Missing Pieces Read Free

held up a small glass jar for my inspection. Inside were two little round red balls, the size of large cranberries. “See,” she said, almost proudly, “these are your polyps.”
    Twins, I thought giddily, then burst into tears.
    I was supposed to call her office two weeks later to find out if there was a problem. I can’t remember now whether I did or not. It was in the middle of all the craziness. It’s quite possible I forgot.
    Something is happening across the street. I can see it from the window. I’m sitting at my desk in the den, a small, book-lined room at the front of the house off the center foyer. Do the police want a description of the house? I’ll include one, although surely they know it. They’ve been here enough times; they’ve taken enough photographs. But for the record, the house is a relatively large bungalow with three bedrooms and a den. The girls’ bedrooms are to the right of the front door, the master bedroom to the left at the back. In between are the living and dining rooms, four bathrooms, and a large open space consisting of the kitchen, the breakfast nook, and the family room, whose back wall is a series of paneled glass windows and sliding glass doors overlooking the kidney-shaped backyard pool. The ceilings are high and dotted with overhead fans, like the one turning softly above my head right now, the floors large blocks of ceramic tile, interrupted by plush area rugs. Only the bedrooms and den have wall-to-wall broadloom. The predominant color is beige, with accents in brown, black, and teal. Larry built the house; I decorated it. It was supposed to be our sanctuary.
    I think I know what’s going on across the street. It’s happened before. Several large boys bullying a couple of smaller boys to come over, to knock on my door. The big boys are laughing, taunting the smaller ones, pushing them and calling them cowards, daring them to cross the street. Just ring the bell and ask her, I can hear them say, although no sound reaches my ears beyond their cruel laughter. Go ring her bell, then we’ll leave you alone. The two younger boys—I think I recognize one of them as six-year-old Ian McMullen, who lives at the end of the street—straighten their shoulders and stare at the house. Another push and they’re off the sidewalk and on the road,creeping up the front walk, their small fingers already stretching toward the buzzer.
    And then suddenly they’re gone, running madly down the street, as if being chased, although the older boys have turned and run off in the opposite direction. Maybe they saw me watching them; maybe someone is calling them; maybe good sense got the better of them. Who knows? Whatever it was that made them turn and flee, I’m grateful, although I’m already half out of my chair.
    The first time it happened was just after the story hit the front pages. Most people were very respectful, but you always get a few who aren’t satisfied with what they read, who want to know more, who feel they’re entitled. The police did a good job of keeping most of them at bay, but occasionally young boys such as these made their way to my front door.
    “What can I do for you?” I hear myself say, recalling their presence, feeling it still.
    “Is this where it happened?” they ask, giggling nervously.
    “Where what happened?”
    “You know.” Pause, anxious glances, trying to peer around my stubborn bulk. “Can we see the blood?”
    It’s around this time that I shut the door on their curious faces, although I admit the perverse temptation to usher them graciously inside, direct them toward the back of the house, like a tour guide, my voice a melodic whisper, to point out the area on the family-room floor that was once covered in blood, and even now shows faint traces of blush, despite several professional cleanings. Probably I’ll have to have those tiles replaced. It won’t be easy. The company that manufactured them went bankrupt several years ago.
    So, how did