The police leave the Palm brownstone, and the officer begins to talk. He’s confident that this crazy Brooklyn woman has abandoned her family, as she does from time to time, and that’s sad. But the husband’s just covering his ass. It’s funny, actually, this Brooklyn housewife taking off. She decides she wants something else, or someone else, and instead of hiring a divorce lawyer like a normal person, she takes off. “After a cheeseburger,” he says and laughs. “God bless. God bless.”
The officer is still on duty, but the detective’s shift is finally over. They’ve all been looking for the missing boy. The officer drops the detective off at his house in Windsor Terrace and wishes him a restful night. The detective does not return the sentiment.
The detective unlocks the front door, opens it slightly, makes a clicking noise, and blocks the opening with the side of his foot. Nothing’s on the other side. He slips in and shuts the door fast behind him. “Walter?” he calls out. “Walter!” No movement, but he knows where Walter is. He goes to his bedroom and eases himself down onto his knees and then his belly. He lifts up the sheet, and two small orbs glow from under the center of the bed. The detective reaches and grabs the cat by its scruff and pulls Walter out. The cat lets out a low growl of protest and hisses. The detective does not let go but sits on his carpet with the cat in his lap, holding its scruff with his left hand, and reaches for a bottle on his nightstand with his right. Walter’s ears are flat, and the stink of urine rises up. “Jesus, Walter,” the detective says, and he unscrews the bottle. He works the cat’s mouth open and lets three drops of the medication land on the cat’s tongue. He holds the cat’s jaw shut, counts to ten, then releases Walter, who springs away to find an impossibly small space to hide in. The detective looks down at the damp spot on his suit and wonders once again why he doesn’t remember to change before he goes through this sad ritual. He should shower, but instead he sits on his floor. It’s been a long day, yet the detective wants to know more about that box of cash. The children were lying to him about something. He lifts himself up onto the bed, shrugs the urine-stained jacket from his shoulders, and loosens his tie. He kicks off his shoes. The missing boy is the priority, he reminds himself. For a while the privileged class of Brooklyn must fend for itself. The detective unbuttons his shirt. Abandonment happens. Missing people are common. And if Marion Palm wasn’t rich, if she didn’t own a brownstone with her husband in Carroll Gardens, he would not have interviewed Nathan in person. The officer would have gone alone. The detective visualizes the daughters looking up at him on the stairs. Nathan tells the girls not to look so scared, and the girls smile for their dad.
The detective hears Walter heaving in the carpeted hallway, and he rushes to move the ailing cat to the bathroom tiles.
Brighton Beach
In Sunset Park, Marion buys new clothes in dusty shops that sell everything. She could buy a mother-of-the-bride suit there. She could buy a brooch to put on the suit. She could also buy vacuum cleaner bags. She buys colorful tops and tight skirts and new underpants. With the red hair, she looks like a Carol Burnett character. She rips the tags off.
Marion takes the F to Coney Island to look at a room in an apartment on Mermaid Avenue. When she gets off the train, she feels the cold wind full of salt on her cheeks, and she shivers, then smiles.
This isn’t like last time. The other time she used her credit cards. She turned off her phone but kept it in her pocket. The girls were young enough that they either wouldn’t remember or would believe Nathan when he lied about where she was. She stayed with Nick, her former roommate, who assumed it was mere heartache or heartbreak and didn’t ask questions. Nathan never called Nick, because he’d forgotten Nick existed, because Nathan has forgotten that Marion existed before they married. So she slept on Nick’s couch and watched television. She couldn’t go to Nick this time, she knew; she’d eventually be found. Nathan may not remember premarital Marion, but Nick’s apartment is an official previous address, credit history would show, and soon the police would be at the door. The other time was practice. She didn’t have a knapsack full of cash then.
She’d left when Nathan became arrogant and vain. When he was like that, she knew he wanted to brag to her about some infidelity. She could smell Denise (or whoever else) on him, and she wanted to destroy him for the cliché. He kept looking at her, silently begging for a reaction. She would not join Nathan in being trite, she’d vowed, but couldn’t look at his face without wanting to hurt it. She left and waited for her rage to subside. When she returned, Nathan opened the door and his face had changed back and she could enter the house again. Her daughters ran to her, full of tales of what she’d missed while she was gone.
The knapsack doesn’t go with her new outfit, but she still slings it over her shoulder. She bought a small purse, and this crosses her chest. She reaches into the new purse and pulls out a small piece of paper with the address and directions. Living without a cell phone again is freeing. She looks up more.
The apartment building is a block away from the beach. The rent includes a single bed, a bureau, and a shared bathroom.
Marion finds the entrance for the large apartment building and selects the correct buzzer. After a blast of static, the door latch makes a mechanical grinding sound, and Marion is able to enter.
“Third floor,” an accented voice calls out. There is an echo in the dingy lobby from the old marble on the floor and the walls.
“Okay! I’m coming!”
She hasn’t survived a Brooklyn walk-up in a while, and soon she is sweating through her new synthetic fabrics. A woman in a robe waits for her in the doorway.
“Take your shoes off, please,” she instructs, not kindly, but not unkindly either. She gives Marion a pair of slippers to wear.
The woman has a figure that Marion immediately envies. It is the figure of a French movie star in her forties, soft but thin and appropriately curved. The woman’s face is lined and her teeth are yellow, but she wears eye shadow and a dash of lipstick. Some blush. It’s not a lot of makeup, but it’s enough.
“I am Sveyta,” she says.
“Sveyta,” Marion repeats. “I am Marion.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Sveyta says.
A short tour of the immaculate apartment comes next. The windows look out onto the street, and if they were open, Marion believes she could hear the ocean. However, Sveyta is adamant that the windows stay closed. She has a chill always.
Sveyta ends the tour at the available room for rent, which contains a twin bed with a white coverlet, a nightstand, and a white bureau. The walls are painted pink. There is no closet. Marion believes that Jane would love this room, and because Jane would love it, she will love it too. She will even tolerate the cross above the bed.
Marion leans forward to look out the window and sees that Sveyta has nailed the window shut. The window faces a brick wall.
“It is perfect,” Marion says.
“There is no closet,” Sveyta says.
They return to the kitchen for tea and a short interview.
“Where do you come from?” Sveyta asks, and lights a cigarette. The smoke from the cigarette mixes with the steam from the tea.