Denton babbled on like an agitated sports commentator. His mother’s expression was slightly puzzled or slightly disapproving or slightly troubled, or she thought there was something wrong with tea—he couldn’t tell which. He hardly ever knew what she was thinking.
“…It’s so major. I’m thinking I might…” He bit his lip slyly, like a naughty boy. His vision of what he wanted to do with the Kobinski material had come to him slowly, but it was indeed monstrously huge. “I might try to gather the complete manuscript and publish it—publish The Book of Torment. You know, give it a ‘lost treasure of the Holocaust’ spin. Isn’t that great? There might even be a movie deal in it. It’s got a lot more human interest than Schindler’s List. Don’t you think so? Huh? I think so.”
“Oh, Denton,” his mother sighed. “The Holocaust! How depressing.”
Denton’s enthusiasm withered, instantly. He swallowed and a hot, aching feeling coursed down his body, as if someone had poured molten lead over his head. He drank some tea, blinking rapidly.
“That’s, um, why I came to see you, Mother. I need the name and number of that agent you used when you were collecting those antique filigree things. If I’m going to track down the rest of the manuscript I need someone good.”
He’d meant it cruelly, paying her back in kind. He waited for her to look hurt that he’d only come to see her to get a name. It didn’t even register.
“Fleck, I think. Carter has the information somewhere. He’s very good, but expensive. I don’t suppose your precious magazine is paying for any of this? Of course not. What they pay you in salary wouldn’t buy a decent meal, and you don’t have to tell me you cover all your own expenses. Why bother? Or if you must do this journalism business, why don’t you find a legitimate publication? Maria Shriver works for CNN. Or is it NBC?”
“What does this have to do with Maria freaking Shriver?” he shouted.
“Don’t curse at me. And don’t use that tone of voice!”
“I didn’t curse! ‘Freaking’ is not a curse.”
His mother only looked put upon and dropped the subject. “Well… if it makes you happy.”
Mother poured herself more tea, dosed it with milk. She mainlined tea—always had. It was what she did instead of putting food, like, in her body. Meanwhile, she had dismissed the conversation and Denton sat in his exquisite chair trampled into the dust, his eyes ground into bloody sockets by her high heels.
He wanted to defend the Kobinski project… but he couldn’t. His obsessions come and went too frequently for him to claim special deference for this one. He knew it, and he had enough crumbs of objectivity besides to admit that the Kobinski project might sound, to any rational human being, a little unfeasible.
Of course, his gut told him it was feasible. And even if it wasn’t, he didn’t give a rat’s ass.
“This is important to me, Mother. I wish you could be more—”
“Important! How could it be important? You’re not Jewish! Really, Denton, I don’t understand your predilection for morbid things. Is it because your childhood was too easy? Do you have to seek out ugliness and… and craziness because we didn’t give you any? There are such nicer things you could do with your time.”
She shook her head in incomprehension. Denton was silent for a minute, his anger and self-pity gathering like clouds.
“Kobinski disappeared, Mother. In a flash of light. There were eyewitnesses.”
It was out of his mouth and there was no taking it back. His mother stilled, going motionless in her chair, her elegant legs closed and canted to one side like Nancy Reagan.
“Why don’t you tell me about the young women you’re seeing? Anyone I would know?” she asked brightly.
As a redirect it was excruciatingly lame. Mother hadn’t asked him about girls for years because that was much too, oh, involved. It would invite details about his life she didn’t really give a crap about. So Denton knew he had gotten to her. He felt a low, sick thrill.
“See, I’m doing this series of articles on disappearances. I didn’t tell you that, did I? I should really interview you, Mother. After all, you were involved in a disappearance case yourself once, weren’t you?”
She tsked and picked up her teacup.
“Though you weren’t exactly an eyewitness.”
She didn’t answer and suddenly the conversation wasn’t just a jab at her anymore. It had been so long since they’d talked about it. Heck… no… they had never talked about it. And suddenly Denton wanted very badly to talk. He needed to. The neediness, when it overcame him like this, was like an aching hollow in his stomach, a void that felt like it would grow and grow and grow until it swallowed him whole if he didn’t find a way to feed it.
“What happened back then, Mother? I mean with the police and everything. I don’t know much about that part.”
“For god’s sake! I hope you’re not going to drag family laundry into your sordid little magazine.”
“I remember taking a lie detector test. I remember the wires and everything. But I don’t really know how it turned out. What happened, Mother?”
She pressed her lips tight, staring over his shoulder.
“Please. I won’t write about us; I swear. I just… need to know, for myself.”
“I would hope you wouldn’t be so dim.”
“I promise. Please. Tell me about the lie detector test.”
“There’s nothing to tell! You were only eight years old. What did they expect?”
Denton stared at her numbly. His heart turned over in his chest, a burning, squiggling lump. “What… it showed…”
“It was inconclusive. That’s what the detective said. You appeared to be very upset.”
“I appeared to be upset?”
Mother didn’t answer.
Denton’s skin felt clammy. His mouth tasted unbearably of rancid tea and sour milk. “What about specific questions? I remember they asked me very specific questions like ‘Did you push Molly in the river?’ What—”
“Denton!” Mother stood up. “It’s water under the bridge. Leave it.”
She rang the bell. Carter came in on his cat burglar feet. “Yes, ma’am?”
“You may clear.”
Carter picked up the tray, waiting, stooped, for Denton to put his own cup on it. He did so, his hand shaking. He couldn’t look Carter in the eye.
His mother was fixing her hair in front of the mirror over the fireplace as Carter left. Denton struggled to pull it together. He knew how to approach her, damn it. At least, he knew how not to approach her. She wouldn’t respond to badgering; he had to get a grip. And in a minute she’d be gone and this would be all he’d have to remember of this day, this bad feeling. But he couldn’t drop it. The pain inside him was too great. He went to her.
“No wonder you always thought I did it.” He huffed, tried to make it sound like it didn’t matter. “If that’s what the test said. Do you know that right after it happened you and Father went to Europe and didn’t come home for a year?”
She kept her eyes on the mirror. “Those are two completely separate things, Denton. My god. Anyway, we put it behind us a long time ago.” Her voice was blank, final. She produced lipstick out of a small black pouch from her pocket, reapplied what didn’t need reapplying. “Accidents happen. You were very young.”