Where was I when I was learning the new truths of my life? Why wasn’t I in class, listening and taking notes? Why was it that the news of the new me only came up in the pop quiz? Brianna had gone back to England and I was alone in the apartment, a newly printed crop of schoolbooks on the table waiting to be sorted by color and size. A week had passed without a call from Freddy. Not a word, not a note. She had just stepped out of the rental car and disappeared into the streets of Manhattan. On the third day I went to the police to report her missing.
I’d been by her old apartment and found it occupied by a very nice woman who had heard from Freddy, briefly, when we first got back into the city for the funeral. Freddy had alerted her to the possibility of needing to crash in her own place for a short time, before returning overseas and the woman, her name was Muriel, had agreed to let her stay in the guest room. Her own lease for the place was up in three months and I think she was angling for a renewal by being so nice. The only problem with her informal charity was that Freddy never collected on it. She had never shown up. That information, and my never having heard from her, is what prompted me to go to the authorities for help.
They took down the information I gave them, her description, her state of mind, her clothing as I remembered it. I told them her things were at my apartment, including her money and jewelry. I explained, partly, the fight she’d had with my sister. I even told them about Mikhael who, for all I knew, was still wanted by someone, somewhere. I had two recent photos of her which I gave them and then, with nothing else to give them, I took myself home to wait for some news.
Four more days went by with nothing reported. I called at the end of the week and was put on the phone with a Captain Jenkins, "Call me Steve" Jenkins.
"Call me Steve," he said.
"Okay, I will, Captain Jenkins. I will when you tell me you’ve found her."
"Well, finding’s a difficult word. You see we could find her somewhere, okay but sullen and not willing to talk much. Or we could find her hurt and in trouble. We could even find her dead, damaged or just depressed and in hiding ... from you. There’s all sorts of findings."
"But you haven’t found her, have you?" I asked him.
"No. No, we haven’t as yet."
"Is there anything I should do? Anything I can do?"
"I don’t think so," Steve said. "But if you do hear from her, or even think you’ve seen her, like across a street somewhere, you call us and let us pursue it. You don’t do anything yourself, see."
"Okay. I understand that."
"Looking through this report I can’t help but see you traveled together from London. Is that right?"
"Yes, it is."
"Do you think she’d have gone back there?"
"Well, if she did she would need her passport and her ticket, don’t you think so Captain Jenkins...?
"Steve."
"They’re both here in my apartment along with her cash and her luggage.’
"And that tells you...?"
"That she hasn’t gone back to England. How could she?"
"I see what you’re saying."
"Good."
"Unless she had another passport, of course."
"Steve, why would she have two passports?"
"Well, I don’t really know. It was just a thought."
"Yeah."
I hung up the phone after agreeing to be intouch with him if I heard anything and he agreed to do the same. I wasn’t too sure he’d remember to do such a thing if he did, indeed, learn anything.
I opened one of my books. It was a literature survey text covering the twentieth century, so far, in American literature. The course had started the day before and I had another class to prep for so I thought it would help to read ahead and see what it was I was supposed to learn. It turned out to be poetry, again by Edna St. Vincent Millay, but I already felt I knew what I needed to know, so I closed the book again and decided to take a walk instead.
I changed my shoes, leaving the black and tan leather oxfords for a pair of slip-on tennis shoes. My feet seemed to like the informality now attached to them, for they stepped lighter and quicker to the door. When I opened it, planning to head out to Central Park, a note fell from the outer doorknob to the welcome mat. I was stunned by the sudden, unexpected action and I took a large step backward, leaving the door ajar and the note lying on the mat. Then, recovered, I moved forward and picked it up. I closed the door, then opened it again, took a step into the hallway to see if there was anyone there. The hall was empty.
The note had been folded over four times, making it small and sturdy. I slowly unfolded it, but each flap seemed to open more quickly. Finally I had the full, 8x10 piece of paper in my hands and I read the contents of the strange note.
"Max, Stop searching for her. She has made peace with me and we are married and she will soon be pregnant and we will soon be parents. Call off the search. Call the police and tell them she is fine now, married and happy and living with her husband in a place far enough from here to be safe for her. She wants me to tell you that she is happy, with her husband, and that she will always love you a little bit like she always did, but that she is happy, married and with the man she should be with. You know, Max, that this is the way it was always supposed to be, don’t you? I was always the big love and you were always the little love. That is your position in her life, the little love, the late love, the love that goes only so far in her life when the big love, the true love, is hers. Tell the police to stop looking for her she is fine. She sends you her best wishes and her little love, Max. When we have the first baby, she will send you its picture. Thank you for caring for her for me while I was away and for taking care of her things too. I will come for them when I can. Mikhael."
At the bottom of the page, in a different handwriting that I could swear looked like Freddy’s handwriting, but couldn’t swear was hers, there was a P.S.
"I do love you, Max, but my place is here with Mikhael. Forgive me. Freddy"
There was something so terribly unreal about this letter and its post-script that I wasn’t sure what to do about it. I thought I should call the police station again, talk to Steve Jenkins, read him the note, but something about it made me hesitate. Was it too soon, too close to this latest chat with him to call with this revelation? I would have to explain Mikhael and his strange history and I wasn’t sure I could do that.
I folded the note back up and put it in my pocket, then I opened the door again, checked the hall for... I wasn’t sure what, and headed out for my walk. Every few steps I checked my pocket to be certain the note was still there. Every few blocks I took it out and reread it, just to be sure I hadn’t imagined it. There was something so unreal about it.
After an hour I found myself in front of the Police Station. I took a deep breath, checked my pocket again, then went inside. I asked to see Captain Jenkins and was told to take a seat on a bench near the door. I did as I was told. After all, this was a police station and I was who, and what, I was.
Five minutes later I looked up from the magazine I’d found on the bench to see a handsome, young man in a suit and tie approaching. I stood up instantly, knowing this had to be Steve Jenkins. He extended his arm, his hand open and flat, in my direction. I shook his hand and it seemed to linger a second too long.
"Come on in," he said and I recognized the voice instantly.
"I have something to show you," I said as we approached his desk.
"Sure, sure. Sit down."
I did so, taking the note out of my pants pocket as I did. I held it out to him and he took it, touching my fingers again as he removed the note from my hand.
"This was balanced on my apartment doorknob," I said.
"Quite a note," he remarked, not looking up at me. "Quite a note, indeed."
"It is."
"What do you think it means, Max?"
"I think it means she married him and she’s fine."
"Do you? Do you really think that?"
"Yes."
"Then why did you come down here and bring in this note for me to see?" Steve asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you could have called, told me you’d heard from her, that she got married and wasn’t missing. Instead you brought me the note. Why?"
"I don’t know. I suppose I thought you should see it. It’s proof. Isn’t it?"
"I don’t know. Is it?"
"I don’t know." I was getting dizzy from this rounded conversation.
"I don’t think you do know. I think you’re still suspicious. I think you don’t believe a word of this note."
"You do?"
"I do."
"What do we do?"
"We don’t do anything. I do something."
"What?"
"Well, what’s this guy’s next move, Max? He wants the luggage, the passport, the money that belongs to his wife, right?"
"Yes."
"So, when he comes to collect all that, someone should be there to greet him, don’t you think?"
"Well, I’ll..."
"No. We’ll be there, Max. We want proof that nothing bad has happened to your friend. We don’t just buy into this story, do we?"
"I guess not."
"You guess right, Max."
"Okay."
Now I was confused. Either the story in the note was true or it wasn’t and I was supposing it was, I thought, although now I was suspicious of my own beliefs and motives. Why hadn’t I just called him? Why had I shown him the note?
"So, Max, we’ll have to place an officer in your apartment to wait for this guy to show."
"Oh, I see."
"It won’t be a hardship for you, will it?"
"No. I mean there’s plenty of room, rooms."
"Good. We’ll set it up and I’ll call you when we’re ready to proceed."
"Okay."
"We want to meet this guy, Max, and we want to see the girl, don’t we? We want to know that she’s really all right, not being held against her will."
"Oh, I see. Of course we do."
"That’s the ticket." He stood up and held out his hand again. "I’ll hold on to this note. It’s evidence, you see."
"Yes, all right."
"You’re a good man, Max." He shook my hand and flashed a dazzling smile in my direction. "A good man."
I would remember those words and the touch of that hand for a long time to come.