“I’m sorry,” Gail says again, sounding genuinely pained. “I saw the article this morning. I know how difficult this is.”
Annie wants to laugh. Is that right, Gail? So your husband also vanished into thin air, and to avoid the image of him dying a slow death under the world’s most douche-y car, your brain is keeping busy running in circles, trying to find out if his bank card was used? “Thank you, Gail.” She ends the call, opens the car door, and walks briskly toward the bowling alley, ready to get this over with. Inside, she’s hit by the scent of french fries and lane grease. A woman approaches with a clipboard and pen. She’s in her sixties, with hair the color of Concord grape jelly.
“Name, please?”
“I’m not staying,” Annie says. “Just dropping something off.”
A man rushes by with two fresh boxes of doughnuts, which he sets on a nearby table under a sign taped to the wall: WITH GOOD THOUGHTS FROM EILEEN’S BAKERY IN CENTERVIEW PLAZA. “Get one before they’re gone, Mrs. Escobido,” he says as he passes.
She shakes her head. “Day fourteen on this new diet, and the only thing I’ve lost is two weeks of happiness.” Annie walks past her. People are milling about, pouring coffee from pots set on the bar, Bon Jovi on low. An assembly line of women stand at the bar tables, spreading peanut butter onto stacks of white bread. One of them waves, sad-faced, and it takes Annie a minute to place her. Sidney Pigeon, the woman who lives across the street from the Lawrence House. Another ex-girlfriend making googly eyes at Sam from across the room. It was a political fundraiser, and Annie remembers getting in the car that night, pretending to be Sidney Pigeon, class of 1998. When they got home, she led Sam into the bedroom, tipsily describing the things she’d been fantasizing about doing with him during PTA meetings for the last fifteen years.
Annie nods and turns around to scan for a grown man who goes by the name of Crush. Crush Andersen, all-star linebacker for the Fighting Cornjerkers. (“I don’t even want to know,” Annie said when Sam first mentioned the name of his high school football team.) Annie met Crush at Mulligan’s, the local haunt, soon after they moved to Chestnut Hill. They were ten minutes into a plate of nachos and frozen margaritas when six guys with the same haircut walked in. There were slaps on the back and a quick round of intros—Crush, Tucky, Half-a-Deck, the entire cast of Happy Days, super-stoked to hear their old buddy Stats moved home.
One of the guys on the police force had told Crush about the APB issued for a Dr. Sam Statler, and Crush wasted no time coming to the rescue. Flyers. A Facebook page. Securing the use of the bowling alley at no charge, as long as everyone’s out by five p.m. when Family Fun Night starts. Two women in orange parkas approach the doughnut table. “Barbara said someone from the television station is going to be here,” one says, fingering the crullers. “You think it’s going to be one of those national programs?”
“Don’t be silly,” says the other. “He’s not JonBenét.”
“Annie, sweetheart, you made it!” Crush is coming toward her, arms outstretched. “How you doing?” he asks, giving her a bear hug she would have preferred to evade.
“Shitty,” she says, holding up Sam’s T-shirt. “I brought this for you. You said you wanted stinky, so . . .”
He takes it, sniffs. “Whew,” he says, drawing back. “Zander will love this.” He means the retired search-and-rescue dog someone has offered to bring.
“You’ve gone all out,” Annie says. Sam’s voice pops into her head again. What did you expect? he scoffs. I told you Crush was voted Most Likely To Spearhead the Search for Sam Statler When He Disappears in Twenty Years.
“Stats would do the same for me,” Crush says. No, I wouldn’t, Sam replies. “You sticking around?”
“No,” Annie says. “Not really my thing. But you’ll call me if anything . . .”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll keep you posted every step of the way.” She thanks him and heads back toward the exit, back to her car. With a sick feeling in her stomach, she drives faster than she should down Route 9, turning left up the mountain. She slows around the turns approaching their driveway, straining for a view over the guardrail and down the ridge, trying not to imagine the worst. The wind was stronger than he was expecting, he took the turn too fast . . .
The sky has turned a dark gray when she arrives home. In the living room, she turns on the light, seeing the mess. Piles of papers on the floor, books scattered about, the contents of the kitchen junk drawer strewn across the coffee table. She drops her coat on the sofa and walks into the kitchen, lacking the energy to deal with the chaos she created last night while looking for the spare key to Sam’s office. She knows he had one made. She can see it clearly: Sam flashing a heavy gold key hooked onto an orange plastic keychain reading
GARY UNGER
GARY UNGER LOCKSMITHS