The boy who answered from behind the stormdoor reminded her of Wiley, but he did not seem to recognize her, and she guessed that instead he must be the brother. When he cracked open the door, a blast of heat from inside nearly bowled over Margaret. He wore blue flannel pajama bottoms and an old sweatshirt with PITT stitched across the chest. His feet were bare, and his hair stood out from his head in a tremendous, unkempt mane. Without a word, he motioned for her to come in, and she entered into a dark wood-paneled foyer. “I'm Margaret Quinn. Erica's mother.”
With a shrug, he bade her follow, his soles smacking on the waxed floor, her mules clicking as they walked down a long hallway. Due to the house's northern exposure, the walls wept with dampness, and as Margaret passed by the front rooms, they, too, seemed perpetually dark, the furniture old and rotting. Bright paintings of flowers in vases and cherries spilling from a bowl hung in the hallway, though in the weak light, the effect only compounded the sense of dreariness. The boy pushed open a swinging door, and a flood of artificial light shone like salvation. In the kitchen, the ceiling lamp cast its glow on an oaken table and an older woman in a faded red bathrobe hunched over the morning's newspaper. She glanced up at Margaret, then bent to her reading, finishing her sentence and sticking her finger on the paragraph.
“Mrs. Quinn,” the brother said. “Guess why she's here.”
Mrs. Rinnick curled her upper lip and snarled at her son.
“About my car, I ‘spect,” he said.
Margaret offered her hand, but when she realized how committed Mrs. Rinnick was to her spot in the paper, she withdrew. “I'm Margaret Quinn,” she said. “I think your son may be seeing my daughter.”
“Denny here? That's a laugh.”
“Not Denny. Your other son, Wiley.”
A lemon-bite look crossed her face. “Wiley ain't here.”
“Yes, but that's why I'm here. You see—”
“Make yourself useful, boy, and ask Mrs. Quinn if she'd like a cup of coffee. Or maybe she's a tea drinker. She looks like the kind of lady that drinks tea and that ‘stead of coffee. Put on the kettle, Denny. Bags in the cupboard. Have a seat, Mrs. Quinn. Do you do the Jumble?”
Margaret pulled out a chair and joined her at the table. “Nothing for me, thank you, Mrs. Rinnick. I'm afraid I've come here on rather serious business. You see, your son Wiley and my daughter Erica have been going stead—”
“Pretty girl. Now I know who you are. You're Erica's ma.” Mrs. Rinnick became more animated as each word hit the mark in her mind. “I'm Shirley, pleased to meet you.”
“I wish it had been under better circumstances, Mrs. Rinnick.”
“Call me Shirley, everybody does, ‘cept my old man. You don't wanna know what he called me. Called me the Black Hag, how'd you like that? Clogged arteries and he topples over dead right there in the mill john, serves him right. It's so nice to finally meet you face-to-face, and oh, I can see where she gets the good looks. Apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it, Denny? You know that girl he brings round here? Well, this is her ma.”
“We met,” he said.
“Maybe you can help me,” Shirley asked. “Do you have any idea what TEELA might be?”
With her index finger, she moved invisible letters about in the air in absolute concentration. Margaret watched in dull horror until the kettle steamed and whistled and the boy took it off the boil.
“Mrs. Rinnick, this is something of an emergency. My daughter is missing and I think she may be with your son. Wiley.”
Denny set a mug of tea in front of her. “Do you take sugar? Milk?”
Shirley wrote TEALE in the margins of the newspaper, and then struck through the effort. EATLE did not work either. “I wouldn't worry. He's off gallivanting around half the time, off to Pixburgh to meet with the other boys in that club of theirs and that. God knows what they're up to.”
“Comes the revolution,” Denny said.
“Maybe you know your son, but you don't know my daughter. She lied to us. Said she was spending the night at a friend's house and never came home.”
“Probably just snuck off. You know kids these days. Free love and that?” She cackled and her upper plate slipped. “Tell you what, they didn't have that free love in my day. Everything has a price. Ain't that right, Denny?” She wrote LATEE and scratched that out too.
“Wouldn't know, Ma. You never did say if you want anything for your tea.”
“I just want to know what your son has done with my daughter!” Margaret shouted. “Not milk or sugar or tea or puzzles. Where are they?”
Shirley laid down her pen. “No need getting your drawers in a knot. I'll let you know if I hear—”
“Please do, yes.” She stood to go. “Sorry, I'm just worried.”
Pursing her lips, Shirley looked stumped, as did her son standing behind her contemplating the puzzle.
“ ‘Elate,’ “ Margaret said as she rose to leave. “Try ‘elate.’ “
11