Love in the Present Tense by Catherine Ryan Hyde Page B

looked up, the little sparrow had flown away. But that was okay. Pearl came to me all the time in all kinds of ways, all kinds of different things. Candle flames and rain and little birds. But when it stopped raining, or Mitch blew the candle out, or the bird flew away, I never felt that she was gone.
    It was such a great thing. It just filled me up.
    Mitch said there was a lady coming to talk to me that afternoon, to make sure I was okay.
    What lady? I wanted to know, and why would she think I wasn’t okay?
    He said that any time a little boy is away from his mother there are these people who work with the government who come check on that little boy to make sure he’s doing okay. He said it was up to this lady whether I stayed here or not, so if I was happy here, which he figured I was, I should tell her so.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her I got friends coming out of my ears.”
    He said later, after she was gone, if I wanted, we could cash out the cuss jar and go do something fun. Whatever I wanted.
    I could always use that money for anything I wanted. Toys or games, Mitch said. It was like an apology to me for bad language. I usually didn’t buy toys. I liked to use it to take Mitch places, like out for lunch or an ice cream or to the movies. I didn’t think Mitch was really all that happy, and I wanted him to have more fun.
    â€œHow did she know I was even here?” I wanted to know. I never talked to the government myself, and it was hard to picture Mitch having a conversation with it, either.
    He said Mrs. Morales had talked to the police and asked them to look for Pearl.
    â€œOh,” I said. “I don’t think they’ll find her.”
    Mitch seemed real interested and kind of worried that I said that. I had no idea why he was making such a big deal about it. He kept asking me why I would say that. Did I know something he didn’t?
    I wasn’t sure how to answer that question. It seemed like a complicated question. I told him I might know some things he didn’t, but I didn’t really know all of what he knew, so it was hard to say for sure.
    Then he spelled it out a little better and asked if Pearl had told me where she was going before she left, and I said, no, she hadn’t said anything.
    â€œWell,” he said, “then why do you think the police won’t find her?”
    I said, “I just don’t think they’ll look in the right places.”
    I didn’t know all that much about police, but I knew a little. I knew enough. When was the last time you saw them look for somebody in a raindrop or a candle flame or a splashy wave or a little sparrow?

MITCH,
age
25: love my wife
    Harold Stoller’s house consisted of thirty-five rooms on four acres. It sat smugly on a hill overlooking the ocean on one side, the lights of the town on the other. The guy had made a killing in my chosen field, computer software, only sooner, and better, and it showed. A valet parked my ratty, rusting Volvo, and I made my way to the door in my only good suit, and the silk tie Barb had given me as a gift when I complained I didn’t even own one to wear for the occasion. And with Leonard draped snoring over my shoulder. I’d dressed him in his newest, cleanest pajamas and wrapped him in a decent-looking blanket. Under the circumstances, what else could I do?
    I knocked, and a maid in a black-and-white uniform opened the door. I was thinking, this place is so bizarrely surrealistic. Nobody really lives like this, right? Or, if so, why?
    â€œMitchell Devereaux,” I said.
    â€œYes, come in.”
    I was standing in the foyer, wondering what to do next, when I saw her. Wondering whether to ask the maid what to do with the kid. Wondering whether it would be decent and proper to slip the maid a few bucks to find him an inconspicuous place to sleep. I couldn’t just walk into the mayor’s dinner party with