Missing Pieces by Norma Fox Mazer

Author:Norma Fox Mazer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media

SIXTEEN

Flecks of Paint

“I don’t think Zis has been eating breakfast,” my mother said. She picked up her cigarette pack and lighter. “If she gets any skinnier, she’ll disappear. Before you go to school, shove some food under her nose and say, Eat! And make sure she does, because I can’t. When I walk out of here, I can’t keep track of who’s doing what.”

I parked my face guiltily in my cup. I still hadn’t told her about Dennis Wells. It was like not telling Meadow about Jack Kettle. I kept thinking I’d get around to it, but half the week had passed, and I hadn’t said a word.

“I’ll take care of Aunt Zis,” I said.

“Thanks, sweetie.” She kissed the top of my head.

“Aunt Zis, I put some toast and cottage cheese out on the table for you.”

“Why?” She was fastening on a pair of small pearl earrings.

“For your breakfast.”

“Do we have strawberries?”

“Just strawberry jam. You have to eat, Aunt Zis. Okay?”

“What do you mean, I have to eat? Everyone has to eat.”

“You have to eat breakfast is what I mean.”

She took off the pearl earrings and put on another pair, tiny gold hoops. “Did you eat breakfast?”

“Yes!”

“What did you eat?” she demanded.

“Cornflakes and milk.”

“Good,” she said.

While Aunt Zis was eating, I called the Public Safety building. I had never phoned the police before, and when I asked for Sergeant Wells, I had another stab of guilt, as if the cop on the other end of the line knew I was doing things behind my mother’s back.

“Hold on,” she said.

There was a long silence. Then I heard his voice. “Hello?”

“Sergeant Wells? This is Jessie. Jessie Wells. I called you the other day.” He didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t remember me. “I’m James Wells’s daughter.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You said we could talk when you had time. So I thought if you told me when that would be—”

“Now,” he said.

“Now? Great.” I jumped up. I couldn’t sit still.

“What do you want to know, Jessie?”

I walked back and forth, pulling the phone cord after me. What did I want to know? “Anything,” I blurted. “James Wells is your cousin?”

“Second cousin. Our fathers were first cousins. They had the same grandfather, Hubert Wells, an old farmer.”

“Did you and James live near each other?”

“No, no. City boy and country boy.”

“He was the city boy?”

“Me! He lived in the country. Hated it. Couldn’t wait to get out of Hicksville.”

“He lived in a place called Hicksville?”

“No, that’s what he called it. He lived in Myrtle.”

“Is that up north?” Once, on the way to the St. Lawrence, we had gone off Route 81 there, looking for a bathroom.

“Yeah, cow town. You can smell the manure. Two houses, twenty-five barns, and a bar, that’s Myrtle. Jimmy got out of there when he was sixteen.”

“Where’d he go?”

“West. Wyoming, I think. What’s the cowboy state? Maybe it was Montana. He was back here a few years later, hung around for a while, and took off again. Another two, three years, he comes back for a year or so.

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