Big Mouth Ugly Girl

  Matt said grimly, “That’s them. But they want me.”

  The four of them watched in silence as Pumpkin and the caption have you seen me? came onto the TV screen. Pumpkin was one of a melancholy sequence of “lost” pets. Her coat looked more sand colored than golden, and her warm, intelligent brown eyes appeared demonic, reflecting a camera’s red flash. Her tongue lolled from her mouth at a strange angle. She was sitting with her head raised, alert. Matt had taken the photo himself a few years ago. Weird, he thought, how photos are taken in all innocence and you could never guess how they might be one day used in newspapers, in obituaries.

  Matt vowed he’d never again smile like an idiot for any camera.

  Alex whispered, “I really let you down, Pumpkin. I wish . . .”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Alex,” Matt said quickly.

  “Yes, it was. It sure was.”

  Matt’s mother began to speak, as if she hadn’t been listening to this exchange. She was looking at Matt with her flat, glistening eyes. “I’ve tried to call your father. He’s in San Diego for the weekend, being interviewed. ‘Wined and dined’ as he says. But he is on a short list, I think. I mean, I think . . . this time, he is.”

  Matt and Alex exchanged glances: San Diego? Short list? Since when? “I wasn’t sure if I should tell him anything more than that Pumpkin is missing. As if she’d wandered off . . .”

  Matt said, “Right, Mom. That’s a good idea.”

  “There’s no point in upsetting him, after all. Is there.”

  It was a statement, not a question. No need to answer.

  Matt drifted to the telephone as if he couldn’t stay away from it. He lifted the receiver, intending to call the Rocky River police another time, but his mother said quickly, “Matt, no. You’ll only antagonize them.”

  Matt protested, “But they’re not doing anything. They’re not looking for Pumpkin.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know.”

  Matt’s mother glanced nervously at Ursula, who stood with her arms folded self-consciously, leaning against an arm of the sofa near Alex. There was an air of unease between them, though Mrs. Donaghy made an effort to smile at Ursula and Ursula smiled in return. Matt had never seen Ursula so subdued. If he hadn’t known her better, he’d have thought she was—what? Shy? Ursula Riggs! And his mother, whose social manner was determinedly effervescent, as if she’d been trained as a girl to be bright and brisk and sunny, like a butterfly buffeted by the wind, seemed to be intimidated by Ursula, who was at least three inches taller than she, and more solidly built. Ursula wore only two gold studs in her ears this morning, but she was wearing her Mets cap, and her maroon satin Rocky River sports jacket, jeans, and leather boots. With her short hair and blunt, snubnosed face, and those steely-blue eyes, you’d have to glance twice to see, yes, this is a girl. Matt had to smile. There was no one like Ursula. It intrigued him to see his mother observing Ursula, and to wonder what she thought. No one could have guessed that this tough-looking babe was the daughter of Clayton Riggs, CEO at Drummond, Inc. No one could have guessed that she lived in the most exclusive area of Rocky River.

  “Ursula? Would you like some coffee, or—fruit juice? I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted,” Matt’s mother said.

  “No thanks, Mrs. Donaghy. But should I get you a little more coffee?”

  Ursula was the one to bring the coffeepot to Matt’s mother, and to carry it back to the kitchen. Matt’s mother smiled again up at her, now with more animation. “Matt mentioned you’re interested in—biology? And art?”

  “I love art, yes. Wish I was better at it!”

  “Do you draw? Paint?”

  “Mainly draw.”

  “I majored in art history in college, at Barnard. American nineteenth century . . .”

  “Do you know a painting by Edwin Elmer, Mourning? It’s my favorite American painting, just about.”

  “Yes! I love that painting, too. It’s so—”

  “Haunting. Gives me shivers!”

  To Matt’s astonishment, there were Ursula and his mother speaking animatedly about some nineteenth-century painting he’d never heard of. Matt couldn’t believe that his mother was talking so knowledgeably: explaining how the artist Edward Elmer, who was self-trained, had composed the painting out of photographs. Mrs. Donaghy had quit her part-time job for reasons of “health,” and for the past several weeks she’d stayed home, tired, sallow skinned, and depressed, but now, talking with Ursula, she was smiling happily.

  “Do you have pets, Ursula?”

  “I wish I did, Mrs. Donaghy, but—no. My dad likes to pretend he’s allergic.”

  “You get very attached to them, you know.”

  “Oh, I know! I love Pumpkin, actually.”

  “Do you—know Pumpkin?”

  “Well—”

  Ursula glanced at Matt, who said awkwardly, “Mom, Ursula and I go hiking a lot. Pumpkin comes with us. Ursula’s gotten to know her.”

  Ursula said, “She’s a wonderful dog. She’s—like a human being, actually.” Ursula paused, and said vehemently, “No. She’s a whole lot better than most human beings.”

  For a moment it looked as if Matt’s mother was going to cry. Then she said, reaching for Ursula’s hand, “It was so kind of you, dear, to testify on Matt’s behalf. To the principal, and to the police. You made all the difference.”

  Ursula said quickly, “People didn’t really believe that Matt was involved in anything crazy like that, Mrs. Donaghy. Really, they didn’t. It’s just—like—some kind of mass hysteria. And then it got on TV.”

  “And now this—that has happened to Pumpkin. Because of those Brewer girls’ lies.”

  “Because of the lawsuit, Mom,” Matt said. “That’s the reason.”

  Ursula glanced quickly at Matt, as if to appeal to him: Don’t be harsh with your mother! Not now.

  In a sudden outburst of emotion Matt’s mother said, “If only these terrible, cruel people would call us and tell us what they want . . . what they intend to do with Pumpkin. I can’t bear this much longer!”

  She began to cry. Shocking tears ran down her cheeks. Matt stood petrified, unable to respond, but Ursula went instinctively to Mrs. Donaghy and put her arms around the smaller woman. Matt’s mother was sobbing as if her heart were broken. “I always wished I had a daughter too, and not just sons. I miss a daughter. I’m so lonely here, sometimes, in this house. . . .”

  FORTY-TWO

  I SAID TO MATT, “I HAVE AN IDEA. C’MON!”

  “What?”

  We were alone now, outside Matt’s house in the driveway. I put my hands on his shoulders and looked him eye-to-eye. “Just tell me: Who do you think took Pumpkin?”

  There was a pause. Matt hesitated.

  “I told you, Ursula. It could be almost anybody . . .”

  “No! It’s one person, with maybe some help. Who’s that person?”

  Again Matt paused. I could see in his eyes he knew.

  I said, “My dad says in cases like this, if somebody is trying to harm you and you don’t know who, just guess: The first person you name will probably be the guilty party. So—who?”

  “. . . Trevor Cassity.”

  Trevor Cassity! This made sense.

  But Matt had something to tell me that was unexpected.

  “I never told you, Ursula, I’ve been kind of . . . ashamed. But Cassity and some of his friends cornered me a few weeks ago, and”—Matt was mumbling now, so I could hardly decipher his words, “sort of . . . beat up on me. I couldn’t get away. It was hard for me to believe they hated me so, and wanted . . . really to hurt me. I kept thinking they’d stop. They called me ‘fag’ and taunted me about the lawsuit and . . . knocked me down. I wasn’t really hurt,” Matt said quickly, seeing the look in my face, “so I didn’t tell anybody.”

  “You didn’t tell anybody?”

  “Like I said, I was sort of . . . ashamed.”

  “You didn’t tell the police?”
r />   “At the time, no. Last night I gave them Cassity’s name, and a few others, to check out.” Matt’s mouth twisted bitterly. “I don’t think the police took it very seriously. Pumpkin’s only a dog.”

  I pulled at Matt, urging him to his car. “C’mon. We’re going there.”

  “Going where?”

  “Cassity’s house. I know where he lives.”

  Matt balked. “Cassity’s house? If he took Pumpkin, he wouldn’t have her there. He’s too smart for that.”

  “Matt, c’mon. We’re going.”

  “But—”

  “Do you want Pumpkin back safely, or what?”

  “Of course, Ursula. But—”

  Now I was pushing him. “C’mon.”

  Ugly Girl, warrior-woman, in action!

  * * *

  That morning when I was running out to go to Matt’s house my mother called after me, “Ursula! Where on earth are you stampeding to?” and I shouted back, “Got to help out a friend, Mom.” Mom called some question after me I couldn’t hear, I was already out the door.

  Ugly Girl, helping out a friend.

  Ugly Girl, hugging a friend’s mom. Wild!

  I had to concede: Mrs. Donaghy, when I first saw her, looked exactly like the kind of weepy wimpy female I can’t stand, way, way worse than my own mom in her lousiest moods, but when I got to know her just a little, I liked her. I felt sorry for her. She was just sort of . . . soft. Like bread dough that hasn’t been baked yet, to get a firm crust.

  It wasn’t like Ugly Girl to feel sorry for weakness, especially in somebody’s mother (who should be strong, in my opinion), but Matt’s mother was a nice person, I could tell. And smart.

  And she was Matt’s mother.

  The Cassitys lived in a white colonial house with sort of fussy shutters and trim, a quarter mile from my house. In the circular driveway at the Cassitys’ house there was a car that looked like a Lexus, and there was a larger vehicle that looked like a Land Rover. “See?” I said, excited. “That could be the SUV Alex saw.” Matt was slow to switch off the ignition, like he was worried about what we were doing, but I was feeling the FIERY RED rising in my spine like liquid mercury. That rush you feel running out onto the basketball court or the hockey field. That rush that tells you this is why I was born.

  Driving over, Matt was debating with me about the wisdom of confronting Trevor Cassity like this. Sure, Cassity might have been involved in snatching Pumpkin—it was the sort of cruel, childish thing Cassity might do; but if so, he wouldn’t have done it alone, and one of his friends probably had Pumpkin hidden away somewhere. She might be miles away in somebody’s lodge in the mountains. . . . Strange: Even an intelligent guy like Matt Donaghy must have some sort of macho pride, he’s more afraid of making a fool of himself than of something really crucial, like his dog he loves getting hurt. Ugly Girl didn’t give a damn for pride, at least not that kind.

  “Hey, Matt. We want Pumpkin back safely, don’t we?”

  “Sure, but—”

  I tried to be reasonable with Matt, I knew he’d been through a lot. He’d hardly slept last night. I said, “Would you rather sit around your house waiting for the phone to ring? Waiting for the police to come up with ‘new developments’?”

  “No, Ursula, but—”

  “C’mon, then!”

  I was out of Matt’s car and halfway up the walk by the time Matt caught up with me. We were both breathing quickly, excited.

  It was two twenty-four P.M. Pumpkin had been missing for about twenty hours. It seemed like a lot longer.

  We rang the doorbell. After a while there came Trevor’s father to open the door, looking surprised to see us. Especially to see me. “Ursula Riggs! Hello.” Mr. Cassity was wearing a sweatshirt and slacks and bifocal glasses I’d never seen on him before, which he quickly removed from his face. He smiled and blinked at me, puzzled.

  Wondering what Clayton Riggs’s daughter was doing, ringing his doorbell on a Saturday afternoon?

  Matt introduced himself, but it didn’t seem like Mr. Cassity caught the name “Donaghy,” or as if it meant anything to him. Mr. Cassity was mostly looking at me.

  Unlike my father, who kept in good condition considering his size and age, Mr. Cassity was soft-looking in his face and body, like he was melting downward. He seemed confused by Matt’s question, “Maybe you know why we’re here, Mr. Cassity?” and shook his head, no he did not, unless we wanted to see Trevor?

  “Thanks, Mr. Cassity,” Matt said. “We sure would.”

  He invited us inside but we said we’d wait outside. We heard Mr. Cassity calling “Trev-or!” up the stairs.

  Weird: A jock like Trevor Cassity who carried himself so boastfully at school, who’d been bragging of his full-tuition sports scholarship to Tulane for next year, was just a kid who lived with his parents like the rest of us and he was upstairs in his room and his father summoned him downstairs calling, “Trev-or!” Like Trevor could be eight years old, not eighteen.

  I nudged Matt, and Matt nudged me. We were both shaking. Maybe we were scared, but I preferred to think it was excitement, like before a big game.

  “One of us should’ve staked out the back,” I said, giggling. “Like on TV. If Trevor tries to escape.”

  Matt said, grinning, “I should’ve brought my Colt AR-15 assault rifle.”

  I pressed my hands over my ears. “I didn’t hear that! I didn’t hear a damned thing.” We were losing control, everything was so funny.

  But there came Trevor Cassity, led by his father, who was smiling and behaving like a genial Rocky River host. “Some friends of yours, Trev.” Trevor was wearing a T-shirt with a soiled, stretched neck, and jeans and wool socks with no shoes, and wasn’t looking very cool, like he’d just gotten up a few minutes ago. His eyes were bloodshot, staring at Matt and me. His mouth seemed to drop open, just perceptibly. Did he look guilty? We motioned for him to come outside, we wanted to talk to him, even as Mr. Cassity invited Matt and me inside again—“Kids, it’s too cold to stand out here on the stoop, c’mon in, please.” I told Mr. Cassity, politely as I could, that we didn’t have time to visit, we just had to talk to Trevor for five minutes, and Mr. Cassity was looking disappointed, like a kid nobody wants to play with. He said, “Well. Say hello to your father for me, Ursula, will you?”

  So Trevor shut the door, not wanting his father to overhear, and tried to stare us down. “What do you want?” he asked. His voice quavered, I thought. Matt said, “You know what we want, Cassity,” and I said, “Trevor, we’ve come for Matt’s dog. We know you have her.” Trevor tried to sneer, “Dog? What dog? You’re crazy.” Matt was clenching his fists, saying, “We know it was you and your buddies, so come on. We want Pumpkin back now.” I’d never seen Matt so aggressive. I was fearful he’d lose control and jump at Trevor and they’d start fighting, and Trevor outweighed Matt by maybe twenty pounds, and Ugly Girl would have to get involved, and everything would be ruined.

  I tried to keep my voice calm. “Trevor, everybody knows it was you. Your Land Rover was identified. There’s a witness. We told the police we’d talk to you first. We don’t want anything to happen to Pumpkin, see? So tell us where she is.” Trevor was panting, as if he’d been running. He did look frightened. But defiant and stubborn, too. Shaking his head like we were totally crazy. Trying to laugh. “Look, I don’t know anything about any dog. Whose dog?”

  I said, “Trevor, come on. This is serious.”

  Matt said, “If you’ve hurt Pumpkin, you’ll be sorry. Where is she?”

  Trevor kept denying knowing anything about Pumpkin, but he was getting more and more nervous. Had he really thought he and his buddies could get away with this? Maybe they’d been drunk and hadn’t thought their plan through. I told Trevor the police were getting a warrant to search houses and property, and Trevor said, with his ugly laugh, “Go on! Let ’em try.” So maybe Matt was right: They’d hidden Pumpkin away somewhere. By the time she was found, she might have starved to death.
/>
  Or she might be dead already.

  I said, “If we don’t get Pumpkin back by six tonight, I’m going to tell on you.”

  “‘Tell on me’—what?”

  “Tell my dad.”

  Trevor’s mouth quivered as if he wanted to laugh. But he was catching on.

  “You wouldn’t want that, Trev, would you? My dad having a serious conversation with your dad?”

  “Look, Ursula, what’s this got to do with you? This is between Donaghy and me, and it’s crazy anyway. Nobody can prove a thing.”

  Trevor was looking worried now. Rubbing his hand over his stubbly chin. He was one of those guys who are considered good-looking—even sexy—but when you actually look at them close up, at a time like this, they don’t exude much charm, only look like overgrown spoiled kids. I could see Trevor’s eyes narrowing like a cornered rat’s.

  “Matt is my friend, and so is Pumpkin. Where is she?”

  “I told you: I don’t have Donaghy’s dog. What’d I want with Donaghy’s dog!”

  Matt said, “You know where she is, though. Where?”

  Trevor hesitated. He was trying to think. “Maybe I might . . . if I ask around.”

  Matt said, “Well, you’d better ask around, then. Right now.”

  Trevor protested, “I can’t promise anything, because I don’t know.” He was sounding weak and unconvincing, though.

  “We want Pumpkin back by six tonight, or I’m going to talk to my dad.”

  “That’s sick! That’s like something little kids would do.”