Among the Missing by Dan Chaon Read Free Book Online

Wendell had almost stunned her, and she recalled her high school infatuation with a certain athletic shape of the male body. She watched as he bent his naked torso toward the open refrigerator, looking for something to drink. He looked up at her, his eyes slanted cautiously as he lifted a can of grape soda to his lips.
    Stupid cunt
. It gave her a nasty jolt, because that was what his look said—a brief but steady look that was so full of leering scorn that her shy fascination with his muscled stomach seemed suddenly dirty, even dangerous. She had felt herself blushing with embarrassment.
    She had not said anything to Tobe about it. There was nothing to say, really. Wendell hadn’t
done
anything, and in fact he was always polite when he spoke to her, even when he was confronting her with his “beliefs.” He would go into some tirade about some issue that he held dear—gun control, or affirmative action, et cetera, and then he would turn to Cheryl, smiling: “Of course, I suppose there are differences of opinion,” he would say, almost courtly. She remembered him looking at her once, during one of these discussions, his eyes glinting withsome withheld emotion. “I wish I could think like you, Cheryl,” he said. “I guess I’m just a cynic, but I don’t believe that people are good, deep down. Maybe that’s my problem.” Later, Tobe told her not to take him seriously. “He’s young,” Tobe would say, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know where he comes up with this asinine stuff. But he’s got a good heart, you know.”
    Could she disagree? Could she say, no, he’s actually a deeply hateful person?
    But the feeling didn’t go away. Instead, as the first snow came in early November, she was aware of a growing unease. With the end of daylight savings time, she woke in darkness, and when she went downstairs to make coffee, she could sense Wild Bill’s silent, malevolent presence. He ruffled his feathers when she turned on the light, cocking his head so he could stare at her with the dark bead of his eye. By that time, she and Tobe had visited Wendell in prison, once, and Tobe was making regular, weekly phone calls to him. On Jodie’s birthday, Wendell had sent a handmade card, a striking, pen-and-ink drawing of a spotted leopard in a jungle, the twisted vines above him spelling out, “Happy Birthday, sweet Jodie.” It was, she had to admit, quite beautiful, and must have taken him a long time. But why a leopard? Why was it crouched as if hunting, its tail a snakelike whip? There was a moment, going through the mail, when she’d seen Jodie’s name written in Wendell’s careful, spiked cursive, that she’d almost thrown the letter away.
    There was another small incident that week. They were sitting at dinner. She had just finished serving up a casserole she’dmade, which reminded her, nostalgically, of her childhood. She set Evan’s plate in front of him and he sniffed at the steam that rose from it.
    “Mmmm,” he said. “Smells like pussy.”
    “Evan!” she said. Her heart shrank, and she flinched again when she glanced at Tobe, who had his hand over his mouth, trying to hold back a laugh. He widened his eyes at her.
    “Evan, where on earth did you hear something like that?” she said, and she knew that her voice was too confrontational, because the boy looked around guiltily.
    “That’s what Wild Bill says when I give him his food,” Evan said. He shrugged, uncertainly. “Wild Bill says it.”
    “Well, son,” Tobe said. He had recovered his composure, and gave Evan a serious face. “That’s not a nice thing to say. That’s not something that Wild Bill should be saying, either.”
    “Why not?” Evan said. And Cheryl had opened her mouth to speak, but then thought better of it. She would do more damage than good, she thought.
    “It’s just something that sounds rude,” she said at last.
    “Dad,” Evan said. “What does ‘pussy’ mean?”
    Cheryl and Tobe exchanged glances.
    “It