“if you would please follow me.”
As I turned toward the exit, I saw, from the corner of my eye, a smirk on Anthony Frascatore’s face.
THREE
April 2006
It’s been two months since I read the article in the New York Times about the boy’s body found in the rubble of P.S. 457. Since then I’ve spent untold hours searching for more information from every source I can think of—the computer, the public library, every New York City publication sold by our local newsstands. All the major TV channels. The news is dominated by the war in Iraq, beheadings, suicide bombings, protests against anti-immigration legislation, broken promises post—Hurricane Katrina, recent political scandals—but nothing about the dead body. The story has evaporated into thin air, disappeared without a trace, a boy forgotten.
But not forgotten, never forgotten, by me is a boy named Markus LeMeur, and I won’t rest, I can’t, not until the body is identified and I know whether or not it’s his. There’s one source I haven’t yet tried: Markus’s sister. Mentayer would know, if anyone does.
So often over the years, I’ve wondered why I never heard from her. So many times, too many to count, I’ve considered contacting her. Each time I lost my nerve and talked myself out of it. And as more and more time went by, it seemed best to leave it alone, let sleeping dogs lie, let the past be the past. But now I can’t do that. It’s time to call her.
I hold the receiver in one hand and the phone number I got from operator information in the other. I almost put the phone down, but I don’t. I can’t let this go. Not until I know. My finger trembles as I push the numbers. The phone rings several times, and with each ring, my body quivers. I hold my breath. Will she answer? What will she say? What should I say?
“Hello.” The woman’s voice on the other end of the line is clear, strong, confident... and unfamiliar.
“Hello, I’m trying to reach Mentayer LeMeur.” My voice echoes in the receiver, high-pitched, almost shrill, not sounding like me at all.
“This is Dr. LeMeur speaking. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Mentayer?” I ask, “Dr. Mentayer LeMeur?”
“Yes?”
“This is Sylvia Jensen. I mean, Waters. Frank and I are divorced. I took back my maiden name. Ms. Sylvia. I’m sorry. It’s been a long time, and hearing a voice from the past like this must seem strange.” I slap my forehead with the palm of my hand. I sound like an idiot.
“Oh my.”
A stone settles in the pit of my stomach. What do those two words mean? Is that an off-putting edge in her voice I hear, or is it the tone I feared hearing all those times I didn’t call? What if she doesn’t want to talk to me? What if she doesn’t even know who I am?
“It’s Ms. Sylvia. Do you remember me?” I hold my breath and wait for her answer.
“Yes, of course.”
“I guess it must be a shock to hear from me out of the blue like this.”
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
“I thought of calling you so many times over the years.” The words escape through my lips like a sob. There’s silence on the other end, an impenetrable, awkward silence that reduces me to babbling, trying too hard.
“So you’re a doctor,” I say. “That’s wonderful. What is your field, if I may ask? Oh my, it’s been so long, it’s been a lifetime.”
There’s a pause, then she says, “I have a doctorate in education.”
“That’s fantastic, Mentayer. Congratulations. From where?” I wait for her answer with my fingers crossed. In the summer of 1968, when I took her on a tour of the Columbia University campus, she had announced, “This is where I’m going to school. I am, Ms. Sylvia. I swear I am.” How amazing it would be, I think now, if that turned out to be true.
She pauses, this time for what seems like minutes, not seconds, and I hold my breath.
“Columbia,” she says at last. I jump up, put my hand over my mouth. There’s another pause, and then she adds, “I got my undergraduate degree in childhood education from Hunter College, then my master’s and doctorate at Columbia University Teachers College.”
“Good for you,” I say. “So are you a professor now? A teacher? A principal? Superintendent?”
The prolonged silence that follows squelches my enthusiasm and lets me know she is not interested in talking to me about this, or anything else. But I can’t let her go.
“I heard that P.S. 457 was torn down,” I say.
“They should have done that years ago,” she says with a finality that makes clear her desire to end our conversation.
“I’m calling about... well.” I pause, dig my fingers into my neck. “It’s about Markus. I’m calling about your brother.”
More silence. A silence that says, No, we are not going to talk about this. A silence that lasts for so long I wonder if the phone has gone dead or if Mentayer has hung up. I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin any minute.
At last she sighs, a long, heavy sigh that lets me know she’s still there. And then she says, “Markus is fine.”
The decisiveness in her voice declares it to be true. Markus is fine. He’s alive.
My relief is too huge for words. I have to work to keep myself from hyperventilating.
“I’m so glad,” I blurt out between jagged breaths. I have so many questions. Where is Markus? What is he doing? Whatever happened to him? And what about her? Where does she work? Is she married? Does she have children? Is she happy? I open my mouth to ask more about Markus, but she cuts me off.
“My brother is fine,” she says, “and the school will be fine, too. The CSCH Corporation is building a new one in its place.” She pauses. I wait for her to say more. She doesn’t. I open my mouth and try again, not wanting to let her go.
“So, what’s Markus—”
She interrupts, her voice sharp, explosive. “Look, Ms. Sylvia. I don’t know what you’re up to. You disappear into thin air and I don’t hear from you all these years, and now you call and start asking all kinds of questions? I appreciate your concern, but it’s a bit late.” She pauses. “Decades late.” Then, with a voice so resolute it leaves no doubt in my mind that this conversation is over, she says, “Thank you for calling.”
The sound of the phone clicking sends a bullet straight into me. I sit back on the couch with the receiver pressed tight against my abdomen and absorb the sting. Then the tears come. They wash down my cheeks and splash onto the cushions, tears of relief mixed with tears of grief, tears of loss, years of tears, too many tears. When at last they dry, I sit up and push the couch pillows to the side. I go into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. Then I go to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of the coffee left over from my breakfast. It smells like sludge, but I’ll drink it anyway.
I take it into the living room
