many outings since, keeping the spending flowing and the clients occupied. Life for me is approaching that pleasantly killing state (think Roberta Flack) that some call order and some call routine and others call Rut. I’m thinking it might be more dangerous in the long run than heart disease or troubles in the head.
This morning for instance. The end of an eighteen-hour shift that began early yesterday afternoon. Paperwork followed by the return of the residents from their various deployments, followed by meal prep and consummation, followed by work on goals, followed by a group viewing of a rerun of Life Goes On (should Specials see themselves depicted?), followed by bedtime. Up at 6:30 this morning, overseeing dressing, preparing and eating breakfast, getting ready to disperse the residents to vehicles for points abroad, after which home to the boat to wait for it all to start again. Eighteen hours of my life allotment, of which eight are spent officially comatose. (I’ve been comatose much of my life, often while awake, so getting paid for it is an upgrade.)
Only this morning is different. A burp in the cosmic hum. I’m in the upstairs bathroom overseeing J.P. brushing his teeth. He is a master of up and down on the front teeth, but tends to ignore the teeth he cannot see in the mirror. (If molars lack an observer, can they be said to exist? asked Bishop Berkeley skeptically. Yes, answered Dr. Johnson, as you will see when they develop a painful cavity.)
I’m just telling J.P. to move on to the back teeth when I hear Bo Springer calling my name. I stick my head out the bathroom and see him at the bottom of the stairs. He looks severe.
“Abby Wagner is missing. Emergency meeting in thirty minutes.”
In the thirty minutes between Bo shouting up the stairwell and the beginning of the emergency meeting, the vans arrive to take the residents to their various places for the day—public work for the high flyers, sheltered workshops for the middle class, and day activity centers for the most special Specials like Billy. A place for everyone and everyone in their place.
The mood at the meeting is grim. Still, Cassandra Pettigrew looks to be embracing the moment. It’s a time to put all those degrees and certifications to work.
“Abby Wagner is missing. She spent an evening with her parents last night. They dropped her off at the main building about 10 p.m. In keeping with her long-range plan for independent living, they did not walk her to her independent living apartment. She has made that transfer on her own at night many times, as she will need to do when she is living independently in the community.”
I believe we’ve established the independent part.
“However, she was not in her apartment this morning when her supervisor checked on her. And she appears not to have slept in her bed last night. A preliminary search of the apartment building was conducted, but there was no sign of her and none of the other clients reported seeing her last night or this morning.”
She pauses, then addresses the staff like a field general before battle, laying out plans and going over strategies.
“This is officially a level three alert. We will be following contingency plan 22-C, which you will find in the handbook that you all have.”
All have? I remember getting a binder of something at that first orientation meeting, but I haven’t looked at it since and have no idea where it is, most likely in the trunk of my car or back on the boat. I’m hoping for more details about 22-C and the executive director obliges.
“In compliance with the contingency plan, we will bring all clients still on campus to the gymnasium. Ms. Francis and two staff people from the children’s dorms will supervise the clients while all remaining staff will conduct a search of the buildings and the grounds. Mr. Springer, as director of security as well as facilities, will organize the search. I will continue to be in contact with the police, who will send over additional personnel if our initial search is not successful. I have just spoken to Abby Wagner’s parents. They will be here shortly.”
Cassandra’s voice tightens a bit when she mentions Abby’s parents. This has the potential to be a worst-case scenario for New Directions and a career-ender for her. Stuart Wagner is the head of a powerful local clan. In fact he has some crooked Roman numerals behind his name, an indication that he comes in a long line of powerful (and, it goes without saying, wealthy) Stuart Wagners that stretches back into the nineteenth century. His family initially made their money in railroads and timber, then in banks, and now in everything. And he is not a man you want to disappoint. All things I learned a few weeks ago over coffee with Mrs. Francis before a staff meeting.
Abby is the daughter of Stuart Wagner’s old age. And of his trophy wife, Wendy. The first Mrs. Wagner succumbed to the temptations of prosperity and alcohol—the first figuratively, the second literally. The next Mrs. Wagner avoided the latter and better managed the former. And she produced a daughter—Abby—twenty-five years ago, when Mr. Wagner was fifty. The first Mrs. Wagner had produced a son, adorned with the next Roman numeral and now groomed to take over the family empire when and if the reigning Stuart Wagner relinquished his death grip on it. Sort of like an aging English prince waiting for the aged monarch to move aside (yes, think Charles, the wrinkling Prince of Wales).
The executive director then turns the meeting over to Bo. He hands out a list with the heading “Search Teams.” There is a team for every building and two teams for different areas of the grounds.
“You can see what team you’re on. The first name listed with each team is the captain. When we finish here, please find your captain and gather in this room. Then proceed to your assigned building or area. Search every room, closet, or other space in every building. Then search the area immediately around your building. Your team captain will immediately fill out a written report on your findings and give that report to me. I will collate them and give them to Ms. Pettigrew, who will have them available when she meets with the parents and the police.”
I look on the list and see that I am not on the team to search my own group home. Instead I am partnered with Sam Raven to search the grounds along the front of the New Directions property between the buildings and the highway. Sam Raven is the old groundskeeper. He looks to be either black mixed with something else or something else mixed with black. I know enough not to ask.
Sam and Mrs. Francis are the only holdovers from the Nuns Era. I’ve talked to him before about the Medieval Period, when the nuns were in charge. I use the term respectfully, quite sure that the current Enlightenment regime thinks of that time as the Dark Ages. Sam doesn’t. He liked the nuns better than the technocrats. He is especially reverent toward the memory of Sister Brigit, as was clear when we once talked about her.
“She were a wise woman. She understood things. She kept things right, if you know what I mean. She knew the people here and they knew her. She knew where they come from. Back then, none of them had last names. Families didn’t want anyone to know they had people here. Most of them never had a visitor. The sisters were their mothers and fathers and the other people like themselves were their sisters and brothers. Sister Brigit—she was tough with them but she loved them and that’s how it ought to be. You know what I’m saying?”
I think of that conversation now as I’m looking at the list. Sam and I are assigned the front of the property, Bo is taking the playing field and the back of the property, and everyone else is searching a building. I see that Sam’s name is listed first, so I look around the room for the captain of my two-man team. He is standing at the back, not looking at his sheet, which, it occurs to me, he may not be able to read.
I walk up to him.
“Well Sam, looks like we’re on the same team. I guess we’re supposed to search the area between the buildings and the highway.”
Sam
