Freaky Green Eyes (13 page)

The voice was impassioned, sincere.

“Know what I think, I think it's like the thrill in a crowd when a man, a star athlete, is injured and carried off the field. They love you, but boy! they sure want to bring you down, down, down to their own level.”

It wasn't Reid Pierson saying these impassioned words but his interviewer, moppy-haired Don Spence of the local, popular
Don Spence Show
.

“Well, Don, I guess . . . I wouldn't disagree with you exactly,” Dad was saying, with a faint, frowning smile, like a man who's trying to be meticulous in his
judgments, “but I think it's an entirely unconscious thing, you know? It isn't conscious.”

“It isn't conscious. But it's real.”

“Oh, wow. Man, I can testify to that: It's real.” Dad laughed, shaking his head gravely.

Don Spence was interviewing Reid Pierson, a friendly colleague-rival of many years. Sometimes he was unpredictable, even cruel to the hapless guests on his show; but generally he was warm, friendly, funny, fair-minded. They were rivals, on competing networks, but, well—“There's no better sportscaster on the air right now than Reid Pierson,” Don Spence said, after he'd welcomed his guest on the show and shaken his hand vigorously. “I'm not saying this to flatter, y'know Don Spence does not flatter. I'm saying it because it's true.”

“Don, thanks. I appreciate that.”

Daddy spoke humbly, for a moment looking as if he was blinking away tears.

How handsome Daddy was! He looked almost like a young man. His posture was perfect, his head
held high. The bruiselike rings around his eyes seemed to have vanished. The pinched, pained expression in his face we'd been seeing for weeks seemed to have vanished. His manner was somber, for he was on
The Don Spence Show
to discuss his wife's disappearance under very suspicious circumstances, but he was able to smile, too, at appropriate times.

Todd, Samantha, and I were watching the interview in our house in Yarrow Heights. (We'd moved back, now that the media vultures, as Dad called them, were less intrusive.) Todd was taping the program, as he'd been taping news programs and local talk shows since August 27, with the intention of establishing an “archive” for Dad. His fall term at Western Washington didn't begin for another two weeks. By then, Todd believed, the missing persons case would be solved. By then, we could get on with our normal lives.

I believed this, too. I'd gone back to school after my first, difficult day and intended to keep going. It was Freaky-logic to think
One day, one hour at a time. You can do it!

Don Spence was firing questions at Reid Pierson in his frank, candid way, and Reid Pierson was answering in a frank, candid voice:

“Do you know the whereabouts of your wife, Reid?”

“No, Don. I do not.”

“Did you have anything to do with her disappearance, Reid?”

“No, Don. Absolutely not.”

“You aren't in contact with her, are you?”

“I wish I was. But no.”

“Are you acquainted with Mero Okawa?”

“I am not.”

“Never met the man?”

“Never laid eyes on him.”

“Is there any truth, Reid, to rumors that your wife, Krista, has been seeking a divorce?”

“Absolutely not, Don. Absolutely
not
.”

Dad became almost emotional answering this last question.

After an advertising break
The Don Spence Show
returned with a pretaped segment. This took us by surprise: close-up video shots of our parents! Dad and Mom were younger, happily smiling, very attractive. I felt a choking sensation in my throat. I wasn't prepared for this. There were photos of Mr. and Mrs. Reid Pierson with their family: tall, good-looking Todd (“twenty-year-old son of Reid Pierson from his first marriage”) and the Piersons' daughters (“Francesca, now fifteen, and Samantha, ten”).

Samantha, on the sofa beside me, made a faint whimpering noise like a frightened kitten. “Oh. Mom
my
.”

I blinked away tears. I decided to be mortified, embarrassed by seeing myself on TV. Magnified on the giant screen on the wall of our family room.

Samantha was whimpering, “I want Mommy back. Why doesn't Mommy come
back
, Daddy said she's
hiding
.”

Todd said sharply, “Shut up, Samantha. I'm trying to hear this.”

Next were “highlights of the popular football
player's career.” Then brief interviews with well-known personalities who wanted to vouch for Reid Pierson: the Seahawks' manager, sportswriters, former Seattle mayor Brock Hawley, who'd been Dad's friend for years, the Seattle businessman-philanthropist Bud Blount. Mr. Blount was saying earnestly, “What's happening here, this trial by media, makes me damned angry. ‘Innocent till proven guilty' is the American way of life. Anyone who knows Reid Pierson will vouch for him as a good, loving husband and father, and a straight-up, decent guy. What I think, frankly, I think this is some marital spat, a lovers' quarrel, something personal and private that got out of hand. . . .”

Next there came onto the screen video clips and photos of Reid Pierson in his mid twenties, with a very blond and very beautiful young woman—“Bonnie Lynn Byers of Los Angeles, Reid Pierson's first wife.” There were stills of Bonnie Lynn Byers as a fashion model and video clips of the young couple dancing at their wedding; there were photos of the Piersons at the 1983 Governor's New Year's Eve ball,
and in dazzling white sports clothes on the deck of a friend's yacht in 1984. Don Spence's voice-over continued with dramatic urgency, imposed upon shots of gliding sailboats: “The first Mrs. Pierson died abruptly in June 1985 in what were considered mysterious circumstances—a sailing accident on Puget Sound to which Reid Pierson was the sole witness.” A collage of more photos, close-ups of Reid Pierson looking distraught, shielding his face from photographers, as Don Spence's voice continued, “The county medical examiner ruled accidental death, but there was pressure on the Seattle district attorney to conduct a more thorough investigation; eventually the controversial case was resolved with a confirmation of the original verdict of accidental death. Within two years, Reid Pierson was to remarry.”

As soon as Bonnie Lynn Byers came onto the TV screen, Todd reacted as if in pain. He murmured what sounded like “Oh, God.” A can of beer he'd been holding in his right hand fell from his fingers onto the carpet unnoticed by him. Samantha and I looked
fearfully at our big brother, hoping he wouldn't lash out at us, but his expression was blank, rigid. His eyes were glassy, narrowed almost shut.

As
The Don Spence Show
broke for another, jangling sequence of noisy ads, Todd heaved himself to his feet and staggered out of the room.

Samantha whispered, “She was Todd's mommy? She's pretty.”

I knew I should run after Todd. Seeing his mother on TV like that, with no warning, was a shock to me—I could barely imagine what it must be to Todd. But Freaky knew better.
Leave him alone. He doesn't want you
.

Frankly, I was afraid of my brother. Since Mom's disappearance, and that time he'd called her a “whore,” Todd's personality was definitely volatile—unpredictable. At Mr. Sheehan's house and now back home, Todd spent hours working out on fitness machines and lifting weights. He boasted he could bench press his own weight, two hundred twelve pounds.

The Don Spence Show
resumed, now with Don Spence and his guest Reid Pierson live in the studio as before. You could see that the two men had been talking together, even laughing, during the taped segment; obviously, Dad had no idea of what had been broadcast and seen by hundreds of thousands of viewers. And Don Spence didn't give the slightest sign, how he'd stabbed his “friend and rival” in the back. He concluded the interview with an enthusiastic remark to the effect that Bud Blount was certainly right, it's the American way of justice, “innocent till proven guilty.” Dad was allowed the final words, peering into the TV camera: “I just want to appeal to everyone—anyone!—who might have vital information about my wife, Krista Pierson, who's been missing since August twenty-seventh. Please help us! We are offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward to anyone who provides information leading to Krista's return. And, Krista”—here Dad's voice began to quaver, and tears flooded his eyes—“if you're watching this, please, darling please, let me hear from you. Please
come back. I love you, darling, we all love you and miss you. Krista,
please
.”

Samantha was bawling now, so I had to hold her. Staring at the TV screen as the camera drew back to show Don Spence and Reid Pierson seated companionably together, talking out of earshot, as the theme music came up, loud.

. . . I was bicycling somewhere almost familiar, I was in a hurry and anxious and my heart was beating fast. Where was this place? Hilly, with a smell of water? I couldn't see very clearly. There were houses, I guess, but wide spaces between them, and their colors were vague.
Mom? Mommy?
I was trying to be Freaky Green Eyes, but I was afraid, and Freaky is never afraid. I seemed to know that if I got where I was headed, I would be safe, but there was a problem with the bicycle, it was Mero Okawa's bicycle and the handlebars were too high and the wheels were weirdly asymmetrical, I couldn't keep my balance and kept falling.
Mom? Where are you?
My voice wasn't my own but a much younger voice.

There was a pale-green house floating by the side of the road, with big, spreading apple trees in the front yard. I knew that this was an important house but I couldn't remember why. Suddenly I saw the river—it was meant to be the Skagit River, I knew. I was trying to pedal on Deer Point Road, to Mom's cabin, but the road was uphill and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make the pedals turn though I was Freaky Green Eyes, and knew what I wanted, and wasn't afraid.

Mommy! Help me
.

A rooster began to crow. I recognized him: Mr. Rooster! He was perched on the peak of the old hay barn. I wiped at my eyes and could almost see him. He was confused somehow with a parrot with bright-green feathers but actually he was Mr. Rooster, and he knew me. That was why he was crowing: to encourage me.

But the crowing was in the room with me, and
waking me. I opened my eyes, confused.

It was Samantha crying, in her sleep. She'd crept into my room and was lying curled up like a kitten on the outside of the covers, near the foot of the bed. As if she'd been fearful of crawling under the covers with me and waking me.

Next morning I took the nine-thirty-five Greyhound bus from Seattle to Skagit Harbor.

I guess I behaved what you'd call recklessly. I made my decision fast. It was Freaky-impulsive but I knew it was right, after that dream of Mr. Rooster calling me.

Without a car, it's so hard to get around. I ended up taking a city bus from Yarrow Heights to downtown Seattle, across the floating bridge; I wasn't even sure where the Greyhound terminal was—I'd never been there before. I've taken lots of ferries, but not many buses. This bus seemed to take forever! I was
anxious, I guess I was a little paranoid, thinking somebody might recognize me from that fleeting glimpse of “Francesca Pierson” on
The Don Spence Show
the night before.

Then, at the Greyhound station, which was crowded with the kinds of characters you don't see at airports, I became worried somebody might not only recognize me, but recognize me and call my father, or the Seattle police.
Where are you going, miss? Why aren't you in school?
I hid in the women's room until my bus left. I undid my ponytail and managed to twine strands of hair around my head and fit them by force beneath one of Todd's old discarded U. of Washington baseball caps. In my not-new khakis, with a kind of pale-sickly freckled skin and no makeup, I could pass for a malnourished guy, if you didn't look too closely.

I'd called Twyla before leaving home, to say I wouldn't see her in school today. Immediately Twyla picked up on something tense and excited in my voice. “What's happening, Franky?” she asked, and I said, “I'm not sure yet, Twyla. I'll call you tomorrow.”
I wanted to tell her more, but couldn't find the words.

I told Twyla to tell our teachers at Forrester that I was staying home today with a mild case of flu, and I'd get my homework assignments from her. Since August 27, Twyla and her mother had both been wonderful to me, calling to ask if there was anything they could do to help, but mostly there was not.

Sometimes I just wanted to scream at them,
Leave me alone!
But I knew better.

I bought a round-trip ticket to Skagit Harbor. But I had no idea when I'd be returning. I just didn't think of it at all.

While the Bellingham bus was loading just before nine-thirty-five
A.M
., I waited in line practically hiding my face. I kept thinking,
What if Dad knows? What if Dad finds me?
I guess I was having crazy thoughts. By the time the bus was loaded, and the door was shut, and we were chuffing along in midmorning Seattle traffic, I was so relieved I could have cried.

I had a seat by myself, pressing the side of my head against the windowpane. It was halfway true that I had flu—a sickish sensation through my body, like dread.
A special hiding place
, she'd said. I shut my eyes hoping.

“Skagit Harbor.”

I was the only passenger getting off. There was no bus station in Skagit Harbor, just a coffee shop and bakery where bus tickets were sold. It seemed strange to me, and lonely, to be back here in this town I'd loved, by myself. It seemed wrong. I was restless from sitting so long on the bus. My legs yearned to run, but I didn't want to draw attention to myself. Now that Labor Day was past, there were fewer people on the street. I hoped no one would recognize me.

I saw posters for the Skagit Arts Festival, which had been last weekend. I wondered if it had been a success, without Mero Okawa and Krista Connor participating.

I wasn't prepared to see the narrow white facade
of the Orca Gallery with a
CLOSED
sign in the front door. In the display window were colorful canvases, pottery and ceramics, a glossy silk screen of wildflowers and cattails with the small initials
k.c
. in one corner.

Quickly I turned off Main Street and walked uphill, away from the river. The morning had begun cool and misty as usual but was becoming lighter now, the sun pale and glowing behind thin clouds. There was a smell of the Skagit River here, and a smell of wet leaves. I was feeling lonelier and lonelier. I kept thinking,
Mom is waiting for me, but where is Mom?
It was hard to shake off the conviction that she was really here, I'd hear her voice in a few minutes. I couldn't remember why I'd been so angry at her. It seemed unbelievable to me now.

But she wasn't waiting for me, I knew. No one was waiting.

No one knew where I was, in all the world.

A Freaky kind of freedom—I tried to think it was a good thing.

Then, crossing Third Street, I saw a familiar house. The pale-green house of my dream: where Garrett and his family lived.

Garrett Hillard. Hilliard? I hadn't heard the name clearly.

I wondered if he would remember me. The red-haired freckled girl he'd met a month before her mother disappeared. Before the scandal, the crime scene on Deer Point Road, the police.

I had never tried to contact Garrett, to explain or apologize. To give any reason why Samantha and I hadn't been there, at my mom's, when he'd come to take us sailing.

In that other dimension. Where it hadn't happened yet. Where Garrett came, he took us sailing. Where we were friends
.

Suddenly I was walking up Deer Point Road, at the edge of town. It was like my bicycling dream; I felt breathless, my heart beating hard. I didn't want to be here really. I was afraid, anxious. But Freaky nudged me:
C'mon! No turning back
. I saw the little
wood-frame houses painted such striking colors, blue, tawny yellow, lavender. And there was Mom's cabin, painted maroon. She'd been so proud of it, and of the ancient box elder looming over it. I stopped in the road and stared. It seemed so strange—the yellow sunflowers were still decorating the shutters and the edge of the roof. You wouldn't have known that something had happened here except there was yellow tape circling the cabin and the tree, with the continuous warning in black letters:
SKAGIT CO
.
SHERIFF DO NOT CROSS
•
SKAGIT CO
.
SHERIFF DO NOT CROSS
.

The police investigation hadn't turned up much helpful evidence, beyond the obvious fact that the missing couple had departed the premises quickly.

I had no wish to slip under the yellow tape and peer into the cabin windows. I had no wish to see into that shadowy interior.
Because she isn't there. Nobody is there
. Instead, I crossed through the wildflower meadow toward the rear of the lot. I was worried again that people might be noticing me. Since August 27, residents of Deer Point Road would be
quick to take note of strangers, any sort of strange behavior.

I heard a dog barking close by. I wanted to think it was Rabbit.

But no, Rabbit was gone. I knew.

Mr. Rooster! There he was, preening at the peak of the old barn roof. I smiled to see him. He was more tarnished than I remembered, and askew on his perch, but handsome, impressive. Roosters are such vain, beautiful birds. I listened, and heard, or thought I heard, actual roosters crowing, from a farm on Deer Point Road. This was a farm that sold vegetables and fruit by the roadside that Mom had taken us to. I remembered hearing those roosters in the early morning, waking from sleep in the loft bed and confusing them with Mr. Rooster.

Around the corner of the barn, in the midst of tall weeds, was the big sand-colored boulder, shaped like a mutant, slightly rotted pumpkin. And partly hidden by the boulder, easy to miss unless you knew what you were seeking, the burrow Mom had identified as a
groundhog burrow.
A special hiding place
, she'd said.
Someone could leave a secret message for someone else in this burrow. No one would ever look here
. I knelt in a tangle of morning glory vines and reached down to grope inside the burrow. I pressed my cheek against the boulder and groped desperately for—what? My fingers found something. Paper? Plastic? I pulled it out, excited. A plastic waterproof bag, and inside it a journal with a lavender cloth cover and a purple ribbon tied around it. When I opened the bag, the sweet-spicy smell of my mother's dried flowers overwhelmed me.