WEST McCRAY:
You didn’t ask her about it?
CAT MATHER:
That’s a really stupid question.
It was … she seemed really nice, you know? I didn’t get vibes from her like I did that guy—but that shirt … if you’d seen it, you’d get it. It was completely covered in blood.
I stayed in the car, thinking I should leave the whole time, like I just went back and forth over and over, until she finally woke up. That was about an hour from when she fell asleep. Then I drove with her until we hit a gas station. I was headed for this town called Markette, still a ways off, but I couldn’t—even if she was nice, I couldn’t risk not knowing for sure. So I ditched her at the gas station. I felt a little bad about it, but you gotta do what you gotta do to stay alive.
WEST McCRAY:
Is it too much to hope you know where she was headed?
CAT MATHER:
Actually, yeah, I do. She needed me to look up directions on my phone. I wrote ’em down for her and I never got it out of my head.
WEST McCRAY [PHONE]: She’s looking for her father.
DANNY GILCHRIST [PHONE]: Right.
WEST McCRAY [PHONE]: And I have two separate witness accounts who say she had a switchblade. Caddy said Sadie threatened him with it. Cat found it in her car.
DANNY GILCHRIST [PHONE]: You mentioned she was hurt.
WEST McCRAY [PHONE]: Yeah, she got hurt in Montgomery. So what happened there? What is it about her father that’s taking her to these places, and why is she arming herself? And how’d she end up with what sounds like a broken nose and a black eye? [PAUSE]
There was something about meeting Cat …
DANNY GILCHRIST [PHONE]: What?
WEST McCRAY [STUDIO]: It was hard to articulate to Danny, what I was feeling at the time. I couldn’t stop thinking about Cat—that if I had been looking for her, if her aunt had tracked me down for help, that’s where the story would have ended: sitting across from her in a living room with her refusing to talk. But it wouldn’t have ended there, not really because it was also Cat, ending up in cars with strange men and bloody screwdrivers, all to get away from whatever was haunting her at home. And then there’s Sadie in her car, her own face bruised and battered. It all suddenly, and belatedly, felt too real, the things these girls had gone through, what can happen to missing girls. I didn’t like that. But I couldn’t say it out loud to him then. I changed the subject instead.
WEST McCRAY [PHONE]: Never mind.
Okay, so I know she didn’t stay in Montgomery and I know where she ended up. Where do you think I should head first? Montgomery or Langford—Hang on, I got another call.
Hello?
MAY BETH FOSTER [PHONE]: Claire’s back.
sadie
I get to Langford.
Four in the morning.
First thing I see is a twenty-four-hour Laundromat, and I decide that’s got to be a sign. I pull in. I’m about ready to drop, but I need this, some step toward feeling more human. My face has turned into the kind of pain that’s almost sickening in its persistence, and when I look in the mirror, I wonder if I should go to a drugstore and buy some kind of makeup to put on top of the damage so I can keep from scaring people away. Mattie knew more about makeup than I did. Once, when she was eleven, I caught her in the bathroom with black liquid eyeliner making a perfect kitten eye. I told her I didn’t ever want to see that shit on her face until she turned thirteen and I don’t know why I made that rule. Was it so bad of her? It just seemed like something a parent would say so I made myself say it, when what I really wanted was to ask her how she did it and if she could make that same perfect line across my own eyelid.
I step inside the Laundromat. Behind a counter is an old woman who looks like she’s keeping herself alive through sheer force of will. I hand her a bill and she hacks up a lung into the same hand that passes me change and detergent.
The machines are old. I put the quarters in the slots and don’t even bother sorting my clothes. I sit in one of the hard plastic chairs, listening to the spin, then glance at the old woman, who still has her eyes on me. Can’t blame her for it, given how I look.
“C-can you t-tell me what’s at 451 Tw-Twining Street?”
She tilts her head to the side, thinking, then she says, “That’s not the Bluebird, is it?” I don’t know what the Bluebird is until she gets out her cell phone and gestures me over to show me a blurry photo of a motel with a bunch of middling reviews beneath it.
*
One of my mother’s last boyfriends was Paul.
He was six foot six, thick inside and out. Arms and legs like old-growth tree stumps and hands too big to hold. I didn’t mind Paul because he didn’t give a damn about Mattie or me. If we had to occupy the same cramped trailer together, so be it. He didn’t act like we were in his way and even when we were, it didn’t matter. Not a lot got under Paul’s skin, which is why I think he lasted so long. Anyway, Paul—he didn’t talk a lot. Not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t want to. When I was around Paul, I’d watch, rapt, as the people he surrounded himself with led one-sided conversations without ever expecting anything in return. It was unmistakable, the way they looked at him. They respected him. Paul taught me a person committed to silence can suggest importance, strength. So long as they’re a man, I mean. It’s not an option when you’re a girl, not unless you want people to think you’re bitch.
I wish I could do this next part without talking.
I sit in my car outside the Bluebird, a few miles from the Laundromat, my load of laundry cooling in the backseat. I tap my fingers against the wheel. The Bluebird. Not a single bird in sight, but there’s a FOR SALE sign out front: $39.99 A NIGHT, WI-FI NOT INCLUDED.
It’s run-down, badly in need of new siding, a new roof … new everything. I’m parked across from the front office, and I can see through its picture window. An old man is watching a TV mounted to the wall, his back to me. A black-and-white movie.
I rest my head against the wheel.
Where are you, Keith?
I get out of the car with my bag slung over my shoulder and when I face the Bluebird, the man at the desk is no longer mesmerized by the television. He’s turned toward the window and he’s watching me in such a way, I wonder if he recognizes me, if, maybe one day, so many months ago, he looked for something to watch on TV and my face flitted past him on the news, never leaving his head. And now: here I am.
I cross the lot. Soon as I step inside, he says, “Took your time about it.”
He looks much younger up close. Grayed prematurely, I guess. But he can’t be more than fifty. He has light brown skin and tattoos up and down his arms and his legs that disappear under the edges of his blue shorts. His voice is put-on, a kind of put-on that pretends we’re friends.
“I w-want two nights.”
He yawns. “Sure.”
I look away from him, to the TV behind his head. It’s so old it has dials. It’s playing a Bette Davis movie. Her beautiful small face and big round eyes command the screen. Dark Victory, I think. I liked that one. Now and again, me and Mattie used to spend weekends with May Beth and we’d watch the classics on one of the three channels she got. The Bette Davis ones were my favorite. Bette Davis is my favorite.
On her gravestone, it says: She did it the hard way.
“Just need some ID and we’ll get you set up.”
I blink away from the movie, turning my attention back to him.
“W-what?”
“Age. Can’t rent you a room if you’re underage.”
“B-but I’m n—”
“Just let the ID do the talking.” He smiles. “Otherwise we could be here all night.”
I hate him.