Intern

Ink

ONE

The Girl

Eric was late, but April didn’t mind. This must be how marriage would feel, waiting for your man to come home, knowing you’d sleep beside him all night, share coffee in the morning. How had she ever gotten so lucky?

His condo still held the heat of another record-breaking Valley scorcher. She showered with the bergamot gel he loved, then took the bottle of gin from the freezer and splashed some into the martini shaker they’d bought the week before. Nude at the window of his condo, she admired the silvery reflection of her body against the backdrop of early evening. Her hair was still damp, but she piled it on her head anyway. When he walked through the door, she’d be waiting on the other side, just like this. Her hair wouldn’t matter once they hit the bed.

She dug through the private drawer, found the thigh-high stockings and eased them up over her legs. Then the hootchie mama high heels, and the necklace he said matched her hair, a large topaz chunk on a gold chain.

She glanced down at the coppery bush between her legs, considered the scissors on the bar. Did she dare?

The telephone rang. April fought the impulse to grab it.

She let the machine answer, her fingers dancing like air above the receiver, ready to pounce the instant she heard his voice.

But it wasn’t his voice. It was hers

TWO

The Senator

2 days

Eric and Suzanne attended Phantom of the Opera that Sunday night, a fund-raiser for a major hospital. It was one of the governor’s pet projects, which meant they had to not just show up, but stay, even though Suzanne would be driving back home alone later. He’d already seen Phantom too many times in San Francisco, and this version didn’t come close. Had it not been for Suzanne’s continual nudging, he would have dozed off for sure.

At intermission, they made small talk with others who’d attended for the same reason they had. Suzanne clung to his arm, and he wondered if she might be having one of her dizzy spells. If so, you’d never know it. She wore her chestnut hair twisted into a knot at the back of her head, tendrils so natural looking they could have been sketched along the side of her face.

He didn’t want to think how much the long paisley skirt and top had set him back, but Suzanne was good at recycling her clothes. She kept a list and tried to avoid wearing the same outfits too close together.

The governor, on the other hand, had only two words in her color vocabulary: black and navy. Tonight it was navy, with pearls. With her church-lady suits and grandma-gray hair, she might come across as harmless at first glance, but the birdlike blue eyes told a different story. She kept a running ledger sheet in her head, and Eric always sensed she’d placed him on the debit side of it.

When are we going to see that new car of yours? the governor asked. I understand you went all out.

I call it my mid-life Chrysler. Eric sipped his club soda. He didn’t like to drink on Sundays. Besides, it looked better this way.

A Jag, is it?

I’m on the road so much, I thought I might as well step up.

Have you seen how fast it can go?

Oh, yes. And meeting the governor’s probing gaze. Within the speed limit, of course.

Of course. I’m sure you’re an excellent driver.

I like to think I am.

Is there anything your husband doesn’t do well? she asked Suzanne.

Yes. She turned to him, her smile enigmatic. Relaxing is not Eric’s strong suit. I’m afraid he’s a bit of a workaholic.

Perfect answer. A point for Suzanne. He started to reward her with a smile, but was interrupted by his phone.

I thought we agreed to turn those off, the governor said.

He glanced down at Tom Spencer’s name.

Sorry. It’s my aide. I’ve got to take it.

The lights dimmed. Time for the next act. Mercifully, he was saved. Don’t wait for me, he told the others. I’ll be right in.

Told you, Suzanne said to the governor.

What’s going on? Eric said, once he was out of earshot. I told you I’d be with the governor tonight.

It’s April, Tom said. Her mom’s been calling the office. She was supposed to be home last night, but she never got there. She’s not answering her phone either.

Shit. Eric felt sweat break out along his upper lip. Are you sure? Did you try her cell?

Just got voice mail. Tom paused. Her mom’s shook up. She wants you to call her. I explained that you’re tied up tonight, and she got pretty rude. She left a number.

I’ll call her in the morning, Eric said. Her mother expects the poor kid to scurry home every weekend. Maybe she decided to do something else for a change.

She didn’t say anything to you?

I didn’t ask. Tell you what. Call her back and explain my situation. Say I’m sure April will be back at work tomorrow, and that I’ll have her give Gloria a call then.

"What if she’s not?

            She will be. Just get that woman off my back, okay?

Sure thing.

He hung up, then called April. Her recorded message answered. Hi, April, he said. This is Eric. It’s Sunday night, and your mother’s trying to get in touch with you. If you haven’t already, you’d better give her a call. See you tomorrow. ‘Bye.

Eric made his way through the darkened theater, navigating over legs and feet until he reached his chair. Sweat washed over his palms, and he fought the urge to loosen his collar. Suddenly he wished he’d opted for wine over club soda. It would all work out, though. He just needed to concentrate on one task at a time.

He settled in the seat next to Suzanne, breathing in her fragrance, like the smell of soft rain.

Anything important? she whispered.

He shook his head and reached for her hand. No reason to worry her. Just business, he said.

THREE

The Wife

5 days

I am getting my hair colored when I hear about it. Berta, my hairdresser, and I fell into the every-other Wednesday routine years ago when political functions and charity events began to take over my weekends. With another campaign trail looming ahead, Berta’s decided it’s time to update my look. Perhaps I need to go a shade lighter, she suggests, in her pseudo-indifferent manner.

I don’t think so, I say, surveying my shrinking face above the plastic purple smock. This election won’t depend on my hair color, and I don’t want to face the cameras looking like a tarted-up old woman.

Oh, you ain’t old, Suzanne, and you are a real brunette. Berta frowns at me in the mirror. You got the coloring for it.

"Was a real brunette, I say. I can deal with age. The main thing, Berta, I just don’t want to embarrass myself."

I can dig that.

A small knot of a woman, Berta’s retained her old speech patterns. It’s a matter of pride to her, a nod to the past she never intends to forget. She’s been putting herself through college styling hair, mine included, and moonlighting as a psychic. Out of respect for Eric’s more conventional beliefs, I’ve never asked about that part of her life.

You want more chestnut in it, don’t you? she says. Think I’ve been putting in too much gold?

I meet her eyes in the gilt-edge mirror. Gold seems a little less brassy, don’t you think?

Okay. Can’t argue with the Pisces lady today.

I decide not to ask what that means as she starts to paint the paste on my roots.

Wonder what color it really is, I say, underneath all this denial.

Better’n mine. Look at this stuff. She tosses her head. In the mirror, I check out her masses of silver and slate.

Look like an old voodoo lady, don’t I? I’d go blond again, but I stand out too much at school with it.

Just don’t ever stop cutting my hair when you get that degree.

You know I won’t.

As we talk, the tiny television on the table in front of the mirror broadcasts some show in a low monotone. Berta always turns it down when I come, up for people with whom she doesn’t want to talk.

She hears the newscaster before I do. Swivels her head toward the television. Says, Dear God.

What? I ask. Then I see him. My husband. That’s weird. He hadn’t planned a press conference.

He’s laughing. It can’t be that bad. Can’t be. Then they cut to something else. Another photo explodes in my face, a black-and-white photograph of a young woman trying to look serious, smooth neck, deep v-neck drape, a bundle of curls.

She got red hair? Berta whispers.

Who? I don’t know. Who is that?

The announcer’s voice breaks in. April Wayne, an intern in State Senator Eric Barry’s office in Sacramento, was reported missing today by her mother in Pleasant View. A damning pause, then, Senator Barry, who lives in Sacramento, while his wife, Suzanne, maintains the family residence in Pleasant View, was last seen with Miss Wayne Friday night in a Sacramento bar.

A photograph of our home sweeps over the screen.

Eric, I whisper. We talked this morning. Why didn’t he tell me his aide is missing?

I think back. We were together Saturday. What was he doing out with her Friday? That was the night I tried to call him, the night I’ve tried to erase from my memory.

Berta places her hand on my shoulder, hard, as if pressing something into me.

You okay?

I nod, my mouth numb, frozen. The tiny television crackles.

Senator Barry’s two aides, Tom Spencer and Nancy Vasquez, say he knows nothing about the disappearance of Miss Wayne, whom he describes as a family friend and an asset to his staff.

As suddenly as it started, the newscast finishes. I realize I’m trembling.

Take the dye off, I tell Berta. Now.

She nods. Go take care of your business, and I’ll finish the job later on, come to your house if I have to.

Thank you, I say. I don’t know what else to add as she washes the color from my hair and pats me dry with a towel.

You want a wig? she asks.

Why?

So no one will recognize you. I got one you can borrow. It’s an Afro.

At that, we both laugh, a nervous burst that releases some of the tension building in me.

Give me the damned Afro, I say, but this is ridiculous. At least it will cover my wet head in case someone recognizes me.

Who knows? You might even like it. Everybody be saying you’re the swami woman instead of me.

She helps me secure it, and we check out the new woman in the mirror. She’s younger than I, with wide, deep-blue eyes, fine lines, and a straight, shocked mouth that looks ready to scream.

It works, Berta says. I wouldn’t know you in a crowd.

I wouldn’t know me either, I say.

For a moment I feel as if I’m going to cry. She puts her arms around me, gives me a hug. She smells of black opium, a musk-like oil she’s been wearing since the day I met her, one that stands out, even in this cubicle of fragrance.

What would I do without you? I say.

You don’t worry about that. You just worry about taking care of your own self for a change. Better leave out the back.

I go through the shop’s back door and get into my car. When I turn onto our street, I see two large vans outside the house. Television crews. I consider making a run for the garage and decide against it. Several blocks later, I pull to the side of the road, my heart hammering, a full-fledge panic-attack coming on, strangling me. I can’t breathe. Okay, okay, I either have to do something or curl up here for the rest of my life in a ball in my car wearing this ludicrous wig. That is not going to happen, not this time.

I take out my phone and call his land line in Sacramento. The voice mail picks up on the third ring, just as it did Friday night.

This is Eric. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.

Damn it, Eric, I say.

Suzanne, wait. I was on the other line. I’ve been trying to call you. Where have you been?

"Where have you been?" I shout into the phone.

It’s okay, Suze. A girl who worked for me disappeared, and the media blew it out of proportion. It’s going to be all right. Where are you? We’ll go away somewhere until this blows over, just the two of us. We’ll go away and talk.

Talk about what? I demand. There are reporters all over the place. Eric, what have you done?

FOUR

The Mother

6 days

One officer stood at the door of April’s apartment. His partner, younger but with less hair than the first, ushered them inside.

Don’t touch anything, he cautioned them.

Now, wait a minute. Jack stopped just inside the door and gestured toward the large room—the Erte prints in black lacquer frames, the wrought-iron staircase semi-circling to the sleeping loft. This is our daughter’s apartment. We aren’t exactly intruders.

And there’s been no sign of intruders, sir. This is just a precautionary measure.

The boredom in his voice, the by-rote quality of his speech reassured Gloria. April wasn’t really missing, he seemed to say. This charade was merely precautionary. Face it, neither officer would be here if it were anybody else’s daughter. No, that wasn’t true. The official attention was due to only one fact, that April had last been seen with her boss, that bastard Eric Barry, Friday night.

Barry was the reason for whatever stunt April had pulled, of that Gloria was sure. He’d done something, said something to set off April’s hair-trigger temper. Now she’d pulled a disappearing act, punishing them all for his ill treatment of her.

The testosterone-charged air between Jack and the officer would only hinder their cause. Gloria moved ahead of them into the room she knew so well. She caught a reflection of herself in the mirrored wall across from April’s glass dining table. With her dark auburn hair and calf-grazing charcoal pants, she matched this place. For a ridiculous second, guilt threatened to overcome her as she took in the décor she’d painstakingly planned—the Art Deco prints from old Harper’s Bazaar covers, the one good piece of art, a bold-gestured Larry Hill original with calligraphic slashes of burnt umber and Payne’s gray.

God, had she decorated her daughter’s first apartment, not for April, but for a younger version of herself? Had she created the arty sanctuary she would have chosen had the times and her own circumstances given her an opportunity to remain single after college and the scholarship that allowed her to attend it? Guilt, a voice reminded her. This was just guilt. Listen to it, and she’d be lost before she started.

Jack remained uncharacteristically silent. He glared at the officer as if they were two dogs in a stare-down contest over a bone. She’d have to be the one to speak up. That was a first.

So what would you like us to do?

The officer acknowledged her with surprise and a certain amount of relief in his brown eyes. Just look around. Let me know if anything’s disturbed or missing.

Looks like always, Jack said. Doesn’t it look like always, honey?

From what I can tell.

There was something she wanted to check though. She took the lead on the stairs, careful not to touch the railing. Just a precautionary measure, that’s all. April’s day bed was made, the flowered Ralph Lauren spread Gloria had found too frivolous for the tone of the place tucked defiantly into it.

Is she always this neat? the officer asked.

Jack croaked out an undecipherable answer. What the hell was wrong with him?

Always, Gloria said.

Everything on this table the same?

Gloria glanced at it. Yes, that’s what she’d been looking for, the photo of April, Jack, and her with the bastard, taken just six months before. It looks that way, she said.

You want to check out her clothes?

Sure. She tried to ignore the knot in her stomach. I’m not as up-to-date on her wardrobe as I am her furnishings.

The closet stood open. They moved closer. The summer closet. April, always well organized, rotated her clothes from one season to the other. This was all jeans, tops, a light jacket, and, yes, a man’s windbreaker. What should she say? Was it too soon to speak? No, she must. This was her daughter.

That’s not hers, she said, pointing at it.

We didn’t think so.

 If this were some damned test of her veracity, they could bring it on. Her fear began to solidify into anger.

Anything else? She walked into the closet, all the way in the back where her daughter’s folded sweaters spent the winter. The barren back shelf sported only a taupe faux sixties’ macramé handbag and April’s luggage, three bags they’d bought together. Suddenly, she felt ill. Wherever April had gone, she hadn’t packed for the trip. Unless she were going with someone, unless that person had done the packing.

She started to walk out of the closet, then saw it, dangling from a hanger like a formless black ghost. She stole a look at the door where the officer stood. He’d clearly seen it too. It was what she’d call a cat suit, black stretch lace from neck to wrist to toes. The type of suit one would have to sit down and inch into from the top, it had only one other opening, and that was at the crotch, an opening that was trimmed in bright red maribou.

You recognize that? the officer asked.

What? Jack asked in a voice that didn’t sound anything like him.

No. She walked out of the closet. April was an adult, a sexually active one. She might not always make the right choices. Who did at her age? She had a right to her fantasies, and she could wear anything she wanted in or out of bed. Just let her come home before they had to go through any more of this.

The office mumbled into his telephone. Press outside, he said, and looking at Jack, Sorry, folks.

Can’t we get out the back or something? Jack demanded.

They’re out there too. Best way is just walk through them. We’ll get you in your car as fast as we can, and we’ll be in touch.

Jack took Gloria’s elbow, and in that moist cupping of his palm, she could feel his fear. Her body stiffened, resisting the impulse to absorb his jagged emotions by osmosis. No, she wouldn’t. Jack wasn’t going to be here for her today. April wasn’t. She had to find someone, something, or she’d run out of here screaming.

The officer opened the door, and they ducked the lights, heading for their cars. Mrs. Wayne. Mr. Wayne. Wait. In the lights of the cameras, the eager faces behind the notepads and the microphones, she found her strength. She wouldn’t have to tell them everything, of course. April would be home soon. She needed to give them only enough to put the pressure on the bastard, to keep the story before the public.

Hurry. Jack nudged her forward.

She stopped, staring into the lights. She could do this. It was no different than making a speech to a room of designers or presenting a plan to a new client. The media could be their allies, not their enemies. Jack couldn’t see that from the cave of silence into which he’d withdrawn. She could though. The media, even more than the police, more than her own husband, would be her strength.

A crass young man, barely April’s age, stood out in front of her, his blond hair gelled to the max. Are you the mother? he asked. A woman in a plum-colored suit came in from the other side. As if aware of the young man’s rudeness, she asked, Mrs. Wayne, would you be willing to talk to us for a moment?

Gloria looked from one to the other. Yes, she said. And, Yes.

FIVE

The Wife

7 days

After the business of checking in and unpacking, we have only the dying sun outside, nothing to say to each other. After I called him, he told me to just come up to Sacramento. I did, and without even discussing plans or possibilities, rode all the way here to Mendocino with him. Why? Because it’s my job, and I actually want to get away for a couple of days. By the time we return, this whole missing-intern thing will have blown over.

Melinda knocks and pokes her head in the door.

Need anything? she asks. I’m leaving for a while.

Melinda’s parents own this motel. We’ve watched her grow up over the course of our summers here. She’s a political science major, and for the last two summers, she’s begged Eric for a job. He has no turnover, though. His staff loves him. Everyone loves him. I love him, and I really do think this will all blow over.

Reporters in the Valley are looking for us, and it’s possible they’ll track us here. Melinda lets us park our car in the motel garage and asks if she can give us a lift anywhere.

We’ll probably walk, I say.

She plucks at the grape-colored sweatshirt over her jeans, pushes back her wind-whipped hair. I feel she wants to say more to me, to offer something of herself. All she manages is, Okay. Well, call me if it gets dark and you need a ride back. 

After she leaves, he goes out on the balcony, his back to me, as if trying to stare down the black water of Noyo Harbor. I should say something, but I’m drained.

Melinda’s right about the weather.

He doesn’t turn. I detect the gritty gray stubble beneath the blond of his hair, the longer top layer tousled like an afterthought. Its real purpose is to make him look taller, like the lifts in his shoes, his slim Italian jackets, his noble posture.

How’s the ocean?

Still there.

Want me to join you?

If you like.

He stands with his elbows on the weathered redwood railing, looking out past the seal’s bark toward the back of a white boat, heading out to sea. I come up behind him, trying to get a glimpse of what he sees.

We need to eat, I say.

I suppose so. He moves closer to the edge, more comfortable than I would be next to such a sheer drop, more trusting of the wood that supports his weight.

If he’s as innocent as he says, why isn’t he telling me what’s going on? I am close to snapping. For one moment, I think of how it would feel to take a quick step closer, make one sudden move, and push. I know I couldn’t do it though. I’d get dizzy, go over myself, screaming all the way down.

You’re damned quiet, he says.

Just waiting.

For what?

Your choice.

For what, dinner?

What else?

He sighs. There’s that same place down on the harbor. It’s still light. Shall we walk?

It will be dark when we come back. Last time the path wasn’t lit.

They fixed it.

When?

I don’t remember. There are lights now.

The son of a bitch. We spent our honeymoon here, almost every anniversary after that.

***

Not so long ago, I couldn’t have done this. My