Reunion at Red Paint Bay

Simon stared at the rack of summer shirts in his closet. He reached for a green-striped one, which he often wore to the office, then slipped it back on the hanger. He pulled out a blue linen, his going-out-to-dinner-with-Amy shirt, and held it up. “Is this dressy enough or too dressy?”

She leaned on his shoulder to steady herself putting on a shoe. “It’s dinner at the River View in Bath. A sweatsuit is too dressy.”

He returned the blue linen and took out a basic black cotton shirt. “This guy might be bringing a camera to capture the moment when he hands me a thousand-dollar check for something I did for him. I’d like to look sharp for that.”

He put on the shirt, and she licked her finger and rubbed at a spot on the front. “I still wish you’d change your mind.”

“If someone was planning to shoot at me, they wouldn’t have to lure me to Bath to do it. They could drive down Mechanic Street and fire away at me through the window.”

“That makes me feel better.”

He pulled her toward him and felt the whole shape of her pressed against him. He loved her firmness, nothing frail or brittle about her. She wouldn’t break easily, but she did worry. “I really don’t need a bodyguard,” he said.

“If you go, I go.”



Simon picked up the car keys from the hall table and called upstairs, “We’re leaving, Davey.”

The boy jumped out at the top of the steps as if hiding there. “See ya,” he said, then pushed in his earbuds. Amy motioned for him to pull them out.

“Check the back door for Casper in a little while and feed her the soft food when she comes in.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“And remember, you’re grounded.”

“I remember.”

“We’re going to the River View Restaurant up in Bath. I left my cell number on the kitchen table if you need us.”

“I know your cell, Mom.”

“If you have any problem, just go next door to the Benedettis’. They’re always home.”

“I thought I was grounded.”

“If there’s an emergency, we’ll suspend that so you can go over there. I put some chicken nuggets in the microwave for you. Just heat them for two minutes.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t forget …”

Simon took her arm. “You almost done with the reminders?”

“Almost.” She looked upstairs to give her last instruction, but Davey was gone.



On the long, winding road to Bath, Simon imagined the moment opening the door to the River View. All eyes would turn toward him, everyone let in on the surprise. He would survey the crowd, face to face, until one would stand out. He’d point and laugh—“You? You’ve got to be kidding me.” Then it would all come back to him, the gesture he had made that seemed so small at the time but became a life-changing act.

Amy fished in her pocketbook and pulled out lipstick. “You think we were too hard on Davey?”

“Too hard? He hit a girl on the Common. A girl.”

Amy applied the lipstick. “He says he only shoved her, and he was provoked.”

“He still can’t be shoving girls around.”

“Shoving boys is okay?”

“In some circumstances, yes, I’d say shoving boys is an appropriate response to a provocation.”

“I assume you didn’t tell him that.”

“I told him he shouldn’t hit or shove anyone. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s tearing around the house punching and kicking the air all the time.”

“Summer,” Amy said, “that’s what got into him.”

“We should have sent him to camp again. He said he wanted to stay home to make money cutting lawns, but he’s only done the Benedettis’. He just hangs around all day trying to make Casper disappear.”

“At least he hasn’t succeeded,” Amy said. “Be thankful for that.”



The River View Restaurant once lived up to its name, with the Kennebec flowing past its back windows, just fifty yards away. Now the view was of the red brick Riverside Luxury Condominiums, squeezed kitty-cornered into the once open space. They sat at a small table for two, one aisle back from the window, and sipped Molson ales. Whenever a man entered they looked at each other and shook their heads. Too passive, too cheerful, too unimaginative. Definitely not the revenge type.

Amy reached over and took his hands. “Even if nobody shows up, it’s nice to get out by ourselves.”

Simon surveyed either side of the River View—the steamy kitchen to the right behind a small partition, with the cooks chattering in some indecipherable tongue, and the pea green wall to the left, spotted with large fish photos. “I would have chosen someplace a bit more romantic for us than this.”

A young waitress came by with her notepad poised in her hand. “Still waiting for your third?”

Amy checked her watch. “It’s 7:40. We shouldn’t sit here any longer without eating, Simon. People are waiting for tables.”

“People waiting at the River View—that defies logic,” he said, then remembered the waitress. “I just meant it’s surprising your being so crowded on a Thursday night.”

“We’re crowded every night. Are you ready to order then?”

“I’ll have the meatloaf special,” Amy said.

“Very good. And you, sir?”

Simon scratched his head at her choice. “Meatloaf?”

“When in Rome.”

“Right, okay, make it two, I guess.”

“You’re disappointed,” Amy said as the waitress left.

“I just thought this might be something fun for a change. But here we’re sitting in the worst restaurant within fifty miles of Red Paint getting ready to eat a loaf of meat. That’s a pretty good joke somebody played on me.”

Amy looked around. “If it’s a joke, the person must be here watching. Otherwise how would he enjoy it?”

“Good point.”

They scanned the seats over each other’s shoulders.

“We can rule out all the families and couples, it’s probably a single guy.” Amy nodded behind him, toward the bar. “Don’t look now, but how about the man behind you with the bag on his lap? Maybe he’s got your thousand bucks reward in there in small bills.”

Simon glanced over as if looking at the wall clock. “No,” he said, turning back, “too …”

“Wait,” Amy said, “here he comes.”

The man walked up to their table, clutching a leather messenger bag to his chest, and nodded at Amy. “I couldn’t help noticing you were looking at me. Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, “but it’s funny, because I thought you were looking at us, and I was wondering the same thing—whether we had met before.”

“I’m sure we haven’t.” The man tipped his head and left.

“I still think that could be him,” Amy said as she leaned into the aisle to see the man push through the exit door. “Maybe we should follow him, get his license plate.”

“And do what?”

“You could get your contact at motor vehicles to run the number.”

Simon drank the last of his water. “If that’s the mysterious card sender, he’s had his fun.”





He sits motionless in a maroon Chevy Lumina, the most nondescript of automobiles. The Register lies folded across his lap. As each man walks toward the River View, he glances down at the thumbnail photo accompanying the editor’s column, Setting the Record Straight. Shortly after seven o’clock a white Toyota pulls into the parking lot and turns into a space a few cars down. The driver steps out, tries to glimpse the river through the buildings. The waiting man doesn’t have to check the picture. Even from a distance he can tell. His face flushes, his pulse races. Can he do this? Do what exactly? He’s only planned so far ahead, to this moment outside an unremarkable restaurant, sitting in a forgettable rental car waiting for his invited guest to appear. What am I going to do now, God? Do You know?

A car door slams shut. Then a second one. He leans forward and sees a slim dark-haired woman walking next to Simon Howe. They stroll past the Lumina oblivious to the possibility that anyone might be sitting inside there, watching them. How can people be so unaware of the threat around them? She whispers something in his ear and they clasp hands, like school kids at a dance. In a few seconds they are at the restaurant entrance. They go inside and stand by the large window, talking to the hostess. The man in the car raises his right hand, his index finger sighting the target, his thumb cocked. How easy it would be to kill someone. Motivation is never the problem, nor opportunity. Only will.

He didn’t expect this, facing two of them. It throws him off. He assumed he would reach this point and find Providence taking his arm, steering him down one course or another. He closes his eyes and rubs the side of his head in circular movements. He empties his mind, letting his thoughts dissolve into nothingness, and waits for the still small voice to whisper in his ear.

In a minute his hand turns the ignition key. The Lumina rumbles to life.



The house on Fox Run is smaller than he expected, just average size for Red Paint, with scrubs of bushes in the front and thick overgrown grass. It’s a place that doesn’t seem tended to. He would care for it if it were his, mow the lawn, thin the ungainly plants, paint the peeling shingles. People don’t deserve what they aren’t willing to tend to. He gets out of the car, gazes up and down the street bathed in the hazy yellow lamp light. It seems strange to him, how everything looks like something else at dusk. The hemlock in the neighboring yard like a giant hooded monk waiting to cross a courtyard at vespers. A rounded bush like the top of a head, with shaggy hair. At this time of night, you can never be sure what you’re seeing. Music floats through the air, from a radio or TV, and every few seconds a dog barks, as if demanding to be let out. There could be a dog inside this house, some large mutt trained to attack anyone unfamiliar. The possibility doesn’t discourage him from crossing the street and walking up the uneven slate pathway. A dog is just one more thing to watch out for.

The front door is painted sea blue, a calming color. He takes a deep breath and turns the knob. It moves a little, gives him hope, then stops. People never locked their doors in this town when he grew up there. What was the danger now? I am. I’m the unpredictable thing people lock their doors against. Light beams pass over him, and he turns as a police cruiser creeps past. He can’t see the officers inside but waves in case they are watching. A person waving would never be considered suspicious. It wouldn’t matter anyway if they stop to question him. “Just visiting an old schoolmate,” he’d say. “Doesn’t seem like he’s home.” All perfectly true, or true enough. The cruiser turns the corner and is gone.

He looks over at the neighboring house, lit up in the second floor. He considers going down the side walkway, checking the bulkhead or kitchen door, perhaps find an open window. But this early in the night he might be seen by the neighbors, and how could he explain what he is doing? A door opens at the back of the house, a screen bangs. He listens for a minute in the darkening air, trying to understand what the sounds mean. He takes a few steps and peeks around the edge of the house. In the backyard something short and quick rushes across the dark grass.





“We’re home,” Simon called out as he stepped into the hallway. “Davey?”

Amy set her pocketbook on the small table. “He probably has his earphones in.”

Simon watched as she glided up the stairs. He liked how easily she moved through the world, with so little apparent effort. She went out of view for a moment, then reappeared at the railing. “He’s not up here.”

“Check our room. He might be watching our TV.”

“I already looked,” she said, coming down the stairs. “Maybe he’s in the cellar.” She hurried by him and pulled the door open. “Davey, are you down there?”

“He wouldn’t be in the cellar with the light off,” Simon said. “He’s scared of the dark.”

She flicked on the switch and went a few steps down. “Davey?”

They listened for his answer, but Simon figured they should be listening for something else, a moan or scratching, any odd sound at all. Amy came back up and shut the cellar door behind her. Simon tried to remain casual. “He probably went for a walk.”

“Davey?”

“Maybe a bike ride.”

“It’s dark and his bike’s in the yard. I saw it when we came in.”

Simon ducked to see out the side window to the house next door. The lights were on upstairs, a comforting sight, as always. “Maybe he got spooked by some noise and went over to the Benedettis’ like we told him. I’ll give them a call.” Simon picked up the hall phone and dialed, trying not to rush. She was watching. “Hey Bob, this is Simon next door. David’s not over at your place, is he?” Simon shook his head so that Amy could see the answer. “No, nothing’s wrong. We just got back after being out, and he isn’t here. We thought he might have gotten a little scared and gone to your place. But he’s probably just down the street at a friend’s.”

Simon hung up the phone. “All right,” he said, “let’s go over the possibilities.” She just stared at him, waiting. It was obviously his responsibility to come up with a plausible reason why their grounded son would not be home. “I guess he could be out looking for Casper.”

“She’s sleeping on Davey’s bed,” Amy said.

“Maybe a friend called him to come over.”

“He’d leave a note if he went out. I’ve told him to do that a thousand times.” She hurried to the kitchen, with Simon following. Her eyes swept across the counters for a scrap of paper.

“He’s not going to leave a note telling us he’s doing something he shouldn’t,” Simon said. “He probably thought he’d be back before we got home. We told him not to expect us before 9:30.”

She looked past him to the phone on the wall. “Check the call list.”

He picked up the receiver and punched the directory button. “There’s one at 8:15—Unknown Caller.”

She grabbed the phone from him and saw for herself. “Oh God.” She took a step toward the hall then turned around. “I knew this was too soon to start leaving him alone.”

“Girls are babysitting at his age, Amy.”

“He’s not a girl. He’s an immature boy,” she said, her voice rising. He reached toward her with a calming hand, but she jerked backward. “You just couldn’t resist the idea that someone was going to hand you a million dollars for doing something wonderful.”

A thousand dollars, Simon thought. “Look, this isn’t about me. It’s—”

“Of course it’s about you—Master Simon Howe.”

“Nobody could know we’d leave Davey alone. You could have been home, or we could have dropped him off at a friend’s, or—”

She slapped the counter with her hand. “Would you shut up and call the police?”

Simon couldn’t remember Amy ever speaking to him like this. But Davey was missing, so he did shut up and dial 911.



Of the ten men on the Red Paint police force, he knew nine. The tenth, a new patrolman barely out of training, stood in the Howe living room rocking from one leg to the other. “Which restaurant did you say it was, Mr. Howe?”

“The River View, in Bath,” Simon repeated, resisting the urge to suggest that Officer Reade write the name down this time.

“Is your boy used to you leaving him alone?”

“He’s eleven,” Simon said, “and this is his second time home alone at night.”

“If he knew you were going all the way to Bath, he might have went downtown to hang out for a while. A lot of kids skateboard in the Common in the summer.”

“Our son wouldn’t do that.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because he was grounded.”

“I see,” the young policeman said, and Simon wondered what exactly he saw. “Bath’s pretty far away. Do you go to the River View regularly?”

“No, the food’s lousy.”

“Think so? I used to live up that way. Went there all the time.”

“I guess it appeals to different tastes.”

Amy jumped up from her chair between them. “Would you two stop debating the stupid food? Davey’s missing.”

Reade rolled his eyes at Simon as if Can’t you control your wife? The truth was, no, he couldn’t. He said, “I know you’re upset, Amy, but—”

“Don’t be condescending.”

“I’m sure Officer Reade is just following the protocol for getting the information he needs.”

“Then speed up the damn protocol.”

“How did you come to go to the River View,” Reade said with what seemed to Simon like intentional slowness, “if you think the food’s so bad?”

“I suppose you could say we were invited.”

“Invited by who?”

“We don’t know by whom. I received a postcard last week from someone saying he wanted to repay me for something I did.”

“Can I see this postcard?”

Simon gestured to Amy. She rooted through her pocketbook, her hand plunging in and out of the various pockets. “Just dump everything out,” he said.

“It’s not here. We must have left it on the table at the restaurant.”

“You left it at the restaurant?”

“We left it.”

“But that’s our only connection to—wait a minute, I kept the other ones.”

Simon hurried to the kitchen. The yellow fish magnet was gone from the side of the refrigerator. So were the postcards. He came back to the living room empty-handed. “They aren’t there.”

Reade nodded as if that confirmed some theory of his. “How were you and your son getting along, Mr. Howe?”

“Why are you asking that?”

The policeman shrugged as if the reason was obvious. “You said he was grounded. Did he get into trouble recently?”

“Is that important?”

“It might figure into where he is, if we knew what was bothering him.”

“Okay, what he did was swing his fist at a classmate.”

“Your son hit him?”

“It was more of a shove,” Simon said, “but he shouldn’t be touching anybody like that. That’s why we grounded him for a week.”

“Did you do anything else—corporal punishment of any sort?”

“I don’t think the best way to teach our son that hitting someone’s bad is by hitting him ourselves.”

Reade shrugged. “There’s a lot of that happening these days, more than you’d think. My parents hit us big time.”

Simon imagined the page-one story—Spanking Makes a Comeback in Red Paint. Another scarier headline popped into his mind—Search on for Editor’s Son.

“I’m a therapist,” Amy said with her fingers touching at the tips, her way of keeping composed, “and I would never spank a child. So before I explode would you get on your radio and broadcast that our son is missing?”

Reade nodded amiably, as if he was agreeing with her. But then, “The thing is, we don’t really know he’s missing, Mrs. Howe. All we know is that he isn’t where you expected him to be. Happens all the time with kids.” The officer walked to the front door and crouched down to inspect the knob. “No sign of forced entry here or at any of the windows. It appears your son let himself out. Maybe a friend rang the bell and he answered it.”

“He knows not to open the door when we’re not here,” Simon said.

“Your boy always do what you tell him?”

“No, but—”

“I’ll alert night patrol to check around town, the usual places kids hang out. You have a recent picture of …”

“Davey,” Amy said, “our son’s name is Davey.” She pointed to the mantel, and Simon understood that he was to retrieve the photo of their son in his baseball uniform.

“Cute kid,” the policeman said as he tucked the picture inside his jacket.

Simon nodded. Davey was a very cute kid.



Amy slammed the door shut behind the officer. “We wasted an hour with that idiot,” she said. “You know how far someone can drive in an hour?”

“Drive?”

“Yes, drive. If that lunatic of yours knocked on the door and Davey answered …”

Simon took her hands. “I’m sure that didn’t happen, Amy.”

She broke away from him. “How can you say that? You don’t know.”

“I just think we should stay positive. We don’t need both of us going to pieces.”

She whirled around, her hand swiping over the hall table, sending a pile of envelopes to the floor. “Maybe that’s exactly what we need, both of us feeling the same thing. Because right now I have no idea what you’re feeling. It’s like you know something about this.”

Simon bent down to pick up the mail and set it back on the table. It took him a moment to realize what she was suggesting. “You think I’d hide information when Davey’s missing?”

“I’m checking his room again,” she said and then swept up the stairs faster than he had ever seen. He had to take the steps by two to keep up. She stopped just outside the doorway to Davey’s room, as if not to disturb a crime scene. “Nothing’s out of place,” she said, which was easy to tell. Davey kept an unusually tidy room. Casper raised her head, stretched, then jumped off the bed and trotted to them. Amy picked her up and sniffed, as if there might be some clue.

Simon looked around the room for clues, anything not right, and spotted Davey’s blue bandanna hanging over the bureau mirror. “This better not be one of his magic tricks or I’m going to—”

There was a sound downstairs, a door opening. The cellar door? Casper kicked out of Amy’s hands, claws bared, and darted under the bed, a blur of white. She wasn’t often spooked like this.

“Davey?” Amy called. There was no answer. Simon took a step, and Amy grabbed his arm. “Take his bat.”

He reached around the doorway into the bedroom and pulled out the Louisville Slugger. He moved quietly down the stairs, with Amy just behind him. At the bottom he turned and looked toward the kitchen. There was their son, earphones in, pulling apart an Oreo.

“Davey!” Simon yelled and ran into the kitchen. He took the boy by the shoulders. “Are you okay?” The cookie fell to the floor.

“God, Dad, what are you doing?” Davey bent down to retrieve the Oreo.

“Where were you? We told you you were grounded.”

The boy pulled out his earphones. “What?”

Amy turned her son around, her hands on his shoulders, her face level to his. “Where were you?”

“Up in the tree house. You didn’t say I had to stay in the house. Grounded means staying in your house or yard.”

“I’m not interested in technicalities,” Simon said, turning the boy back to him. “When we leave you in the house we expect to find you in the house.”

Davey started to lick the icing off the Oreo, but Amy took it from him and tossed it in the sink. “Listen to us,” she said. “We’ve been home an hour worried sick about where you were.”

“Wow,” the boy said, “and you called the police?”

“You mean you saw the police car and still didn’t come in?”

“I just saw it leaving like a minute ago, Mom. I didn’t know it was about me.” Davey reached into the cookie jar and brought out another Oreo. “Can I have this one?” Amy nodded. He twisted apart the cookie and handed the icingless side to her. “Did they catch him?”

“Catch who?” Simon asked.

“The man out front. That’s why I went up the tree house. You told me not to answer the door.”

“Somebody rang the doorbell?”

“He didn’t ring it, but he was standing there for like a long time.” Davey pointed down the hallway to the panel of fluted glass next to the front door. “So I sneaked out the back and climbed the tree and pulled up the ladder and listened to some tunes. That was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?”

It was horrible to imagine, a man at the front door, not ringing the bell, just waiting, with their son inside alone. “Yes,” Simon said, “that was the right thing to do.”