On a late Saturday afternoon in the fall, after the bakery closed and while Alice and Emilia Mae were out shopping, Dillard went down to the music room and rummaged around, as he often did. He dusted his daddy’s antique instruments and arranged his sheet music. He opened the closet and stared at the cigar box he kept on the shelf, trying to decide whether or not to open it. He hadn’t opened it since he moved out of the Neptune Inn before the wedding. Opening it would mean going back. He was a married family man now, about as far away from his past as a fallen meteorite. One picture couldn’t hurt.
He took down the box and sought out the photograph. He stared at it, touching his finger to a face, outlining the contours of the cheeks. So close, so heartbreakingly far away. He shoved the picture back into the box, put the box on the shelf, and stepped back into his life. His life was an easy flow. He’d found his place. He liked having definition. He liked keeping house, playing music with Alice. Even Geraldine had warmed to him and they were back to silly flirty games. Just last week, she’d said to him, “Are you going to give me more grandchildren soon? I’m not getting any younger, you know.”
He said what he was supposed to say: “No one could tell that by looking at you.”
“Oh, Dillard,” she’d said, slapping him on the shoulder. “You’re too much.”
In truth, Dillard did want a child. Alice was growing up fast and soon would be off to college. He loved teaching her, loved having someone of his own to mold. On a Sunday late that fall, Dillard suggested to Emilia Mae that they walk by the Sound. It was a sparkling day. The leaves were hanging onto the trees and the water slurped at the shoreline. “Come, let’s watch the boats,” he said, finding them a spot in the sand. He stretched his legs and lay back. Emilia Mae lay next to him. After a while, he sat up, and looked down at her. “What do you think about us having a child?”
“I already had a child.”
“That was a while ago, and you did it by yourself. This would be different; we’d do it together.”
She laughed. “Oh, would we? We’d share carrying this thing around for nine months and blowing up as big as a VW? We’re getting old. Can you imagine that by the time that child graduated from high school we’d be in our fifties? That’s too old.”
“Not really, Emilia Mae. People do that nowadays.”
“Not these people.”
Back and forth they went, until Dillard said, “Imagine how a child would brighten our lives.”
“I think our lives are pretty bright as they are. It would be like starting all over again.”
“Exactly,” said Dillard. “When I met you, I was at the lowest point in my life. You gave me a family and a home. If I were inclined to believe in miracles, I’d say that was a big one. Having a child with you would be another one.”
“I’m sorry, but having another kid scares me. I’m the devil child, remember? I can’t guarantee that another one coming out of me would be as perfect as Alice. I’ve never particularly liked my life; now I love it. I want everything to stay exactly as it is.”
“That’s a sweet thought,” said Dillard. “But you know nothing ever does.”
Alice at sixteen was a beauty. Her olive skin gave off the soft glow of pearls. She was tall and slender with long wavy black hair that seemed to catch the light just so. Her bangs came down to her eyebrows like a curtain about to fall on her wide, mud-brown eyes. The gap between her buckish front teeth made her smile that much more appealing. Girls liked her because she was buoyant and easy to be with, and boys liked her because she was pretty and not as judgmental as most of the other girls.
One night, after Emilia Mae and Alice went out shopping, they stopped for a Carvel. As they sat in the car, licking their ice creams, Emilia Mae said to Alice, “So how’s the boy situation this year?”
Alice smiled and brushed her hand in front of her face. “Fine. I do fine in that department.”
“Anybody serious?”
“No, not really. I like to play the field.”
“Oh,” said Emilia Mae, raising her eyebrows. “Interesting.”
“Not that interesting. You know, high school boys. They’re such babies.”
Emilia Mae laughed at her daughter’s maturity. Where did that come from? Certainly not from her. Her Alice would never have been friends with sixteen-year-old Emilia Mae. Alice would never recklessly sleep around and certainly would not become a mother at nineteen. Emilia Mae leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I imagine you do just fine with them. Do you have any questions? You know, about sex and stuff?”
Alice shook her head in a way that might have been a shudder. “No, I think I’m okay.”
“Alright,” said Emilia Mae. “But if you do, you can always ask me. Anything. I mean that.”
“Thanks,” said Alice. “Good to know.”
Alice didn’t feel the need to tell her mother about Rick, who’d walk her halfway to the bakery after school. Rick had a sixth sense for finding houses with a FOR SALE sign in front of them. Usually, the houses were unlocked, so he and Alice would go inside and make out in one of the empty rooms. Alice allowed Rick to pet with provisions: He could feel her breasts under her sweater, above her bra, but not underneath it. And no unhooking. The one time he tried to undo it, she pushed his hand away and said, “Uh-uh, you know the rules.” Rick immediately withdrew his hands. “I’m sorry,” he’d said. “I’m just so crazy about you.” She loved him a little more for saying that, and they only broke up because Rick’s family moved to Scarsdale.
There was also a Bruno and a Jeff, both hardly worth mentioning because she only let them feel her breasts above her sweater and neither lasted more than a month.
Dillard and Emilia Mae worried about Alice. She was halfway through adolescence and they saw no signs of rebellion. Emilia Mae said that maybe she’d had enough rebellion in her for the both of them, but Dillard disagreed. “It’ll come, and when it does, it’ll be a doozy.”
Alice had begun asking her mother questions about her father. At first, Emilia Mae was reluctant to talk about him. “He was never part of my life. His name was John, and I don’t even know his last name. Never did. He meant nothing to me and should mean nothing to you.”
But Alice persisted. She asked Reverend Klepper and Cora, but they’d never met him. “She didn’t really speak of him,” said Reverend Klepper. “Mostly she talked about…”
He had started to say, “Mostly she talked about getting rid of the baby,” but realized that would hurt Alice. “Mostly she wanted to make sure the baby—you—were healthy.”
Alice knew that Xena had been around then. She’d seen her last at Christmas dinner, and then Xena had said to Alice, “Your mother was a fine, smart young woman. I hope you know that.” Alice found Xena’s number and called her. “Hi, this is Alice Wingo, Emilia Mae’s daughter.”
Xena’s hearing had deteriorated so that Alice had to repeat herself three times. “I’m trying to find my dad,” she shouted. “Do you remember a man my mother was seeing when she worked at the Neptune Inn?”
There was silence, as if Xena was going through her Rolodex of memories. “Well, there were a few of them,” she finally said.
Alice paused. That had never occurred to her. “I’m thinking of the one who would be my father. His name was John.”
“Ah, that one, I think I do remember. He was a smart-looking young fellow. Looked like money.”
“Really? What does money look like?”
“You know, clean. Nice shoes. Clothes. Hair. Had all his teeth. Like that.”
Alice wondered if she or her mother looked like money. She thought about her mother’s short skirts, pixie haircut, and too-high heels; about her own gapped front teeth and the flour that was perpetually in her hair. Nah, they didn’t look like money, though they did have all their teeth.
She went to the Neptune Inn. It still had the wraparound porch with slat-wood rockers, and while it was one of the area’s older landmarks, the porch was now green instead of gray, and the old white rockers were painted yellow.
The girl at the desk was only slightly older than Alice. When Alice asked if they still had their registers from 1947, the girl looked at her as if she’d never heard of 1947. “I haven’t seen them,” she said, snapping her gum.
Alice asked to see the manager, who turned out to be as interested in 1947 as the girl behind the desk. “After old man Bostwick died, we threw all that stuff out.” He was chewing gum, too.
“Aren’t you interested in the history of this place?” she asked.
The manager wore red suspenders that framed his belly and slopped over his pants. “History, schmistory. This place has enough of that stuff as is. I’m moving us into the sixties. Anyways, what does a cute thing like you want with 1947?”
“My mother worked here then.”
When the manager shrugged, his belly rippled.
Alice went back to her mother and badgered her until Emilia Mae finally told Alice what she could: John was in real estate; he dressed like a professional. “As I remember, he was a bit of a snob.”
“He looked like money, then?”
Her mother shrugged. “I guess he did. He wore snappy clothes and shoes. He was short and stocky. He lived in Albany but commuted back and forth. Worked in New York a lot, but it was cheaper to stay in New Rochelle. He was in real estate. I remember him saying that the suburbs around here were growing like fungus and he was going to get in on the ground floor. He was a little older than me. You have his same mud-brown eyes. That’s all I know. Oh, and of course that cute gap between your teeth, I’ve told you about that.”
Alice went to the New Rochelle library and dug out the Albany Yellow Pages. She looked up real estate companies and found only six listed. When no one was home, she would call each of them. Late one Monday afternoon, when her mother was working and Dillard was God knows where, Alice sat in the wooden scoop-back chair next to the round copper table where the telephone rested. How could she make her voice more grown-up? She thought about how the Wykagyl ladies spoke like actresses in old-fashioned movies and sprinkled their sentences with words like “lovely” and “charming.”
She gave it a try: “Hello, my name is Alice Wingo, and I’m inquiring about one of your employees, a John somebody. Please forgive me, his last name has slipped my mind, but he was a lovely, well-groomed gentleman who showed me an absolutely charming house in New Rochelle, and I’d love to get back in touch with him about that house.”
Six calls later, and no luck. Two of the companies had no Johns working for them, and the other four had no Johns in the entire New Rochelle area.
A few weeks later, Alice was sweeping up and getting ready to close the bakery when the tiny bell over the door jangled. A man of medium height, stocky with thinning brown hair and dark brown eyes came in. He wore a navy coat over a three-piece navy business suit, and black oxford shoes that shined so brightly they reflected his trousers. He smelled like leather and was probably a few years older than her mother.
Alice shook the flour out of her hair and smiled at him. “Hi, how can I help you?”
He smiled back, and she wondered if he saw what she saw staring back at her: mud-brown eyes and a wide space between the two front teeth. “I’m going to dinner at someone’s house, and I said I’d bring dessert. Something expensive. What’ve you got?”
Alice couldn’t take her eyes off him. His tie looked to be pure silk. His suit, coat, and shoes were impeccable. He looked like money. She wanted to ask, was his name John? Was he a real estate man? Did she look familiar to him? But she didn’t want to scare him off.
“Strawberry shortcake, it’s our specialty. People come from all over just for that.”
“Sold! I’ll take one.”
She picked a cake from the shelf, packed it up in a white box and tied the red and white string around it. She saw how he watched her hands as she wrapped it up and wished she’d remembered to dig the chocolate out from under her nails. He pulled out a shiny wallet—alligator skin. As he sorted through his bills, she noticed that his hands were smooth and tan. His nails might have been buffed. He didn’t wear a wedding band.
“Thanks, doll.” He took the box and flashed another gap-toothed smile.
Alice waited until he was out the door and halfway down the block before she pulled off her apron, grabbed her purse, locked up the store, and followed him down the street.
At home, Emilia Mae prepared dinner—chicken Parmesan. Alice was usually home by five thirty. So was Dillard. By six neither had shown up. By six thirty Emilia Mae began to panic. She phoned the bakery. No answer. She called Alice’s school friends and walked down the street, hoping she’d spot Dillard or Alice. Back home, she took the chicken Parmesan out of the oven. The smell of it made her gag. Waiting was the most helpless feeling.
At six forty-five, Dillard walked through the door as if being over an hour late was the most normal thing in the world.
“Smells good. What’re you cooking?”
“Where the hell have you been? And I’m assuming you’re not with Alice, who’s also decided not to show up tonight.”
“Well, that’s a nice howdy-doo. I was out for a walk, but Alice? Where in the world is Alice?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you. This is not like her.”
“I’ll call the bakery.”
“I did that. No answer.”
“I’ll drive down there. Wait here, I’ll call you.”
“Yeah, well please don’t disappear for another two hours.”
He kissed her on the head. “You’re overreacting. This’ll be fine.”
“I’m not overreacting. This is not fine.”
“You’ll see. We’ll all be sitting around the table eating your fabulous whatever it is before long.”
“Chicken Parmesan. I hope to hell you’re right.”
Dillard grabbed his cap and coat. “I’ll call you the minute I know something.”
True to his word, he called her a short time later to say there was no sign of Alice at or around the bakery.
“That does it,” she said. “I’m calling the police.”
“Don’t do that. We can handle this on our own. I’ll search every street in town.”
“Great, and while you search every street in town, I’m calling the cops.”
Dillard knew it was irrational, but he thought back to Nick’s death and his worry about being arrested. “Please, it’s too early to call the cops.”
“I don’t care. I’m calling them anyway.”
“Not until we’ve exhausted every possibility. I’ll call you every fifteen minutes or so.”
“You do that,” said Emilia Mae, raising her voice. “But my daughter is missing, and I’m calling the cops.”
“Not yet,” said Dillard. “She probably went to the movies with a friend and forgot to tell us. Don’t do anything rash.”
“You know as well as I do, Alice doesn’t disappear like that. I’m calling the cops now.”
“Please Emilia…”
She slammed down the phone and dialed 0.