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That Time When All the Sad People Came and Stayed at My House - Part Five

By Adam Rapp

James Ingalls is still in love with Sheila Anne, even though his ex-wife has long since left him to marry another man and move to New York City. James is back in Pollard, Illinois, remembering his college radio glory days and living in the house where he grew up, and renting part of it out. Sheila's brother lives in one apartment, which makes it even harder to forget the past. And a couple whose daughter recently disappeared, the Bunch's, live in the other.

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Sheila Anne and I met after a gig in Louisville, where she was getting her M.F.A. in photography. The Third Policeman had just played one of our best gigs of a six-city tour, at the Rudyard Kipling, and as we were breaking our equipment down she introduced herself and minutes later at the bar offered to take some photos at our next gig in Cincinnati, the following night. She was only 25 at the time, with beautiful, long braided hair and the same enormous gray eyes that never seemed to tire, age or lie. I invited her to have a few more drinks with the band over at Freddy's, another local bar that kept later hours, but she declined the offer, saying that her boyfriend wouldn't approve. The fact that she had a boyfriend was an immediate disappointment and I wound up going to Freddy's with Glose and drinking consecutive shots of Maker's Mark and passing out at a booth. Nevertheless, she wound up showing up in Cincinnati and shooting three roles of digital film that became the first images on The Third Policeman's now semi-frozen website (it hasn't been updated in over a year). She decided to stay out late with us that night and while she was in the bathroom of a bar near the new ballpark, Glose kept saying, "She totally wants to fuck you, James," which I didn't believe, despite the fact that Glose was the resident chick shaman and could suss out these kinds of things the way master plumbers can find a bad section of piping.

She stayed with me in the hotel that night, although we didn't sleep together. She wound up following us to Chicago, Cleveland, and Pittsburgh, too, taking photos of shows, and helping us out at the merch table. Kent's girlfriend had left us just prior to Louisville, accusing Kent of being a homosexual, which seemed preposterous but wound up being true. (It turned out that Kent had been in love with Glose for several years.)

Earlier, out of curiosity, I keyed into the Bunch's unit. You could feel the grief of their missing daughter tainting the air like a piece of spoiled fruit. Their apartment was surprisingly neat, with furniture that was as beige as it was simple. I thought I might find a series of photos of their daughter hanging in the living room, but save for what appeared to be a wool Navajo blanket hanging above the sofa, their walls were blank. In their entertainment console, the Tivo's red light was engaged. I imagined them recording "The Oprah Winfrey Show" -- an episode about the epidemic of missing children in the heartland, no doubt. The Bunch's would view it on their lumpy sofa, their legs extended under their unremarkable coffee table, while eating microwaved Stouffers. Then Todd Bunch returning to the living room after Mary falls asleep and masturbating to the pretty young mother sitting across from Oprah, white, peroxide blond, sad blue eyes, maybe twenty-eight, arms thinned from grief, Todd Bunch's semen leaping out in dying arcs while the young mother weeps for her lost child.

Mary walked in while I was stealing their remote control. I have no idea why I put the thing in my pocket.

"What are you doing?" she asked. Her voice was high and small and trapped in her nose.

"Nothing," I said. "I heard a noise as I was coming up the stairs. There was a raccoon in the attic last night. I thought maybe there was another one in here."

"Was there?" She hadn't blinked and the air between us had a strange voltage. Her eyes were enormous and seemed glued open.

"Not that I could see. I'm sorry if I crossed a line. I normally wouldn't..."

She was wearing a nylon Adidas sweat suit top with a hooded sweatshirt underneath, and mismatching jogging pants.

"Can I help you with that?" I asked, taking her bag of groceries. There was another awkward moment and then she seized the bag.

"I'll put these up," she said and exited into the kitchen.

The warmth of their unit was making my pulse drop and suddenly my feet felt incredibly heavy. I could hear her putting things in the fridge. I imagined it filled with doubles and triples of things. Jars of mayonnaise and bottles of catsup. Eight quarts of whole milk, most of which would never get drunk.

When she came out she had taken the sweatshirts off and was now wearing a plain white T-shit, too large, probably her husband's.

She said, "You think we did something, don't you?" Her voice was still congested and I had an impulse to go to a knee but I remained standing.

I said, "I'm not sure what you mean."

"To our daughter."

"No," I said. "No, I don't."

Mary Bunch was surprisingly attractive in her big white T-shirt and although I had never thought her to be less than that, the sudden charge I felt between us took me by surprise.

"I saw you speaking to that detective earlier. What did he want?"

"He just asked a few cursory questions. If I'd seen anything out of the ordinary."

"Meaning what?"

"Strange behavior, that type of thing."

"Like would Todd and Mary Bunch harm their daughter?"

"He did hint toward that, yes."

"I saw he gave you his card."

"He did."

"Are you gonna call him?"

"Not unless I have a reason."

"Why are you holding our Tivo remote?"

"Oh," I said. "I didn't even realize... Here."

"I think you should go," she then said. "I'm not comfortable with this."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'll be sure someone's home next time."

She crossed her arms and nodded. She had soft, perfect skin and her breath smelled like maple syrup.

Later in my room I took a Viagra. Earlier that day I had bought three for $50 from my old pot dealer, Haggis. I had been anxious about impotence because in recent months my erections had been weak and infrequent. The snow was still descending diagonally across the attic window and the sounds of snowplows scraped by on the street below. I laid on the floor for a while an pressed my ear to the central air duct and listened to the Bunch's apartment, imagining Todd and Mary not talking, but passing notes to each other across their kitchen table, their daughter's small body rotting in a hole in some nearby town.

When the Viagra would kick in, I would man my desk, open my manuscript to page 84, where I had sketched a fairly decent likeness of my wife's naked body, her dark eyes staring back at me, all pupils, eyes larger than her real ones, fawn-like and filled with yearning, and orgasm copiously and directly on my kick amp.