The Mysteries Page 4

  His disappearance was the great mystery of my childhood, one which I was eager to grow up and solve.

  The chance came sooner than I'd expected.

  When I was sixteen I wrote an essay for my civics class (“Dissent Makes Good Citizens”) that won me a trip to a student conference in Minneapolis. I got to stay in a motel, and even though my civics teacher was right across the hall, and I had to share a room with a strange kid from Oshkosh, this was a thrilling novelty that seemed the height of grown-up sophistication. I examined the miniature toiletries and paper-wrapped tumblers in the bathroom, and bounced on my bed while my roomie hunched over the end of his, flicking through the TV channels. There was a telephone on the stand between the beds, and the local phone books were in a drawer underneath.

  I picked up the white pages and automatically turned to the Ps to look for my father's name. I wasn't expecting to find it, but there it was: Pauluk, J, just above Pauluk, M.

  My heart turned over. I felt dizzy. I took a deep breath and mentally talked myself down. OK, it wasn't a common name, but that still didn't mean it was him. J could stand for Jane instead of Joe.

  I reached for the phone and got the front desk.

  “I'd like an outside line, please.”

  “You'll have to come down to the front desk and give us a credit card imprint.”

  “Credit card! It's just a local call.”

  “I'm sorry, sir, but company policy requires that we take credit card details in advance from any guest wishing to make calls from their room.”

  “But I don't have a credit card.”

  She paused. I heard someone else speaking to her. Then she said, “There's a pay phone in the lobby.”

  I hung up without thanking her. My heart pounding, I tore out the page with Pauluk, J's address and phone number and grabbed my jacket.

  “Hey, man, where you going?”

  I turned and saw the kid from Oshkosh staring at me, his mouth hanging open slightly.

  I gave him the same, mysterious reply my father used to give me: “Have to see a man about a dog.”

  Scarcely a minute later I was dialing the number on the lobby pay phone.

  A woman picked up on the third ring.

  I took a deep breath. “May I please speak to Joe Pauluk?”

  “He's not back from work yet. Who's calling?”

  My mind went blank. I had not planned for this; I hadn't planned or expected anything. “Uh, that's OK, I can call back.”

  “Well, don't call during dinner, all right? We eat at six. And if you're trying to sell something, don't bother. We don't have any money, and we never buy anything over the phone.”

  “No, ma'am, I'm not selling anything. I just . . . I'll call back later.”

  She hung up.

  Looking at my watch, I saw it was just past five o'clock. She'd said they ate at six. He might be back any minute. I tapped my foot, nervous and impatient, wondering how long I ought to wait before trying again.

  And what would I say if he answered this time? Would I recognize his voice after so many years? How could I be sure this was my Joe Pauluk?

  I realized I would have to go and see for myself.

  I went to the front desk. “Could I get a taxi, please?”

  “Ian? You're not going out?”

  Caught. My shoulders stiffened, and I turned at the familiar voice to see my teacher, Mrs. Charles, looking at me with furrowed brow. “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, no, nothing's wrong.” I tried to smile. My mind was racing. “I've got relatives in town. I promised my mom I'd see them while I was here.”

  “But not now.”

  “Yeah, they've invited me for dinner.”

  “Oh, Ian!” She shook her head in dismay. “You can't! The opening ceremony starts at six. It's the first chance for all you students to meet and talk together. You can't miss that!”

  “The banquet is tomorrow night. I thought that was the important thing.”

  “They're both important! Look, you'll have some free time tomorrow afternoon, couldn't you visit them then? Surely you don't have to have dinner with them. If you explain, they'll understand. Would you like me to talk with them?”

  She smiled with such kindly concern that I felt my soul shrivel. I shook my head. “No, no thank you. I'll explain. You're right, they're bound to understand. I'll try to get back here by six, six-thirty latest.” I had no idea how big Minneapolis was, or how long it would take to get from there to the address I clutched in my hand and back again, but one minute would be more than enough to show me if this Joe Pauluk was my father.

  “Why do you have to go? Why not just call?”

  “It's too late for that—they've already left, to meet me—I have to go and meet them, I said I would.” I gabbled and grimaced, desperate to convince her. “It's OK, really, I'll rush straight back. But I have to go. My mom gave me money for taxis and all that,” I went on, as easily as if I'd been lying all my life. My mother had given me fifty dollars for emergencies, but I knew she expected me to bring most of it back home. We lived to a very strict budget, every spare dollar going into the college fund for me and Heather.

  From Mrs. Charles's expression I saw she'd accepted my story, even though she didn't look happy about it. Unfortunately, she stayed with me until the taxi arrived, chatting about the weekend's schedule. I had meant to ask the desk clerk for a map of the city and some idea of what the taxi fare might be, but I didn't dare do that in front of Mrs. Charles, fearful of rousing her suspicions. I wasn't used to lying. Beneath my down jacket, my armpits ran with sweat while I concentrated on looking relaxed.

  Luckily, the taxi driver had no problem with the address. Mrs. Charles waved, beginning to look a little anxious again, as he pulled away. “I'll be back as quick as I can,” I said, and sat back and tried to think of nothing.

  It was completely dark, and very cold, when the taxi stopped in a quiet residential street. It looked like a fairly recent development at the lower end of the price scale. Except that the houses were newer, it reminded me of my own neighborhood back in Milwaukee. I paid the driver what he asked, barely registering the cost, then got out.

  “You want me to wait?”

  “No, no.” As the cab drove away I realized that I didn't know how I was going to get back to the motel, but I couldn't worry about that just then.

  I took a deep breath, feeling the cold air bite my lungs, and stared at the ordinary ranch-style house in front of me. It looked snug and sealed against outsiders, the curtains drawn against the dark and prying eyes. A yellow light shone above the front door, but it looked less like a welcoming beacon, more like a warning: yellow for caution.

  Parked on the driveway, in front of the garage to the left of the house, was a light-colored, late-model American car. I could hear the ticking of the engine as it cooled and knew it hadn't been parked there very long. On an impulse, I walked over to it and opened the door on the driver's side. The warmth of the interior was like a caress. I felt a powerful urge to slip inside, behind the wheel, to start 'er up and back away from this house and whatever life went on behind its walls, to drive away from this neighborhood and this city, to hit the highway and go. I could drive, even though I wasn't yet licensed. I could drive and drive . . . I think, if the keys had been left in the ignition, I would have done just that.

  I let the door slam shut and held my breath because it had been so loud, I couldn't believe it wouldn't alert someone to my presence. Far away, I heard a dog bark. I stood there beside the car and waited to be caught.

  But nothing happened.

  My breath huffed out in a pale cloud, and I followed the yellow beacon to the front door, and knocked.

  The man who opened it wasn't as tall as in my memory; his hair wasn't so thick and black, and there was a heavy softness around his middle, the start of a beer gut. He'd changed a little in seven years, but not as much as I had.

  Daddy! cried the little boy inside me, but the detective I'd made mys
elf kept quiet.

  He looked at me blankly. “Yeah?”

  I moved a little, to give him a better view of my face in the weird yellow light. “Remember me?”

  He frowned a little, impatient. “You the paperboy?”

  “I'm Ian.”

  Something flared in his shadowed eyes. He shook his head, pulling back. “Sorry, wrong house.”

  “You're my dad!”

  I was talking to the door. All at once, I was possessed by self-righteous anger. How dare he shut me out, deny me. All at once, I knew that my fantasies about spies and secret missions were so much bullshit. Joe Pauluk had abandoned us deliberately, because he wanted to, because he could, because he didn't care. I pounded on the door with my first and shouted. “Hey, you, let me in! You listen to me! You're my dad, and I know it!” I saw the doorbell, and stabbed it repeatedly, alternating the melodic electric chimes with the brute thudding of my fist.

  The door opened so suddenly I nearly fell.

  My father's face, contorted with fury, was almost demonic as he thrust it into mine. “Stop that!”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Who zat?” A tiny child clutched my father's leg and peeped up at me with bright, merry eyes.

  “Mikey, get back inside. Go on, back to Mommy.” He gentled his voice to speak to the infant, and the familiar tones made my throat ache.

  “What's going on?” A woman appeared behind him, shooting me a hostile look. She was very thin, with bleached blond hair in a bad perm. She looked twenty-five going on sixty, and I hated her.

  “I'm dealing with it, don't worry.”

  “I have to talk to you.” I was not going to leave, and he saw it. His eyes darted around, searching for a way out, well aware that in another second or two I might say something he didn't want her to hear.

  “Joe, I am cooking your dinner. I can't do that unless you look after Mikey and Sammy and keep them out of the kitchen.”

  “I'm sorry, hon, but something's come up. I'm afraid I'm going to have to go out.” He spoke in leaden, unnatural tones, as if I was holding a gun to his head, but she didn't seem to notice.

  “Go out? But what about your dinner?”

  “I can eat later.”

  “Can't this wait?” She looked at me, and frowned. “He's just a kid.”

  “It can't wait,” I said flatly.

  “Just hang on a minute; I'll get my keys; we can talk in the car,” said Joe. He turned away from me, herding the woman and child ahead of him, and dropped his voice to a pleading tone: “I'm sorry about this, hon, but it won't take long.”

  I heard them talking as they went away—her high, irritable whine, his lower, broken rumble—but paid no attention. They'd left the front door open. I felt constrained from actually going in without an invitation. Without stepping across the threshold, I leaned my upper body into the house and gazed around, drinking it all in. I caught a faint whiff of frying onions, and the sound of the Coca-Cola song, but both of those came from other rooms beyond my ken.

  This front room, clearly, was a formal space reserved for special occasions, not the ongoing daily life of the house. There was a big, new-looking pink couch and two matching armchairs. Between them, a shiny coffee table displayed a stiff arrangement of artificial flowers. Shelving units lined the far wall. No television, but I saw a stereo system and a line of LPs on a low shelf, along with two oversized books. On second glance they weren't books, but photo albums. There wasn't a single book in sight. All those shelves, which in my mother's house would have been stuffed to overflowing with books, here held only a frozen display of china knickknacks, silver-framed photographs, more artificial flowers, and a set of gold-rimmed wine glasses.

  “OK, let's go.” My dad came through, shrugging on a grey windbreaker, still avoiding my eyes.

  Neither of us said a word as we got into his car. He backed swiftly out of the driveway, drove down the street and around the corner, then pulled to the curb and stopped. He put the car in park but left the engine running. Staring straight ahead he said, “How'd you find me? Did your mother send you?”

  “She doesn't know anything about it. I found you myself. I've been looking for you ever since you disappeared. I didn't know what had happened. I thought—” I broke off, unable to tell him what I had thought, unwilling to confess how much of my life had been given over to childish fantasies. I folded my arms and stared ahead, frowning hard.

  “How did you find me?”

  “You're in the book.”

  He exhaled noisily and shook his head at his own stupidity. “Oh, yeah. I never thought. For two years, three, I was so careful, but after so long . . .” He turned to me, frowning suspiciously. “But what're you doing here? Aren't you still living in Milwaukee?”

  “Mom's still there. And Heather.”

  “Don't tell me you ran away from home!”

  “Like you did?”

  “I didn't run away.”

  “Oh no?”

  “You don't know anything about it.”

  “Of course I don't—how could I? You never told us anything—you didn't even say good-bye. What were we supposed to think? We were worried. Scared. We thought you might be in trouble.”

  He stared at me. In the dim light I couldn't be sure of his expression, but I thought he looked stunned; that our long-ago anguish was an unsought revelation.

  After a while he said, quietly, “I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

  “Why did you go?”

  “I had to. To save my own life. I was in so deep, I couldn't see any other way out. I had to leave, to start over again. It seemed like the only thing to do.”

  I felt a surge of excitement. “What do you mean—were there people after you? Like gangsters? Did you owe them money? Or did you know something secret, or . . . ?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that. No debts or drugs; nobody was after me. It was just . . . I couldn't stand my own life. I had to get out. You know, a wolf will gnaw off its own paw if it has to, to get out of a trap. That was kind of what it felt like I was doing.”

  What was I in that scenario, I wondered: his paw, or part of the trap? How had he been trapped? I didn't understand, and I said so. Finally, after all these years, I'd found my father, and I wasn't going to let him go until he'd explained himself.

  “What was it you didn't like? If you didn't want to live with us anymore, you could have just moved out, like a normal person. You were free; you weren't even married. You could have quit your job, too—it's not like you were some indentured servant. You didn't have to sneak away like a criminal and disappear and make everybody worry.”

  “I'm sorry.” He didn't sound it. If anything, he sounded bored with the whole business. He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel. “I just did what I had to do. Sometimes, you have to look out for number one, even if other people get hurt. Surely you can understand that?” He gave me a hopeful look. I stared back, stone-faced, and he sighed. “Well, maybe when you're older. Maybe you'll be able to forgive me then. Now look. I'm going to drive you down to the bus station and get you a ticket to Milwaukee, and you can call your mother and tell her where you are—”

  “She knows where I am.”

  His eyes widened with shock. “Did she send you here?”

  “She doesn't know about you. I mean she knows I'm in Minneapolis—I'm here for a student conference.”

  “You didn't run away?”

  I shook my head.

  He looked disappointed. I felt I had let him down, then hated myself for caring. He wanted me to be a runaway, someone like him, who could disappear without a word of explanation and let people down. But I wasn't like that and didn't want to be.

  “Why didn't you ever call us? Once you got out of your trap and knew you were safe, I mean,” I added sarcastically. “Didn't you care what happened to me and Heather? Didn't you miss us at all?”

  “Of course I did—I missed you terribly.” He spoke with
a sudden, intense sincerity which, I decided angrily, had to be fake. “You don't know how many times I started dialing your number—”

  “You're right, I don't know. Don't care, either.”

  “Of course you're mad at me for leaving. I don't expect you to understand why I had to do it. But, Ian, believe it or not, I've always wanted the best for you. Mary's a great mother. I knew she would look after you fine. And after a couple of years I thought, what right do I have to get in touch? You'd been managing all right without me. You'd probably nearly forgotten me. For all I knew, you might have a stepfather or something by then. It wouldn't be right, it wouldn't be fair to you for me to come barging back into your lives just because I wanted to see you again. It was better if I stayed away.”

  I felt like my head would explode if I listened to another second of his self-justifying crap. I yanked the door open.

  “Ian, where are you going?”

  “Away.” I got out and slammed the door.

  He lowered the window on my side. “Come on, get in. Tell me where you're staying, and I'll take you there.”

  “I can get back on my own.”

  “Don't be silly. Get in.”

  “Don't you tell me what to do.” I marched off, and the car rolled slowly after me, my father telling me to get in.

  I really did want to walk away and have nothing more to do with him, but I was miles from where I should be, with no idea of how to get back there, and it was dark and very cold. After a brief struggle with my pride, I got back into the car and told him the name of the motel.

  He tried asking me about the conference, and how I was doing at school, and what my interests were, but I wouldn't play, and after a few attempts he gave up and just drove. When we reached the motel, at least he didn't try to pretend that this was the ending of a sentimental made-for-TV movie, or apologize, or explain. Not a word about how someday we might see each other again. I didn't even say good-bye, just shut the door and walked away without looking back.

  When I got home on Sunday night, I told my mother that I'd found my runaway father. I waited until Heather was in her room, and I had my mother all to myself, eating grilled cheese sandwiches at the kitchen table.