Missing
It could have been almost anybody who crawled up from the creek on Halloween night and died in the tall grass behind the Italian plum tree that Carlo butchered last spring. But I guess I’ve known from the beginning the most likely candidate was Scott Schwartz. We have been interviewed at length by the police. All they will say is that the gun the police found matches the description Roger gave of his revolver and that several sets of fingerprints were found on the weapon, but they won’t say whose. Scott’s death has been ruled suspicious, so there will be an inquest to consider the evidence. Andy explains the obvious choices; an accident, a suicide, or a homicide. It’s the details we don’t know that agitate and make sleep impossible.
No one has actually said that Scott died from a gunshot wound. Is Petey’s killing connected? It must be, but I can’t figure out how. If it was Roger’s gun that was found in the orchard—and the police aren’t saying that it is—how did it get there? I refuse to believe that Roger or Sophie had anything to do with Scott’s death. It must be drug related. Dee, a child is dead.
A young man has lost his life. In my anger and frustration over Scott’s behavior, I judged him irredeemable. And as hard a man as Walter Schwartz is, grief pours from him like water from a broken water main. He came to us the day he was notified that his only son was dead and asked to see the place where Scott was found. Roger and I walked him down to the orchard and the big man fell to his knees and sobbed.
“I was too hard on him.” Walter made no attempt to clear away the tears that sheeted down his normally stony face. “I thought if I was tough on him I could force him to grow up and be a man.”
The thought of Walter’s naked pain drives me to my knees, where I stay until I have prayed every prayer I can think of for a father’s grief and a son’s tragic end. Strangely, Walter has never suggested that any of us bear any responsibility for his son’s death. He has taken it all on himself.
When I come to the end of pain and prayer I pull myself up into my bedroom chair. Filled with peace, I determine I will not try to solve this mystery. I will let God sort it out.
I leave my bedroom and cross through the atrium, stopping to stroke old Puffy. Pets are such a comfort. Valerie walks through the front door and joins me in this space that serves as a crossroad in our busy household. She runs her fingers through her hair that is thick and shiny with pregnancy. “Mom, I’ve just heard the oddest thing. Lukas Dold has gone missing.”
R
Quiet as a grave, that is how the neighborhood has been. News of fifteen-year-old Lukas’ disappearance spreads like a virulent strain of influenza and our neighbors begin to react. Most stay home and stay indoors, but snippets of mailbox conversations float over the hedge:
--I heard that boy had been shot to death.
--What? Lukas Dold?
--No, the boy Carlo found dead under the tree on the Moraga place.
--Carlo found Scott? I thought Carlo called the police because his dog had been shot, and they found Scott when they investigated.
And:
--Do you suppose whoever murdered Scott killed Lukas too, and they just haven’t found his body yet?
--Well, more than one person in that house might have had a reason to shoot Scott. He was going after the niece and selling drugs out of their garage. Nobody would have a reason to shoot Lukas, unless maybe he somehow got in the way.
--Maybe that’s why the dog got shot. Maybe he got in the way.
--He was on a tether. How could that be?
And on and on it goes; I try not to listen. Cars drive by and slow down when they pass our house. We get phone calls from news reporters in San Francisco who want to ask us questions. Worse, they want to come out and take our pictures! We say no. We tell them nothing. We have no answers. I have talked to both Laura and Mike on the phone and told them not to come to the house. We have quarantined ourselves, infected by the feeling that we must be guilty of something.
Valerie retreats into herself and I walk around the house rubbing my fingers together. Despite our pleas, David has stopped going to his classes at Stanford. He spends all his time in the garage working on his invention, but he keeps the garage door closed. Only Danny and Andy go about business as usual. Andy insists that it is important to maintain a normal routine, as much for the sake of our sanity as for appearances. Danny is not one to back down from what he sees as a fight; Moraga pride and stubbornness fire on all burners inside him. Now I understand why Alaya thought she needed to send him to us.
Sophie surprises us all. Instead of retreating to her room, she reports to her new job. Then she quietly informs us that she thinks it best if she stays at Laura’s house for a while, until the truth comes out. What can she possibly mean by that? I don’t get a chance to ask her because she is packed and gone before the questions form in my brain. It is David who loads her boxes into the car and drives her over to Laura’s.
Roger frets about David and spends a lot of time at his desk. Each day I walk into my studio knowing I will not be able to work but hoping I can summon energy for some mindless organizational task. I feel like a creature that needs to shed a brittle layer of dead skin, a death that clings to my bones when it is meant to drop away. I can’t breathe.
Enough.
I open the door, go into the living room, and turn on the lights against the gloom of this winter’s morning. Andy and Danny are preparing to leave the house but I stop them.
“Please Andy, go get Valerie and come here for a few minutes. Danny, you too.” Danny looks at his watch. “It’s okay; I won’t make you late for work.”
I scurry across to our room, push open the door, and tell Roger I’m calling a family meeting. Then I swing back through the kitchen and shove the door to the garage open just enough to call for David. When we are all seated in the living room, I regard the faces of these people I love, take a deep breath, and begin.
“We can’t go on like this. We are letting a bad situation tear us apart.” I look at their faces, each one a blank mask, a thin disguise for the fear, confusion, grief, and despair we all feel in different proportions. “We have to pull together and be a family, and the only way I know how to do that is to pray.” The masks drop from their faces. If it’s possible, they look even more scared. Andy squirms in his seat. Roger looks at the clock. Valerie slumps her shoulders and drops her gaze to her knees, barely visible past her huge belly. David sits stone still. Danny smiles.
“That’s a good idea, Aunt Dee. I’ll start.” I’d forgotten that Danny often sat in on Mike’s sessions with the boys. With his Catholic upbringing and recent exposure to Mike’s way of dropping a hand on a troubled boy’s shoulder and talking to God on the young man’s behalf, my request does not strike my nephew as strange. We all bend our heads and Danny covers all the bases. He asks for peace and protection for our family, comfort for Walter, and answers to what happened. Valerie interrupts the Amen to pray that Lukas be found safe and well. Andy contributes familiar sounding words that acknowledge God’s power in all situations and asks for blessing and mercy. I sneak a peek at Roger who sits stiff and silent, and then I get up to go kneel in front of Valerie. I place my hands on her belly and feel the undulating thumps and bumps of this baby-in-waiting. Valerie places her soft, warm, dry hands on top of mine. I pray for a safe delivery for my grandchild and restored joy in our home.
There are tears and hugs and as we all begin our day the sun breaks through the fog. It comes dancing through the window and sparkles in the crystal that frames three portraits hinged together: Alonso on the left, Leora on the right, and in the center, a baby picture of two little girls, taken before our parents split us up.