May We Be Forgiven

whole encounter, something she made a point of not telling me. Should I inform someone, call that special number and leave my lame confession? I consider it, but then decide that it’s all in my head—that the girl I met looks nothing like the missing girl. I attempt to make a sketch, a re-creation of what I remember about the woman. I draw a kind of an oval for her head; I draw her neck, which I remember was long, her chest—the fact is, her breasts are the only part I remember well. I draw them over and over again, and then go back, trying to find her neck, her head, her face. I wonder if there’s a DNA sample from her in the Dijon-mustard jar. There must have been one on my cock, but I’ve showered multiple times since then. I go over everything she said and did; I think about the stolen TV, the items in her grocery cart, her comments about frosted cake versus plain. I wonder—did she look lost? I wonder if perhaps they could come in and dust for fingerprints. I take Tessie for a walk, circling the house, the yard, wondering whether someone might be there, hiding out.
    I’m stuck on how a girl could be there one moment and missing the next—how someone steals another person. Is it sheer physical force? A psychological game? Is it that women, girls, boys are all weaker than adult men, who can simply pick them up and move them from one end of the earth to another? And this happens in a dark vortex, a break from reality; it’s like some door opens to a dark underside and one of us is dragged down under.
    By eight o’clock, I’ve worked myself into a frenzy, worried not only about the missing girl and every girl everywhere, but also about the kittens. Are they all right—are they in their new homes weeping, clawing, wishing more than anything to get back to the safety of Mama?
    How do any of us survive?
    By eight-fifteen, I can’t tolerate my anxiety any longer—I call Ashley at school, just to check in.
    There seems to be confusion—she’s not there. I ask for her roommate, who hands me over to the housemother, who tells me that the school made a change in her living accommodations. “I thought you knew,” she says.
    “I had no idea.”
    “She’s been staying with one of the teachers. Let me get you that number.”
    I call that number, get a machine, leave a message; a few minutes later, a very nervous-sounding Ashley calls back.
    “What’s wrong?” she asks.
    “Nothing’s wrong,” I say. “I was just checking in.”
    “You don’t usually make unscheduled calls,” she says.
    “Surprise,” I say.
    There’s something in Ashley’s voice that’s not right.
    “I didn’t get you away from something important, did I?”
    “No,” she says. “I was just doing my homework.”
    She is a bad liar—but I say nothing. “What was for dinner tonight?”
    “I think it was fish,” she says.
    “What kind of fish?”
    “White, with a kind of yellow-orange-colored sauce,” she says.
    “Did you eat it?”
    “No,” she says.
    “What did you have?”
    “There was a vegetarian option—stuffed shells and salad.”
    “Everything else okay?” I ask.
    “Yeah, I guess,” she says.
    “Okay, then, I’ll say good night—talk to you tomorrow, the usual time.”
    “Thanks,” she says.
    I hang up feeling awkward, like I stepped in something I don’t quite know what.

    T he 11 p.m. news has live coverage from a candlelight vigil being held in the park where the girl was last seen—the same park where I take Tessie, the one where I had my sobbing meltdown. Women in packs are running through the park in a Take Back the Night rally and throwing their running shoes over the telephone wires. The police are following up on multiple leads but have no new information as of this hour.
    I open a can of salmon for the cat; she shows no interest. I leave it on the counter as a peace offering and go up to bed. None of the animals join me.
    Life goes on—a lie. I think of volunteering, joining one of the search groups that are combing the nearby woods, but I worry someone will figure out who I am—someone will make something of it.
    The next day, I try and distract myself with the book. I work for an hour or two. I move paragraphs here and there and then back again.
    I get in the car and drive in circles and ask myself: What am I doing? Do I think I’m looking for her?
    I think of where people might congregate, might meet to worry as a group. I can’t go to the Starbucks—it’s too close, like a