Alone in the bed rested the familiar body, her back to me, curved like rolling hills. The other body was missing. There was only one doorway, so she had not slipped past me, and since we were on the second floor, an exit from the windows was out of the question. She may have hidden in the closet or scooched under the bed, though she had little reason to do so, and I did not wake the sleeping beauty to inquire. No, the seventh chick had flown the coop. I retreated from the darkened bedroom and closed the door with a whisper by gently turning the doorknob till the tumblers and pins slid into place. As I exited, the girl in the bed sighed in her sleep.
Where would the killer be hiding? The space of the house could be contained neatly in the space of my memory, for its rooms and traffic patterns were as habitual to me as the enchanted places of my childhood. There were only so many secret spots, and with the plunger hanging like a weapon from my belt, I set off to find the girl.
The best places to hide would be in the basement, so I bounded down two flights of stairs and flicked on the lights. Thankfully the bottom of the house was as I remembered, more or less, though someone had tidied the pantry and rearranged the small hand tools and jars of nuts and bolts and nails. The furnace was the same as ever, as were the washer and dryer. A collapsible rack stood near the ironing board, across which hung a sundress flocked with tiny tigers and monkeys and elephants in shades of gold and red, the kind of thing that Sita might wear. I pinched the fabric and ran my finger along the hem. A cricket chirruped in a corner, but I left it alone. Some cultures, the Chinese I think, believe a cricket in the house brings good luck, so I never bother a stray or two. When we were children, my brother ruined the story of Jiminy Cricket from Pinocchio by telling me the real story. In Collodi’s original Italian, Il Grillo Parlante—the Talking Cricket—is the voice of reason and responsibility for the newly minted boy Pinocchio, who gets frustrated by the nagging and throws a hammer at the cricket, and that’s the end of him. An accident.
The talking cricket reminded me of my cat, suddenly able to speak, whom I now remembered putting out some time ago. I trundled up the stairs and opened the door from the kitchen to the back porch, where he often waited to be let in, but no sign of Harpo. I called him once or twice but dared not step out of the house. Rather, I just stood in the doorway for the longest stretch, feeling the damp June air on my bare skin, and drinking in the smell of roses blooming next door and the newly mown lawn two doors down. While summer brings its share of miseries—the heat and oppressive humidity, the mosquitos and other flying-biting-stinging things, and the stench of trash day and the quick decay and rot—the sensual pleasures more than compensate. At least that’s what I tell myself. A few calls for the missing cat floated into the soft blackness and dissipated. I stuck my thumb in the saucer of water on the floor. Still cool to the touch, as though just filled from the sink. The pet flap on the door was unlatched, so I plugged in a canary-shaped nightlight for Harpo. The cat will come back when he is ready.
Very few hiding places existed on the main floor. In the dining room, a huge oak corner bureau in the Chinese style, with the fall front carved with a pair of dragons. My brother bought the extravagance at an estate sale. “The perfect size,” he said, “for hiding a body.” In the living room, I checked the closets and sought the telltale shoes sticking out from some floor-length drapes. I searched the joint, thinking of what I might do should I actually find her. If she attacked me with her ukulele, I’d have to parry with my plunger. After the possibilities downstairs had been exhausted, the only option was back upstairs. The disadvantage of the design of these houses can be measured in the constant tread upon the stairway from level to level. One spends a great deal of time either ascending or descending. Good for the legs, but unless one is a sherpa or a sheep, the climb is a chore in the early morning hours. From the bottom, a million steps loomed, and what was ahead but attempted homicide upon my person followed by some story bound to make me feel bad about myself? Had sense triumphed over curiosity, I never would have pulled myself up again.