Broken Saint, The by Mike Markel Read Free Book Online Page B

it.”
    “But living here with your family,” I said, “you’d
think that would give her some structure. And my gosh, you couldn’t ask for a
better role model of how to succeed in an academic environment …” I gestured
toward him, laying it on thick.
    “Well, yes, I guess so. But one thing I’ve
learned: everyone is different in how they adjust to new situations.”
    “Was she distracted by things outside school?”
    He looked weary, resigned. “I think there might
have been something to that. She was involved with a boy.”
    “You know who it was?”
    “Yes. It was a young man named Hector Cruz.”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ryan taking
notes in his skinny notebook.
    “He a student?”
    “No, he isn’t. I don’t really know much about him.
I ran into the two of them once or twice and we shook hands. But he didn’t come
to the house to pick her up. Once, from upstairs, I saw him park a block down,
then Maricel shouted that she was going out. We invited him to dinner a number
of times, made it clear to Maricel that he’s welcome.”
    “You have contact information on him?”
    He walked over to a battered old walnut roll-top
desk, retrieved an address book, and jotted down some information on a slip of
paper. Ryan walked over to him and took the paper.
    “We haven’t found Maricel’s phone,” I said. “Do
you know if she had one?”
    “Yes, of course. Let me just take a quick look in
her room. Excuse me. I’ll just be a minute.” He walked toward the entryway. I
heard his heavy steps going up the stairs.
    Ryan and I were silent. The heater cycled on, and
I heard the air whooshing through the floor registers. I gazed out the living
room window at the gray sky, the bare branches of an oak in the front yard. The
window was ringed with condensation. My house had it, too. The Gersons and I had
that in common: we didn’t have the cash to put in modern windows. As for the
other shit he’s got going, I think my ex-husband with his juvenile live-in
girlfriend, plus my slacker sixteen-year-old, whose attitude toward me
alternates between passive and active aggressive—well, by comparison with the
Gersons I’m living in Ozzie and Harrietville.
    Al Gerson came back into room. He shrugged his
shoulders. “Can’t find it.”
    “Do you know which company she used?”
    “We’re all on Verizon. I put her on our family
plan. It was very inexpensive.”
    “Would you mind if we take a quick look in her
room?” I said.
    “Not at all.” He pointed up to the second floor.
“Third door on the left.”
    “We’ll just be a couple minutes.” Ryan and I stood
and walked up to Maricel’s room.
    I was surprised at how neat it was. Then, as I
looked around, I realized that it wasn’t neat so much as unoccupied. There was
a bed, which was made, an end table with a cheap metal lamp, a pine student
desk and chair set, a small bookcase, and a closet. On the desk were a closed
laptop and a few textbooks. No photos on the desk or on the walls. No pictures
or bulletin board or anything like that.
    I walked into the closet and pulled the light cord.
There were maybe a dozen tops, two skirts, a dress, a few pairs of jeans on hangers.
I turned off the light and scanned the bare walls of the room. While Ryan went
through the desk, I looked through her night table.
    Ryan looked up and shook his head. “Nothing.”
    “Looks more like she’s staying at a motel than
living here.”
    When we got back down to the living room, Al
Gerson was gazing out the window, his hands in his pockets. When he heard us,
he turned slowly.
    “We couldn’t find a phone, either.” I paused a
moment. “Do you know anyone who was fighting with her, wanted to hurt her?”
    “No.” His voice was soft. “She was a nice girl.”
    I nodded. “We’ll want to come back to talk with
your son later. And we’ll keep you informed. Please thank Ms. Gerson for
talking with us.”
    He looked at me, his eyes hollow, then turned and