DAY ONE: The Autumnal Equinox, the Present
When Lars and Paul arrived home from an early evening doubles match, Lars’s wife Allison was gone. Their house, angled on a bluff high above Lake Michigan, was dark, the setting sun over the lake reflecting red in the windows. The two of them stood on the porch, the sound of waves and the wind in the trees underscoring the silence of the dark house.
“Allie? What are you doing?” Lars said to the empty space. Worry began to grow, closing the back of his throat. He dropped his tennis bag and briefcase on the porch’s wicker rocking chair. “Allie, dear?” he said, louder this time. “Paul’s with me. Why are all the lights off?”
He and Paul stood in the growing September darkness for a few moments longer. A surprisingly warm September breeze was blowing up the bluff. Except for the fifty-year gap in their ages, the two men could have been twins: both were thin with Nordic blonde hair and identical tennis whites. In the early seventies, Lars had been ranked 98th in the world by the International Tennis Federation. These days he made money from the aging groupies who hoped to beat him. His grandson Paul was the best seventeen-year-old doubles player in the state. They were just home from dashing another pair of old farts’ hopes for victory.
“Is she down by the beach?” Paul flipped on the floodlights. The long green lawn sweeping down to Lake Michigan leapt awake. Wild waves beat on the sand, and a few dead brown early fall leaves littered the thick grass. Secured to a pole by a white plastic link chain, sky-blue-and-white striped cushions, a yellow floatie, and a pink dragonfly blow-up toy flopped in the wind.
“Not there,” Lars said, and he pushed his hair out of his eyes, his anxiety growing. Allie was always where she said she would be. Always. Down at the shore, waves pounded in so far that they almost covered the sandy strip of beach. Allie’s green wooden Adirondack chairs stood empty.
“Grandma A?” Paul called, stepping up into the house and turning on a living room lamp. The room was exactly as always: simple, Scandinavian, pine and teak, a wall of full bookcases, and more on each side of the fireplace, but no Grandma A.
“Why is it so dark in here? Dear girl, what are you doing?” Lars spoke to the empty room as he moved past Paul through the dining room and into the kitchen, flipping on lights as he went.
When the house was built in the mid-fifties by another self-contained couple, this land along the lake lay far from town, still out in the country and affordable. The low natural-wood structure was long and narrow, and all the rooms on the first floor looked out at what was now a million-dollar view. Seventy years after it was built and almost forty years after Lars and Allie bought it, their once secluded home was surrounded by newer actual million-dollar places.
The sun set completely, and the outside immediately dropped into night, the windows now reflecting the inside like a dark mirror. Thus, a pale ghost followed Lars’s increasingly frantic search. He stopped in the kitchen amid its stone and spotless stainless steel. Breathe deep. Be calm for Allie. A Nordic wooden crane hung from the ceiling over the island in the middle of the room. Lars pulled the ring on the end of its cord, making the bird’s wings gently rise and fall with his breathing.
“Grandma?” Paul stood beside Lars for a moment, then began to climb the back stairs to the bedrooms above, his tennis whites turning him into an ascending spirit. “Grandma A?”
He knocked gently on his grandparents’ bedroom door, called again, then knocked harder. When he got no answer, he pushed open the door and turned on the lights. The teak bed was made, sharp corners at the foot, an orange-and-brown striped summer blanket folded on top of the spread. This was the blanket his grandmother wrapped around shivering grandchildren when they stayed too long in the almost always cold lake. Next, Paul looked in the children’s bunkroom, where nothing had changed since he had folded his pajamas and put them on his bed the last time he had spent the night. Farther down the hall was the other guest room where Uncle Krister and his girlfriend Lady Lil had been staying for much of the summer. Their room was the only one in the house that faced away from the lake with a view of trees and the street beyond. Paul could hear them laughing and singing, but so softly he couldn’t make out the words. He headed back downstairs.
In the kitchen Lars opened the big new refrigerator Allie had bought so she could fill it with sweet snacks and fresh fruit for her grandchildren. The extra-large appliance made ice cream, speed-chilled soda, and had a built-in speaker so Paul and his two sisters could link it to their iTunes. “There are no snacks,” Lars said to himself. “We planned that we’d all go down to the lake with a tray of snacks when Paul and I got home.” He knew he mustn’t let his growing anxiety spill over into terror. He pushed around champagne bottles so he could see behind them. Nothing. She had said she was pleased Paul would be here. Had she been pleased? She’d said she’d fix his favorite snacks.
“Grandpa,” Paul said, coming into the kitchen and sitting on a barstool, “she’s not upstairs. There’s just Uncle Krister and Lady Lil in the other guest room. I could hear them laughing.”
“Did you tell them to come downstairs?”
“Their door’s closed. I think they’re busy. Grandma Allie says not to bother them when they’re busy.”
“Pound on their door,” Lars said, his voice rising. “Tell them to get down here.” Then he strode back through the house to the front stairs, and yelled, “Krister! Where’s your mother?” A pause. “Krister, God damn it!” He hit his fist on the living room wall.
“Mother?” Krister, shirtless and barefoot, appeared at the top of the stairs buckling the belt on his jeans around his narrow hips. His Jensen blonde hair was short and receding on the sides. “Haven’t seen her all day.”
“All day? Where the hell have you been?” Lars demanded.
“We went to the beach in the morning.” Krister gestured toward the lake as he came down the stairs. “The weather’s still warm enough. We even went swimming. Imagine swimming in Lake Michigan in September. But Mother knew it would be good.”
“And on a cruise in the afternoon,” Lady Lil said. She was tall and tan and wore shorts and a T-shirt that said “Saltless and Shark Free.” She stood on a step above Krister, pulling her unruly black hair into a ponytail. “Allie made us reservations to go out on the lake on a catamaran this afternoon. She said this was the last week before the charters closed for the season.”
“The waves were huge,” Krister said. “Wonderful.”
Lars raised his arms to get their attention. “Allie bought you tickets?” he said. Allie hadn’t said anything to him about tickets.
“I thought the lake was too much for a boat ride,” Lady Lil said. “The ride made me seasick. But you know Krister.”
“The water was wild,” Krister said. “Irresistible.”
“Thank goodness the captain insisted we wear lifejackets,” Lady Lil said. “Krister kept leaning out over the edge.” She put an arm around Paul’s shoulder and gave him a loose hug. “Hello, Doubles Man.”
“Out of control and beautiful!” Krister said. “Mother gave us a great gift.”
“Of course,” Lars said, turning in a circle. “A gift. When was the last time you saw her?”
“Not since breakfast,” Lady Lil said. “The house was empty when we got back an hour ago.”
“I looked out the door into her garage,” Paul said. “Her truck’s gone.”
“How was tennis?” Lady Lil said to Paul. “Did you show them who’s boss?”
“They didn’t have a chance,” Paul said.
“Her truck is gone. Where the hell is she?” Lars said softly, his terror pushing to the surface.
“Maybe she’s with her lady friends,” Krister said, “drinking and complaining.”
“She meets with the Beauties for lunch, not dinner,” Lars said.
“And they don’t complain. Allie never complains.”
“She was so sweet and cheerful this morning,” Lady Lil said.
“She made us scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast. And she packed our cooler for the beach. Beer. Delicious little sandwiches. Those chips I love.”
“Salt and vinegar,” Krister said.
“This is not about who won at tennis this afternoon,” Lars said. “And I don’t give a fuck what kind of chips you had in your lunch.”
“Don’t overreact, Lars,” Krister said. “Mom will be here any minute. Smiling a big smile for you.”
“Have you tried calling her?” Paul said. “I know she doesn’t like to be checked up on, but we’re all worried. I could call.”
“I called all day,” said Lars. “But you’re right. I’ll call. I should call.” Lars pulled out his phone. After a beat, they all heard a phone ringing.
“Her office,” Paul said, heading off down the hall. In a minute he returned with Allie’s phone still ringing, and a large gray leather purse.
“I’m calling your sister,” Lars said.
“Why rile everyone up?” Krister took a black T-shirt off the back of a chair and pulled it on.
“I am riled up, all right?” Lars said. “We had plans for tonight. When your mother says she’ll be here, she will be here. When she says she’ll have special treats for her grandson, she will have special treats for Paul.”
“When the king’s off his arse, everyone is.” Krister flopped onto the couch with a nonchalance to cover his own growing concern.
“God damn it, Krister,” Lars said.
“Lars,” Lady Lil said softly, sitting by Krister and touching his arm. “Krister doesn’t want you to worry unnecessarily. We all want to know where Allie is.”
“Grandpa Lars, it’s all right,” Paul said. “She’ll be back soon. Get changed, and I’ll put our tennis stuff in the washer.”
“Sorry, Lars,” Krister said. “I don’t want her to come home to yelling.”
“The breakfast dishes were still in the dishwasher,” Lady Lil said, “but it hadn’t been run. I turned it on when we got home.”
“Very useful,” Lars said. He stalked back to the porch and kicked his tennis bag where it sat on the floor, then his briefcase when it slid off the rocker. The dark sky was still streaked with magenta, the last remnants of the sunset.
He went upstairs to take a shower and change into clean clothes—his oxford cloth shirt and khakis. In their closet he paused, turned in a circle. Nothing was out of place—not shoes, not jewelry, not sun hats. The boxes that held Allie’s manuscripts and journals from the time she was a girl to the present were still neatly stacked against the back wall. Coming back downstairs to her office, he saw everything was as usual. Her laptop was closed, her manuscript piled neatly next to it, crisscrossed at the chapters. Everything else was precisely placed in drawers: number three pencils sharpened, new shiny paper clips in two sizes, three-by-five lined notecards, all blank. Some people used photographs to gain control over the souls of their family, but Allie wasn’t like that, so there were no family pictures.
Paul had gathered up their whites to put them in the washer in the upstairs hall closet. “I got this,” Paul called from the landing, his voice light and encouraging. When he came down, he said, “Grandpa, while you were in the shower, Uncle Krister thawed some of Grandma A’s meatballs. Lady Lil cooked spaghetti, and I found a blueberry pie in the refrigerator in the garage.”
*
The four of them sat at Allie’s prized cherry dining table, long, oiled, and natural. Lars sat with them for a while, unable to eat. He pushed back his chair and went out through the porch and down the dark lawn to the beach. After everyone else was done eating, he came back up and called his daughter Tilda.
“Dad?” She had been asleep.
“Do you know where your mother is?”
“Mother? She’s not at home?” Tilda sat up in bed and looked at the clock in her dark bedroom. “It’s after ten.”
“Would I be calling to ask where she is if she were here? Is she in town with you?”
“No,” Tilda said. “No, she’s not. We were sleeping.”
“Who goes to bed at this time of night?” Lars said.
“Mom sometimes falls asleep down by the water. She says there’s nothing like a nap next to the waves. Did you look down there?”
“Of course I’ve looked there. Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“Dad, I’m sure she’s all right.”
“What’s going on?” Everett said groggily, rolling over next to Tilda.
“Her cell was in her office,” Lars said. “Her truck is gone. What on earth are you doing in bed asleep at this time of night?”
“I teach in the morning, remember? Before I can leave, I make breakfast. Pack lunches. Then drive a half an hour to school.” Tilda swung her feet out from under the covers and onto the warm carpet. “Maybe she went to a movie.”
“Your mother?” Lars said. “Went to a movie alone?”
“She does sometimes . . . go off alone.”
“Not a chance. Not with Paul spending the night. Not when she said there’d be snacks in the refrigerator for her grandson.”
“She’s probably roaring down country roads in that monster truck of hers,” Everett muttered, pulling the covers over his head. “Murdering turtles and raccoons.”
“What did he say?” Lars asked. “What did your partner say about your mother? About my wife?”
“Nothing, Daddy. Did something happen this morning? Is Paul still there?”
“Of course Paul’s still here,” Lars said.
“Daddy, you’re scaring me,” Tilda said. “Should we drive over?”
Everett groaned. “Oh, shit no.”
“Did you talk to her today?” Lars asked.
“No. Actually, yes. She called after breakfast to ask what Adele wanted for her birthday. I told her a new iPhone. Pink, of course.” She paused. “Oh, dear.”
“You can call in sick in the morning,” Everett said in a low hiss. “Then drive over to rescue your parents. Except she’ll be home safe and sound long before then.”
“We could drive over now,” Tilda said to her father.
“No. In the morning,” Lars said. “Don’t discommode Everett.” He hung up. Then, after a moment, he said, “I’m calling Martha and Belinda.”
“Lars, it’s late,” Krister said. “The Beauties will be sound asleep.”
“I’m calling them because it’s late. Where the fuck are their phone numbers?” He slammed open Allie’s kitchen-desk drawer. “Where the hell is her little address book?”
“Her phone numbers are on her computer,” Paul said. “And her phone. I’ll find them for you, Grandpa.”
“Did you have lunch with Allie today?” Lars said without preamble when Martha Ritsema answered.
“Lars?” Martha said. Her television was on in the background. “She didn’t show up. She called me early in the morning, but I was with a patient. She left a message about a meeting and said she might be late. We went to that new Indian place, the Taj Ma. Belinda thought maybe Allie got caught in traffic.”
“Traffic? She was working from home. On her book all morning. She wanted one last pass-through.”
“She said she had a meeting and might be late. That’s all I know,” Martha said. “And she’s not crazy about Indian food.”
“She had a meeting where?”
“I don’t know, Lars. She said not to worry if she didn’t make it. And she didn’t. After all, it’s the equinox.”
“What does that have to do with anything? What are you implying by ‘It’s the equinox?’”
“One of her spiritual days, Lars. Surely you didn’t forget that. We figured she had other business. Isn’t she home yet?”
“Dear God,” Lars said. “Would I be looking for her if she were home? What’s Belinda’s number?”
“It’s late, Lars,” Martha said.
“What’s her number? Paul says it’s unlisted.”
“All right, but she doesn’t know any more than I do,” Martha said. “And when her husband’s out of town, she turns off her phone at night.”
A minute later, Lars had Belinda’s voicemail. “What sort of idiot turns the phone off at night?” he said. “Call me instantly.”
“I checked the hospital, Grandpa,” Paul said. “They don’t know anything.”
“Good boy,” Lars said. “At least someone around here has some brains.” Overcome with frustration and worry, he slammed his fist on the new refrigerator so hard that he made a dent.
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Deborah Ann Percy earned the MFA in Creative Writing at Western Michigan University. She has published two fiction collections, Cool Front: Stories from Lake Michigan (March Street Press) and Invisible Traffic (One Wet Shoe Press). Her plays, many written with her husband Arnold Johnston, have won awards, publication, and productions and readings nationwide. Their collaborative books include The Old Fart Plays (Dramatic Publishing Company), Duets: Love Is Strange (March Street Press), and The Art of the One Act (New Issues Press). Winner of major playwriting grants from the Michigan Council for Arts & Cultural Affairs and the Irving S. Gilmore Foundation, Debby is a member of the Dramatists Guild and the Associated Writing Programs. She lives in Kalamazoo, MI.