Anna wishes that the scene with Nathan had gone a little differently but doesn’t think it could have. She was angry that he was swearing at her, so perhaps she’s showed her hand. At least she’s now certain that Nathan doesn’t know anything. She has a meeting in the morning with the other trustees. She promised she would follow up with them after the dinner.
Anna pities Nathan but also feels some glee that this is happening to him. She wants the money back, and she’ll get it, but there is something deeply funny about what Marion has done. Marion, even with the embezzlement, was highly competent, more than her honest counterparts. She was a pleasure to organize with. Her clear head, her methodical manner. She had a kind of poetically rational mind. In a different world, Anna would want Marion to have the money. But it’s this world, and Marion has gone too far. More of Marion’s doings have been uncovered, and though they can’t officially prove it, it seems she’s embezzled more than $100,000 over the years. She needs to be punished. Nathan allowed too much, ignored too often. Anna aches to tell him precisely what his wife has been doing while he’s been writing poetry, but she can’t. The Palm family must not know the details until the timing is right and perfect. When told, the Wing Initiative will be fully funded. Anna knows. But first Marion Palm needs to be found. A penitent wife will seal this deal.
She returns to her living room and smiles about Marion while Tom leashes the dog for his last walk of the day.
“Beatrice, would you come down here for a minute?” she yells into the air. Brownstones have their own intercom system: thin walls.
Minutes later, the teenager appears at the top of the stairs. “What?”
“How was Jane?”
“I don’t know. Upset.”
“About what?”
Beatrice rolls her eyes. “Her mom?”
“I mean, anything in particular. Did she say anything to you?”
“She talked a lot about Ginny. She says they’re going to school together now on the train. She, like, bragged about it.”
“Anything about Marion?”
“No. It was weird. She talked more about that missing kid.”
“The autistic one?”
“Yeah. So. I have an essay, so—”
“Dishes first, honey.”
“But I’ve got so much homework to do.”
“Better do the dishes fast, then.”
Beatrice slinks off to the kitchen. Anna finishes her wine on the couch. Soon Beatrice is back.
“So, like, she said her mother ran away from a diner. The one on Montague, I think.”
“Thank you, Bea, that’s helpful. I’ll finish up the dishes—go work on your essay. Goodnight, honey.”
“Night.”
Beatrice is a beautiful, sullen narcissist. She helps only when it is in her own best interests to do so. Often Anna must sit with her daughter in some public place while Beatrice cries and whines about a perceived injustice done to her. Anna listens, as she would for no one else, and tries to fix the injustice for her beautiful daughter. It’s difficult to say no to a person who is stunning when they cry. But tonight Bea was helpful; Anna will return to this moment often because it will make her feel like a good parent. Anna is raising a helpful daughter.
Missing Persons
The officer returned to the Fort Greene precinct after dropping off the detective and told everyone about the plug-ugly housewife who bolted after a diner cheeseburger. When the detective begins his next shift, he’s asked for details on what is now the most popular running joke of the station. He’s asked what Nathan looks like, what Marion looks like, but they know. They’ve seen the picture. They know how unattractive she is. Detectives and officers alike offer humorous suppositions about Marion’s possible destinations. To find a bag to put over her head. A quest for more and better cheeseburgers. Fat camp.
The detective smiles at the jokes, admits that Marion is nothing much to look at, but says that there might be more going on. What about the two kids she left behind? Why didn’t she take a suitcase? The humor dissipates, and the crowd of law enforcers becomes uncomfortable. The detective has a reputation for doing this, and one of the newly sulky group reminds him that Marion Palm is not a priority. The crowd nods solemnly. They can be more serious than the detective, they say with their chins, and they return to their own desks. They’re all looking for the missing boy.
The detective’s task for the day is to listen to recordings of phone calls made to the tip hotline. He’s digging for a legitimate lead among the false identifications, but it’s clear to him that the kid is, sadly, gone. But the missing person’s case is now a city cause. It’s uniting the city, and he supposes that is worthwhile, if hopeless. The police haven’t told the press: not only does the boy have a fascination with the subway system, he’s also mesmerized by the ocean. These are not encouraging qualities in a missing person.
The detective shifts in his seat and runs a check on Marion Palm. She ceased to exist electronically the day she left. Nathan Palm admitted she struggled with depression. The detective believes we all struggle with depression and it’s just now been labeled as a problem. It’s the truly afflicted who take off and are a danger to themselves and others. Those lost are found walking through Prospect Park, muttering or bellowing, in a robe and slippers or their underwear or naked. They’ve soiled themselves. They’re walking into traffic, off a bridge. They’ve left behind sick and starving cats.
Nathan Palm’s bland phrases for his wife’s illness were not urgent enough; he would not have used the words admit and struggle. Nathan Palm would have been on the phone with the police the first day, reading names off prescription bottles and explaining that Marion was no longer on those medications. He would have used the shorthand, meds. If Marion Palm has left, the detective deduces, it is for a rational reason or she is dead.
A voice says the missing boy climbed into the back of a van off Flatbush. The detective marks the call for follow-up but doesn’t believe in it. The voice is too pleased to be helping.
The detective thinks of Nathan Palm and his helpful answers. Nathan Palm called the police but wanted them to leave as soon as they entered the house.
Another voice claims the missing boy is the son of God. Sometimes the boy is Elijah. Other times the boy is a warrior for Satan. It’s the end of the world.
Marion Palm has a history of leaving her husband and returning. She is not a vulnerable adult; if she were, she would not have become this figure of derision and mockery in the precinct. There is a boy who is missing, vulnerable, and a likely victim of a crime. The boy should come first. The detective squints into his computer screen. He tries to focus on the correct missing person.
Marion at Twenty-Three