The rest of the evening is, of course, a classic. For you. You float from back clap to handshake. A welcome smile greets you at every turn.
You are a star. Baby is in awe. Johnny is jealous. Aaron is amused. As is Stacy, and to a lesser degree Graham. Maureen seems the least pleased. Henry has eased into the background. And the red-headed kid is still, well, so relentlessly freckled.
Baby clues you in on what you missed. Her friend, Tim — his name is Tim, it turns out, a very speedy guy — helps. What they saw was short clips of you along with photos of Darlene and faraway shots of Henry. Plus parts of an interview with Darlene’s mother, and Darlene’s friend, the girl with the permed curls named Naomi Byrd. Both extremely distraught. Pleading with the public.
And then you came on, right after them. Leering, smiling.
Joking up a storm with Liz Hunter.
Oh.
You smile at them too, now. Ah, but that’s what you wanted to do, you explain. That’s how you were showing how ridiculous it all was. By acting that way. Part of the plan.
Tim nods fervently, eager to agree. “Well, you did sound stupid.”
“Very,” Baby says.
They tell you what else Liz Hunter said. That she thinks the problem is no one follows a story like this because it’s just some girl from the streets and there are so many. And there’s no clean hook. No one really knows what happened. And the police don’t have time. But she, Liz Hunter, has time. She won’t give up. Something just doesn’t feel right. Hers is just a small show, Tim says, a local specialty channel thing. But she thinks it’s with causes like these that you can break through.
“Causes?”
“Cases.”
“Wow. She said all that?”
“Tim’s majoring in Communications,” Baby informs you. “He might work in news when he gets out. But maybe movies instead.”
“Wow,” you say. “How vitally important.”
“It’s how they edit it,” he explains. “They shoot you like crazy but use just the smallest bits of it. Cut up and juxtaposed against other bits. And then they bridge it with snippets of narration — he seemed on edge, eager to confuse me — and mix in quirky music, until what you meant to say and what comes out aren’t the same thing.”
“I see,” you say, looking around for a means of escape.
“It’s all ratings. That’s what you have to remember. It’s numbers. The story matters only if viewers decide it matters. It’s not a system designed to mete out justice. It’s strictly interested in what’s new. What’s hot. Or what’s old, as long as what’s old involves a degree of celebrity. As long as we remember you from the last time. To the point that just being on TV can be a guarantee you will be on it again. Because it’s about itself, in the end.”
“I see, sure.” By now you’re barely hiding the fact that you’re no longer listening. Yeesh. All that red hair. It must make you break out in blotches and opinions. It’s all ratings. Ooh. What an expert. How many people have you heard say this in your life? It’s All Ratings. Simpletons. As though with this one sweepingly obtuse statement they’ve pronounced their understanding of all things television. Given us their expertise. Like people who say, It’s Just Business, or, It’s All Connections. Or, Everything’s About Money. These people, of course, always turn out to be the people who understand things least.
Baby and Tim turn and look down from the balcony to see Henry, who has come into view. Aaron’s backyard spotlight has detected motion and suddenly lit the area up. He’s near the trees at the side, alone on the grass. He looks up at everyone, a forlorn figure. It’s hard to know if he was there the whole time or saw the broadcast and then retreated. You realize you should go down to him.
But before you can do anything, you — and everyone else — hear Maureen bawling out Aaron. “No. He has to go, Aaron! I don’t care.” Down the corridor to your left you can see Aaron doing the 225-Pound Pussy-Whipped Man’s dance, hopping from foot to foot, circling her with his arms straight out in front of him, pleading, trying to convince her to relax.
“Now!” you hear her shriek, even louder. You’re guessing it’s not working. He looks desperately around him, sees you watching. “I don’t want him here!”
You move out of view. There’s not much that can be done. Maureen, everyone knows, is a mother bear. She gets out of bed each morning convinced that something terrible is sure to befall one of her little girls that day. She is on guard about it, on the prowl over it. Paranoid about it. And so now: a missing girl, Henry, your kisser on TV. These events send seismic shivers down the spine of someone like her. This should not be in the vicinity of Gabrielle and Danielle.
Maureen is harsh this way. She doesn’t talk to her sister anymore, for example. Ever. Not even a bit. The sister’s name is Pamela. Six years ago, when Maureen and Aaron had Danielle, Pamela had her son Ivan. They were buddy mothers, always doing everything together, absolutely everything, including making a pact to have a second child right away. Well, fifteen months later Maureen had Gabrielle, and Pamela had, um, second thoughts. At first she made it sound like it just wasn’t happening, but eventually Maureen learned the truth. That they’d decided against it. Pamela’s husband Howard had received a promotion but would have to start travelling more and they’d changed their minds.
Now, every month, Aaron and Maureen scramble to settle their bills, slapping down eleven hundred dollars a month to live in a place they don’t even like much, raising their two little girls, exhausted at the end of each day, sliding a little deeper into debt at the end of each year. While Pamela and her husband just bought a pretty little house in a very safe neighbourhood and go on a vacation to the Caribbean every year. And this doesn’t sit well with Maureen.
You walk down the stairs into the backyard. The spotlight has gone off. Henry eases over to the other side of the grass, in your direction. He looks pale, even in the semi-darkness. With the exception of the golf, Henry’s barely left his house in the past few days. Stayed away from everybody, cameras and friends alike. Now tonight he’s ventured out, as though to find out if there’s still room for him. Held his breath and mingled. You saw him all night, on his best behaviour. Chit-chatting, though he never chit-chats. Sipping, though he never sips. Smiling and nodding, sniffing the wind.
And now this.
Aaron comes to the edge of the balcony. Hesitates before coming down the steps, enough for you to hold him back with a motion of your hand. He puts his own hands out at his sides, shrugs, brow furrowed. The international signal for just having gotten your ass reamed by your wife.
You look over at Henry. The truth is, Maureen’s just saying what everyone’s been whispering.
Others come to the windows to look down at him. It’s evident on each face that no one really knows what to think about Henry and this sordid rumour. And so maybe staring at him now will help them decide.
You turn and lead Henry around to the right, towards the side gate. The quickest exit available. As another fucking spotlight goes on. Man. What the fuck is Aaron so intent on protecting? A twelve-year-old van? He owns nothing. It’s very annoying to get lit up like this.
From behind, you hear Cuz say loudly, “Good! Let them go.”
“Freaks!” Sanderson calls.
You continue forward, open the metal latch of the gate.
“Get gone, boys!” Dane says.
“It’s okay, Mo,” you hear Cuz call over to her, as though he’s some kind of close friend of Maureen’s. “They’re leaving. Goodbye, assholes!”
And so you stop. In your tracks. At the last possible step.
Turn to look at Cuz. Know he’ll be looking back.
And he is. Staring at you. Teeth gritted, jaw clenched. Small animal snorts rumbling at his nostrils.
Sanderson and Dane lurking at his side.
You are aware that one word from you — one word — and Cuz comes barrelling down those steps and diving at your throat. With Sanderson and Dane right behind him. And you know that you’ll have your hands more than full, and the beer and the wine and the joint won’t help. And neither will Henry. For sure, Johnny will come to break things up, but not that quickly and maybe not until you’ve had a good number of your teeth kicked down your throat. You’re doing all these calculations rapid-fire in your head, aware that time is running out.
Finally you scowl and turn away, waving your hand resignedly, trying to save face. But nothing more than that. Unwilling to risk it. And then you and Henry duck around the corner and out front to where his mother’s car is parked.
41,695 career losses.
You get in the car beside Henry. Wait while he starts it up, adjusts his seat, fidgets, and fixes his mirrors. How could they have changed since he last parked? You feel yourself getting impatient. Angry. You remind yourself to relax, that blowing a fuse on Henry has never solved anything before.
You wait until you’re out on the road and several streets away.
“Okay,” you hiss at him. “Tell me the truth now. Do you know what happened to her?”
A pause. Then, “No.”
“Did you hurt her?”
“No.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“No.”
He turns the corner, nearly side-swipes a city truck. Straightens the car out and aims it in the proper direction to drop you home.
“Henry, is she dead?”
“No!”
You sit back, stare ahead at the road. You pass several streets.
“Alright, forget it then,” you say.
He nods softly, says nothing.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
He nods again, stares straight ahead. Bites his bottom lip like he’s fighting back tears. Won’t look over at you. Good. Best he keeps his eyes on the road anyway.