May We Be Forgiven Part 50

"Maybe you didn't need to tell me that you brought me a present."

"I was just being honest. So I'm here all sugared up and ready to go-almost a little hyper."

"Okay, the shower is yours. I'll get you a clean towel."

I sit on the bed watching as she undresses-that seems to be part of it, she wants me to watch. "We don't have to have s.e.x," I say. "I don't need you to use your body to get a shower."

"What if I want to have s.e.x?" she asks.

"I'm not sure I want to. I've had a lot on my mind-I don't even know if I could."

She makes a face. "I've never heard a guy say that ahead of time-usually it's after the fact, usually it's after a lot of hemming and hawing and it turns out they've got a wife."

"I'm divorced," I say, getting up off the bed, leaving her to shower alone.

I take advantage of the moment to rummage through her bag-looking for clues. I find an enormous old wallet with almost nothing in it, and in the bottom of her bag, a driver's license. I panic at the sight of the name, immediately put it back, and close the bag. Heather Ann Ryan. Is that the name of the missing girl? I'm confused.

When she comes out of the shower I ask, "Do you have any sports injuries?"

"I'm not very athletic," she says.

She comes towards me, still damp from the shower.

Is it her? Is she the missing person? Is she having some kind of psychotic break and amnesic state? All of her answers are so vague, so nonspecific.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"Who would you like me to be?" she asks, dropping the towel.

And she is upon me.

There is a lot of noise, labored breathing, the dog begins to bark, the cat jumps onto the nightstand, looks at us, arches, pounces onto my back, claws out, I scream.

"I better go," she says when we are done.

"You sure you don't want another shower?"

"No, I'm okay," she says, "but it was nice, I like the rain shower."

"So how about a number?" I ask while she's dressing.

She shakes her head no.

"How am I going to know you're okay? It was very uncomfortable worrying that something happened to you."

"I am not someone that things happen to," she says.

"I don't think I can do this," I say. "I can't have some nameless person appear at my house and have me."

"It's not your house," she says, zipping up.

"Are we ever going to have a real conversation?"

She puts her shoes on and stands up. "I don't know what to say."

"You're scaring me," I say.

"Men aren't scared," she says. "Can we not do this? I hear your stress-but I really have to go."

"Go where?"

"Back to where I came from."

"Am I making any progress?"

"We'll talk," she says, "just not now."

"Take something," I tell her.

She looks at me. "What?"

"Take the television."

"Not funny."

Her cell phone rings; she looks at it.

"Boyfriend?" I ask.

"No."

When she leaves, I lock the door. I walk around the house putting down the shades-I'm overexposed.

At ten the next morning, the telephone rings.

"Mr. Silver?"

"May I ask who's calling?"

"This is Sara Singer from the Annandale Academy."

"Yes."

"Is this a good time to speak?"

"It's a fine time, but, just to be clear, I'm Silver the uncle, not Silver the father."

"I am aware." There is silence, and then she begins again: "Mr. Silver, this is a bit awkward...."

I hadn't been worried but suddenly I am-profoundly. "Is Ashley all right?"

Sara Singer doesn't answer.

"Do you know where Ashley is?" All I can think about is the missing girl.

"Mr. Silver, if you would just hear me out...."

"Is she alive?" I scream into the phone.

"Of course she's alive. I didn't mean to frighten you. She's in English cla.s.s until eleven-twenty, and then she has science at eleven-thirty until twelve-thirty." Again she pauses.

"Perhaps you're not aware of what's going on here," I say. "A local girl has gone missing-it's been very stressful."

"My apologies," Mrs. Singer says. "This has to be hard for someone such as yourself."

"Which version of myself?"

"A man with no children suddenly playing daddy."

"I like to think I've made the adjustment very well."

"As I was saying, I'm afraid this is one of those situations that no school likes to be put in. Mr. Silver, were you aware that during the spring break Ashley was on the phone?"

"Yes," I say. "Ashley has had a hard time sleeping and found it useful to talk with someone."

"Do you know to whom she was speaking?"

"She said she was talking with a friend."

"I'm afraid it's more than that."

"More than what?"

"More than a friend. What's the right word? Pardon me, I'm struggling here." She stops for a moment. "Mr. Silver, Ashley has a lover."

Given all else, I'm relieved. "She's very young, but in many ways this could be a healthy development," I suggest.

"It's a woman."

"That shouldn't come as a surprise at a girls' school; don't many young girls pa.s.s through a lesbian phase?"

"She's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the head of the lower school."

"Oh."

"I can appreciate that Ashley has had a very difficult year, but this is not okay."

"Of course not."

"I'm glad you agree," she says, relieved, but there's something in her tone that suggests she's blaming Ashley-the victim.

"What does the head of the lower school have to say for herself?"

"I'm not at liberty to share that with you." She pauses.

"Do you want to tell me exactly how this happened?"

"When Ashley returned to school following her mother's death, we suggested she stay with the head of the lower school."

"You allowed her to move in with this woman?"

"It was intended as a temporary measure. At the time we thought it might be helpful for Ashley to have twenty-four-hour access to someone, in case she had bad dreams, or needed to talk."

"So Ashley is s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the head of the lower school, and is the head of the lower school s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g her? Who is the adult, Mrs. Singer, and who is the child? It's a rhetorical question, Mrs. Singer-who is the person with a big problem?"

"The head of the lower school has a long-term contract with us."

"Child abuse would be seen by most as valid grounds for termination or breach of contract."

"I'm afraid no one beyond Ashley will tell that story," Mrs. Singer says. "That said, I would like to a.s.sure you of how seriously I take the situation, and that we are in fact dealing with the matter internally."

"We are charged with an enormous responsibility, Mrs. Singer. We are like superheroes who cannot fail our children."

"Of course, Mr. Silver, that's why I'm calling you."

"How was the situation uncovered?" I ask, no pun intended.

"It was brought to our attention by someone who wishes to remain anonymous."

"May I speak with Ashley?"

"As I said at the top of our conversation, she's not available right now-she has English and then science and lunch."

"Will you have her call me?"

"This goes without saying, but I'm hoping you'll keep it confidential."

"I have not said that I would or wouldn't-but suffice to say I am concerned. As the guardian of a girl going through so much at home, I had hoped that school would be a safe place for her."

"Mr. Silver, times have changed. The world is not what it once was."

"Quick question, Mrs. Singer-do the other students know?"

"It is my belief that they do not."

She takes a long breath; I suspect she's actually sneaking a cigarette. "Against the advice of counsel-my ex-husband was a lawyer, so he taught me to say that-I'd like to give you my home and cell numbers, in case you need to reach me."

As I'm writing her numbers down, I'm simultaneously texting Cheryl.