I eyed the door. The door was part of the allegory. The door was unlocked the whole time. I checked. I could've opened it. I could've stepped out into the corridor. I could've left the precinct house altogether, if I wanted to. But I didn't do any of those things. I never so much as poked my head into the hall to ask someone where the hell Curtis had gone off to. I thought about it. I argued with myself. I thought, yes, damn it, I should find out what's taking so long. But minute by minute, I put it off. I was afraid if I seemed too impatient, it would make me look bad somehow. It would make me look uncooperative or guilty. That was the effect the room had on me. Four men had broken into my house, nearly killed me, kidnapped a teenaged girl-and I was the one who was afraid of looking guilty. I even began to think of things I had done wrong. Not just recently, but in the past, too. I began to imagine Detective Curtis questioning me.
Why didn't you call the police after you heard about the murder in the Great Swamp? Why did you go to see Lauren without telling your wife? Why did you go to see Anne Smith? Tell me about That Night in Bedford.
I was interrogating myself in the interrogation room. Explaining myself to Curtis or whoever was secretly watching me.
Which brings me to the mirror, the one-way glass. That was part of the allegory, too. I could see myself in it, my face still badly bruised, painfully disfigured, purple and yellow all along one side. I looked into my own eyes, and I felt sure there were cops on the other side of the image, on the other side of the glass, watching me. I paced close to it and stole glances at it, trying to make someone out back there. But I didn't want to seem nervous about it so I didn't stop and stare or look too close. I wanted my behavior to convey that I was a good guy, that I was here to cooperate. That was part of the reason I never left the room, too, never complained about how long I'd been kept waiting. I was acting innocent, see-acting innocent for whoever was watching behind the glass. I was playing a role for them: the role of an innocent man. I watched my performance in my mind's eye. I imagined I was on the other side of the mirror looking in. It made me wonder: Why would a person have to pretend to be innocent unless he were actually guilty of something? I began to become suspicious of myself.
Why didn't you call the police, Mr. Harrow? Why did you go to see Lauren? Why did you go to see Anne Smith? What were you thinking when you went to see her? You didn't mention her to your wife, either, did you? What about That Night in Bedford?
I was in the interrogation room nearly an hour. Finally I began to get angry. I was sitting at the table again, drumming my fingers on the surface again. I thought: This is ridiculous. I'm going to find Curtis right now. Right now.
Maybe I would have. But I'll never know. Because just then, the allegory ended, whatever the allegory was. The door opened.
I looked up eagerly-and then my eagerness turned to surprise. Startled, I got to my feet quickly.
Lauren had stepped into the room.
Lauren under Glass
The door swung shut behind her. The last time I'd seen her, she'd been screaming obscenities at me. Fuck you, you coward. You hypocrite. You shit. But of course all that was beside the point now-all our little dramas were beside the point now that Serena was in real trouble.
She gave a loud, weary sigh. Leaned against the wall, her arms crossed under her breasts. She shook her head at me.
"Can you believe this shit?" she said.
It struck a jarring note with me. She didn't seem as distraught as she should've been, not even as distraught as I was. Her daughter was missing-kidnapped at gunpoint-and she seemed merely annoyed, merely put out. The look of her bothered me, too. She was wearing loose black jeans and a baggy purple sweater, artfully arranged to smooth over the bulges of her slovenly body. And she'd put on heavy makeup, much heavier than when I'd seen her before. It covered over her rough complexion. It made her eyes look larger and softer than they had. I wouldn't've thought a woman in her situation would spend so much time in front of a mirror. I tried to tell myself that, well, she had cleaned herself up overnight, the same as I had. Still, it didn't seem right.
"Is there any news about Serena?" I asked her.
"No, no. They're looking for this Jamal character of hers. I got tired of sitting around waiting for something to happen. They told me you were in here. I figured we could at least pass the time. Fight with each other or something."
I nodded and looked away and let out a long breath, frustrated.
"What the hell happened last night, Jason?" she asked me. "I mean, they just broke in, just out of the blue like that?"
"Yeah. Why? What do you mean?"
"I don't know. I mean, it just seems… bizarre, doesn't it? They just-come to your house, they just take her… With guns? I mean, it sounds like something out of a TV show or something."
I didn't like her saying that. It made me uncomfortable. I glanced nervously at the one-way mirror. I didn't want the people behind the glass to get the idea that my story sounded fictional.
"Well… I don't know how much the police told you…"
"Oh, they told me. You know how they are: They told me what they told me. I want to hear it from you, though. You were there."
"Well, I just… Look, I think Serena's gotten herself mixed up in something pretty bad. I mean, she doesn't seem to have understood what she was doing, but these guys she's with-Jamal and the others-I think they're in league with this radical professor who may have been part of this attack they were planning on Wall Street." I stammered through it. I couldn't just come out and say it. It sounded ridiculously melodramatic, even to me. Like something out of a TV show, yes.
That was how Lauren reacted to it, rolling her eyes with disbelief. "Come on, Jason. You think my daughter's a terrorist?"
I glanced at the mirror again. "I didn't say she was a terrorist."
"Yes, you did. You said-"
"I said she's gotten mixed up with these guys, and I think they're terrorists. I think they're connected to those guys who were arrested today."
This time when she rolled her eyes, she snorted, too.
"Why do you react like that?" I said.
"Like what?"
"Like you don't believe me. You think I'm making this up?"
"I didn't say that."
"You're acting like it."
"Well…"
"Well, what?"
"Well, Jason!" she said, as if my name were an argument in itself.
"Jason what? You think I broke into my own house and beat the crap out of myself? Look at me!"
This was not what I wanted, not the way I wanted to behave. Squabbling with her. Right there in front of the one-way mirror. As if we were an angry divorced couple fighting over their kid. I could just imagine the sardonic cops exchanging sardonic cop glances on the other side of the glass.
"Look, I don't know what happened…" Lauren said.
I told myself not to respond to that-not to take the bait-but I couldn't help it. "What do you mean you don't know? I just told you."
"Yeah, well."
"Yeah, well what, Lauren?"
"Serena's sixteen years old, Jason. She's this little… fucked-up sixteen-year-old adolescent like every other fucked-up adolescent in the world. I mean, okay, you want to tell me she does drugs. You want to tell me she's doing unprotected sex or whatever. But she's not a terrorist, for Christ's sake! She doesn't even watch the news. What's she gonna be a terrorist about? 'Give me more pink camis or I'll blow up The Gap?' Can I ask you something?" Her tone changed instantly, became instantly casual. That Can I ask you something -it sounded as if she were about to ask me where I'd bought my shoes. "Did you two, like… get into something together?"