The Never List

flipped open my laptop. I ran a search on Sylvia Dunham and discovered in seconds that it was a common name. The first hits were the Sylvia Dunham in question, though: the news stories in the small local papers in Oregon and a couple of the Web sites of the bigger news outlets, all articles about her marriage to Jack Derber. The angle most of the stories took was how this evil beast had found love through the mail. They would have been human interest stories, if they had been about an actual human.
    One was even written with a humorous slant, filled with crass, silly jokes—calling him “Professor Pain” in the headline—as though Jack had been little more than a comic book villain. When I read it, I slammed my laptop shut so hard, I had to open it back up again to check the screen, to make sure it hadn’t shattered. Igrabbed the remote and turned off the television. I sat in the silence, staring at myself reflected in its blank display.
    I didn’t know what I was looking to find in those news stories. I guess I’d wanted to see a more recent picture of her, to see which face of hers was looking back at me—the girl from junior or senior year. But of course there were only pictures of Jack, the star of the story, staring out with his own creepy half-smile.
    Could Sylvia really have found that happiness of her junior year being bound to a man like Jack?
    I could certainly understand her appeal—that smiling exuberance bursting from that stiff school picture pose. From what I knew of Jack, it must have been enticing for him to meet someone so young, vulnerable, full of life. I could only imagine how he would have treasured her enthusiasm, her naïve ideals. And mostly, how he would have enjoyed putting out that special light of hers with a brutality few could understand as well as I.

CHAPTER 23
    The next day Tracy and I set out on our detour to New Orleans. I felt even more anxious than usual because I was impatient to get back out to Oregon to investigate. All the threads of this story were coming together—I could feel it—though in what way I couldn’t yet see. This trip was Tracy’s one condition, though, so I knew we had to go. I wondered where she was taking me, but I didn’t ask any questions, for fear of invading her privacy.
    We finally reached New Orleans in the late afternoon. I found myself strangely excited to see it, remembering vividly all the stories Tracy had told us over the years in the cellar. It had sounded so magical.
    The French Quarter was indeed beautiful, both stately and ramshackle at once. But as Tracy drove me up and down the streets, she pointed out the gritty landmarks of her childhood: a street corner of panhandlers, a run-down deli, a creepy back alley.
    “Not exactly from the tourist brochure, right?” she said, smiling as she parallel parked in front of a seedy diner.
    It was only when we returned to the car after a quick bite that I noticed how serious she had become.
    “Okay, let’s go.”
    I had no idea where we were going, but I nodded. I was always nodding to Tracy, as I did all those years ago when she ruled my life almost as much as Jack Derber had. I noticed she never expected me to do anything other than follow her every command. She never asked me now—as she had never asked me back then—what I thought. I felt a small revolt happening somewhere deep inside, but I stifled it. I owed Tracy at least that much, since she had joined me on this wild journey.
    Tracy turned the car around and drove in the opposite direction from downtown New Orleans. I looked up at the rearview mirror, only to see it receding into the distance.
    “Tracy,” I said, somewhat timidly, “aren’t we going in the wrong direction?”
    “Not exactly,” she said. “We’re not going far outside the city.”
    I didn’t say another word, even when we pulled off the highway onto a dirt road no one seemed to have been on in years. The ground was muddy and soft, and the car tires sank in a little too deep, I thought, to be entirely safe. Tracy rode the car hard, shifting into low gear and gunning the engine. I suddenly felt unsure of what was happening. The look of determination on Tracy’s face frightened me a little.
    “Tracy,” I began again, this time almost in a whisper, “where are we going?” I swallowed hard. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer. Suddenly it all flashed before me—maybe she still really did hate me. Now she would finally take her revenge. Maybe