“Moss?” I ventured.
She shook her head. “It’s lichen,” she said, looking at me. “It’s alive.”
She said it with a kind of wonder. I leaned in close to see what she saw; it just looked like paint on the gray surface of the rock.
“It’s two things,” she went on. “It’s fungus and algae. They work together to survive.”
I touched it gently; it was soft and papery.
“They’re tough,” she said. “Some lichen has been around for hundreds of years.”
The creek babbled and somewhere a woodpecker knocked. I looked around for its bobbing red head, but I didn’t see it.
When I looked back, the girl was staring at me, her eyes twinkly and smiley.
“Where did you come from?” I asked.
She pointed over to the east. “Way over there,” she said.
I hadn’t ventured to the edge of our property. But I knew there were other homes, other people. Some of the men came to meet with my father now and then; they played cards and talked late. My brother, and some of the other older boys, were allowed to sit with them, but I was sent to bed. Which was fine because they smoked and cussed, and the things they said didn’t make any sense to me anyway.
“What’s your name,” I asked.
“Robin,” she said.
“That’s my name, too,” I said, surprised.
“That won’t do,” she answered. “We can’t have the same name if we’re going to be best friends.”
That made sense. She looked at me, finger to her pink chin. She was a sprite, pug nose and pouty mouth, skin translucent, wisp thin, fast and agile as a rabbit.
“I’m going to call you Wren.”
I liked that. I was happy to have a new name, a new friend.
twenty-five
Now
I’m still shaken when we wind up in a bar just outside town, grab a booth in the back at a place called The Juke. I’ve been here before and it seems eternal, unchanging. There’s a pool table where no one’s playing, a silent jukebox, a lone bartender shooting the shit with a couple of guys who look like off-duty cops with buzz cuts and big shoulders, tired eyes. A football game plays on the television hanging on the wall, sound down. An occasional half-hearted cheer goes up from a group I can’t see from where I’m sitting. I find myself staring at the screen, though I have no interest in sports, or television for that matter.
Welcome home, little bird.
Only one person has ever called me that. My father. My nerve endings tingle.
Bailey Kirk hasn’t said a thing since he ordered his bacon double cheeseburger with fries and a large root beer. I ordered the same from the waitress who I think was working this shift the last time I was here years ago. Or maybe it’s a just type that works in a place like this—buxom, hard miles on the face, a certain shade of maroon lipstick and blue fingernails. Her T-shirt reads affably: Don’t like my attitude? Dial 1-800-F*CK-YOU.
I know Bailey’s game. He’s waiting for me to talk. But I’m waiting for him to talk. Let’s see who wins.
Finally: “So, what brings you up here?” he asks.
“Look,” I answer, leaning across the table, “can we stop this? I’ve told you everything I know about Adam. Truly. Why don’t you tell me what you think you know about me? Everything out on the table. Okay?”
The waitress comes with our food. Its greasy aroma wafts up and I’m suddenly ravenous. I can’t remember the last time I ate.
Oh, it’s good—hamburger juicy, fries crispy. I feel myself perking up a bit. The root beer sends fireworks of endorphins through my system. The magical restorative powers of fat and sugar cannot be overstated.
“I’m not trying to unearth all your secrets,” he says, after taking a big bite. “It’s just that there are four women, three of them missing. I’m looking for the place where you all intersect. The only way I can do that is to look at your lives.”
“That’s easy,” I say, mouth full. “I mean it’s obvious, isn’t it? Torch. That’s the thing we all had in common. That we were desperate enough, or lonely enough that we all got online looking for love.”
I wipe at a drop of ketchup I can feel on the side of my mouth. I flash on our last visit to the Shake Shack in Madison Square Park where you reached over with your napkin and wiped some mustard away, an amused smile lighting up your brooding face. I’ve always been a sloppy eater. You weren’t raised by wolves! my mother used to lament. If only.