Swallowing a Donkey's Eye by Paul Tremblay

Author:Paul Tremblay
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781926851709
Publisher: ChiZine Publications
Published: 2012-07-28T16:00:00+00:00

34

FIVE NUMBERS DEEP INTO

THE CONFIRMATION NUMBER

We’re still idling in the limo.

Melissa says, “Mr. Mayor, you want to follow this up with your own confessional?”

“Fuck you, too.”

“Fair enough.” She turns the camera back on. “Joseph, you two don’t look like father and son.”

“Because I’m white and he’s black?”

Melissa isn’t flustered. She says, “Besides the obvious, Father.”

She calls him Father when the camera is on. I think about what I should call him, then I stop thinking about him when I see Melissa’s smart phone hanging in a holster on her utility belt. Is finding Mom as easy as a cell phone call?

My father says, “He has my spirit, my joie de vivre, and my eyes, and possibly my mouth. Otherwise he looks just like his mother.”

Melissa says, “Where is she?”

My father looks at me. Glasses back on. “That’s the sixty five thousand dollar question. We don’t know, do we?”

I say, “Can I use your phone, Melissa?”

She unholsters it and tosses it over. Camera, of course, now pointed at me. Hope she gets my best side.

My father sings, “Who ya gonna call?”

I say, “Somebody. Police, maybe. Report my mother as missing.”

“I knew you were going to say that. Don’t do it, kiddo. If you report her as missing, that’s as good as listing her as homeless, or dead.”

I look at Melissa for some sort of visual confirmation or denial on her part. But she’s all about the camera now. I try talking to her. “What do you think, Melissa?”

She says nothing. Right, she’s part of the background now. Cinéma vérité, my ass.

I say, “I want to know why her apartment is empty.”

“I told you she’s fine. She left, is all.”

“You know this for sure.”

“We already talked about this. I haven’t spoken with her since before you left for Farm. But I know she’s okay. Trust me.”

“Yeah, trust you.” I stand up and walk toward the front of the limo, away from him and Melissa. She gets up and follows me. Dad stays put. I dial information and ask for the police department, not an emergency line. I follow automated directions skipping past menu options that include curfew schedules, updates to anti-terrorism laws, street blockade schedules, Ad-Walker complaint-lines, homeless sighting hotline, and ways to make donations to the policeman’s ball fund. Finally, it’s press 9 for the report missing persons line.

I tell the police secretary my mother’s name and her former address. Camera still rolling, I say to Melissa, “You’re not going to broadcast my mother’s name and address, are you?” She gives me an off-camera thumbs-up. Which is great. Only, I can’t tell if that’s a yes or no.

The secretary says, “No, we will not broadcast your mother’s name and address. That’s not how we do it.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t talking to you.”

“How long has your mother been missing?”

“Four, maybe six weeks, I guess.”

“You’re guessing?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know the exact amount of time, but it has been substantial. It’s a long story, alright?”

There’s a measure or two of silence on the other end.

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