A series of clicks came from the front door, tumblers dropping, dead bolt shooting back, and I stood, wobbling on numb legs. I’d been sitting for forty minutes, listening to Ivan Arias’s outpouring of grief, the forty minutes it took his son to get in the car or truck and drive over.
Max Arias stomped in and planted himself between the door and me. He wore scuffed work boots and loose denim shorts and an oversized T-shirt flecked with paint, standing with his thumbs and index fingers rigidly extended, like a child miming six-shooters.
“Who the fuck do you think you are,” he said.
He was clean-shaven.
“Max,” Ivan said. He had risen, too, blocking my path to the other point of exit, the sliding glass door.
The drowsiness had left me, driven out by a speedball of fight and flight.
Max Arias’s T-shirt bore the logo of a lumber supply company. It bloused at the waist, wide enough to conceal a handgun. Cords stood out in his arms and neck. What had he and his father texted about? Why hadn’t Ivan moved toward his son in greeting?
I said, “I’ll go now.”
“No no no,” Max said. “You don’t get to walk in, stir shit up, and walk out.”
Ivan said, “Max.”
“Your brother’s too chickenshit to show his face?”
“I told your father, I’m here on my own.”
“Why.”
“I wanted to know if you’d spoken to Luke.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
“Calm down, please,” Ivan said.
“I’m calm, Pop. I’m asking questions. He asked his questions, now it’s my turn. Why the fuck would I talk to your brother?”
“He said he might try to reach out to you,” I said.
“He didn’t.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t,” Max said. “I don’t understand it at all. You want to know if he’s talked to me, why don’t you ask him?”
“I will when I speak to him.”
“You didn’t ask him.”
“Not yet.”
“Oh yeah? How come?”
“I haven’t had a chance.”
“You mean you didn’t even try?”
“I haven’t been able to reach him.”
“He’s a busy guy, huh.”
“Sure.”
“Yeah, sure,” Max said. “Okay, well. Go ahead.”
“Sorry?”
“Do it now. Give him a call him and ask.”
“I don’t know if he’s available,” I said.
“You haven’t called him,” Max said. “How do you know?”
A beat. I took out my phone.
“Put it on speaker,” Max said.
I dialed Luke. It went straight to voicemail.
You’ve reached Luke Edison at Bay Area Therapeutics. Sorry I’m unavailable at the moment. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks and have a blessed day.
I hung up.
“You’re not going to leave him a message? Your own brother?”
I said nothing.
“No,” Max said. “I guess you’re right, he’s not available. Cause he’s so busy. But it’s too bad. I was hoping he could help me understand, you know? Cause, I dunno. I think it’s kinda weird. I mean, you’re a cop. It’s your job to figure things out. You have a question about him, you don’t ask him. You come here and ask my dad. You get him to ask me, and my brother, and my sister. Like, all the people in the world, it’s our family who’s the expert on him.”
Ivan was watching me curiously.
“Is that it?” Max said. “You woke up this morning and said, I have a question for my brother. Why don’t I go talk to these people I’ve never met for no reason. That’s what I’m in the mood to do. Is that what you’re telling me? Cause guess what? I don’t fucking believe you.”
“I asked you how he is,” Ivan said. “You said it’s hard for you to say.”
I said, “Yes, sir.”
“What does that mean?”
“I just…We’re not close.”
“You must speak to him,” Ivan said. “You know that he wanted our forgiveness.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He told you he was coming here?”
“Not in so many words.”
“What, then.”
I said, “I talked to his wife.”
“She said he came here.”
“She wasn’t sure if he had or hadn’t.”
Silence.
“Why are you here,” Ivan asked. “Why today.”
I glanced at Max. “Luke’s gone.”
“Gone where,” Ivan said.
“He’s missing.”
“Your brother is.”
I nodded.
“Missing how? What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if something happened to him?”
I said, “I’m not sure how to answer that.”
“Answer it,” Max said. “That’s how.”
In the silence I saw Ivan’s face changing, falling like tumblers in a lock.
He said, “Are you accusing me of something?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you accusing my son?”
“No.”
Max snorted. “Okay, asshole.”
Ivan said, “I let you into my home. I talked to you about her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You let me do that. You looked me in the eye.”
Max smiled sourly. “Why are you surprised by this, Pop? Same fucked-up family, same bullshit.”
“Mr. Arias, I am very sorry.”
Ivan felt for the arm of the recliner and lowered himself into the seat. He appeared both heavier and smaller; his belly staved in, he labored to breathe.
“I’d like you to leave, please,” he said hoarsely.
“Yes, sir.”
I faced the door.
Max didn’t budge. A furious laugh exploded from him.
“What are you gonna do, man?” he said. “Shoot me? Choke me out?”
He flung his hands up over his head. “Go ahead. Unarmed.”
“That’s enough,” Ivan said.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Police Officer? You don’t like how it feels when someone talks to you like that?”
“Enough.”
Max made a disgusted noise. He went behind the dining table.
Long shadows piled up on the lawn. A truck was parked in the driveway: a single-cab Toyota, navy blue. White lettering on the side of the bed read RAUL ARCELIA PERAL, LIC. CONTRACTOR. The bed didn’t have a tonneau cover, though it did have a steel frame rack for securing lumber and tools.
Could a person confuse the two? Mistake that color for white?
Doubtful. Certainly not two separate people.
The front door opened. Max stepped from the house. He saw me looking at the truck.
I started for my car.
Max called, “I hope you never find him.”
A few blocks shy of the freeway, I veered to the curb, cut the engine, and sat, shaky and light-headed, strangling the steering wheel. Traffic hissed past, red streaks wiping the windshield. Each successive vehicle chunked against the same on-ramp pothole, like ax blows.
I climbed over the passenger seat, opened the door, leaned out, and tried to throw up, producing only dry heaves.
I slammed the door and fell back. My collar was damp and curled. I rummaged in the center console for something solid to soak up the acid. I hadn’t caught a proper meal in days. I wondered what my brother was eating. If he was eating.
All I could find was the ancient applesauce pouch. I uncapped it.
Amy Sandek would like FaceTime…
Taking three deep breaths, I connected. “Hey baby.”
“Hi, hon.” Her hair was flat and dark from the shower. Nursery rhymes tinkled in the background. “Are you in the car again? I can call you later.”
I saw myself in the corner of the screen, a gray lump against gray. I punched on the dome light. “I’m just wiped out.”
“I’m sorry. Hard day?”
“It was a day.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Yes. Please. More than anything.
“Maybe later,” I said. “Is she there?”
“She’s almost ready for bed. Hang on.”
The camera reversed. Charlotte sat on the bed, iPad in her lap, engrossed in YouTube.
“It’s time to turn it off, honey pie.”
“I don’t want to.”
“We said five minutes.”
“I want four minutes.”
“You got it, Priceline Negotiator.”
“Hi, lovey.”
No response.
“Say hi to Daddy.”
“Hi, Daddy.”
“How are you?”
“Good.”
“I miss you.”
Charlotte stared blankly. Moments like that brought home how young she was. She might possess the vocabulary of a child twice her age, but she had yet to absorb the social niceties.
“How was dinner?” I asked.
“Good.”
“What did you get?”
“Mac and cheese.”
Giddiness burbled up, my frayed nerves discharging. “Oh really. Not pizza?”
“Daddy, why are you laughing?”
“No reason, lovey. Was it yummy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you get dessert?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What was it?”
“M&M’s.”
“Lucky girl. Did you say thank you to Mommy?”
“Thank you, Mommy.”
“You’re welcome, honey. Say good night to Daddy.”
“Good night, Daddy.”
“I love you, Charlotte.”
“Mommy, I have to go poop.”
“Can you get on the potty by yourself?” Amy said. “I’ll come when it’s time to wipe.”
Charlotte dropped the phone. I saw the ceiling and heard her scamper out.
Amy came on the screen. “Mac and cheese is not the same as pizza.”
“No.”
“Totally different cuisines.”
“Totally.”
She smiled. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Good news. I booked our flights back.”
Our conversation had carved out a small pocket of calm; instantly it was gone, like a mine collapse. “When?”
“Friday morning. We get into Oakland around ten.”
Thirty-nine hours from now.
“Okay,” I said.
“Don’t get too excited.”
“I am. I am…. I don’t know if you saw. There’s a new fire.”
“Oh no. How bad?”
“They’re saying it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
“Ugh. I was really hoping to come home.”
“I know. I so want you to.”
True. I ached to have them near.
And not true, because I didn’t know how I could manage the situation with them near.
I said, “We were concerned about the baby’s health. It sucks, but nothing’s changed on that count.”
“Fine, but can we agree that that was an overreaction? It’s not like hordes of pregnant women are fleeing the Bay Area.”
“Why don’t we see how things are in the morning?”
She scrutinized me. At times it can feel like being married to a mind reader. Only the fact that I was pixelated, on a five-inch screen, saved me.
“Okay,” she said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. Have a good night.”
Halfway home my mother called me. I let it go. She tried twice more and gave up.
Except she hadn’t. Coming up my block I saw her pinched shape pacing the front walk. I nearly made a U-turn. She spotted me and began bouncing on her toes, waving like a castaway. My father was there, too, on the porch, worrying the loose rail I hadn’t gotten around to fixing.
I got out of the car and she rushed at me. “Why didn’t you tell me Luke was missing?”
“Hang on a sec,” I said. “Who told you that?”
“I saw it on Andrea’s Facebook. I tried calling her but she won’t tell me anything. I don’t know what she expects me to do if she’s not going to speak to me…”
She kept talking but I didn’t listen, hurriedly swiping my phone.
Attention everybody, my husband Luke Edison has not been heard from in three days. He left the house on Sunday to take a drive and now he is not answering his phone. I am very concerned.
I am asking everyone to please spread this information so that we can find him as soon as possible and bring him home safely.
I am attaching a photo, please feel free to repost it. He is forty-one years old. He is six feet four inches tall with brown hair and…See More
The post had garnered a hundred and nine reactions, including likes, dislikes, crying emojis, shocked emojis, hearts. It had been shared eighty-one times.
“Clay.” My mother gripped my sleeve. “You’re not listening.”
I ushered them inside and into the living room. “Sit down, please.”
“I don’t want to sit down, I want you to tell me—Clay. Stop walking away from me.”
I brought candles from the kitchen, lit them on the coffee table, took a chair. My father sat on the sofa. My mother stayed on her feet.
“When was the last time you heard from him?” I asked.
“You were aware this was going on and you didn’t think to call us?” she said.
“Please stop yelling.”
“Brunch,” my father said.
“Not since then?”
He shook his head. He looked at my mother, who grunted in frustration and took the other end of the sofa.
“I don’t remember,” she said. “A few days.”
“Check your phone.”
She did. “Thursday.”
“Do you remember what you talked about?”
“You should have called us.”
Back and forth we went, like badminton, me asking about Luke, his marriage, finances, the loan, the Camaro, his behavior, the possibility of a relapse, while she pushed me on what I knew, what I’d done, why I hadn’t called them, the police, other police.
“I’ve been busy.”
“With what.”
“Tracking him down.”
“How?”
“I’m doing everything I can.”
“You’re one person, Clay. You can’t—I just can’t believe you’ve been letting this go by and not once did you think to pick up the phone.”
“I didn’t because I knew this was going to happen.”
It was a dumb thing to say. I couldn’t help myself. I was barreling along rusty old tracks, any semblance of restraint and professionalism kicked aside.
“What’s that supposed to mean,” she said.
“We cannot panic.”
“Of course we should panic.”
My father sat there as though catatonic. I knew what he was thinking about: The night he threw Luke out over the stolen necklace. Luke walking off with his middle fingers raised. My father’s nose bleeding. My mother calling me up in tears, she and I driving the streets like deranged tourists.
This had happened before. Nobody called the police then, either.
Instead they called us, a week later, to tell us Luke was unconscious and what he’d done.
I said, “There’s things you don’t know—”
“So tell me!”
My father cut in quietly: “We’re worried, Clay.”
“Oh for God’s sake,” my mother said.
She shut her eyes and clasped her hands like a penitent. The bones of her forearm were prominent through crepey skin. She’s always been lean. She was a collegiate long-jumper and excelled in several high school sports, including basketball. In childhood photos she wears her hair in a long braid, better to keep it out of her face while she runs and jumps. It had since thinned, as had the rest of her, stuffing pulled out by stress.
It struck me that both Luke and I had married our mother—deconstructed. Her form was Amy’s. Her spirit was Andrea’s. I doubted any of them would admit to any of it. But it helped explain something I’d never quite understood: why it was me living six blocks from my parents, while Luke had withdrawn to the hills.
An Amy could get along with a Mom. An Amy could get along with an Andrea.
But Mom and Andrea? They were both battling for the same ragged soul, each convinced they knew what was best for him.
My father said, “Tell us what we can do.”
“What I need from you is to wait.”
My mother opened her eyes. “You want us to sit on our hands.”
“If you have a suggestion for where I should look, by all means tell me.”
“I need an Advil,” she said, rising.
I offered to bring it to her. She muttered that she was capable of getting it herself and went down the hall.
My father said, “I saw your email.”
“I was hoping you and I could speak first.”
“She feels a little deceived,” he said. “Your coming to me separately reinforces that.”
“You told her?”
“No. I didn’t want to upset her even more than she is already. I trust you have your reasons for going about this the way you are and that you’re doing the best you can. But—if I may offer a perspective?”
“Sure.”
“It does look like you’re dealing with a lot by yourself.”
“I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m not dealing with it. And you’re right. I have my reasons.”
“It might help if you shared them with her.”
“It also might not.”
He nodded. “That’s true.”
Unflappable. The veteran teacher’s badge of honor.
He started right out of college, for four-plus decades working off the same lesson plans, performing the same in-class demonstrations. The bowling ball pendulum; the egg drop challenge. He’s taught multiple generations, a constancy that’s made him a beloved figure at his school. From him I received my analytical nature. The urge, when confronted with the unexpected, to move forward rather than away.
He slipped off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt, reminding me uncomfortably of Ivan Arias. In another life they would get along just fine. “How are Amy and Charlotte?”
“They’re having a good time in L.A.”
“You’re ready to have them back.”
I nodded.
“You have a wonderful family,” he said.
Pressure built behind my eyes. “Thank you.”
He checked the lenses for clarity. The candle flames reflected and flickered. Perfect opportunity for a mini-lecture on refraction and the speed of light through a medium.
“We did this,” he said.
“Did what.”
He replaced his glasses and unfurled his arms, as if to suggest he had created the world from scratch. “Your mother and I. Together. It’s our fault.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why shouldn’t I? It’s a fact.”
“You’re not responsible for him.”
He gave me a pitying smile.
Of course we are.
My mother returned from the bathroom. A truce had been composed in her own mind, no need to involve me.
I promised to call her with any news. She promised the same.
At the front door she threw herself against me. It had been many years since I felt her body next to mine. It was an unfamiliar feeling. I didn’t know what to do with it. I don’t think she did, either, though she kept pulling on me, hanging on my neck like a yoke, searching for a way to fit together.