Girl Held in Home by Elizabeth Searle

Author:Elizabeth Searle
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-89823-272-1
Publisher: New Rivers Press
Published: 2011-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

In our cold car, NPR came on with the engine. Before I could question Joezy about his Joo lie or he could let me know what-all he’d seen or heard in the art room, an NPR newsman reported a series of bomb threats this evening on New York City trains.

“You think Dad’s on one of those trains?” Joezy asked me, his voice suddenly open and boyish again. My boy. “God, Mom, you think these threats-or-whatever are for real?”

“No, no; I’m sure none of it’s real,” I told Joezy over the newscasters’ voice, hoping in my muddled mind that he’d know I meant Frannie and I weren’t real either.

We drove home listening to the news on various stations. I clutched the steering wheel, driving fast yet with super-concentration because I knew really I was too drunk to be behind the wheel. Too drunk to process all that was happening this overcrowded night.

I just wanted to get my son home, to make sure my husband was safe. Yes, that was all I wanted, all I should want.

We arrived to a garbled message from Dan on our kitchen phone machine. We both listened to it, side by side.

“calling from Penn Station … wouldn’t believe … got here then our train was cancelled again … damn bomb threats, they say … stuck here ’til the train’s cleared to go … sleeping on the wait-area chairs, all kinds of folks wandering by … just want to get home to you two …”

Dan’s usually unflappable voice sounded shaken. I tried his cell after we’d listened to the message; Joezy stood closer beside me as the phone started to ring. Then it was halted by a mechanical voice saying the system was down in this calling area; please try again. Joezy stalked to the den and switched on CNN; we saw nothing on the crawl about actual bomb attacks on New York trains.

“I’ll keep trying his cell,” I assured Joezy. He was watching the TV screen: stock footage of Osama Bin Laden in his tent.

“Yeah right,” Joezy answered me in his new edgy voice. Leaving the TV on, he brushed past me and Dan’s Stairmaster. He thumped up our real stairs to his room, thumped shut his door.

I shut off CNN and followed, kicking off my heels, suddenly exhausted. I trudged up the stairs, picturing Dan trying to sleep in a wait-area chair in Penn Station. I wondered if I’d locked the front door like Dan always did each night. I wondered if Joezy had carried that damn packed moneybag in from the car. Yes, he had, I felt sure. I brushed my teeth, trying to rinse the lingering martini taste away.

Yes, I had seen that bulging bag resting on our kitchen counter as we’d listened to Dan’s message. I’d count our take tomorrow.

I heard, as I stepped from the bathroom, Joezy’s bedsprings squeak. Really, I should talk to him, tell him what Joo’s mother had told me, ask him what he’d been doing these past few Fridays.

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