ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AMY SHEARN’s first book, a novel entitled How Far is the Ocean From Here, came out in July 2008 from Shaye Areheart/Crown Books. Her work has appeared in Jane, Modern Painters, West Branch, Salt Hill, the small-press anthology Hysteria, and elsewhere. She lives in Brooklyn and teaches writing for NYU and Gotham’s Writers.

The Kidnapped

By Amy Shearn


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She had the scratchy, low voice of someone who has smoked and drunk too much, and though it had always seemed sexy to Bob, now just the sound of it disgusted him, underlined some basic problem with the way Geneva was—and it was hard to take her seriously, looking at her now, really looking at her—at her worn face and caking makeup and grayish teeth, in her too-tight dress—how had he ever thought she looked like Jayne Mansfield?—with that air of drama she had when she was getting worked up about something. He had gone this far with her. All he needed, maybe, was for her to reach out, to grin and wink, to release and relax and ask if he was okay and rub his shoulders. But he knew, too, that this was not something Geneva had in her, that she would only be kind to him when it wasn’t an inconvenience. He knew what was happening, and he couldn’t stop it. It rose up, welled in his chest, filled his throat. “Anyway, who kidnaps their own kid?” he said. There it went. Now there was nothing between them.

Geneva pulled her coat close around her arms, shuddering.

He blinked, looked around the room, shrugging his shoulders like he was asking a question. “Yeah, and I mean, it’s not gonna work. You know? Geneva? They’re gonna find her—it’s their frigging kid, you know?—and anyway, what’s with being best frigging friends with the bartender all the sudden?—You know?” Something was clanging wildly in his head, and he knew he was almost shouting, and he knew he was being unforgivable. But Geneva was untrustworthy—and—Geneva was—he couldn’t seem to finish the thought. The kid looked like she was trying not to laugh. “I got things to do too and no one’s helping me,” Bob said.

“You’re not making any sense,” sniffed Geneva. She turned to the kid and extended one arm. “Don’t worry, honey. He’s just crazy. Come here, come to mama.” The kid didn’t move.

“Don’t you think I got things to do too?” Bob said again. He was trying to be accurate. The spooky lighting in the room made them all look haggard. The figures in the display seemed not to be holding as still as they were supposed to, as if when Bob turned his head quickly he’d catch the whipping boy scratching himself, or the prisoners sneaking food from their pockets. He turned his head, just to check.

“Martine,” Geneva croaked. “Come here please right now!”

The kid stuck her tongue out and turned away, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“Baby, please?” Geneva said.

“You don’t deserve her anyway,” Bob said, closing his eyes. “You’re not fit to be a mother, honeybun, you know that? That’s why they took her away in the first place.”

When he opened his eyes she was gone. Judging from the direction the kid was looking, she’d stormed out the way they’d come, which was too bad, as he’d wanted to add, “You’re the crazy one,” and he did anyway. Geneva was a great one for scenes, for storming out. This had actually been merciful. She’d screamed and thrown plates at his head for less. His only regret was that he’d let her have her way, have a scene to storm out of. He went to the kid, who raised her eyebrows. They stood side by side, squinting into the display that moaned, “Noooo.”

“Well,” the kid said, “I still want to see the rest.” They continued down the hallway to the next exhibit, the Graveyard. Bob took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead and blew his nose. Department store mannequins with chipped skin lay stiffly in open graves. The headstones clacked up and down, and every now and then a mannequin sat up in alarm. “The undead,” said the kid. “Zombies.” She waved her arm magnanimously, as if introducing guests at a party. Bob followed her speechlessly.

But when they’d made the rounds and the museum deposited them back in the street, back where they’d started, Geneva was gone. The ticket-boy explained she’d taken her suitcase and gone towards the river. He seemed to be laughing at them. Bob retrieved the pink suitcase. He’d expected her to wait, act all pissy and wounded maybe, uninvite him to Portland, but at least to wait for them, at least to reclaim the kid she was supposedly so crazy about. They looked down the street in either direction and did not see her.

There was nowhere to go but the same old bar with the same old Santa who greeted them warily. From the bar they could see the train station and no sign of Geneva. “Where’s the wife?” Santa said to Bob. Bob shook his head, asked for some waters, and chose a booth for Martine and himself.

Martine sat up straight on the pew-like bench, swinging her feet under the table. She had noticeably cheered since Geneva’s departure. “Anyway, Tess adopted me,” she was chattering away, “my step-mom, she adopted me legally, and Geneva didn’t even have visitation, so it wouldn’t have worked out anyway. I bet they know it was her—Geneva—I bet they’re looking for you. I’m going to have a ballet recital next week, and hey—you could come! If you want. I thought we’d have pink tutus which is why I wanted to take the dumb class in the first place but it turns out that’s for the advanced class and we have to wear these dumb black leotards like boys or something. Craigy and Zack—my brothers—well, my half-brothers—wanted to take ballet because I am but Dad said it’s only for girls, even though it is for boys too but Dad wants them to take karate instead. Oh hey, do you know karate?!”

Bob shook his head.

“Oh. Well I was just thinking because in movies kidnappers always know karate.”

“Hey—” Bob protested, but she waved him silent, just like Geneva used to when he was getting belligerent which he promised himself now that he would never do anymore, and he would stop drinking—“Right, right,” she said, “I won’t tell anyone. Katie is not going to believe this, that I got kidnapped!” The idea seemed to have just struck her, and she tried to hide a smile. “The Wisconsin Dells is kind of lame when everything’s closed,” she added.

“Yeah well, I think Geneva didn’t really think that part through.”

“Who’s Kimmy?” The kid looked right at him, suddenly still. Then she lifted her pink suitcase onto the table. Bob caught her water glass just before it toppled over. She unzipped the suitcase and pawed through the clot of clothes Bob had grabbed from her dresser and the things Geneva had picked out at Wal-Mart: a kid’s makeup kit, a coloring book, a My Little Pony that Martine now fingered with a look of disgust. “How old does she think I am?” Martine said, crinkling her nose. “A My Little Pony?” Bob folded his arms on the table and rested his head. He felt Martine’s finger press against his scalp. “You’re balding a little,” she informed him, “up here.” Then she said, “Who’s Kimmy?”

The bar was beginning to fill with people, men on their lunch breaks who had materialized from nowhere, chomping hamburgers and remarking at the college basketball game on the precariously suspended television set. Bob felt sick, feverish. He sat up, checked in his pockets for his wallet and keys, smoothed his hands over his head, then rested on his arms again. His best clothes were all in the big suitcase they’d checked through to Portland, and his photographs, and his leather jacket. Martine watched him intently, the plastic pony still in her hands.

“Kimmy,” he said, in a low voice, but he choked on something and couldn’t finish.

“Kimmy’s your kid,” Martine said finally.

He nodded. “I haven’t seen her in a long time.” He squeezed his eyes shut. He missed Geneva, suddenly, already. He wanted someone to rub his back. He wanted to touch her hair—like spun sugar, like cotton candy.

“Did you get a divorce?”

He didn’t answer.

“Well, that’s what happens when moms and dads can’t get along,” she said.

“It wasn’t that,” Bob said, sitting up again. “I just never even got a chance. I didn’t even know about her until she’d already been born.” Martine widened her eyes but didn’t say anything. “Look,” and he leaned across the table, grasping her hand. It was smaller than he expected, nothing but a birdlike collection of bones. “I could be a good dad now. I could. Don’t worry about anything,” he said, “I’m going to take care of you! We’ll get on the next train and we’ll still go all the way and we could—It would be fun, you know? We could go swimming in the ocean.”

“Is Portland by the ocean?” Martine said doubtfully, extracting her hand.

“Yeah I think so. Listen, kid. I could do it!” He meant it, too. Now he watched, holding his breath, as she replaced the things in her suitcase and zipped it shut. He felt a heat swelling in his chest, as if his heart might actually burst. “I’ve been thinking, and maybe this is all what was supposed to happen, you know? Maybe Geneva—your mom I mean—was supposed to get mad and leave, and it was all to bring us together.” Martine looked into her lap, her face flushed.

“Martine,” he said, trying it out.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Listen. Listen! We could get a house. And curtains. And an iguana. Honey, your mom will come back I bet, don’t worry.” Things were clicking together. Everything made sense. “You want a pink tutu? Oh, and hey, your little brothers probably bug you all the time, right? You could be an only child. I’ll spoil you rotten.” Bob could hardly sit still. Forget Geneva. He knew he was a little drunk but he also knew he really could be a good dad now, that this was some sort of test, that this time he would do the right thing. He saw, very clearly, Martine in a pale nightgown, sitting with her legs folded beneath her, in a breakfast nook, morning sunlight streaming in. He would bring her orange juice and pancakes and bacon and make coffee for himself and they’d read the funnies together. She would climb in his lap and rest her head on his chest.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she said. She slid out of the booth and Bob watched as she scooted herself a place at the bar, leaned over, whispered urgently to Santa. Santa nodded and dragged the receiver of a black telephone across the countertop, untangling the viney cord, dialing the number she dictated. Bob pretended to be looking for something in his pockets so that when Martine peered back towards him it would seem he hadn’t noticed. After a minute, she slid back into the booth. Bob said nothing, though his eyes stung.

“Um,” she said. She grasped her water glass with both hands and examined the ice cubes, sticking a finger in to separate two rocky masses. “Don’t be mad. Promise?”

Bob nodded. “Miller Light,” he called above the din of the bar and the game and the men. Santa just glared at him, though eventually a glass of beer appeared at their table.

Martine squirmed in her seat. “I called my dad. He and Tess will be here to pick me up as soon as they can. I told him you’d let me stay here to wait. You will, won’t you? They’ve been looking for her and he said they’d call the Wisconsin police but I told him I was okay and that it wasn’t your fault anyway. Okay? You can still come to my ballet recital if you want. I should really go back and live with them, at least until I’m a grownup or in high school or something. Katie wouldn’t have anyone to walk to school with if I went with you. Katie—she’s so bossy and she thinks she knows everything but she gets scared going over the train tracks and things like that, well, she’s my first best friend anyway, and I’d have to say Patsy is my second but, um, where does Kimmy live?”

Bob cleared his throat and shrugged. The something that had heated up his chest now felt achy, sharp. He drank his beer in one long swallow. “I don’t know,” he said. “Last I heard they were in Des Moines.”

“Okay well Kimmy can be my third best friend if you want. Maybe you could find her address and we could be pen pals? Katie has a pen pal in Australia, who calls bangs—like your hair, here in the front—‘fringe!’” Bob managed a smile. It seemed impossible that he had lifted her sleeping body from her bed. His stomach roiled. He was relieved, he guessed, but he was also unutterably sad.



Published July 2008