Part 52 (1/2)
”Yes,” said Tara. ”But, Jared, she actually was waving goodbye. And I waved goodbye to her.”
When was the last time Jared saw her? Friday morning. He'd been running late, they'd gone to bed late, woke up late; there was a direct relations.h.i.+p. As a result, he'd been barely able to kiss the kids, kiss her, grab the mug of coffee she made him, say, ”G'day, fellas. Be good for your mom,” and speed out the door. She waved (goodbye?) to him, too. She said, ”Have a nice day, honey. Drive safe.” Perhaps she didn't always say drive safe. Perhaps she never said it. But he had been in a hurry. She had been engaged in the world around her. She wasn't distracted. She was getting milk for Michelangelo, and she smiled at him from behind the island. Her smile had beena Again, it was only now. At the time, he thought nothing of it. Now he was animating her smile, personifying it with attributes it hadn't had at the time. Now it seemed to him that she glistened as she smiled, that her eyes had been wet, that she gazed at him longer than usual, smiled at him and studied him, as if what? As if she had known she wasn't going to see him again?
This was absurd! He had asked Michelangelo earlier. He was such a sensitive boy. Did Mommy seem different Friday morning?
”Different how?”
”I dunno. You tell me. Did she seem in any way different?”
”Nah,” he said. ”She seemed exactly the same. She hugged me for five minutes.”
”She did?”
”Uh-huh. I was like, Mom, let go, I have to go learn something.”
”What did she say?”
”Nothing. Said she loved me.”
”Was that unusual?”
”No, Dad,” Michelangelo said slowly. ”Mom says she loves me all the time.”
”Of course she does, son. And do you know why she says it?”
”Because she loves me?” he said happily, skipping away.
She hugged Michelangelo for five minutes. Her eyes looked wet when she waved goodbye to Jared, and smiled. She didn't remember Zoolander. She lost weight. She stopped shopping. The evidence was in, ladies and gentlemen! Clearly this woman was contemplating the unthinkable! The unimaginable.
Did he even sleep? Jared didn't know. It was the second night he hadn't gone to his bedroom. He showered in the kid's bathroom, put on Asher's deodorant, hadn't shaved since Friday morning and was sporting a formidable gray stubble that made him look older and tired, as reported by Michelangelo, who was the first one up, climbing onto Jared's chest, turning on the T V, rubbing Jared's rough cheeks and saying, ”Dad, did you fall asleep in front of the TV again?”
”Can you believe it?”
Michelangelo kissed him, patted his chest, climbed off, nuzzled close. ”I can believe it because you're a weirdo.”
Jared slept the broken shallow sleep of the anguished as his seven-year-old watched four repeats of Full House.
At ten on Sunday morning he called the detectives. After they came by, Jared spent an hour with them going over every detail he could think of for their missing persons report. They pretended not to study him as they took down the information. Except they couldn't help it; they both stared when Cobb asked him, ”You sure there was no trouble in your marriage?”
”No,” said Jared, in a defeated voice because she wasn't home. ”Nothing beyond the usual.”
”What's usual?”
”I don't know. Occasional short tempers. Bad moods. Nothing serious. No yelling.” Except for that one strange night in February when for an evening he thought Larissa was losing her grip on reality, on sanity. But that pa.s.sed, it was just an aberration. And it was nearly four months ago! She didn't go back to the city for the hair color, even when he tried to insist; she dismissed it, was no longer interested. Jared stopped speaking, worn out.
They continued to stare at him.
The husband is always the suspect, Cobb told him. Always. That's who we look to first.
”How can I be the suspect?” Jared scoffed. ”I was the one who reported her missing.”
Husband always reports her missing. He is always distraught. He always goes on the evening news and pleads for his wife's safe return. He is always the one searching, calling us incessantly, boisterously lamenting her absence.
”Is that what I am? Boisterous? Calling you incessantly?”
You are searching.
”Are they usually found?”
Yes. The detectives said nothing after that, as if the silence was the meaningful part.
”Alive?”
No.
”Ah.” Jared waited, thought it out. ”Is the husband usually the culprit?”
Nearly always, Mr. Stark.
After that Jared fell silent. To find her, that would be good. Alive, even better. To prove them wrong, a corollary benefit. But that wasn't the question swirling around in his head. It was more vague, laced with torture and ambiguity and terror for his days ahead, like night covering the rest of his life.
”What ifawhat ifa” How to say it? How to ask.
What if she is not found? Finney asked for him.
”Thank you. Yes.”
What's your question, Mr. Stark?
”What happens then? In the past, what's happened if months have gone by and the wife has not been found? Has that ever happened?”
They thought about it. Twice, Finney said.
”And?”
The husband called off the search.
”The husband called off the search?”
That's right.
Funny, that. Because Jared couldn't imagine doing that. And now he couldn't even if he wanted to. How could he? That's what the husband always did.
”Were those two women eventually found?”
Yes. Again with the laden silence.
”Alive?”
No.