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And I realized I was about to try speakinglouder.
What would it be like, I wondered, after twenty-odd years of this?I wasn’t sure I wanted to think about that question too closely.On the other hand, I also found myself suddenly thinking of how Millie had been acting tonight.The dwindling reserve of false cheer, the gradual surrender.The Millie I knew didn’t surrender.And she didn’t have to pretend to be excited.I couldn’t help remembering a few hours before, at the freight warehouse, and the contrast.I can tell you this much: Jinx St.James wouldn’t have put up with any of that bull plop.
But that was neither here nor there; right now, I had more pressing issues to focus on.
“Christine,” I said, “I was wondering if you knew where Paul was.”
“Don’t get me started,” she said.“I love those boys, but they arenevergoing to grow up.I told Paul we were getting the Christmas tree today.Itoldhim.And instead, he goes haring off.”In a surprisingly dour voice, she added, “To play Nintendo.”
“So, youdoknow where he is?”
“If I knew where he was, that young man would be in for the spanking of a lifetime.”
Ah, yes—the Naught Brothers’ claim to fame.“I really need to talk to Paul.”If, I added mentally, he was still alive.“Are you sure you don’t have any idea where he could be?If he asked you not to tell anyone, I understand you might feel like you need to keep it a secret, but this is important.Even if I could just talk to him on the phone.”
“Dash, he could be anywhere.You know how boys are.”
That was simultaneously a staggering mistake on Christine’s part—all anyone had to do was look at my love life to understand very clearly that I didnot, quote,know how boys are—and a bizarre dismissal of what was becoming an increasingly strange situation.True, Christine didn’t know Paul had been fired.And she didn’t have my, uh, writerly instinct that something bad was happening.But didn’t she wonder where her son had disappeared to?Didn’t she find it strange that he hadn’t answered calls or messages?Wasn’t shecurious?The practical part of me, though—after a few hours with the Naught family—suggested that having to deal with two decades’ worth of Paul and Ryan’s playing turning into wrestling turning into fighting turning into crying, all staged in the center of the living room, might have generated the need for a certainlaissez-faireapproach to child management—primarily because the alternative involved a blow dryer and a bathtub.
As we stepped free of the trees, I decided to switch tracks.
“If he does get in touch,” I said, “would you let him know I need to talk to him?”
“He’ll be at the Christmas pageant.Speaking of which.”She swiveled toward me, a terrifying calculus happening behind her eyes.“You don’t have a part yet.”
“Oh, I don’t need—I mean, I’m not religious—I mean, it’s your family—”
“You can be the manger, or you can be the innkeeper’s wine barrel.It’s in storage in the stable.That’s called a vivid detail, Dash—it’s all part of the rich tapestry of character.You could use that in your writing.”
I did some silent squawking.(It’s a real thing—you’ve done it too, I’m sure.) Finally I managed to squawk externally: “Abarrel?”
“The manger it is, then.Oh my God, you’re going to look so cute holding baby Jesus.Poor Bobby isn’t going to know what to do with himself.Don’t blame me if you’ve got a ring on your finger by New Year’s!”She gave a laugh and wagged a finger at me, as though I were being naughty, which all around was a confusingly mixed message.Then she gave a brisk clap.“Now, hop to it and solve your murder so you’re free for rehearsals!”
“I’m not solving a—what rehearsals?I’m going to pretend to be a manger for—wait, how long is this thing?”
“Two hours.And that’s entirely the wrong attitude, Dash.A real actor doesn’tpretendto be anything.A real actorinhabitsthe role.Theybecomethe part.”
That was when I realized instead of quibbling about rehearsal time, I should have clarified that I wouldnotbe playing the role of “Manger” in the Naught family’s two-hour-long production of the Nativity story.
I opened my mouth.And then something caught my eye—a hunched figure moving through the throngs of happy families.
Ryan.
And he was getting away.
“Excuse me,” I managed to say, and then I broke into a run.
But running—as always—was a mistake.Because by the time I got to the parking lot, Ryan was gone.
Chapter 8
As I drove home, I took inventory.
I hadnotfound Paul.
Ryan had managed to sneak away before I could confront him about the conversation I’d overheard.
I was covered in evergreen needles and sap and dirt.I was cold.The fog had settled into my clothes, and even with the heater running, I couldn’t seem to shake the damp and the chill.