her so when his secretary burst through the door and announced that his wife had been attacked.
S I X
The Melancholy Choir
B
y seven o’clock that Tuesday in Corpus Christi, the day was coming to an end. The sun was sinking below the horizon, and street lamps cast a jaundiced glow. Shops lit up their “Open” signs, and people leav- ing day shifts at the hospital rolled down their windows on their way home to enjoy the temperate night. At the high school track, scrawny and muscle-bound adoles- cents ran laps. The days had gotten shorter since Au- gust. With early dark came a melancholy that made people regret the summer they were leaving behind, and the inevitable winter to come. It was a chill that ran along the backs of their necks; they traded pleasure for purpose. Backyard Stoli and tonics for work that had
yet to be done.
Lois Larkin was the exception. She wasn’t thinking about the lesson plans she needed to prepare, the grad- uate school applications that would soon be due, or how she’d intended to grovel at Ronnie’s door tonight and beg him to take her back. She was thinking about the little boy she’d lost. The boy without a coat or scarf, who was surely shivering by now. Worse things might be happening to James Walker than just a chill along the back of his neck.
She was curled in a fetal position in the back of the chief of police’s blue Dodge. She wanted to close her eyes and make this go away. She wanted a miracle. She wanted, just a little bit, to die.
When she got back to the school this afternoon, a quick head count gave her twenty-five instead of twenty- six. It took her a few seconds, she just couldn’t believe how stupid she’d been, didn’t want to believe it, but she counted again, and remembered the little pain in the butt who’d refused a partner, and before she even called his name and got no answer, she knew that James Walker was missing.
She sent the kids back to class with Janice Fischer and told the bus driver to head to the Bedford woods. Her gut told her that James was playing a prank. She hadn’t been upset yet, just galled that he’d outsmarted her.
Her next stop was the principal, Carl Fritz. Carl was forty, unmarried, and his socks always matched the brightly patterned dress shirts he ordered from Bluefly.com. She’d pegged him as gay until the day he told her that he didn’t think she knew her own worth. His eyes had lingered on her breasts, and she’d under- stood that his interest was not brotherly.
When she told Carl what happened, he took a slow and dramatic face dive into his desk, where he moaned like a dying bullfrog. When he surfaced, he started rear- ranging the yellow, green, and orange Beanie Babies that lined the front of his desk. He’d never cut their tags be- cause he was sure that one day he could sell them on eBay for a lot of money. “You lost him?” he repeated, like there was an off-chance Lois would say she’d misspoken, and really, she just wanted another week’s vacation.
“Yeah, Carl,” she said, even though before this day she’d always called him Mr. Fritz, just to keep their relationship clear. “I did.”
He didn’t look at her. He surveyed the annual debate team photos dating back to 1972, his vintage Singin’ in the Rain poster, and finally his shaking hands whose fingernails he got buffed weekly at Lee’s Salon.
“I thent—sent—the bus driver back for him, but to cover our beth we should call the police and his family. He’th a clown, only in a mean way. He’ll hide until he’th ready to come out.”
Carl didn’t make a move, and the seconds ticked away. She picked up the phone and hit button two on the speed dial, which he’d made a big deal about adding to his phone after Columbine. “You talk. They should hear it from you,” she said, then handed him the re- ceiver. After a dramatic pause, he put it to his ear.
That call was easy one. Once the Walker family name was mentioned, Carl was
S I X
The Melancholy Choir
B
y seven o’clock that Tuesday in Corpus Christi, the day was coming to an end. The sun was sinking below the horizon, and street lamps cast a jaundiced glow. Shops lit up their “Open” signs, and people leav- ing day shifts at the hospital rolled down their windows on their way home to enjoy the temperate night. At the high school track, scrawny and muscle-bound adoles- cents ran laps. The days had gotten shorter since Au- gust. With early dark came a melancholy that made people regret the summer they were leaving behind, and the inevitable winter to come. It was a chill that ran along the backs of their necks; they traded pleasure for purpose. Backyard Stoli and tonics for work that had
yet to be done.
Lois Larkin was the exception. She wasn’t thinking about the lesson plans she needed to prepare, the grad- uate school applications that would soon be due, or how she’d intended to grovel at Ronnie’s door tonight and beg him to take her back. She was thinking about the little boy she’d lost. The boy without a coat or scarf, who was surely shivering by now. Worse things might be happening to James Walker than just a chill along the back of his neck.
She was curled in a fetal position in the back of the chief of police’s blue Dodge. She wanted to close her eyes and make this go away. She wanted a miracle. She wanted, just a little bit, to die.
When she got back to the school this afternoon, a quick head count gave her twenty-five instead of twenty- six. It took her a few seconds, she just couldn’t believe how stupid she’d been, didn’t want to believe it, but she counted again, and remembered the little pain in the butt who’d refused a partner, and before she even called his name and got no answer, she knew that James Walker was missing.
She sent the kids back to class with Janice Fischer and told the bus driver to head to the Bedford woods. Her gut told her that James was playing a prank. She hadn’t been upset yet, just galled that he’d outsmarted her.
Her next stop was the principal, Carl Fritz. Carl was forty, unmarried, and his socks always matched the brightly patterned dress shirts he ordered from Bluefly.com. She’d pegged him as gay until the day he told her that he didn’t think she knew her own worth. His eyes had lingered on her breasts, and she’d under- stood that his interest was not brotherly.
When she told Carl what happened, he took a slow and dramatic face dive into his desk, where he moaned like a dying bullfrog. When he surfaced, he started rear- ranging the yellow, green, and orange Beanie Babies that lined the front of his desk. He’d never cut their tags be- cause he was sure that one day he could sell them on eBay for a lot of money. “You lost him?” he repeated, like there was an off-chance Lois would say she’d misspoken, and really, she just wanted another week’s vacation.
“Yeah, Carl,” she said, even though before this day she’d always called him Mr. Fritz, just to keep their relationship clear. “I did.”
He didn’t look at her. He surveyed the annual debate team photos dating back to 1972, his vintage Singin’ in the Rain poster, and finally his shaking hands whose fingernails he got buffed weekly at Lee’s Salon.
“I thent—sent—the bus driver back for him, but to cover our beth we should call the police and his family. He’th a clown, only in a mean way. He’ll hide until he’th ready to come out.”
Carl didn’t make a move, and the seconds ticked away. She picked up the phone and hit button two on the speed dial, which he’d made a big deal about adding to his phone after Columbine. “You talk. They should hear it from you,” she said, then handed him the re- ceiver. After a dramatic pause, he put it to his ear.
That call was easy one. Once the Walker family name was mentioned, Carl was
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