But none of that tells how it was.
Minnie whining, restless. Ruth’s hurried, self-conscious walk, tugging at the hem of her shirt, feeling the heat seep through her layers of makeup. Thinking about her meeting with Arnold Green that afternoon, about Frank, about the rent due at the end of the week.
Back at the apartment: the taste of lukewarm coffee. The crack in the ceiling she’d noticed the week before and forgotten about. The smell of hairspray through the half-open bathroom door. Her headache and her clumsy rummaging for aspirin.
And then the silence. Not just the fact of it, but how loud it was. How the space that would normally be filled with voices and giggling and the pad of their feet was just that: space.
And the sight of her hand in front of her, lifting the catch, pushing the door. And again, and again, and again, every moment since: the slow sweep of the white-painted wood, and the widening expanse of light, and her hand falling to her side through the weight of the still air, and her voice catching in her dry throat. And the room beyond. Empty.
3
So that was how it began. With a locked door to an empty room. With her running out into the street, a set of sweat-slick keys held tightly in her hand, pressed hard into her palm. With her circling the block calling their names.
It began with anger. If they’ve climbed out the damn window again, they’ll be in a whole heap of trouble.
And then the anger faded to a gradual awareness of her uneven breathing, of the sickness in her stomach. A realization, as she came back to the corner of 72nd Drive, that her skin, her hair, were wet.
She turned both ways, unable to decide which direction to go.
The wrong choice could mean.
It could.
She bit her lip to kill that thought. Turned left.
So many kids. Every gleam of fair hair was a jolt to her heart. Then she saw a little boy ahead of her, and there was something about his walk. She grabbed his arm and spun him around.
“Frankie! What the fuck . . .”
She looked into the face of a stranger and dropped his arm, saw his mouth open. Barely registered his rosebud mouth breaking into a howl. Barely heard his mother.
“Hey! Hey lady! What the hell do you think . . .”
She walked on, faster, until she lost sight of where she was going. Kept her eyes fixed on the faces that passed her, on the sidewalk ahead. She walked unevenly, avoiding the cracks.
Step on a crack and break your back
Step on a crack, kids ain’t coming back
She pressed her hand against her mouth to stop anything escaping, began to run. She ran with no sense of where she was, then took another turn and she was back on 72nd Drive. She saw a figure hurrying toward her. Realized it was Carla Bonelli. Saw the woman’s lips move, managed to get out: “Frankie and Cindy are . . . they’re . . . I can’t find them . . . help me find them . . .”
Carla went to take her arm but Ruth shook her off angrily, stared wide-eyed around her, and then back. “Find them. Please.”
And she moved on, stumbling, her arms wrapped around herself. Carla stood staring after her.
Back home, Ruth picked up the phone with shaking fingers and dialed. Pressed the receiver hard against her ear, clenched her other hand, nails digging into her palm. Listened to the phone ring.
Waiting.
Waiting.
And then:
“Frank? Have you got the kids?”
“Don’t fool around! Where are the kids?”
“They’re not here. They’re . . .”
“Of course I checked their room! I’ve been all around the block.”
“Twenty, thirty minutes—I don’t know! I’ve looked everywhere and I . . . I can’t find them.”
“Please. If you have the kids, tell me. Don’t do this, Frankie. Please.”
It was the last time she called him Frankie.
He said something, but she couldn’t take it in, just heard the words “coming over” and when he hung up, she clung to this. She went to the window to look for his car, and put a cigarette in her mouth. It took her three attempts to light it.
Frank arrived. She opened the door and he took her in his arms. Ruth stood stiffly for a moment and then patted his shoulder. He let her go and then he just stood in the hallway.
“You need to . . .” she gestured toward the kitchen and finally he began to take charge.
He picked up the phone and she heard:
“I want to report . . . my kids are missing. I want to report my kids missing.”
“An hour ago.”
“Malone.”
“My address or the address the kids live at?”
“No, we’re . . . they live with their mother at present.”
He brewed more coffee, made her sit down. Poured a glug of brandy in and watched while she drank. It was the last of the bottle that Gina had brought down on New Year’s. It burned and Ruth shuddered, but the sick feeling disappeared. She looked at him, saw his lips slide back over his clenched teeth in an imitation of a smile.