EVERY MONDAY AT NOON,
Stan visits Eye’s house.
This is because every Sunday night, after their respective outings, Betsy and Phil discuss their missing son over dinner, while The Infanta absorbs a little extra TV in the screened-in back porch, hardly out of earshot.
They decide, by dessert-time, like it’s taken them until now to think of it, to contact Stan, the town mayor and chief of police, and demand that he prioritize the search for their son, who’s been missing since … they’ve blacked out the exact date, fearful of how long ago it would seem.
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Phil will use his position as Vice Manager at the Refinery to grease the wheels, not at the expense of the other missing children on the list, but rather, somehow, he and his wife agree, for the greater good.
Sharing a bottle of the pretty good stuff as it gets late, they go through drawer after drawer of their son’s photos, trying to choose the perfect one for Stan to show to potential suspects and informants. An image equal parts accurate representation and heartrending icon |
Since they give one away each week, their collection keeps shrinking. They mourn thus:
as if he were dead, which,
come to think of it rationally … but no.
PHIL CALLS STAN FIRST THING MONDAY MORNING, SAYS:
Then he bursts through the door of Stan’s office bellowing:
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Stan, after all this time, can’t be sure what he might owe Phil, or why, from when, but he’s not about to call the bluff. He’s never that sure of anything.
Phil explains that his beloved son has gone missing … has been missing … is not at home.
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he grunts, handing over the photo. This time it’s of Slave at three, leaning over to pet a skate in a tank at the Children’s Aquarium in a somewhat larger town a few towns over. Stan takes it warily, as if by touching it wrong he might become a suspect in Phil’s eyes. |
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he promises, trying to repress how meek he feels in the face of what can happen. 
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Phil takes a handful of candy from the bowl on his way out, dreaming about what to wash it down with. |
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Stan will show up at Eye’s door at noon.
Eye and Slave spend the morning preparing Slave a disguise,
Eye and Slave spend the morning preparing Slave a disguise,
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Slave doesn’t complain except when tweezing his eyebrows and waxing his upper lip, and even then just barely.
Eye sits in an easy chair in the corner, watching the preparations, reminiscing. 
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he adds.
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THE DOORBELL RINGS.
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says Stan.
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Bethany replies, on cue.
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Eye, overhearing, can’t help feeling flattered.
Bethany shows Stan in, goes to fetch wine.
Bethany shows Stan in, goes to fetch wine.
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Stan sits down, takes out the photo, lays it faceup on the table. |
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Eye makes a point of not looking at it. Stan, afraid to look at it if no one else will, looks out the window. He puts his keys on the table, then feels odd and puts them back in his pocket.
Bethany serves the wine. Stan makes an effort to refuse, then gives in. |
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They slurp in unison, which is to say that Eye watches Stan slurp. Tactfully enough, Stan swaps his empty glass for Eye’s full one, then slurps that too. In the end it appears as though they’ve both consumed their portions.
Bethany, meanwhile, busies herself preparing the methadone in the other room, just enough for Stan to sample, far less than one of Eye’s doses.
When she returns, bearing the syringe on a tray garlanded with flowers and sugar, Stan rolls up his sleeve almost unconsciously, as if to scratch his tricep.
Bethany, meanwhile, busies herself preparing the methadone in the other room, just enough for Stan to sample, far less than one of Eye’s doses.
When she returns, bearing the syringe on a tray garlanded with flowers and sugar, Stan rolls up his sleeve almost unconsciously, as if to scratch his tricep.
Stan looks at the clock while Bethany swabs the incision point, molds his fingers into a fist to tighten the vein, wraps the tourniquet and drops the needle. |
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Eye lowers his lid dreamily at the sight, down onto visions of his own dose after nightfall, or just before if he can’t wait.
When Stan has fully slumped over, Bethany returns with a gurney, bedecked with a royal blue saddle blanket and an ostrich feather pillow. She loads Stan on, first the head, then the feet, and wheels him away.
When Stan has fully slumped over, Bethany returns with a gurney, bedecked with a royal blue saddle blanket and an ostrich feather pillow. She loads Stan on, first the head, then the feet, and wheels him away.
TO THE GUEST ROOM.
She tips him into the turned-down sheets, still warm from the dryer, and pulls them to his chin, positioning him so he’s facing straight upward, mouth open.
Eye lurks just outside the door, stray thoughts appearing and disappearing in the yellowish patch between his lid and ball.
Eye lurks just outside the door, stray thoughts appearing and disappearing in the yellowish patch between his lid and ball.
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When Stan is tucked in tight and Bethany has checked that he’s breathing, she sets a glass of iced tea on the nightstand beside the easy chair and ushers Eye in.
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Now it is Bethany’s job to bring the photo into the study and position it in the ever-growing collage.
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She looks at the image of herself as a tiny boy, petting that friendly skate, and feels her skin revert to his.
She removes her wig and heels, taking up a stapler and climbing a chair. Eye has arranged all the photos that Stan has brought into a chronology of Slave’s life, a visual history in the shape of a river, winding its way along, with the names of port cities lining its banks. Slave has often spent a full Monday afternoon imagining life in one of these cities, disembarking from the river and stepping out of time, into some scheme of things unreachable. |
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Just before she staples this one into place, she looks at the handwritten question on the bottom of the photo, same as on every photo, in her father’s crude but assertive hand:
