God Save the Child

She looked puzzled for a minute, but then Trask held a flaming Zippo lighter at her, and she got her cigarette going, took a big inhale and exhale through her nose without taking the cigarette out. She squeezed my upper arm with her right hand and said, “Oooooh.” I said, “Seen many Marlene Dietrich movies lately?”

That puzzled look again. She stepped back and picked up her drink. “I have to wee wee,” she said. And made what I guess was a seductive move toward the bathroom. I finished my beer.

“You spot anything, Sherlock Holmes?” Trask said.

I shook my head.

Trask looked pleased. “I didn’t think you would,” he said. “We’re not a big force, but we’re trained in modern techniques and we’re highly disciplined.”

“I think the kid’s local, though,” I said. “Or he went with someone.”

“The hell you say.”

“He wouldn’t set out for a long trip with a guinea pig in his hand and no food, no carry case, not even a spacious pocket. He might run in from a waiting car and grab the guinea pig and run out again. He’d go a short ride carrying the guinea pig, but not a long one. He’s a neat kid; everything is laid out in squares and angles. He wouldn’t be so un-neat as to forget food and lodging for the guinea pig.”

“Hey, that’s right,” Bartlett said. “He would never have done that; Kevin wasn’t like that; he’d never have gone off like that unless he was going like you say, Spenser He’d never do that.”

Somewhere off the kitchen a toilet flushed and a door opened and a minute later Marge Bartlett reappeared.

“Spenser thinks Kevin’s around here somewhere,” Bartlett said to her. “That he wouldn’t have gone far without taking stuff for the guinea pig and some clothes and things.”

She drained the rest of her drink and gestured the glass indiscriminately at the room. Trask jumped up. “I’ll get it, Marge. Sit still, Rog, I got it.”

“How does that sound to you, Mrs. Bartlett?” I asked. “Is Kevin the kind of kid to go off that way without preparation?”

“Marge,” she said. “Call me Marge.”

Trask gave her a fresh drink and helped himself to another beer from the refrigerator.

Bartlett said, “Jeez, I better slice up some more limes; gin and tonic without limes is like a kiss without a squeeze, right? I mean without a goddamned lime it’s like a kiss without a squeeze.”

Marge Bartlett popped another cigarette into her mouth. It had floral designs on it. Trask leaned over with his Zippo and lit it. The Zippo had a Marine Corps world and anchor emblem on it. I bet he hadn’t had the stomach thirty years ago at Parris Island.

“Is he, Marge?” I asked.

“Is he what?” she said.

“Is he the kind of kid that would go off without making any provisions for anything? His room doesn’t look like the room of that kind of person.”

“That’s right. He’s just like his damned father. So careful, so neat. Everything has to be the same. Not like me at all; I’m spontaneous. ‘Spontaneous Me.’ Ever read that poem? By Whittier?”

“Whitman,” I said.

“Yes, excuse me, Whitman, of course. Anyway, I’m spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment, zip-zap, go anywhere, do anything. Most creative people are like that, I guess, but not Kevin; a stick-in-the-mud just like old Roger Stick-in-the-mud. Supper’s got to be at six, plain food, roast beef, baked beans. I’d cook if they’d eat something creative, Julia Child, that kind of thing, but it’s got to be the same old stew, steak, hamburg. The hell with them; let them cook it themselves. Now if they would eat veal steak in wine with cherries...”

“My ass,” Bartlett said. “You’re not creative, you’re lazy. You haven’t cooked a goddamned meal around here in five years. Veal with my ass.”

“Hey, Rog,” Trask said. “Now there’s no way to talk. Marge has put out a wonderful feed at parties and stuff.”

“Yeah, catered from the goddamned deli for half my freaking profits for the month.”

“Oh, you sonova bitch,” Marge said. “That’s all you think about is your money. If you think I can take acting lessons and modern dance and sculpting all day long and try to keep myself young and interesting for you and the children and then come home and prepare a party that you’ll be proud of...”

“Balls,” Bartlett said, his face very red now. “You don’t give a rat’s ass about me or anybody else.”

“Hold on now,” Trask said. “Goddamn it, just hold on.”

I got off my barstool and took another can of beer out of the refrigerator You don’t see red refrigerators much. I went to the back door and opened it and went out. The retriever still lay there on the back steps with his tongue out, and I sat down beside him and opened the beer. The door behind me was on a pneumatic closer, and as it shut I heard Marge Bartlett say “shit” in a very loud voice.

I drank a small swallow of the beer and scratched the dog’s ear. His tail thumped on the porch. The sound of the lawn mower stopped, and a minute later a young girl came out of the barn and walked toward the house. She didn’t look at me sitting on the back steps but detoured toward the front of the house, and a minute later I heard the front door open and close.