root, it might take up enough light and space to keep something else from developing in our children: the disappointment we've already lived.

  Last night, before my arraignment, I started shaking. Not shivering, but the palsied kind of seizure that even made the guards bring me to the infirmary for a free nurse's check, not that she could find anything wrong. It was the sort of tremor that astronauts get when they come back to earth, that a hiker suffers after coming back down from the crest of Kilimanjaro--a bone-deep chill that has nothing to do with cold and everything with being moved from one world to another. It continued the whole time the guards snapped on handcuffs and led me underground to the court building next door;
it continued while I waited in the sheriff's department cell there; it continued until the moment I saw you in the courtroom and called your name.

  You couldn't look me in the eye, and that was the first time I ever had doubts about what I did.

  "Hey," my cellmate says. "You gonna eat your bread?"

  A twenty-year-old awaiting trial for armed robbery, my cellmate's name is Monteverde Jones. I toss him my bread, which is stale enough to be classified as a weapon. We are fed in our cells, given an unappetizing array of blots on a plastic tray that blend together like Venn diagrams.

  Because Monte has been here longer than I have, he gets to eat on the bunk. Me, I have to sit on the toilet or the floor. Everything is based on hierarchy and privilege; in this, jail's a lot like the real world. "So," he says, "what do you do on the outside?"

  I look up over my fork. "I run a senior citizens' center."

  "Like a nursing home?"

  "The opposite," I explain. "A place for active seniors to come and socialize. We had league sports and chess tournaments and season tickets to the Red Sox."

  "No shit," Monte says. "My grandma, she's in one of those places where they just give her oxygen and wait for her to die." He takes out a pen that he has whittled to a sharp point, a makeshift knife, and begins to run it under his nails. "How long you been doing that?"

  "Since I moved to Wexton," I tell him. "Almost thirty years."

  "Thirty years?" Monte shakes his head. "That's, like, forever."

  I look down at my tray. "Not really," I say.

  If I had been allowed to make my phone call to you, this is what I would have said:

  How are you? How's Sophie?

  I'm fine. I'm stronger than you'd think.

  I wish it hadn't happened this way.

  I will see you in Arizona, and explain. I know.

  I'm not sorry, either.

  Fitz

  I'm not prepared for what I see when I turn the corner onto the street where I grew up. Two news vans from the Boston area are parked in the driveway of what used to be Eric's childhood home. In front of Andrew Hopkins's little red Cape is a lineup of television reporters, each facing a cameraman whose job it is to carve out a small square of background and make it look as if no other journalist has stumbled onto this grand story. This is a plum assignment, and under any other circumstance I might find myself sitting alongside the others, bumming cigarettes and thermoses of coffee while we wait for the Victim to peek out the front door.

  I park the car and circle around the media into my former backyard. A gay couple lives here now, with their adopted daughter--the gardens are far more manicured than anything my parents were ever able to pull off. But there's still a corner of the chain-link fence behind the rhododendrons that's bent up, just high enough for you to squeeze underneath into Delia's yard--a secret passage where we'd leave each other notes and treasures. I walk up the back door and let myself inside. "Dee?" I call out. "It's me."

  When there's no answer, I wander into the kitchen. Delia is dressed in jeans and one of Eric's sweaters; her hair is a wild black tangle around her face and her feet are bare. She is hunched over the counter, with the phone pressed to her ear. Underneath the kitchen table, Sophie sits in her nightgown, lining up plastic farm animals into military formation. "Fitz!" she says when she sees me. "Guess what? I couldn't go to school today because all the cars were in the way."

  "Could you check again?" Delia says into the phone. "Maybe under E. Matthews?"

  I kneel beside Sophie and hold my finger up to my lips: quiet. But Delia slams down the phone instead and swears like a sailor--the same Delia who once nearly took my head off for saying the word damn in Sophie's presence when she was only three months old. When she looks up at me, her eyes are full of tears. "They must have told her about me ... about us being here in New Hampshire, but she hasn't called, Fitz."

  There are all sorts of excellent reasons for this: Delia's mother doesn't live in Arizona now, and hasn't been told yet of Andrew's apprehension; she's not even alive anymore. But I don't have the heart to point these out to Delia.

  "Maybe she's afraid you won't want to talk to her, with your father's arrest and all," I say after a minute.

  "That's what I thought, too. So I figured ... maybe I'll just call her, instead. The thing is ... I can't find her. I don't know if she's remarried or if she goes by her maiden name.... I don't even know what her maiden name is. She's still a total stranger."

  I stick my head under the table. "Soph," I say, "I'll give you a dollar if you go upstairs and find Mommy's purple nail polish before I finish counting. One, two, three ..."

  She is off like a shot. "I don't wear nail polish," Delia says wearily.

  "No kidding." I step toward her. "What have you told Sophie, anyway?"

  "She saw the police take her grandfather away in handcuffs. What was I supposed to say to her?" Delia shakes her head. "I told her it was just a game, like the one we were playing when the cops came." She closes her eyes. "Trouble."

  "Where's Eric?"

  "At the office. Filing paperwork to try a case in Arizona." Her voice stumbles over the words, and she sinks into a chair. "You want to hear something funny, Fitz? I used to wish every night that my mother was still alive. I'm not talking about when I was a kid, I mean as recently as a week ago. You know ... like when Sophie was a tooth in the school play and I wished my mother could have seen her, or when I had to pick out the dishes for the main course at the wedding and I couldn't even pronounce half of the ones on the caterer's list. I used to pretend that there had been some hospital mix-up, and that my mother would show up saying it had all been an awful mistake. Well, look at what happens when you get what you ask for: I have a mother, but I have no idea who I am. I don't know my actual birthday. I don't even know if I'm really thirty-one. And I thought I knew my father ... but it turns out that was the biggest lie of all."

  "He's the same man you grew up with," I say carefully, treading over a minefield full of false comfort. "He's the same man he was yesterday."

  "Is he?" Delia retorts. "I've been through some pretty awful situations with Eric, but I never thought about picking Sophie up and stealing her away so that he'd never see her again. I can't imagine a person ever getting to that point. But my own father apparently did."

  I could tell her from personal experience that when people we love make choices, we don't always understand them. But we can go on loving them, just the same. It isn't a matter of comprehension. It's forgiveness.

  But all this took me a lifetime to discover, and where has it gotten me? To the point where, if Delia asks me to jump, I strap on my moon boots. Some lessons can't be taught, they simply have to be learned.

  "I'm sure he had a reason for doing what he did," I say. "I'm sure he wants to talk to you."

  "And then what happens? Are we supposed to go back to the way it used to be? I don't quite see us meeting my mother for dinner every other Sunday and laughing about old times. And I don't know how I'm ever supposed to be able to listen to what he says without wondering if he's telling me the truth." She starts to cry. "I wish this never happened," she says. "I wish I'd never found out."

  I hesitate a second before hauling her into my arms--touching Delia is something I am always careful about; it comes at such great cost to me. I feel her heart beat hard against mine, two prisoners communicating through a cell-block wall. I understand better than she'd imagine that history is indelible. You can mask it; you can patch it smooth and clear; but you will always know what's hidden underneath.

  I find myself selfishly leaning closer, so that I breathe in the scent of her hair. Delia taught me that human scents are like snowflakes--each one's different. Blindfolded, I could find Delia by smell alone: She is lily-milk and snow, fresh-cut grass in summer, the perfume of my childhood.

  She shifts, so the softest skin below her ear brushes against my lips, and that's all it takes for me to jump back as if I've been burned. I know what it's like to wake up t
hinking you will be able to cast the people who play the starring roles in your life, only to realize that you have to watch it from the audience. For Delia, the whole play has changed in the middle, and the least I can do is to be her constant. She had always trusted me to fix what's wrong: a dead car battery, a flooded basement, a broken heart. This time, I am out of my league, but I try to rescue her anyway. I'll be the hero now; soon enough Delia will realize that there's reason to think of me as the villain.

  "Sophie!" I yell. "Time's up!" She appears breathlessly at the bottom of the stairs.

  "Mommy doesn't have--"

  "Get your coat," I say. "You're going to school."

  Sophie is still young enough to be delighted by this news. She runs off to the mudroom, while Delia glances out the window into the driveway. "Did you happen to notice the jackals outside?"

  I push aside the image of what Delia will think when she sees tomorrow's paper. "Yeah," I say, keeping my tone light, "but I'm one of them, and we don't eat our own."

  "I don't want to go out--"

  "But you need to," I say. The last thing Delia should do is sit around waiting for the phone to ring, letting her mind wander enough to wonder why her mother might not be calling--none of which will lead to the outcome she's dreamed of her whole life.

  Sophie skids to a stop in front of me, and I squat down to zip up her coat. "We're dropping her off," I tell Delia, "and then we're going directly to jail."

  This morning I was called into the business offices of the New Hampshire Gazette by my editor, a woman named Marge Geraghy who smokes Cuban cigars and insists on calling me by my full godawful name. "Fitzwilliam," she said, "take a seat."

  I sank into the ratty armchair across from her desk. The New Hampshire Gazette is exactly what you'd imagine of a paper you can, literally, read in its entirety during a visit to the bathroom--dingy gray walls, fluorescent lights, thrift-store furniture. There is a decent reception area and one nice conference room, for the one time a year when the governor of New Hampshire graces our offices for an interview. It's no wonder that most of the reporters choose to work from their homes instead of their cubicles.