Rachel Alexander 09 - Without a Word

Sally.”
    Madison looked my way. The oversize shirt was the kind a repairman might wear. Or a soda jerk. The name Tito was embroidered over the chest pocket in navy to match the collar and the trim on the short sleeves, sleeves that came down past her elbows. I walked over to the side of the path and held out my hand. “Hi, Madison,” I said, “I’m pleased to meet you.”
    She lifted her free hand but not to take mine. She was reaching for her sunglasses, taking hold of them, sliding them off. The eyelid over her right eye drooped badly. The other moved quickly from left to right a few times and then stopped. Standing in front of her, Madison just staring at me, I had the same experience I sometimes got before I became a private investigator, when I used to train dogs for a living. I was suddenly privy to information that seemed to come from another creature without benefit of words. Back then, and now, it always made me want to run for cover. Have a good look, Madison seemed to be telling me, at why my mother left in the first place.
    Dashiell took a step forward and put his face up to the plastic purse, his tail slapping against my leg. Madison ignored him. She put her glasses back on, turned and walked after Leon, who was already leaving the park. For a moment, I just stood there watching them, the father looking in one direction, the kid in another, the empty space between them, space where Sally could have walked were Sally here. They stopped at the comer to wait for the light to change, then crossed the street and headed down the block, neither one turning back to see if I was with them. I tapped my leg to let Dashiell know we were going and hurried to catch up.

CHAPTER 2

    We walked pretty much in silence, or rather we walked from Washington Square Park to Greenwich and Bank streets with the accompaniment of sirens, helicopters, pneumatic drills, horns honking, dogs barking, cell phones and bicycle bells ringing, babies crying, people shouting, the usual cacophony of a big city, but without a conversation of our own.
    Leon and Madison lived in a brick apartment building on the west side of the street; there was a restaurant on the east side and a supermarket on the northwest comer of the intersection. Leon unlocked the inner lobby door, and we walked up a flight of stairs to the second floor, Leon taking the lead, Dashiell next, then me, Madison and her turtle bringing up the rear. Like most kids over ten or eleven, Madison had walked home as if she were by herself, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind, sometimes off to the side, but never right alongside her parent and never, as far as I could see, holding hands.
    When Leon unlocked the door, we entered a short hall with a hugely overcrowded clothing rack full of coats and jackets, then a small foyer with a desk, a laptop, a printer and a wall of books. The bookshelves continued around the next wall and down one side of the living room, all the way to the far wall of windows facing east and overlooking Greenwich Street. The small kitchen, at the far end of the foyer, had a window, a real prize in New York City. Between the office area and the doorway to the kitchen, Leon had an oversize dining room table covered with books, tossed-off clothing, newspapers, magazines, cereal boxes, empty soda cans and unopened mail.
    As soon as we were inside, Madison disappeared down a hallway just beyond the archway to the living room. A moment later, I heard a door slam, but before Leon had the chance to offer me a glass of water or a place to sit, she was back, this time without her shoes and without the turtle. Or so I thought. But then she walked up to Dashiell, opened her hand, and there it was, smack in the middle of her small palm. When Dashiell leaned closer to get a good sniff, Madison took a step backwards, retreating in slow motion and taking Dashiell along with her.
    “Leave the door open,” Leon said, turning to me and raising his eyebrows as a way of asking if it was okay for Dashiell to go off with Madison. But before I had the chance to answer, we heard the door to Madison’s room slam again, this time louder. And a moment after that, Dashiell was back, the door apparently having been closed in his face.
    Leon shook his head. “Twelve,” he said. “Just. But eleven wasn’t any better. Neither was ten.”
    There was a daybed under the living room windows, a small, faded love seat against the wall to the left. I sat on the love seat. Leon walked over