"What does Ira know about tip sheets?"
"Nothing," Maggie said furiously, and she started re-wrapping Fiona's sandwich.
All around her she heard murmuring, like ripples widening across a pond:
"What'd he say?"
"Tip sheet."
"What'd she say?"
"Nothing."
"She did say something, I saw her lips move."
"She said, 'Nothing.' "
"But I thought I saw-"
Maggie straightened and faced the rows of people on the bleachers. "I said, 'Nothing,' is what I said," she called out clearly.
Somebody sucked in a breath. They all looked elsewhere.
It was amazing, Ira often said, how people fooled themselves into believing what they wanted to. (How Maggie fooled herself, he meant.) He said it when Maggie threatened to sue the Police Department that time they charged Jesse with Drunk and Disorderly. He said it when she swore that Spin the Cat sounded better than the Beatles. And he said it again when she refused to accept that Fiona was gone for good.
That evening after the races Maggie sat up late with Jesse, pretending to be knitting although she ripped out as much as she added. Jesse drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Can't you sit still for once?"
Maggie asked him, and then she said, "Maybe you should try calling her sister again."
"I already tried three times, for God's sake. They must be just letting it ring."
"Maybe you should go in person."
"That would be worse," Jesse said. "Pounding on the door while they hid inside and listened. I bet they'd be laughing and looking over at each other and making these goggly eyes."
"They wouldn't do that!"
"I guess I'll take the van back to Dave," Jesse said.
He rose to leave. Maggie didn't try to stop him, because she figured he was secretly going to the sister's place after all.
The van had been parked out front when they returned from Pimlico. For one relieved moment, everyone assumed Fiona was in the house. And the keys were on top of the bookcase just inside the door, where the family always left keys and stray gloves and notes saying when they'd be back.
But there wasn't any note from Fiona. In the room she shared with Jesse, the unmade bed had a frozen look. Every hillock of the sheets appeared to have hardened. In Maggie's and Ira's room the crib was empty and desolate. However, this couldn't be a permanent absence. Nothing was packed; nothing was missing. Even Fiona's toilet articles still sat on the bureau in their travel case. "See there?" Maggie told Jesse, because he was worried too, she could tell; and she pointed to the travel case.
"Oh. Right," he said, reassured. She crossed the hall to the bathroom and found the usual fleet of rubber ducks and tugboats. "You people," she said happily. Emerging, passing Jesse's room once more, she found him standing in front of the bureau with his eyes half shut and his nose buried deep in Fiona's soapbox. She understood him perfectly. Smells could bring a person back clearer than pictures, even; didn't she know that?
When the night stretched on and Jesse didn't return, she told herself that he must have found Fiona. They must be having a nice long talk. She ripped out all her garbled rows of knitting and rewound her ball of yarn and went to bed. In the dark, Ira mumbled, "Jesse back yet?"
"No, nor Fiona, either one," she said.
"Oh, well, Fiona," he said. "Fiona's gone for good."
There was a sudden clarity to his voice. It was the voice of someone talking in his sleep, which made his words seem oracular and final.
Maggie felt a clean jolt of anger. Easy for him to say! He could toss off people without a thought.
It struck her as very significant that Ira's idea of entertainment was those interminable books about men who sailed the Atlantic absolutely alone.
He was right, though: In the morning, Fiona was still missing. Jesse came down to breakfast with that same stunned expression on his face. Maggie hated to ask, but finally she said, "Honey? You didn't find her?"
"No," he said shortly, and then he requested the marmalade in a way that shut off all further questions.
Not till that afternoon did the notion of foul play occur to her. How could they have missed it? Of course: No one traveling with an infant would leave behind all Fiona had left-the diaper bag, the stroller, the pink plastic training cup Leroy liked to drink her juice from. Someone must have kidnapped them, or worse: shot them during a street crime. The police would have to be notified this instant. She said as much to Ira, who was reading the Sunday paper in the living room. Ira didn't even look up. "Spare yourself the embarrassment, Maggie," he said quietly.
"Embarrassment?"
"She's walked out of her own free will. Don't bother the police with this."
"Ira, young mothers do not walk out with just their purses. They pack.
They have to! Think," she said. "Remember all she took with her on a simple trip to Pimlico. You know what I suspect? I suspect she came back here, parked the van, carried Leroy to the grocery store for teething biscuits-I heard her say yesterday morning she was low on teething biscuits-and stepped smack into a holdup scene. You've read how robbers always choose women and children for hostages! It's more effective that way. It gets results."
Ira regarded her almost absently over the top of his paper, as if he found her just marginally interesting.
"Why, she's even left behind her soap! Her toothbrush!" she told Ira.
"Her travel case," Ira pointed out.
"Yes, and if she'd gone of her own free will-"
"Her travel case, Maggie, like she'd use in a hotel. But now she's back at, I don't know, her sister's or her mother's, where her real belongings are, and she doesn't need a travel case."
"Oh, that's nonsense," Maggie said. "And just look at her closet. It's full of clothes."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Of course. It's the first thing I checked."
"Are you sure there's nothing missing? Her favorite sweater? That jacket she's so keen on?"
Maggie considered a moment. Then she stood up and went down the hall to Jesse's room.
Jesse lay on the bed, fully dressed, with his arms folded behind his head. He glanced over at her as she entered. "Excuse me a moment," she told him, and she opened the door of his closet.
Fiona's clothes hung inside, all right, but not her wind-breaker or that big striped duster she liked to wear around the house. There were only two or three skirts (she hardly ever wore skirts), a few blouses, and a ruffled dress that she'd always claimed made her look fat. Maggie spun around and went to Fiona's bureau. Jesse watched from the bed. She jerked open a drawer and found a single pair of blue jeans (artificially whitened with bleach, a process that was no longer stylish) and below them two turtle-necks from last winter and below those a pair of maternity slacks with an elastic panel in front. It was like the layers in an archaeological dig. Maggie had the fleeting fantasy that if she delved farther she would find cheerleader sweaters, then grade-school pinafores, then Fiona's baby clothes. She smoothed the layers down again and shut the drawer.
"But where would she be?" she asked Jesse.
It seemed for a long while that he wasn't going to answer. Finally, though, he said, "I guess her sister's."
"You said you didn't find her there."
"I didn't go there."
She thought that over. Then she said, "Oh, Jesse."
"I'll be damned if I make a fool of myself."
"Jesse, honey-"
"If I have to beg her then I'd sooner not have her," he said.
And he turned over with his face to the wall, ending the conversation.
It was two or three days afterward that Fiona's, sister called. She said, "Mrs. Moran?" in that braying voice that Maggie instantly recognized.
"This is Crystal Stuckey," she said. "Fiona's sister?"