For Whom the Minivan Rolls by JEFFREY COHEN Page B

that it was
actually producing words, was that strange combination that only
occurs in the newly pubescent boy—deep and light at the same
time.
    “Do what?”
    “Make my dad go away.”
    “You saw,” I said. “I told him I didn’t want
anything from him. If I don’t want anything from him, he has no
power over me.” It occurred to me that I wouldn’t be thrilled with
anyone teaching Ethan this particular lesson, but what the hell,
Beckwirth was no friend of mine.
    “Wow. Nobody ever does that.”
    “Not even your mom? They don’t ever argue?” Am I
subtle, or what? The kid neither curled up into the fetal position
nor began to suck his thumb at the mention of his mother. You want
to talk experienced interviewer. . .
    “No.” Joel’s face closed. He started looking past me
to the poster behind my head. I regrouped. I pulled out a chair
from behind the desk. As a concession to the 21st century, the boy
had been allowed a desktop computer, but used it, no doubt, for
nothing but homework.
    “Not ever? All married couples argue once in a
while.”
    He sputtered, a kind of laugh. “Married couples,” he
said. “Argue.”
    “Was your mom unhappy lately?”
    “I dunno.”
    “Would she say anything to you if she was?” I sat
backwards on the chair, just a friendly guy asking friendly
questions. Joel’s diamond-shaped face was doing its best not to
look in my direction.
    “Probably not.”
    I concentrated on what Spenser would do in this
case. Probably he’d go to his office and wait for a gangster to
show up and explain the whole thing to him. Or he’d go down to the
gym and work out with his friend Hawk while discussing whether
Jersey Joe Woolcott was really better than Felix Trinidad.
    Personally, I didn’t see how Spenser’s approach
would help me here, but then, I’m not equipped to
outpunch. . . well, anybody, to be completely honest. So
I guess I couldn’t criticize the guy. Besides, he’s fictional, and
that’s always an edge.
    I decided on another approach. I rubbed my eyes with
my thumb and forefinger, trying my best to look perplexed. Problem
was, I also dislodged my left contact lens, and spent a couple of
minutes blinking at Joel while he stared, mystified, at this insane
man who had decided to come to his room and poke his own eyes
out.
    “Are you okay?” he asked, less out of concern than
simple curiosity.
    I stopped rubbing, and did my best to look like I
was in deep despair. “I’m okay,” I sniffed, “it’s just that
I’m. . . well, never mind. . .”
    “You’re what?” He was hoping I was going to say that
I was dying of an inoperable brain tumor, or distraught because his
father was so much richer than me. He leaned forward, elbow on a
knee, listening intently.
    “I’m just worried about your mom,” I said. “I’m
supposed to find her, and nothing’s going right.” I did my best to
sound on the verge of tears, although my acting experience ended
with “House of Halvah,” roughly the time Ronald Reagan was first
elected president. (I believe that if an actor can be president,
there is no point in being an actor. But that’s another story.)
    “Oh,” Joel said, disappointed. “Well, what have you
been doing to find her?”
    “Well, that’s just the thing. I don’t know what to do. I’ve asked everybody she knows. Nobody can think
of a reason she’d leave.” Maybe he could, went the
inference.
    Alas, the child was as good at reading inferences as
he was at witty exchanges. “Maybe somebody kidnapped her,” he said,
with definite relish in his voice. The relish reminded me to ask
him later about the barbecue sauce.
    “Well, did you hear anything the night she, um,
disappeared?”
    “Yeah,” he said, and then sat there, staring blankly
at me.
    Yeah? He’d heard something? There might be a
way to proceed from here? Somebody, especially this kid, was going
to cooperate? How could that be?
    I waited a few seconds, nodded, and looked
encouraging.