Ask the Parrot

6

When it started to turn to night, Jack Riley switched the porch light on. That always brought Suzanne, but tonight it didn’t. Where was she?

Four hours. More than four hours ago, she was right here, they were talking about who around here would sneak into a man’s house and steal his gun, and she said she’d go off and get some gas and something for them to have supper together, and off she drove.

Jack figured, maybe an hour. He didn’t happen to look to see which way she went when she drove off, so she might have gone to Brian Hopwood’s gas station here in town, or she might have gone out to the Getty station, the other way, all depending on where she figured to pick up something for their supper. So maybe half an hour, maybe an hour; no more.

A little after six, he woke up in front of the television set—again! . . . and cursed himself for it. He kept promising himself and promising himself, no more sleeping in front of the television set. He’d tell himself what to do: At the first feeling of sleepiness, get up, stand up, walk around. Go outside, maybe. If the lights weren’t on, turn them on. Just do anything instead of falling asleep yet again in front of the goddam TV.

Well, he couldn’t do it. He’d be sitting there, watching some damn thing, wide awake, and the next he’d know, it would be two or three or four hours later, and he was waking up in front of the set again, mouth dry, head achy, bones stiff.

Damn, how could he stop that? Stand up, maybe? Never watch television sitting down, only stand up in front of the set? Or would he fall asleep standing up and break his nose when he hit the floor?

Women are supposed to outlive you, dammit. They’re supposed to be there to give you a poke in the ribs when they see you nodding off. Just another way life was a pain in the butt without Eileen.

Jack Riley was nine years a widower. He’d lived the last seven years in this house, once he’d understood his former home was too much for him to care for on his own, and the money the house had sold for was better off in blue-chip stocks. In the years since his moving here, Suzanne was just about his closest female companion, very different from Eileen, and one of the differences was that it was no way her job description to sit next to him all the time and poke him in the ribs when he started to fall asleep in front of the goddam television set.

Where was Suzanne? How far could she have gone in search of gas and food? There hadn’t been an accident, had there?

If only he’d been looking out the window when she drove off, so now he’d have some sort of idea where she might be. At Brian Hopwood’s station? It was after six, and he knew Brian was long closed by now, but he tried calling the gas station number, anyway, just in case, and, of course, it rang and rang and rang over there in that empty building, where Brian Hopwood would be the last man in the world to install an answering machine.

The other way, maybe? Jack didn’t know anybody at the Getty station, and in any case she would have been through there long ago. Back here long ago, if everything was all right.

Jack switched the television off before he sat down again because he didn’t want to fall asleep, dammit, he wanted to be wide-awake for when she got home, and in the meantime he wanted to be wide-awake so he could fret.

It had all begun last night, when, having awakened in front of the television set yet again, he’d finally got himself out of his living room chair and into bed. He’d become a creature of many habits since he’d been in this house on his own, and one of those habits, the last thing every night, just as he was getting into bed, was to unlock the drawer in the bedside table and look in at the pistol sitting there.

It was reassuring, when you lived alone in an isolated place like this, to know that little protective device was there. He’d never actually fired the gun; he’d only bought it for the sense of security it gave him, but that sense of security was real—it helped him to sleep soundly every night—and so the ritual was there, at bedtime, to look in for just a second at the gun. Like a pet you’re saying good night to.

And last night it was gone. That was a real stomach-churner of a moment. He’d been half-seated on the bed, opening the drawer, and he bolted right up again when he saw that empty space where the gun was supposed to be. Then he stared around wildly, looking for an explanation, trying to remember a moment in which he himself would have moved the gun to some other location—where?—and found no such moment, nor any reason for any such moment.

The next thing he’d done was go through the whole house again, making sure every door and window was shut and locked, and they all were. So had it been sometime during the day that the gun was taken? But who would know he had it, or where to find it, or where to find the key?

He knew the few people who lived in this town, and there wasn’t a one of them he could even begin to imagine sneaking into this house and making off with his gun. But who else? Some passing bum? There were no passing bums, no foot traffic at all. Somebody driving by in a car wouldn’t suddenly stop and walk into Jack Riley’s house and walk out with his gun. It made no sense, no matter how you looked at it.

Feeling totally spooked, he then switched on the front porch light, as though it might attract Suzanne at this late hour, but almost immediately switched it off again, because he knew it wouldn’t attract Suzanne in the middle of the night and he didn’t want to know who else it might attract. Instead, he left lights on in the bathroom and the kitchen, and thus did get some sleep, though not as much as usual, and this morning he called Suzanne to tell her about it.

She was as baffled as he was, of course. She had other things she had to do on Sunday morning, but could come over to see him this afternoon, and did. When she arrived, again he told the story. She double-checked all his doors and windows, helped him look in all the other drawers in the house, then sat down to try to figure out who might have done it.

No suspects came to mind. Eventually Suzanne said she’d go off for gas and supper, and Jack fell asleep in front of the goddam television again, and now what?

Suzanne gone four hours. Night outside. No gun, no Suzanne. Sometime after seven, he accepted the fact that there was no alternative; he had to call the troopers.

He didn’t want to. If it turned out there was some simple rational explanation for the disappearance—both disappearances—he’d feel like a fool, some old geezer that’s lost his marbles. But the gun is really gone, and Suzanne really hasn’t come back, so eventually there was just nothing else to do.

Jack kept all the emergency numbers written on a piece of cardboard tacked to the wall near the kitchen phone, including the nearby state police barracks, because they were the ones responsible for policing this area. Still reluctant, but knowing he just had to do it, he dialed the number, and after a minute a voice came on and said, “Barracks K, Trooper London.”

“Hello,” Jack said. “I wanna report—well, I wanna report two things.”

“Yes, sir. Your name, sir?”

“First I— Oh. Riley. John Edward Riley.”

“Your address, sir?”

“Route 34, Pooley,” he said, and gave the house number, and then the trooper wanted to know his phone number, and only then did he show any interest in the reason for the call. “You say you want to make a report?”

“A disappearance,” Jack said. “Two disappearances.”

“Family members, sir?”

“Well, it’s— No, wait. The first was last night, was the gun.”

“The gun, sir?”

“I’ve got—I had— When I moved here, I bought this little pistol, it’s called a Ranger, I got the permit and all, you know, it’s for house defense.”

“Yes, sir. And it disappeared?”

“Last night. I keep it locked in a drawer, and last night, before I went to bed, I went to look at it, be sure everything was okay, and it wasn’t there.”

“Sir, did you have any reason to believe everything was not okay?”

“Not till I saw the gun wasn’t there.”

“Sir, did you have a reason to look for the gun?”

“I always do. Every night, I just double-check.”

“Yes, sir, I see. Could you tell me who else resides with you, sir?”

“Just me, I’m on my own.”

“Did you have guests, visitors, yesterday, sir?”

“No, it was just me. You see, that’s why it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Did you report the disappearance, sir?”

“Just now. I mean no, not till now. This morning I called my granddaughter, Suzanne, she came over this afternoon, we looked for it, but it’s gone. Then, around three o’clock, she went out, she had to get gas and she was gonna get something for our supper, and she never came back.”

“This is your granddaughter, sir?”

“Suzanne. Suzanne Gilbert.”

So then he had to tell the trooper everything about Suzanne, her looks and her age and her weight and her employment and a whole lot of stuff that didn’t seem to Jack as though it mattered, but he figured, it’s the trooper’s job, let him do it. And after that, there was a lot about Suzanne’s car. And after that, he wanted to know everything about Suzanne’s personal life; was she married, did she have a boyfriend, was anybody living with her, had she ever gone off on her own before? And through it all, Jack couldn’t figure out, from the even, flat way the trooper asked his questions, whether he was being taken seriously or patronized. Because, if there was one hint that he was being patronized, boy, would he start to holler. Never mind the gun; we’re talking about Suzanne here!

But then at last the trooper said, “We’ll dispatch a car, sir. They should be there in less than half an hour.”

By God, Jack thought, I hope Suzanne’s back by then, and yet, on the other hand, I hope she isn’t. Nothing bad happen to her, just not already here when the troopers show up.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll leave the porch light on.”