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“Do you think Dorrit knows about Mack Kelter? And what Mom thought of him?” If she does, it could explain something about Dorrit’s behavior. “Dad, I think Dorrit needs to see a shrink.”
I’ve made this suggestion several times before, but my father always resists. He comes from a generation that thinks shrinks are bad. Even in this dire circumstance, my father still won’t have it.
“Not now, Carrie,” he says. And looking as if he’s going to an execution, he gets out of the car.
The door opens before we can knock, and Mack Kelter stands in the entrance, blocking our passage. He’s handsome in a kind of dirty way that makes you feel slightly ashamed even looking at him.
“Bradshaw?” He smirks. “Yeah,” he says, answering his own question. “Come in.”
I hope he doesn’t have any crowbars lying around.
“In there.” He motions toward the living room with a bottle of beer. We sidle in tentatively, not knowing what to expect. Along one wall is an enormous television set, flanked by two speakers. There’s a brick fireplace, a scattering of toys on the white shag rug, two small yellow poodles with runny eyes, and a long modular couch. Sprawled across it with what appears to be a gin and tonic in one hand and an ice pack in the other is Cheryl’s mother, Connie.
“My little baby,” she wails when she sees us. She puts down her drink and holds out her hands, which we have no choice but to take. “My little girl. She’s just a little girl,” she sobs.
“She’s not that little,” Mack Kelter scoffs.
“What if they’ve been kidnapped?” Connie blinks rapidly. “What if they’re lying in a ditch somewhere—”
“Put a lid on it, Connie,” Mack Kelter says. “They took the car. They went drinking. When Cheryl gets back, she’s going to get a walloping. That’s all.”
My father, meanwhile, has politely managed to extract his hand from Connie’s and is standing stiffly, as if trying to pretend he is not in this situation. “Have you called the police?”
“Why do we want them involved?” Mack Kelter asks. “They’ll only cause trouble. Besides, they don’t investigate missing persons until they’ve been gone for at least twenty-four hours.”
“By which time they could be dead!” Connie cries out. She puts her hand on her heart, gasping for air. “And this is my reward for a life of misery. I’ve got a juvenile delinquent for a daughter and a deadbeat drunk for a husband.”
“You want one upside the head?” Mack Kelter asks. “I told you to zip it.”
My father and I glance at each other in horror.
“I think we ought to look for them.” I check my watch. “It’s ten forty-five. They’ve been gone for about three hours—”
“They could be all the way to Boston by now,” Connie exclaims. She looks over at her husband.
“I’m heading back to The Emerald,” he announces. He takes in our shocked expressions and grins. “Hey—she’s not my kid. And there’s a man called Jack Daniel’s waiting for me at the bar.”
My father, Connie, and I drive all around town looking for Dorrit and Cheryl. We check out the meadows, the country club, and several little bars Connie knows about, although why she thinks anyone would serve alcohol to thirteen-year-olds is a mystery to both me and my dad. But we keep searching anyway, to no avail. At two a.m., we finally give up.
“Did you find her?” Missy squeals hopefully as we walk into the house.
“Nope.”
“What are we going to do?”
“What can we do?”
“How could this happen?” Missy wails.
“I don’t know. If she’s not back by six a.m., we’re going to the police.”
We stand there in terrified silence, and then I tiptoe across the floor and peek into the den where my father has retired to suffer alone. He’s sitting on the couch, slowly turning the pages of the old photo album my mother started when she and my father became engaged.
I return to the kitchen, ready to fortify myself for a long night, taking bread and cheese and mayonnaise from the refrigerator to make a sandwich.
The phone rings.
The sound is loud and jarring and somehow expected. I drop the bread and grab it.
