“Uh, I don’t know. Awhile ago.” Lenny shrugged, and in doing so the door inched open. Bridget could see the living room beyond, dark and brownish. Trash on the floor. A smell wafted out the door, ripe and sour, like beer and body odor.
“Is your father here, Lenny?” Bridget asked, hiking her purse up on her shoulder, reflexively crossing her arm across her chest.
“No. Who are you?” Lenny finally asked, his eyes narrowed.
“I’m Mrs. Peterson, Lucia’s teacher. If she’s not here, have you reported her missing?”
“Uh, is she missing?” Lenny scratched his head. “Has she been in school?”
She had, of course, but Lenny didn’t know that.
“Where is she staying, Lenny, if she’s not here?” Taylor pushed past Lenny into the house and Bridget followed her, impotent.
On the inside, the smell was worse. Greasy, cloying. Bridget held her breath, looked around. The place was sparsely furnished, a couch and a television propped up on wooden crates. She craned her neck to look to the kitchen, piled high with pots and pans. As far as she could tell, the garbage had been accumulating for months.
“God, I haven’t been here in forever. What the hell happened?” Taylor turned in place, a slow pirouette. “Where’s Jimmy?”
“Who’s Jimmy?” Bridget asked.
“Lucia and Lenny’s dad.” Taylor said. “This place has always been a shithole, but not like this.” She didn’t even apologize for the curse this time.
“Jesus, Taylor,” Lenny said, coming into the living room behind them.
“Lucia said she ran away. She’s been staying in the old paper mill. When was she here last?”
It seemed irrelevant. They would just go there. Bridget hung back, trying to gauge their intimacy. They knew each other, but how well? How often had Taylor been here? Were things in Lucia’s life ever normal? Happy? She tried to envision a mother. None came to mind.
“Lenny, where is your father?” Bridget pressed. She got the feeling Lenny was avoiding the question.
“I don’t know,” Lenny grumbled, sinking down onto the plaid couch.
“You don’t know?” Bridget asked. He was probably twenty years old. Lucia was eighteen, it was hardly a concern if they lived alone. But to not know?
“He left here, drunk, months ago. I ain’t seen him since. We had a fight. I figured he skipped town. Listen, this ain’t that weird, you know. He done it before.”
“He has? When?”
“I don’t know! He don’t like what I say, so he leaves. We’re all adults.”
“What happened to your mother?” Bridget asked, and wondered about the invasiveness of the question.
Lenny laughed. “That bitch? Well, gee, now y’all go digging and y’all don’t stop. I ain’t seen her in prolly ten years. The mill closed and then she left same as him. Took him a little longer, but I guess she’s smarter. Now Lucia. Only me in this house.”
“Did you call the cops about Jimmy?” Taylor asked.
“Sure. You know what they told me? They’d put out an APB.” He let out a pfffftttt. “Do you think they care about the town drunk and his druggie kid? They ne’er found his car but I guaran-damn-tee they ne’er looked.”
“So you’re telling me that Jimmy’s gone and now Lucia’s gone and you never called the police about her?” Bridget asked, her voice slow and deliberate.
“I just figured she ran off to find him or something.” He made it sound illicit.
Bridget shivered.
“Why would she do that?” Taylor asked.
“Oh, ’cause she took care of his drunk ass. Waited hand and foot on him.” Lenny wiped a line of grease from his forehead, up into his hair, glinting and wet. “Ne’er gave a fuck about me, though. ’Cept to beat my ass.”
?????
“Let me take you home, Taylor.” Bridget’s offer was halfhearted.
Taylor shook her head. Hard. “If you’re going to the mill, I’m going with you.” She hesitated a beat. “Even if you’re not, I’d probably go myself. I’m worried about her. There’s been something off with her. I can’t tell what.” She looked out the window. “Lenny’s bad. I’ve never seen him like that.”
“How long have you been friends?” Bridget asked softly.
“Since kindergarten. They had a mom then, though.”
“What happened to her?”
“I don’t know. She just . . . left. After the mill closed, when Lenny was still normal. I guess we were ten or so. She sent letters for a while, but Lucia was pretty pissed about it. I don’t think she ever wrote her back. My mom takes care of Lucia a lot, feels bad for her. We had a séance once.” Taylor traced a pattern in her jeans with an index finger, avoiding Bridget’s gaze. “Maybe sixth grade? We burned everything. Her mom’s clothes, her letters, her pictures. Jimmy found us. He said he was mad, but there was no conviction behind it. I got the feeling . . .” She took a deep breath. “He was proud of her for it. Listen, she’s never been normal, I know that. She pushes into people, gets under their skin. She flies in people’s face. Sometimes I think it’s all she has. This . . . persona. But deep down, I think she’s more like everyone else than she wants to believe.”
Bridget considered this, Taylor with her Seven jeans and her Free People boots. Lucia with her black secondhand clothes. Taylor gave Lucia social credibility. Lucia gave Taylor’s bubble gum an edge.
“Okay, you can come with me, but we’re not going alone.”
?????
Tripp Harris didn’t look comfortable. They met in the dusty parking lot of the paper mill, their cars meeting nose to nose, hers blue, his black. The redbrick facade of the mill was crumbling and the roar of the dam in the back made it hard to hear.
“Bridget.” Tripp smiled uneasily. “Nice to see you again. Although, this . . .” He spread his arm out wide. “You should let me call this in.”
“We will. If it’s anything. I promise.” She pulled her hair back from her face and lifted one shoulder. “It’s a student. If I can avoid the police, I’d like to.”
“You know, I am the police.” Tripp smiled and leaned down to peck Bridget’s cheek. “What’s the urgency?”
“I think a student of mine is living in here.” Bridget stomped her feet to get the cold out, her breath coming in puffs.
“Okay. And you are . . .” Tripp looked at Taylor.
“Taylor Lawson. Lucia’s best friend.” Taylor dipped her chin, shy.
“Another student,” Bridget said.