I pull a slick wad of hair from the trap in the bathtub, grimacing in repugnance as I deposit it into the trash. Flicking on the tub faucet, I rinse my gloved hand with water. Sloshing water over the porcelain, I next sprinkle Comet all over, avoiding the caustic acid vapors that hang in the air. I run water over my sponge and begin scouring the ringed walls of the bathtub.
I hear the familiar tinks and knocks as Rob helps himself to his usual Saturday morning coffee; the opening and closing of the front door as he retrieves the morning newspaper.
The ordinariness of our lives should be a comfort, but this day it is not. Worries over Robyn’s whereabouts is a fever in my mind. I endlessly rehearse what I will say to her upon her return. And last night was sleepless. Pickles has been missing since the break in. I know it’s just a cat, but the loss is compounded by apprehension of Robyn’s safety. I dandled thoughts of my daughter in my head until nearly two thirty this morning, until finally drifting off into troubled dreams.
Though the bathtub is now clean, I continue to scrub, as if they physical act will also be beneficial on less temporal matters.
“What in the hell?”
Rob’s voice bellows from the kitchen. The feet of his chair excoriates the linoleum of the floor, punctuating his explosion.
I slip out of my rubber gloves and stand up.
“I cannot freakin’ believe this!” Rob growls.
Alarm blows through my chest as I hurry into the kitchen to see what he is so upset about. The newspaper lies open on the kitchen table. Rob is standing over the paper, his face a choleric red.
“Did you know about this?” he says accusingly.
“Know about what?”
“This!” He stabs his finger in the direction of the newspaper.
I approach and peer at the offending story, my mind racing with distressing possibilities.
In bold, black Courier font the title reads: The Trouble with Truancy. It begins innocuously enough.
It’s noon; do you know where your teenager is? The honest answer is that most working parents, however well intentioned, don’t. Truancy in America has reached epidemic proportions, causing public schools to lose hundreds of thousands of dollars in state and federal money; all because junior decides to play hooky.
But truancy hurts more than just our kids or our public schools. In many cases, the truant child becomes a public nuisance.
For example, a local Pittsburg woman, we’ll call her Mrs. C. (and who, incidentally was the impetus for this story) lives on a quiet street, Mildred Avenue, which is typical of many streets in the area. She states that her next door neighbor’s child is out of control.
In an exclusive interview, Mrs. C complains that the daughter rarely, if ever, attends school. “Every day that those parents leave for work, watch out. Oh my land, the music is ungodly stuff and pounds so loud all day long, I get a headache.” And that’s not all. Mrs. C says it is a perpetual party at the house with people coming and going all day long. Says Mrs. C, “The girls look more like prostitutes than young ladies. The clothes they wear are scandalous! Lord only knows what goes on inside.”
The article continues, with several more choice quotes from the “anonymous” Mrs. C. The article ends with the reporter claiming that the ‘out of control teenager’s parents’ could not be reached for comment.
My stomach reels with nausea. I swallow hard.
“I’m gonna go give that bitch next door a piece of my mind,” Rob says.
“Rob, no. We don’t know for sure who ‘Mrs. C’ is. What if it isn’t Mrs. Cotillo?”
Rob snorts. “Screw that!” He bats the air with his hand, banishing my concern. “Mrs. C? On Mildred Avenue? How many Mrs. C’s do you think live on Mildred Avenue, next door to a teenage girl?”
Rob stomps towards the front door.
“Rob, no. Please,” I say following behind him. “What possible good will this do?”
But he ignores me, slamming the door as he leaves the house.
The telephone rings. I traipse back to the kitchen soughing out a disgusted breath. I lift the receiver.
“Hello?”
“She came back to me, bitch.”
It is BLU BOY. I bristle against the rasp of his voice.
“What?” I say, incredulous.
“She es mine, now.” He laughs a menacing growl.
My heart tumbles in my chest, my palms are instantly sticky with sweat. Inside my head I am screaming at this evil man, but nothing comes out of my mouth.
“Jou hear me? She es mine!” He laughs again, this time a hearty, bellicose guffaw.
And suddenly, rage born from the beginning of time explodes inside of me. I feel capable of reaching through the telephone and killing this beast.
“No!” I shout. “Do you hear me? No!”
BLU BOY only laughs again in response.
“Now jou listen to me, bitch.”
In the background I hear the forlorn wail of a cat. Pickles. Her cry is interrupted by firing of a gun. Then, silence.
I sit in shock a moment, trying to comprehend what this monster has just done. My eyes flood with tears and a white hot rage explodes in my heart. If he can be that callused with a cat what on earth is he capable of with a fifteen year old little girl.
“I will kill you.” It is out of my mouth before I realize it.
“Jou can’ kill me. Jou don’ even know me. Jou don’-”
I hang up the phone. I hear my words echo: I will kill you. They repose in my heart like a talisman.