Desire Lines

  “That clipping you sent me about the French circus, now, that was really inspired. Don’t try to tell me otherwise.”

  “Mom-”

  “Where this lack of self-esteem comes from, I don’t know,” her mother says, exasperation in her voice. She opens the freezer and loads ice into her glass, three hard clinks. “I mean, I go out, I take people to see a house, and I know I’m going to sell it because I tell myself I can. That’s all it is, Kathryn, is believing in yourself.”

  “Mom. Stop. I don’t want to write articles about lobsters for the Bangor Daily News.”

  “Oh, I see,” she says, “I get it now. You’re too good for the Bangor Daily News.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that it would be silly to make plans. I don’t know how long I’m going to be around.”

  “Let’s be realistic,” her mother says. “You don’t seem to know what you want to do, and you don’t have anywhere to go. I’d say you’re going to be here awhile.”

  “Oh, my God,” Kathryn mumbles, despair rising up in her at the thought. “Maybe I should just leave, today, now, go to Boston and try to piece together a life for myself there….”

  Her mother looks at her, then pours two glasses of juice, holding the handle of the sweating pitcher in one hand, supporting it carefully with the other. She sets the pitcher down. “Why are you so terrified at the thought of living here?”

  “Which one of us will end up on the Left Bank?” Brian said. “Who’s going to Santa Fe? And who’s going to be stuck here in Bangor, with a snowmobile and a monster-sized television and brochures for cruise-line vacations tacked up on a bulletin board in the kitchen?”

  “Because it would feel … cowardly.”

  “But that’s silly. Lots of people live in Bangor their whole lives, and they’re perfectly happy about it. Look, you don’t have to make any hard and fast decision right now. You can stay here until you get your feet on the ground. And, you know, Frank Harnish has offered me the use of one of his cars while you’re home, so you’ll have your own transportation and not feel dependent on me.”

  “Who’s Frank Harnish?”

  “Oh, just a friend,” her mother says, “a dear, dear man who runs a car dealership out on Valley Road. But anyway, the point is, you have options.”

  Kathryn can tell by her mother’s studied-casual tone and the way her hand flutters to her throat that she’s been keeping this from her. “So what’s the story?” she demands. “Are you seeing this guy?”

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est ‘seeing’?” Her mother gives a little laugh and waves her hand dismissively. “We have dinner together every now and then. No big deal.”

  “You’ve never told me about him, but you’ve told him about me?”

  “Just the basic facts.”

  “Failed marriage, failed career, living at home with Mom—those facts?”

  “Basically. Hey, we’re getting a little yellow Saturn out of it.”

  “You’re amazing,” Kathryn says, shaking her head. For a moment the room is quiet except for the gurgling of the coffee machine. “Don’t you remember when we first moved here,” Kathryn says, “and we used to sit on the front porch together and you said the quiet could drive you out of your mind? Can’t you remember what that felt like?”

  “Gosh, I was awfully dramatic,” her mother says dryly. “I can see where you get it from.”

  “I just don’t want to end up here before I’ve even started.”

  “Look, Kathryn,” she says. “I don’t understand what it is you have to prove to yourself or God knows who else. You’re here now, you’ve got free housing for a while and some time on your hands, so I’m just suggesting you do something productive.”

  Kathryn gets up and pours two mugs of coffee, stirring milk into hers and Equal into her mother’s.

  “All I’m talking about is writing a little article for the local paper. I’m not suggesting you buy a house, for God’s sake.” Kathryn brings her a mug, and she holds it with both hands. “I just want you to be happy with yourself,” she says. “To feel valued for your skills. To do something meaningful while you’re here.”

  “You want to be able to brag about me.”

  “Maybe a little of that, too,” her mother says, lifting her shoulders in a coy you’ve-found-me-out shrug. “So will you talk to Jack? For my sake?”

  “Oh, Mother.”

  “Just this one thing. It’s all I ask.”

  Kathryn props her elbow on the table and puts her head in her hand. “All right,” she says. “All right all right all right.”

  THE OFFICES OF the Bangor Daily News are on the fringe of town, beyond the cluster of turn-of-the-century downtown storefronts, beyond even the litter of fast-food restaurants and gas stations on outer Main Street. The building sits beside the sprawling Bangor Auditorium, where a range of stars, from Reba McIntyre to Def Lepard to Billy Joel, come to perform, the last stop on many a Northeastern tour. Behind the auditorium is a racetrack populated with tired horses and bleary-eyed patrons clutching liquor bottles in paper bags. In front of the auditorium, five hundred yards from the News building, stands a thirty-one-foot fiberglass statue of the legendary lumberjack Paul Bunyan. He’s wearing a red-and-black checked shirt and massive hiking boots, with an ax thrown over his shoulder and a hearty grin on his bearded face—a cartoon embodiment of the pioneer spirit.

  When Kathryn had called a few hours earlier to see if Jack could meet with her, he didn’t seem surprised. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. “And I’ve been thinking a lot about Jennifer. I guess it’s only natural, with the reunion coming up. It’s hard not to think about what your life was like back then.”

  “I know,” she said. “Me, too.”

  “I’m glad you got in touch,” he said.

  Kathryn parks on Main Street beside the flat-topped, red-brick News building. Leaving the car unlocked as she always does (a longtime habit of growing up in a small town), she enters the building and climbs a set of stairs to the front desk. When she asks for Jack Ledbetter, the woman behind the counter directs her up another set of stairs to the second floor. Kathryn emerges, panting a bit, in the newsroom, a wide-open brown-carpeted space filled with desk clusters separated by low dividers. A computer terminal sits on each desk. Glass-fronted offices ring the walls.

  From out of one of these offices comes Jack, striding toward her with his arms outstretched. He looks like a reporter, Kathryn thinks, with his unruly hair, striped shirt half tucked in, loosened rep tie, and faded chinos. A grown-up boy.

  “Well, look at you,” he says, wrapping his arms around her. “Haven’t changed a bit, except the hair. I like it.”

  “You’re a good liar, Jack,” she says, her voice muffled in his shoulder. “I always liked that about you. And you really haven’t changed.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Ever since I got here, people have been telling me I look tired.”

  “What? No you don’t.” He pulls back and looks at her. “Okay, a little. But it’s been a rough summer, hasn’t it?”

  “A rough year.”

  “A rough ten years, but we can talk about that later,” he says, smiling. “Anyway, you’ll be fine; you’re back in Bangor now. You can slow down the pace a little.” Taking her by the hand, he leads her back to his office, past the reporters tapping at keyboards and the clerks looking at them furtively over the dividers.

  “So are you the grand pooh-bah?” she whispers.

  “No. I’m just the petty ruler of a little fiefdom. The pooh-bah lives in the big palace.” He gestures toward a corner office, where a beefy, balding guy in a white shirt and tie is sitting behind a desk. The guy glances up, and Jack flattens his hand in a mock salute. A clerk, watching them as they walk past, smiles and shakes her head.

  Jack goes into his office and sits behind his desk, motioning for Kathryn to sit in the chair opposite
. She looks around. The walls are covered with clippings and cheaply engraved plaques, prizes for reporting and a river rafting certificate. Through the scrim of dirt over the window, she can see a green sliver of park and Paul Bunyan’s indomitable profile. “A window office,” she says. “Pretty fancy. By the way, my mom said to tell you congratulations on the promotion.”

  “Well, thank her for me. But the only thing I should be congratulated for is successful scheming. I rustled up an offer from a Massachusetts paper, so the BDN had no choice.”

  “Smart.”

  “Very smart. And now I have a window office, a whole bunch of people to boss around, and all the free doughnuts I can eat. Life could be worse.”

  “You know, I’ve been following that three-part series you’re doing on deforestation,” she says. “It’s really good.”

  “Wait’ll you see the investigative report we’re doing on the blueberry industry.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “It’s a dangerous business, Kath, but somebody’s got to expose these people.”

  She laughs, remembering that it was this kind of self-deprecating humor that had made Jack so popular in high school. He didn’t intimidate anybody, as Rachel could; he didn’t, like Brian, confuse people with his offbeat sense of humor. When Jack entered a room, whether he knew anybody or not, he’d soon be spinning stories, drawing people toward him. Somehow, he always managed to sidle up to people and befriend them before they could even think of turning away.

  “So,” he says, leaning back in his chair and putting his sneakered feet up on the desk. “I was over at Sanborn Home Decorating the other day, picking up some paint chips for my new office—”

  “And you just happened to run into Skip Sanborn.”

  “Chip. But, yeah.” He grins. “And he told me some pretty interesting things about you. He says you’re a hotshot freelance journalist.”

  She squirms in her seat. “Not exactly. More like unemployed. I quit my job in Charlottesville a month ago, around the time I quit my marriage.”

  “I was sorry to hear about that.”

  She shrugs.

  “But I guess it’s probably better to know early if it’s not going to work out, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she says, gliding over it, “I’m glad it’s over. But what about you? What’ve you been up to?”

  “This job keeps me busy.”

  “You’re not married yet.”

  “Nooo.”

  “I always imagined you’d get married early, for some reason.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. You were so close to Rachel …”

  “Rachel and I weren’t—”

  “No, I know.” She smiles. Is it her imagination, or did he suddenly get a little defensive? “I just meant that you seemed to have such a nice rapport with her. You were one of those rare guys in high school who genuinely seemed to like the opposite sex. Not just—you know. But really …” She shrugs.

  His face relaxes into a grin. “Well, that’s probably true,” he says. “I just wish I had time for anything these days but work. Speaking of which,” he says, leaning forward, “didn’t you say on the phone that you had something to discuss with me?”

  She sits up straight. “Well, if you can call it that. Actually, it’s about-Well, as you’ve heard, I’ve been doing some writing in Charlottesville…. As a matter of fact, I brought a few pieces with me; they’re mostly silly, but I thought you might like to—”

  “I’d love to,” he says. Then, before she can stammer on, “Would you like to write something for us?”

  She sits back, surprised. “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ve actually got something in mind.”

  “You do?”

  “Maybe. I’ve been thinking about it since you called.” He squints, looking directly at her, as if trying to decide what to say. “I always thought you were a wonderful writer, Kath. The literary magazine was excellent our senior year.”

  “Oh. Thanks,” she says, warming to his words and then reddening slightly at her reaction to this ten-year-old praise. The literary magazine, Ramifications, had been her baby; she started it and served as editor for two years in a row. When they were seniors, it won two statewide awards. “But that was a long time ago.”

  “I’m sure you’ve only gotten better. And I think this story would be perfect for you.” He pauses. “You know our class reunion is this summer.”

  She grimaces. “I don’t really want to do a piece about our class—”

  “No. That’s not what I’m suggesting.” He unearths a telephone from a pile of papers and punches in a few numbers. “Cheryl, would you bring me that file you got from the library this morning?” He turns back to Kathryn. “I was looking at an old story the other day, and I came across all those news clippings about Jennifer. That was ten years ago, can you believe it?” He shakes his head slowly. “Anyway, most of them were from 1986, some from 1987, one from 1988. Then the story just went away.”

  “If there’s no news, I guess there’s no story.”

  “Well, yes and no. I think there is a story. And I’d like you to do it.”

  She inhales sharply. “God, Jack, I don’t know.”

  He leans forward on his forearms and speaks quietly, coaxing her toward him with the urgency in his voice. “Listen: Jennifer disappears on the night of her high-school graduation. She just vanishes. No clues, no note, no physical evidence, nothing. Nobody ever sees or hears from her again. Now it’s a decade later, the class of eighty-six is back for its tenth reunion, and her best friend, a reporter, decides to undertake her own investigation. Were there ever any suspects? Is the case closed?”

  “But, Jack—”

  “No, listen, Kath. This is an important story. I want you to go talk to Will, talk to Mrs. Pelletier, talk to Jennifer’s teachers, the police, all of us who were with her by the river that night. Trace her steps after she left us. You probably won’t find out anything new—but maybe, just maybe, you will. Either way, it’s a story.”

  “But don’t you think this might be a little exploitative?”

  “No, I don’t. Look, it’s not like she died. She disappeared. What does that mean? How does somebody just vanish into thin air? It’s unresolved, Kath, and if you want to get noble about it then you can think about the fact that you’re opening up a case they gave up on way too soon. Remember how every year on the anniversary of the day it happened Mrs. Pelletier used to run an ad offering money for any information? And after four or five years the money figure went away? It was obvious they were giving up. They still ran the ad for a while, but it was just a memorial—and then, three or four years ago, it stopped altogether. Doesn’t that seem creepy to you? Why hasn’t anybody pursued it any further? How could we have allowed that?”

  “Well, if you feel this way, why haven’t you investigated it?”

  He rocks back in his chair. “By the time I got here after college, the story was considered dead. I mentioned a few ideas to the crime reporter who covered it, but he wasn’t interested.” Gesturing with his chin toward the newsroom, he says, “Office politics. I didn’t want to step on anybody’s toes.”

  “So what’s changed?”

  “That crime reporter left, for one thing. Got an offer the BDN couldn’t match.” He grins. “The boss never liked him anyway.”

  A woman raps on the glass outside Jack’s office, and he motions for her to come in. She hands him a folder.

  “Thanks, Cheryl.” She nods and leaves his office. “Also,” he says, turning back to Kathryn, “now there’s a hook—and that hook is you.” He hands her the folder across the desk. “Here, you can start with this. It’s just a few clippings and a time line, but it should refresh your memory. You can use our library to find the rest.”

  She takes the folder from him, and it falls open on her lap. “Snapshot of a family struck by tragedy.” That’s the caption under the grainy photograph in the Xeroxed clipping, dated July 15, 1986, on the top of the pile. There is Jennifer,
her face guarded and secretive, standing on the steps of her home, with Will and their mother. Mrs. Pelletier’s arm is draped around Will’s shoulders, but Jennifer is standing slightly to the side. She isn’t touching anybody.

  “Think about it,” Jack says.

  “I’ll think about it.” She shuts the folder and stands to leave.

  “Of course,” he says, rising, “if you don’t want to do this, I need someone to cover Egg Day at Broadway Park.”

  She smiles. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Ledbetter.”

  “Listen to this little ditty from the Egg Day promotional packet,” he says, walking her out.” ‘Humpty Dumpty had a bad summer, Humpty Dumpty’s spring was a bummer, Humpty’s winter was no good at all, but-’”

  “Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s really awful, Jack.”

  “The choice is yours. Just let me know.” “HOW’D IT GO?” Kathryn’s mother asks brightly when she gets home. She’s come out into the garden to say hello.

  “It was nice. He was sweet.”

  Her mother looks up from where she’s digging in the dirt. “So …”

  Kathryn can feel the weight of her mother’s expectation on her shoulders, and she deliberately shrugs it off. “So nothing.”

  “You’re not going to do something for the paper?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”

  “Oh, Kathryn.” She sighs. “You are obstinate. Just like your father.”

  Kathryn crouches down, her arms crossed over her knees. “You can be pretty obstinate yourself.”

  Her mother wipes her forehead with the back of her white cotton glove, as big and rounded as a clown’s. “Good thing, with a daughter like you to contend with.”

  “I believe the chicken came first, Mom,” Kathryn says.

  PART TWO

  MEMORY

  Chapter 9

  After four cups of coffee Kathryn’s body is tingling. She might as well have injected the caffeine into her veins. She can’t think straight, can’t concentrate. Her senses sharpen: She hears a dump truck grinding down the street several blocks over; a child wails, an old lawn mower coughs into gear. The house is still. She wanders through the downstairs, chilly in the thin morning light, inspecting the familiar watercolor hanging in the living room and the Chinese plates on the dining-room wall. Little has changed since she lived here. It’s strange to her now that she ever did—it feels so much to her like her mother’s home.