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IV: Flashbacks
- Louisiana State University Press
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IV FLASHBACKS Where, how did people get lost? Missing children, gone without a trace: where did they disappear, leaving only their loss—a portrait in the newspaper, a poster in a public building, the offer of a reward? Or those last seen crossing the street in the most casual way, just leaving work or the grocery store and never arriving home, never to be seen again. Foul play? Or was it that they couldn't find their way home again, like a cat disoriented in a new neighborhood—theirs the loss of some thread, some connection? A forgetfulness as they somehow misplaced the moment, losing its contents and its link with past moments. Or was it a shedding, a stepping out of a life, letting go of all its possessions, structures, meaning and standing once again naked as the day they were born. Gone. Having slipped out of a skin or fallen off the edge of the planet. Lost only to the ones who sought them or to themselves as well? Unaccountable . And who knew their lives or deaths? ToBill, it was terrible, the secrecy buried in things. To disappear as though you'd never been. Maybe a landscape somewhere held the memory of struggle, final protest, acquiescence. But meanwhile the anguish leapt from every pore: you jumped around, swore, grabbed telephones. "What do you think we're doing?" Walter demanded. "Every minute we sit here, we're reducing the chances." What possible value lay in hiding a disappearance?To protect whom exactly? Stupidity ruled, in the name of some impossible moral delicacy. It filled him with disgust. "Why not get everybodylooking? The more the better. What are we but accessories?" "To what? Her disappearance?" Bill said, bristling. "There's 90 no sign she was kidnapped, no indication of a struggle. The way they've been through these woods—dogs, the works—it's a wonder the whole world doesn't know. What more can we do?" "Really look. Find her, and end this charade." "You just want to capitalize on all this/7 "Goddam you." His face flushed with the effort to hold himself in. "Sweet Jesus, how I wish I'd never got into this. Just trusted my instincts instead. It's been trouble from the start. I've got a ton of stuff to do, I've hated being here, every moment ..." "Goddam you and your ugly self-indulgence." It was a wonder they didn't come to blows. He'd all but goaded Walter into hitting him, and would have been glad to hit somebody himself, tearing rage that he was in. "Look, you've contacted the L.A. folks and the FBI. What more do you want?" "But if her picture were in the papers, someone might recognize her." "Yeah, fifty people, and all of them cranks looking for publicity and a few kicks. And then what? Look, I'm convinced she walked out of here of her own free will—okay, maybe with some sort of mental aberration." "All the more reason ..." "But then, would it help really . . . I mean, to have the whole public diving in on her? When she's right on the edge? To be exposed ? Would she want that?" Walter shrugged. Okay, let him have his own variety of craziness. "It's better this way." In his own ears his voice sounded flat. A sense of blame had already begun to take him over, and he couldn't sit still with it. They had eaten breakfast—Joan and Lila were off to some engagement—and for once there was a lull between now and the afternoon, when things would start building for the preview. He hated it, felt time dying all around him. "Besides, we're in too deep now." He had to argue his way out of it, hitting out in all directions. "We acted, on the spur of the moment, but we did it." "Yeah, and we're going to come out looking like a bunch of assholes." Walter lit a cigarette and picked up what he considered a poor excuse for a newspaper. He wanted L.A.He wanted his Sunday paper. 91 [18.232.66.188] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 08:28 GMT) Bill got up and went back to his room, where he stared moodily into the trees. Assholes? That would be the least of it. Scoundrels or criminals more than likely. The question of whether or not she was still alive lay unspoken...