“He was at great pains to tell me how happy they were together.”

“They’re always happy together, Chris. And then one day one of them leaves and the other one can’t believe it. I wish I could tell you this was unique, that I’d never heard anything like it before.”

“What usually happens?”

“Sometimes the missing person never shows up. The case is kept open, but it’s not very active. Sometimes we find a body. That’s when we know it was really a case of kidnapping, assault, rape, whatever. It’s also possible, of course, that the spouse who reports the disappearance is the killer.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“Believe it.”

“Not in this case.”

“I tend to agree with you. This guy doesn’t strike me as a killer, but you never know. You don’t know what really went on between them, what he found out from her or about her before the Thanksgiving Day parade. What he told you was his well-thought-out story.”

“But he went to the parade with her and reported her disappearance to the police.” I felt myself arguing Sandy’s point of view.

“In my scenario, he went to the parade alone. She was already dead and buried when he got to the parade. Who’s ever going to remember this guy after the parade’s over? He told you Seventy-fourth Street. Maybe he was at Fifty-ninth and walked up to Seventy-fourth to report her missing.”

It is a constant amazement to me that my husband, who has a sense of humor, an easygoing personality, and is full of life and love, has this other side. It isn’t a dark side of him; it’s a knowledge of the dark side of life. He’s seen it, he’s heard about it, in many cases he’s experienced it. Something in me always wants to argue with him, but I know he speaks from direct knowledge.

“Then why would he try to hire me?” I said finally. “He’s already done enough to prove to the world that he really wants her back. He hired a private detective after it happened.”

“Maybe Melanie suggested it.”

It was possible, of course.

“Chris, I’m not suggesting that this very nice guy that we met at a Sunday brunch is a killer. I’m just giving you a scenario. Do I think he killed his wife? No.”

“So either she decided to skip out of this marriage and this life or someone grabbed her on Seventy-fourth Street and took her away.”

“And since Sandy has discovered that this woman’s past is a little unclear, to say the least, either one of those things could have happened. Maybe she decided to go back to the other life.”

“Maybe someone from the other life decided to make her pay for something she did in the other life.”

“And maybe,” Jack said as he got up to get the carafe, “somebody saw a gorgeous woman alone, buying a balloon, and he grabbed her and spirited her away.”

“Then she’s dead,” I said.

He came back with the coffee. “I’d guess that, unless Mrs. Gordon initiated her own disappearance, that was the outcome.”

“He wants to pay me to find out what happened. I told him that was impossible.”

Jack didn’t say anything. He’s always been cautious commenting on certain kinds of things, but I’ve noticed that recently, since he started his second year of law school, his caution has increased, as though he sees himself differently, as though perhaps it’s wiser to say nothing than to say something that might be interpreted in the wrong way.

“But I feel sorry for him,” I added.

“You know I’m very proud of you,” he said, and I knew something else was coming. “You’ve done this kind of thing so well, I guess you’ve gotten a well-earned reputation. But this is really different.”

“I know. It’s why I’m not getting involved.”

“In the other cases, you had a personal interest in the victim. This is more like a police case, something a detective catches by chance.”

“I’m not doing it, Jack.”

“But it’s affected you. I sense that you’ve involved yourself in this just by listening to Sandy’s story.”

“It’s something else.”

“Something we’re keeping to ourselves?”

I got up and went to the fire. I have a theory about fires, that they like to be poked. I took the poker and moved one of the logs so that the configuration was different, enabling a small, suppressed flame to creep through to reach a new air pocket. The fire leaped, finding new life.

“A memory came back,” I said as I sat down again. “I was at the Thanksgiving Day parade with my father.”

“Is that what’s upset you?”

“I have very few memories of my father. It was a shock when this one came back. I was vaguely aware that I’d seen the parade as a child, but I’ve never been able to see it in my mind. Or to see him.”

He put his arm around me. “That’s a nice memory,” he said, “a father and his daughter at the parade. I remember going with my parents.”

“It was while Sandy was telling me about his wife’s disappearance that it came to me. It’s as though there’s a connection.”

“There’s no connection between anything he told you and your childhood. And you’re under no obligation, moral or otherwise, to help him in a no-win case.”

“I know.”

“So tell me, what are you going to do?”

I smiled. He had gotten me completely off the hook but knew I would eventually do whatever I wanted. What I wanted was to have nothing to do with Natalie Gordon’s disappearance. “I’m getting the dishes washed and then I’m going to read my book while you hit your books.”

“Sounds like a great idea.”

—

Hours later I had finished my book and he had put aside his law books. The fire had died a slow, natural death about an hour after we put the last log on, and the house was warm. Under the wonderful down comforter that I had bought with some of our wedding present money, we made love before going to sleep, our bodies warming the bed and each other, our love as sure and as satisfying as the day we pledged it.

Jack fell asleep soon after, but I was unable to. I try hard not to lie, but I often keep to myself things that I would rather not discuss. I had told him honestly about my unexpected recollection of being at the parade with my father, a recollection that was little more than a momentary snapshot. What I hadn’t told him was that there was a third person in the picture, a woman, and it had not been my mother.

3

I met Melanie early Monday morning when I went out for my walk. It was really too cold to spend much time out of doors, and we did a quick circle of our block and parted. She didn’t mention Sandy Gordon and I didn’t either.

On Tuesday morning I taught my poetry course at a local college and then came home. It was the beginning of the spring semester and I was still getting to know my students, still trying to match names to faces. At home I had other work to do, preparing materials for Arnold Gold, my lawyer friend in New York who gave me away at my wedding last August. I was typing away at the ancient word processor he had given me when I thought I heard the doorbell ring. I saved my file, having long ago learned the consequences of not doing so, and went downstairs.

Sandy Gordon stood outside my front door, carrying a box big enough to hold a portable typewriter. “May I come in?”

“Sure.” I felt a little disoriented, my head still on the legal brief I had been typing. “What brings you to Oakwood today?”

“You.” He came in, put the box on the floor, and unbuttoned his coat. “Have you thought about it?”

“I have, yes.”

He took his coat off and I hung it up, knowing this was an invitation for him to stay.

“You don’t look very positive.”

“Jack and I talked about it, Sandy. We both think that unless your wife caused her own disappearance, the chances of finding her alive are very small.”