Rating: ★★★★☆ Tags: Mystery Detective, General, Fiction

particular. He just didn’t like women. He thought they were
stupid, inconsequential, irritating. 
That dumb bitch
. It was
his favorite phrase for any woman who annoyed him: a
fellow motorist, a waitress, our grade school teachers, none
of whom he ever actually met, parent-teacher conferences
stinking of the female realm as they did. I still remember

---

when Geraldine Ferraro was named the 1984 vice
presidential candidate, us all watching it on the news
before dinner. My mother, my tiny, sweet mom, put her hand
on the back of Go’s head and said, 
Well, I think it’s
wonderful
. And my dad flipped the TV off and said, 
It’s a
joke. You know it’s a goddamn joke. Like watching a
monkey ride a bike
.
It took another five years before my mother finally
decided she was done. I came home from school one day
and my father was gone. He was there in the morning and
gone by the afternoon. My mom sat us down at the dining
table and announced, ‘Your father and I have decided it
would be best for everyone if we live apart,’ and Go burst
into tears and said, ‘Good, I hate you both!’ and then,
instead of running to her room like the script called for, she
went to my mom and hugged her.
So my father went away and my thin, pained mother
got fat and happy – fairly fat and extremely happy – as if
she were supposed to be that way all along: a deflated
balloon taking in air. Within a year, she’d morphed into the
busy, warm, cheerful lady she’d be till she died, and her
sister said things like ‘Thank God the old Maureen is back,’
as if the woman who raised us was an imposter.
As for my father, for years I spoke to him on the phone
about once a month, the conversations polite and newsy, a
recital of 
things that happened
. The only question my father
ever asked about Amy was ‘How is Amy?,’ which was not
meant to elicit any answer beyond ‘She’s fine.’ He
remained stubbornly distant even as he faded into
dementia in his sixties. 
If you’re always early, you’re never
late
. My dad’s mantra, and that included the onset of

---

Alzheimer’s – a slow decline into a sudden, steep drop that
forced us to move our independent, misogynistic father to a
giant home that stank of chicken broth and piss, where he’d
be surrounded by women helping him at all times. Ha.
My dad had limitations. That’s what my good-hearted
mom always told us. He had limitations, but he meant no
harm. It was kind of her to say, but he did do harm. I doubt
my sister will ever marry: If she’s sad or upset or angry, she
needs to be alone – she fears a man dismissing her
womanly tears. I’m just as bad. The good stuff in me I got
from my mom. I can joke, I can laugh, I can tease, I can
celebrate and support and praise – I can operate in
sunlight, basically – but I can’t deal with angry or tearful
women. I feel my father’s rage rise up in me in the ugliest
way. Amy could tell you about that. She would definitely tell
you, if she were here.
I watched Rand and Marybeth for a moment before
they saw me. I wondered how furious they’d be with me. I
had committed an unforgivable act, not phoning them for so
long. Because of my cowardice, my in-laws would always
have that night of tennis lodged in their imagination: the
warm evening, the lazy yellow balls bumping along the
court, the squeak of tennis shoes, the average Thursday
night they’d spent while their daughter was disappeared.
‘Nick,’ Rand Elliott said, spotting me. He took three big
strides toward me, and as I braced myself for a punch, he
hugged me desperately hard.
‘How are you holding up?’ he whispered into my neck,
and began rocking. Finally, he gave a high-pitched gulp, a
swallowed sob, and gripped me by the arms. ‘We’re going
to find Amy, Nick. It can’t go any other way. Believe that,

---

okay?’ Rand Elliott held me in his blue stare for a few more
seconds, then broke up again – three girlish gasps burst
from him like hiccups – and Marybeth moved into the
huddle, buried her face in her husband’s armpit.
When we parted, she looked up at me with giant
stunned eyes. ‘It’s just a – just a goddamn