“I haven’t been able to reach him.”
“He’s a busy guy, huh.”
“Sure.”
“Yeah, sure,” Max said. “Okay, well. Go ahead.”
“Sorry?”
“Do it now. Give him a call him and ask.”
“I don’t know if he’s available,” I said.
“You haven’t called him,” Max said. “How do you know?”
A beat. I took out my phone.
“Put it on speaker,” Max said.
I dialed Luke. It went straight to voicemail.
You’ve reached Luke Edison at Bay Area Therapeutics. Sorry I’m unavailable at the moment. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks and have a blessed day.
I hung up.
“You’re not going to leave him a message? Your own brother?”
I said nothing.
“No,” Max said. “I guess you’re right, he’s not available. Cause he’s so busy. But it’s too bad. I was hoping he could help me understand, you know? Cause, I dunno. I think it’s kinda weird. I mean, you’re a cop. It’s your job to figure things out. You have a question about him, you don’t ask him. You come here and ask my dad. You get him to ask me, and my brother, and my sister. Like, all the people in the world, it’s our family who’s the expert on him.”
Ivan was watching me curiously.
“Is that it?” Max said. “You woke up this morning and said, I have a question for my brother. Why don’t I go talk to these people I’ve never met for no reason. That’s what I’m in the mood to do. Is that what you’re telling me? Cause guess what? I don’t fucking believe you.”
“I asked you how he is,” Ivan said. “You said it’s hard for you to say.”
I said, “Yes, sir.”
“What does that mean?”
“I just... We’re not close.”
“You must speak to him,” Ivan said. “You know that he wanted our forgiveness.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He told you he was coming here?”
“Not in so many words.”
“What, then.”
I said, “I talked to his wife.”
“She said he came here.”
“She wasn’t sure if he had or hadn’t.”
Silence.
“Why are you here,” Ivan asked. “Why today.”
I glanced at Max. “Luke’s gone.”
“Gone where,” Ivan said.
“He’s missing.”
“Your brother is.”
I nodded.
“Missing how? What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if something happened to him?”
I said, “I’m not sure how to answer that.”
“Answer it,” Max said. “That’s how.”
In the silence I saw Ivan’s face changing, falling like tumblers in a lock.
He said, “Are you accusing me of something?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you accusing my son?”
“No.”
Max snorted. “Okay, asshole.”
Ivan said, “I let you into my home. I talked to you about her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You let me do that. You looked me in the eye.”
Max smiled sourly. “Why are you surprised by this, Pop? Same fucked-up family, same bullshit.”
“Mr. Arias, I am very sorry.”
Ivan felt for the arm of the recliner and lowered himself into the seat. He appeared both heavier and smaller; his belly staved in, he labored to breathe.
“I’d like you to leave, please,” he said hoarsely.
“Yes, sir.”
I faced the door.
Max didn’t budge. A furious laugh exploded from him.
“What are you gonna do, man?” he said. “Shoot me? Choke me out?”
He flung his hands up over his head. “Go ahead. Unarmed.”
“That’s enough,” Ivan said.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Police Officer? You don’t like how it feels when someone talks to you like that?”
“Enough.”
Max made a disgusted noise. He went behind the dining table.
Long shadows piled up on the lawn. A truck was parked in the driveway: a single-cab Toyota, navy blue. White lettering on the side of the bed read RAUL ARCELIA PERAL, LIC. CONTRACTOR. The bed didn’t have a tonneau cover, though it did have a steel frame rack for securing lumber and tools.
Could a person confuse the two? Mistake that color for white?
Doubtful. Certainly not two separate people.
The front door opened. Max stepped from the house. He saw me looking at the truck.
I started for my car.
Max called, “I hope you never find him.”
A few blocks shy of the freeway, I veered to the curb, cut the engine, and sat, shaky and light-headed, strangling the steering wheel. Traffic hissed past, red streaks wiping the windshield. Each successive vehicle chunked against the same on-ramp pothole, like ax blows.
I climbed over the passenger seat, opened the door, leaned out, and tried to throw up, producing only dry heaves.
I slammed the door and fell back. My collar was damp and curled. I rummaged in the center console for something solid to soak up the acid. I hadn’t caught a proper meal in days. I wondered what my brother was eating. If he was eating.
All I could find was the ancient applesauce pouch. I uncapped it.
Amy Sandek would like FaceTime...
Taking three deep breaths, I connected. “Hey baby.”
“Hi, hon.” Her hair was flat and dark from the shower. Nursery rhymes tinkled in the background. “Are you in the car again? I can call you later.”
I saw myself in the corner of the screen, a gray lump against gray. I punched on the dome light. “I’m just wiped out.”
“I’m sorry. Hard day?”
“It was a day.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Yes. Please. More than anything.
“Maybe later,” I said. “Is she there?”
“She’s almost ready for bed. Hang on.”
The camera reversed. Charlotte sat on the bed, iPad in her lap, engrossed in YouTube.
“It’s time to turn it off, honey pie.”
“I don’t want to.”
“We said five minutes.”
“I want four minutes.”
“You got it, Priceline Negotiator.”
“Hi, lovey.”
No response.
“Say hi to Daddy.”
“Hi, Daddy.”
“How are you?”
“Good.”
“I miss you.”
Charlotte stared blankly. Moments like that brought home how young she was. She might possess the vocabulary of a child twice her age, but she had yet to absorb the social niceties.
“How was dinner?” I asked.
“Good.”
“What did you get?”
“Mac and cheese.”
Giddiness burbled up, my frayed nerves discharging. “Oh really. Not pizza?”
“Daddy, why are you laughing?”
“No reason, lovey. Was it yummy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you get dessert?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What was it?”
“M&M’s.”
“Lucky girl. Did you say thank you to Mommy?”
“Thank you, Mommy.”
“You’re welcome, honey. Say good night to Daddy.”
“Good night, Daddy.”
“I love you, Charlotte.”
“Mommy, I have to go poop.”
“Can you get on the potty by yourself?” Amy said. “I’ll come when it’s time to wipe.”
Charlotte dropped the phone. I saw the ceiling and heard her scamper out.
Amy came on the screen. “Mac and cheese is not the same as pizza.”
“No.”
“Totally different cuisines.”
“Totally.”
She smiled. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Good news. I booked our flights back.”
Our conversation had carved out a small pocket of calm; instantly it was gone, like a mine collapse. “When?”