The Sitter Read online

  “How long?” Steven asks. “How long has she been gone?”

  “Almost two days now, her mother says.” I look at Larry. “Bertie wanted me to ask you, Larry, if you know anything about this?”

  “Well no, I don't!” he answers quickly and a burst of color comes into his face. “Jesus.” Larry shakes his head. “Everything was fine when I was there.”

  “Have you seen Jordan?” I ask.

  “No way! Why would I? After what she said about me?” He shakes his head some more and stares angrily down at the table.

  “Are you sure?”

  “My God, Jeannie!” Steven explodes. “What do you want from him? He said he hasn't seen Jordan” Steven shrugs his shoulders. “It might mean that Jordan decided to party with some friends in the gazebo and things got so far out of hand that she ran off and left her purse.”

  “Okay, Steven,” I say, as calmly as I can, “Then where is she?”

  “I have no idea,” Steven says. He raises his hands, palms facing me in a show of innocence. ”Why the hell would I?”

  “I don't either,” Larry chimes in sincerely. “Honest to God, Jeannie, I don't.”

  Why am I interrogating these two? If I am totally honest with myself, I want Larry to be somehow responsible for Jordan's disappearance. Then I could successfully ban him from my home because Steven could not possibly object.

  I leave the table and head upstairs to Kevin and his bath.

  *****

  It took the two of them just minutes to clear the table and rinse the dishes. Larry energetically wiped down the counters while Steven loaded the dishwasher.

  “Larry,” Steven said, after turning the washer on, “You're too young for a brandy so I'll get you a Coke. I'll have a brandy and a cigar and we can hang out in the living room for an after dinner chat. Ok?” He grinned at the boy.

  “Sure,” Larry said.

  Steven handed Larry a can of Coke, and walked over to the walnut sideboard. He poured himself a brandy from a crystal decanter there and opened a drawer. He removed a beautifully carved wooden box which he carried to the living room along with his brandy. “Sit, sit down,” Steven said expansively, “let's relax.” He opened the box and selected a huge cigar wrapped in gold foil. He busied himself with the cigar cutter and lighter. He was a little bombed, he knew--going to have to start watching that--but damned if he wasn't enjoying himself with this manly little party he and Larry were having.

  He got his cigar going and lifted his brandy toward Larry. “Cheers,” said Steven, and they each took a swig of their drinks.

  But Steven's jocular mood was fading already, he realized sadly. What could he really talk about with this kid anyway? He hated to admit it, but he could use a friend.

  “I used to play baseball in college,” he heard himself say, as if that would interest this kid. “You ever play?”

  “Just Little League,” Larry said. But Steven didn't care--not really--whether Larry had ever played or not.

  “I went to college in Eugene, Oregon and there was no big league action at all. A wasteland! But not here in San Diego, at least not this year!” Steven knew he had an inane grin on his face.

  “Yeah, well... ” Larry responded, apparently not a baseball fan.

  “So, Larry,” Steven began, searching for another topic. He sucked on his cigar and sent the blue smoke into a cloud over the table. “What about this Jordan situation?”

  Larry went pale and began to cough from the smoke.

  “Ah, poorly put, son.” Steven put a hand up to negate his question. “I know you don't know where the hell she is, I know that. I meant to say...I probably should have had a talk with you before about this but... You know that 'no' really means 'no' don't you, Larry? You've got to respect that from a girl no matter how you feel, or how you think she feels.” Larry took a swallow of his Coke and sat silent. “Right?” Steven asked, wishing the kid would nod or something.

  “Yeah, sure...I guess,” he answered at last.

  “You guess? No guesswork to it, Larry. A man's got to--” He stopped abruptly as Jeannie entered the room.

  Steven watched as she took it all in, his drink, the cigar, the smoke-filled room. She smiled. “Must be a smoker,” she said. “Is it stag?”

  “The smoking lamp is lit, Babe,” Steven tried for a playful tone, one of innocent good will, but it eluded him. “Join us.”

  “Thank you no,” she said, a faint smile on her face. “I'll say goodnight now, gentlemen.” Jeannie left the room.

  Steven poured himself a little more brandy.

  *****

  It is late. I watch my husband collapse onto our bed, face down. “Steven, my darling,” I say softly, crawling over next to him. I slide my arm across his back. He is still dressed while I am in a short cotton nightgown. “Can you hear me?” My mouth is close to his ear.

  “Of course,” he mumbles. He smells of brandy. Not a reek, just a lingering, almost pleasant aroma. He rolls over and slips an arm under my head, the other across my stomach. We lie together staring up at the ceiling, the room only faintly illuminated by the dressing room light.

  “I need to say something to you. Will you listen?”

  “Of course,” he says again, and I believe him.

  “There's an odd phenomenon going on here. One we need to address. I know you don't really find Larry Cutler an interesting, worthwhile young man. I don't think you find him rewarding or edifying at all. But you are behaving as if you do. And, I think you'd be pleased if I did the same.” He does not respond. I rise slightly onto one elbow so I can see his eyes. They are looking directly into mine.

  “Go on,” he says.

  “I think you're doing this because—because--this careless young man allowed our son to drown. I know that sounds crazy.” He frowns at me. “But because you are a decent man you feel sorry for Larry, for Poor-Larry-Cutler, for the painful guilt he must have felt at the time, and probably continues to feel. So you bend over backwards to let Larry know you understand it was an accident, and that his life isn't over because of this tragic event. It's the bending over backwards that I object to. Larry comes to dinner here now, every so often, and tonight you gave him permission to spend Halloween night with Kevin. I think I know why you are intent on being so very good to Larry, Steven.” I put a firm hand on his shoulder. “I think it's because of Brandon.”

  “Oh for Christ's sake, Jeannie! Please Babe, let me tell you something. Don't give me all this logical crap, just listen.”

  He turns to face me and I am dismayed to see tears in his eyes. “It was so bad for me, Jeannie, my life after Brandon. I didn't have a leg to stand on. In my mind, and in the minds of everyone back then, I was the bad guy. I had a learner's permit and I allowed Brandon to drive illegally and to die doing it.

  “I took off. As soon as I could. I had to get away from the blame, the unrelenting judgment of everyone, even my family. After high school graduation, I left. I packed a suitcase, got on a bus and headed west. I told my folks I needed some time alone and that I would write. I didn't. Not for a very long time. I had a friend there I did stay in touch with, and he kept me up on how my folks were getting along--that kind of stuff.”

  “But you're in touch now, aren't you?”

  “Yeah...some.”

  “Steven...you must. And, we have to have them come for a visit!” I realize then I've been terribly remiss in not having them sooner. And, more often. “Kevin has grandparents he hardly knows for God's sake!”

  “I know. I know. We can have them come...soon. I just need to be ready.”

  “How long is that going to take?”

  “Soon, he said. “In the meantime, how about laying off Larry? I know you think he's an evil sonofabitch to begin with, and now you think he has something sinister to do with the fact that nobody can find Jordan Kennedy. Am I right?”

  I get out of bed and face Steven, hugging myself.

  “Well...we don't know that he doesn't have something to do with
her disappearance, do we? I mean we know next to nothing about him. He came to us as a sub for our regular sitter, remember?”

  “Yeah, and I remember we asked around about him--we checked him out.”

  “Not all that much, Steven. As I get to know him, and aside from the drowning, I don't think he's such a...quality young man. Surely you can see that's true, can't you?”

  Steven gets up and walks slowly to the dressing room. Standing in the doorway, he takes his clothes off. He looks over at me.

  “All right,” he says, his voice barely audible. He sounds like a tired old man. “I will carefully consider everything you have said.”

  I believe him.

  *****

  “What is that stink?” Catherine asked, and Larry winced. It had been a long day and he was exhausted. It was tough to come home--a real pain to leave the warmth and order of the Connor home. Tough also to deal with this crude woman who was, unfortunately, his mother.

  “You been smoking something?” she asked.

  What a great evening it had turned out to be, Larry thought, ignoring her. He was giddy with delight that the old man had stood up for him when Jeannie was being unreasonable about Jordan.

  ”Well?”

  Get out of my face, can't you?

  Larry had a vivid flash then of the palm of his hand planted right in the middle of his mother's forehead, shoving. “Steven had a cigar,” he muttered. He walked around her quickly and headed toward the hall. He needed to get away from her; had to get to his room.

  The door bell chimed. Larry looked at his watch, surprised. It was late--twenty after ten. He stood and watched Catherine walk to the door, her robe stretched tight across her back. Bigger by the day, she looked like a fucking tank.

  He heard a male voice. His mother hesitated and then opened the screen door. “Of course”, she said, and a man walked in. He was big; the Cutler living room was suddenly diminished. He wore the tan and khaki uniform of a deputy sheriff.

  “Thank you, Ma'am,” he said, removing his cap and nodding politely toward Catherine. His hair was blonde, bright and thick. It was cut close to his head like a shiny helmet above his tanned face. He was a tall guy. The man's eyes surveyed the room and found Larry still standing in the doorway to the hall. He smiled. Said nothing, just smiled.

  Larry felt a faint ache begin in his belly.

  “Larry Cutler?” the man asked. He was still smiling.

  “Answer the deputy, Larry,” his mother said, like he was six years old and not quite bright. Feeling a rush of warm blood come to his cheeks, Larry promised himself that if he lived through this, he just might belt his mother again--this time on purpose.

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice too high. He took a couple awkward steps back into the living room.

  “Schmidt. Deputy Albert J. Schmidt.”

  He'd be handsome, Larry thought, if his eyes weren't so small. He stuck out a hand to Larry but Larry stayed where he was.

  “Sorry to drop in on you folks so late,” Deputy Albert J. Schmidt said to Catherine. He had a faint southern drawl. The southern sheriff, Larry realized, the movie stereotype. In this case he was just a deputy but probably on the make for the sheriff's job. Larry noticed that Deputy Schmidt's uniform looked like it had been recently cleaned and pressed and his boots wore a high gloss.

  “Jordan Kennedy,” the deputy said loudly, impaling Larry with his small, pig-like eyes. His squint turned into a frown. “Know her?”

  “Yeah...sure.”

  “Know where she is?”

  “Well...no.” The ache in Larry's belly was turning into a cramp. He needed to sit down.

  “Had a problem with the girl, didn't you? A little while back?”

  “Yeah, I did. But that was all...worked out.”

  “Oh.” Deputy Schmidt ran his fingers through his closely cropped hair. “How was that all...worked out?”

  “Well...she came on to me and she got pissed when I didn't... ah, respond. We talked it all out, though. It was like a misunderstanding.” Larry wiped his face with the back of his hand while the deputy just stood there, a thumb hooked into his belt. The deputy shook his head, a sad smile on his face as if he knew Larry was talking shit.

  “A misunderstanding,” the deputy said, still shaking his head.

  “Deputy,” Catherine said, wringing her hands, “May I offer you something to drink?”

  Jesus Christ. How about a mint julep?

  “That's very kind of you, Ma'am, but no thank you. Jordan Kennedy is missing,” he pronounced, gazing solemnly at Larry. “Since last Thursday night.” He paused. To Larry, the three of them seemed surreal, like characters mired in a very bad, slow moving movie. “To get a better picture of all this, Larry, where were you last Thursday night?”

  Larry reached into his quivering gut and found what he desperately needed. Anger. “What are you saying here, Deputy?” he asked in a voice as deep as he could muster. “Are you saying you think I have something to do with Jordan's disappearance? Because if you are, that's crap!”

  “Lor-dee Larry, for heaven's--” Catherine began, her face flushed, her hands fluttering.

  “Hold on.” The man approached Larry and put a placating hand on his arm. “I'm just trying to get a fix on where this girl--”

  “Well don't come to me!” Larry heard Catherine sigh and he turned to face her. “Ma, you just shu--, you keep quiet, please! I'm the last one to come to about this--Jordan and I have a history, you know. We don't exactly like each other.”

  The dinner. The Mexican restaurant where we had dinner. What if the waiter there saw Jordan's picture somewhere and remembered...?

  “Easy there, son, I'm just doing my job.” His brown eyes seemed to turn black and looked even smaller as he squinted at Larry. “Nobody's accusing you of anything, I'm just--”

  “Yeah well,” Larry jerked his arm free from the deputy's grasp. “You come in here in the middle of the fuckin' night, hasslin' me about Jordan, what the fuck am I supposed to think?”

  “That's some mouth you've got there, boy,” Deputy Schmidt said, putting both hands on Larry's shoulders. His bony fingers pressed painfully into the flesh there. He inclined his head toward Catherine. “You're mother's in the room, you know.”

  Larry was confused, and judging from the vacant look on Catherine's face, so was she. It dawned on him then that the deputy was referring to his use of the “f” word. He almost laughed out loud.

  “I think you owe her an apology...don't you?

  At this point Larry considered an apology a good idea. “Sorry Ma.” Catherine nodded, still looking baffled.

  “That's a whole lot better.” The deputy dropped his hands and took a step back. “Now, to continue with my question, where were you last Thursday night?”

  “I studied at the library and then went to a movie. I can't prove any of this, Deputy, I was alone.”

  Buy it, Mr-Deputy-sir, please buy it!

  “Okay, for now. About the girl, do you have any idea where she is?”

  “No sir, I don't,” Larry said with sincere humility. He knew he was very good at 'sincere humility.'

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  A trick? Does he know about dinner and the movie?

  “Well...probably last Thursday,” Larry said thoughtfully, “at school, I guess.”

  Deputy Schmidt looked at him intently, and then turned to Catherine. “Thank you for your time, Ma'am.” He bowed slightly and put his cap back on. He gave them both a snappy salute. It was all Larry could do to keep from returning it with his third finger. As if he knew what Larry was thinking, Schmidt gave him a cold look and went out the door.

  “Well!” Catherine said after a moment. “What a ...unique fellow! What do you make of all that, Larry?”

  She was clearly impressed with the lawman.

  “ Nothing. I make nothing of it except an asshole on a power trip.”

  “Oh please Larry! Sometimes I think you're just too critical of peop
le... a wee bit too judgmental.”

  Tuesday, October 17th

  The sun beats down on me as I walk down the path to the river that Stevie and Larry took that day. It is very warm for mid-October.

  Unlike my last visit, today I am able to notice the river itself. If it wasn't the site of my son's death, it would be quite lovely. The sun is bright, glittering as it reflects off the water. There is some vegetation on each bank, some green wisps and grasses growing down into the water.

  It reminds me of when I was a girl of 11 or so in Oregon, living on the Willamette River. The Willamette is much larger than the Pine Glen, and the surrounding area is thick with trees and greenery. Quite happily I spent countless days on its banks, and the feeling of those days comes back to me now. That wonderful feeling of being fit and free of commitment, of having the whole day to play in the sun with the river and its blessings.

  I loved to fish in those days, absolutely adored it. I can see myself back then, searching out the riffles near the shore that promised a chance of action. I'd cast my worm-laden hook and line out into the current and let it drop down. I remember the mesmerizing anticipation as the worm sank deeper and deeper.

  Some people will insist they don't care whether they get a bite or not, it's the communing with nature they enjoy. I care. It isn't the physical fish I want. It's the tug on the line. The knowledge that he is there, at the hook. The nibble...then, the bite! The delicious excitement of it to have him on my line and to bring him in. And there he is, a trout, a sunfish, perhaps a bass... a beautiful creature. After admiring him briefly, I would do as my dad taught me. I'd cradle the fish in the water with my hands and remove the hook from his mouth as gently as I could. He would stay for a second or two as if stunned by his freedom, and then dart happily away.

  I realize I will never have the joy of teaching the art of fishing to Stevie. I had thoughtlessly given that pleasure to Poor-Larry-Cutler. How could I have done such a... But I don't want to think about that now.

  I shiver with a sudden chill as I take in the scene of Stevie's death. If someone were to ask, 'Why? Why are you here?' I wouldn't be able to answer with any degree of logic. I am just here. To do what I feel I have to do. Maybe Stevie would understand--maybe not.