Crawley had suggested there were ways to find out about the Schwa’s mother and her vanishing act. Well, the Schwa was convinced it was supernatural, and I wasn’t going to deny the possibility that maybe he was right. Maybe she had a terminal case of the Schwa Effect, and when no one was looking the universe kind of just swallowed her without as much as a burp. Then again, though, maybe there was a burp—and that’s where Ed Neebly came in. According to Ripley’s Believe It or Not, any halfway decent dowser could also go dowsing for spirits and other “paranormal phenomena.” It’s one of those do-not-try-this-at-home kind of things, because if you’re like me, you really don’t want to know how many people died in your bedroom.
“I do believe in auras and energy fields,” Lexie told me, “but I don’t know if I believe in this.”
Still, we hired Neebly to bring his dowsing talents to the Waldbaum’s in Canarsie—the alleged supermarket where the Schwa’s alleged mother allegedly vanished. He didn’t charge us anything. “Consider it a community service,” Neebly told us. “When we’re done, pay me what you think it’s worth.”
For this task, his dowsing rods were made of glass. “Glass resonates with the spirit world more than metal,” Neebly said. “Spirits find metal irritating and head the other way. True.”
Lexie, Moxie, and I followed him as he wove up and down the aisles of Waldbaum’s like we were some goofy Scooby-Doo ghost hunting squad. I tried to ignore the strange looks of the locals, but it wasn’t easy.
“I feel like an idiot,” I said.
“You get used to it,” Neebly told me. He led us through the fruits and vegetables, hesitating for a moment by the potatoes before moving on. He thought he found some ectoplasmic slime in the condiment aisle, but it turned out to be relish.
“I’ve dowsed for spirits lots of times,” he told us. “It’s much more delicate than dowsing for water. Water always flows to the lowest point—not so with spirits!”
He stopped toward the back of the store, and his rods crossed. “There’s a cold spot here.”
“We’re in front of the dairy case,” I pointed out.
“Hmm. Could be that. Could be astral.”
The look on Lexie’s face was the blind version of an eyeball roll.
We purposely hadn’t told Neebly where the disappearance had taken place, to see if he found it for himself. We watched him closely as he moved down the frozen-foods aisle and rounded the corner, toward the meat counter. The rods did not cross.
“I got called out to Jersey a few months ago,” he told us as he passed the chicken, then the pork, then the beef. “A woman had a poltergeist living in her duplex. My rods went crazy when I got to the basement.” He passed the lamb and the seafood. The butcher behind the counter looked away, probably embarrassed for us. “It turns out the Mob had killed a guy and dumped him in the concrete when they poured the foundation. True.” By now he had passed the butcher’s counter and was headed toward the beer case, where he paused thoughtfully, although I don’t think that was because of any supernatural influences.
In the end, he found no spiritual vortexes, although he did detect three leaks in the supermarket’s plumbing.
We gave the supernatural angle a rest, but returned the next day and asked to speak to the manager, who said he had worked there for twelve years.
“We’re doing a report,” I told him, “on the history of Waldbaum’s.”
He was thrilled to discuss it with us, telling us how Izzy Waldbaum had come over penniless from Russia a hundred years ago and opened a small bread-and-butter store on DeKalb Avenue. I’m sure it was all fascinating to someone who cared.
“We’re not interested in the whole grocery-store chain,” Lexie told him. “We just want to know about this store.”
Before he could launch into a presentation about the opening-day ribbon-cutting ceremony, I said, “We’re looking for newsworthy events that have happened since you’ve worked here.”
Suddenly he got a caged look on his face, like corporate executives get in a 60 Minutes interview. “Why?” he asked. “What have you heard?”
“Nothing specific,” Lexie said, trying not to tip him off about the real reason for our visit. If he knew we were actually performing an investigation, he’d probably tell us to talk to their lawyers, and that would be the kiss of death. “Has the store had any robberies?”
He laughed. “Yeah, like every second Tuesday. That’s not news.”
“How about murders?” I asked.
“Not since I’ve been here.”
“What about kidnappings?” Lexie said.
“Or unexplained disappearances?” I added.
“No,” he said, then thought for a minute. “A kid got abandoned here once, though.”
Bingo. “Abandoned?” I said, trying to stay calm. “What happened?”
“I was working produce then. From my recollection, the mother just left him in the shopping cart. Jeez—I haven’t thought about that in years.”
“Did they ever find the mother?” Lexie asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Eventually the father showed up for him.”
“How about the security video?” I asked. “Did it show her leaving the store?”
“Half the cameras in the store were broken, including the one at the front door.” According to the manager, the camera in the meat section worked, but it was permanently stuck in the wrong position, monitoring a sign that detailed the proper handling of pork instead of the meat counter. The only thing the police were ever able to determine was that the pork sign had not been stolen.
“Come to think of it, they fired the manager over the broken video cameras. That’s when I got bumped up to assistant manager, and then manager a couple of years later.” He smiled, reliving the memory.
“So, theoretically,” I said, “she may never have left the store.”
He laughed. “Yeah, who knows? Maybe she ended up as hamburger.” Then his eyes got all darty and nervous again. “You’re not gonna quote me on that, are you?”
Even though it was hard to keep the Schwa in my mind, our investigations kept me thinking about his parents a lot. What was it that made a mother disappear between the lines of her shopping list? And what made a father remove every trace of her from the house? I would look at my own father and wonder if there were moments when he forgot I existed, too. I would look at my mom and wonder about her trips to the market.
At least now we had confirmation that something did actually happen to the Schwa’s mom, although there was still no telling what. When I got home later that afternoon, just Mom and Christina were there. Mom was cooking something called coq au vin in a big frying pan. It was French, and smelled really good. She claimed it had no ingredients we wouldn’t eat by themselves, and she had me taste a spoonful of the sauce. It got my mouth watering. As I watched her cook, I thought about the Schwa’s mother, a woman so unnoticed she could walk into a supermarket, not walk out again, and no one would notice. My mom was anything but invisible, but maybe she didn’t know it.
“If you’re gonna stand there, then make yourself useful.” She handed me a strainer and poured some boiling string beans through it.
“Mom, I just want you to know ... that I know how hard you work.”
She looked at me like I might have a fever. “Thank you, Anthony. It’s good to hear that from you.”
“Just promise me you’re never gonna disappear, okay?”