Angel Play

By Roy Goodman

A missing teenager, a severely beaten taxi driver, a father, an estranged wife, cops, and a delusional pilot. Set in Boston and New Hampshire in 1980, this is a story of losing and finding and finding out, filled with suspense and humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483514437

Book preview

9781483514437

Chapter 1

John sat on the corner of her undisturbed bed waiting for the police to arrive. When he’d called them, they hadn’t seemed too concerned. Very matter-of-fact and to the point: name, address, when did you last see her? Of course, we’ll send someone over right away, sir.

Her radio alarm clock on the night-table read 6.35. He should have been on the way to work by now. I’ll call in later.

Angie had made her bed and straightened up her room, as always, before leaving for school. She was very good about that – neat and tidy. She liked to know where things were.

A good kid, Angie, he had said many times, very responsible. Talking about his daughter came easily to him.

Then, what the hell is going on! he said out loud.

John Dawes looked around his daughter’s room. Her bureau was painted a rich, deep blue – Angie had bought it from a second-hand store near Field’s Corner, stripped it, cleaned it up and repainted it herself, painstakingly painting a spray of delicate white flowers in the center of the top drawer panel. She kept a few jars of creams and cosmetics lined up on top of the bureau. An exotic-looking jewelry box, set on a crocheted mat made by her maternal grandmother, was the centerpiece. She had found the box in a thrift store in Cambridge, and had loved the intricate designs carved into the dark wood. It had several shallow drawers and a top that opened up, with a mirror on the underside. The lady who ran the store said she thought it was from Thailand. On the wall above the dresser was a mirror, flanked by posters of Bruce Springsteen and the Clash.

The bedspread, also a gift from her grandmother, was a quilt of large squares of fabric in varying shades of blue.

Her closet doors and the window trim were painted the same blue as the bureau. The curtains, still closed, displayed sunflowers against a pale sky-blue background. On the wall above her bed was a framed picture of a wide open meadow, with small white and yellow flowers that stretched to the horizon. A couple lay sprawled on their backs, with their arms widespread and toes just touching, looking up at the sky. On the far wall, above the door, was a small reproduction of van Gogh’s Starry Night – the intense turmoil of a crazy man.

A panda bear that he had given her just before her sixth birthday was perched on the pillow. John was amazed that it had survived these many years. Always on her pillow. He looked at the plump and slightly worn belly and the clown eyes, and reached out to it.

Where the hell is she?

It was less than a week before Angie’s sixth birthday that her mother had left them. He had returned from work late one Friday afternoon to find the carefully folded note on the refrigerator, attached with a magnetic plastic strawberry, saying that she needed to get away, to go out into the world, to grow. She had written that she did not want to be tied down to a child and husband, that getting married and having a child so young was a mistake. She acknowledged that leaving was kind of selfish but she just had to go. She had left Angie with Mrs. Fletcher, their landlady and retired school teacher who lived upstairs, who had become Angie’s favorite aunt and frequent babysitter.

She ended the note with, Sorry, and take care. Jenny. His knees were shaking. Slowly, involuntarily, he sank to the floor, the perfectly hand-written note clamped between his fingers.

Finally, he propped himself up against a table leg, re-folded the note and put it in his shirt pocket. He stood up carefully, took a can of soda from the refrigerator and walked unsteadily to the living room at the front of the apartment, barely glancing into their bedroom as he walked by, but glimpsing enough to know that she was truly gone – the open and empty dresser drawers, the naked night table on her side of the bed.

He dropped onto the couch, took a long drink from the soda can and reread Jenny’s note. John had been aware of her unhappiness, her restlessness, her frustration and the loneliness of being at home alone all day when Angie was very young. But Jenny had friends and her mother nearby to talk to and to help her. And once Angie had started kindergarten and Jenny had begun working part-time, he thought she was over those feelings of isolation. He had obviously misread her signals – the lack of intimacy, the long silences between them after Angie was in bed, her new-found interest in watercolors.

He returned to the kitchen and tossed the note into the trash can under the sink. There was a sudden scraping of chairs upstairs in Mrs. Fletcher’s kitchen, and he heard Angie’s running footsteps coming down the back stairwell and stop outside the kitchen door. Mrs. Fletcher descended more cautiously down the narrow stairway.

What the hell am I gonna do? he thought, and he opened the door to his little girl. He squatted down, then hugged and lifted her in one motion. Hi Mrs. Fletcher. Thanks, he said over the child’s shoulder.

I thought we heard someone down here, she said. Do you need help with supper?

I’ll be fine, Mrs. Fletcher. Thanks. I’m sure I can get something together for Angie and me. He pulled Angie away from his chest so that he could give her a little kiss on the nose.

O.K. then, Mrs. Fletcher said. As she began her ascent to her apartment she stopped, turned to him and said, Are you sure everything is O.K.? He knew she knew that Jenny was gone.

John hesitated. Would you like to come down for a nightcap, or a cup of tea, after Angie’s asleep - around nine? he said.

I’ll be here, John.

He closed the door behind her and carried Angie into the living room. So, tell me all about school today, then I’ll make some supper for you and me.

How do I tell her that her mommy has gone away? The question hovered in front of him, fracturing and fragmenting the story that Angie was telling. He could see her talking in the animated way she always did, her eyes glancing up at him every few words to make sure he was listening. He felt himself smile and nod, even heard himself say, then what did Miss Granger do? But mostly he wasn’t aware of much more than Angie’s disconnected words, and his own deep, deep anguish.

I’m hungry, daddy. I said I’m hungry, daddy! She was tugging at his shirt sleeve, trying to make him stand up.

He put his hand on hers. O.K. Angie, let’s go see what we have. Then you can watch a little TV while I cook.

I want franksandbeans, she said.

I think you like franksandbeans because of the way it sounds, not because of how it tastes.

She laughed. Franksandbeans, franksandbeans, franksandbeans, franksandbeans, fra-

Stoppit! He tensed at the sharpness in his voice. Please stop saying that.

She was silent for a moment, then said, "Franksandbeans is funny. Do we have any?"

John found 3 hotdogs in the refrigerator and a can of Boston baked beans in the cabinet. Sorry I yelled at you, Angie, he said. We don’t have hotdog rolls, will bread be O.K.?

O.K. Can I watch TV now? She ran to the living room without waiting for his answer.

He turned on the radio and steamed the hotdogs and warmed up the beans to the sounds of Frank Zappa, followed by the Beatles on WBCN. Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?

How do I tell her? What the hell do I say? And that’s just today’s problem. How do I bring her up by myself? How do I adjust my life to deal with work, school, babysitters, friends, birthday parties, little league?

Angie was very quiet as she ate her supper. He wasn’t hungry, but he sat with her at the kitchen table. At one point she leaned over to him and patted his cheek. He wondered why, but said nothing. He watched her slowly chewing the hotdog wrapped in a slice of bread. She had a habit of taking very large bites of food and chewing each mouthful very laboriously, very deliberately. He used to worry that she would choke, but she always managed to work her way through the oversized portion.

Finally she swallowed and said, When’s mommy coming home?

She’ll be late. She won’t be home till long after you’re asleep.

Where is she?

Good question. She went out with friends from her painting class. He didn’t even know anyone from her watercolors class. Maybe she did run off with one of them. Maybe her new-found creativity had led her to destroy her family.

Are we still going to the zoo tomorrow? Mommy promised.

Yes, of course we will go. Do you remember the last time we went? The giraffes and the zebras?

Yup. And the elephant’s big poop! she laughed. Maybe the man who tells funny stories will be there, too.

Could be.

And the clown who makes silly animals out of long skinny hotdog balloons!

You never know …

And the lady who draws pictures of people! I want her to draw a picture of me and mommy and you!

Me too, Angie. Me too. He cupped her face in his hands, looked into her large, dark brown eyes and said, again, Me too.

They were both silent. He suspecting that she suspected, but not knowing what to say. He wondered if Jenny had consciously planned to leave on a Friday to give him the weekend to try to figure out what he needed to do, or was Friday just the best day for her? What difference does it make what the hell she thought!

He began to imagine how the next day would unfold. They would go to the zoo together in the morning and then he’d sit her down at some quiet time during the day and just tell her that her mother has gone to live somewhere else. It would make as much sense to her as it made to him, but at least he would have said all he knew, and he could start to rebuild their family.

In honor of the zoo, she announced abruptly, I would like you to read a book about animals to me.

I would love to do that. After your bath, and teeth, and jammies. When you’re in bed. I have to clean up in the kitchen first. Why don’t you get yourself ready?

She resisted her bed-time less than usual. He lay down on the bed next to her and read her a book about pandas. She was asleep before he reached the last page.

It was almost eight-thirty and John realized he had not been into his bedroom since he’d arrived home three hours earlier. But first he went back to the kitchen and took a beer from the refrigerator. He popped the cap off the bottle and took two long drinks. Then he set the bottle on the table and walked to the bedroom.

Jenny had left all her dresser drawers open, as she had hurriedly collected her things. John looked in the top drawer, where she had kept her underwear, nylons, socks and so on. It was empty and he closed it. The second drawer, allocated to pajamas, T-shirts, and shorts still contained a few unwanted remnants. He pulled them from the drawer and threw them into a pile next to the door. The next drawer also contained a few odd, no longer useful items of clothing – a torn white blouse and a few old faded shirts, which he added to the heap. The last drawer – the miscellaneous drawer – was almost full. Jenny had left an old bathrobe, a threadbare quilt her mother had made for her when she was a child, a couple of sweaters, and their wedding album. She had also left Angie’s baby book. John took the book and pressed it to his chest. Then he slammed the bottom drawer and turned to the open closet.

Holding the baby book tight against his body with one hand, he used his other to sweep Jenny’s few remaining clothes from the closet and send them hurtling onto the pile. He fell on the unmade bed – dammit, she didn’t even make the bed before she ran off – and began to sob quietly into the pillow. What now? How do I begin to make sense of this? What do I say to Angie?

He felt something digging into his ribs, and realized he had flopped down on top of Angie’s baby book. He rolled over, propped himself up on the pillows and began to leaf through the artifacts of the first two years of their daughter’s life. The little plastic identity bracelet from the hospital, the footprints, infant photograph, the picture of a very worn out but glowing Jenny holding her baby to her breast.

Smiling, sitting, crawling, standing, walking. Jenny had entered the details of these milestones with such care, such tenderness – one could see it in the curve and slope of her hand-writing. Angie’s first full night of sleep, her first words, her first tooth.

Her first punch in the gut will come tomorrow at the zoo. There could be nothing gentle about the truth he had to tell her.

He heard a light tapping at the back door. Mrs. Fletcher had come down as promised. Setting the baby book on the dresser, John walked to the kitchen, making sure to close the bedroom door behind him.

Mrs. Fletcher sat down at the kitchen table while he put water on for tea. She was a small and energetic woman. Many years in the classroom had never jaded her. She had loved teaching and retired reluctantly. Her seventh graders in her last year had staged a huge party for her, inviting her former students. Over two hundred people, some in their fifties, came to the affair, cramming the school cafeteria and testifying to the impact she had had on their lives.

One of her former students, who had been inspired by her to become a teacher herself, said of her, Mrs. Fletcher is a woman of deep and strongly held principles, who is kind and generous and imaginative and open-minded in their application. John Dawes was there that day. He thought those words captured her very well.

I know she’s gone, John, she said as he placed the strong tea with milk in front of her. I heard the commotion after she left Angie with me. Then I heard doors slam and I looked out my window and saw her loading her suitcases into the trunk of a car. She and the driver were pretty frantic, clearly anxious to get going.

Did you recognize the person Jenny was with?

No, I don’t think I’ve seen her before.

They were silent.

"What’s going on, John? Is there anything I can do?

She left a note. She has gone off to find herself – whatever that means. She just took off – without talking about it, without us trying to work things out. He looked into Mrs. Fletcher’s pale blue watery eyes, and said, How does a person just walk out? On her husband? On her little girl?

Mrs. Fletcher blew silently on her tea, sipped it, then set the cup on the table in front of her. She placed her hand on his, and said, I wish I could answer that, John, but I can’t. I know that you are a good person, a caring husband and father. I know that whatever Jenny has done, she has done because of the fears and passions within her, that you could have had little influence over. Maybe one day she will at least try to explain her flight, but for now you have to focus on Angie.

She paused, taking another sip from her cup, then clasping his hands in hers and looking deeply into his eyes, she continued, As hurt as you are, John, Angie will need you terribly over the next weeks and months and years. But, she will also be your source of strength through these times.

How do I tell her? What do I say?

You’ll find a way, John, she said softly. You have no other option.

Saturday morning was blue and bright. John had forgotten to close the bedroom curtains and the early sunlight stirred him from a deep dreamless sleep. Instinctively, still half asleep, he reached out to touch her shoulder, but, of course, Jenny was not there. He sat up and looked around him and saw the disarray - the pile of Jenny’s unwanted clothes still on the floor by the door, the open empty closet, the bare dresser top. He glanced at the clock next to his bed – it was not quite six-twenty.

He shoved Jenny’s clothes into the bottom of the closet. Then he showered and dressed quickly, and went to Angie’s room. She was up, playing with her dolls. Let’s get you dressed, kiddo. You and me have a busy day today!

Can I have breakfast before I get dressed?

We’re going out for breakfast, he said, impulsively. He hadn’t been able to do much planning for the morning. He just knew that he had to get Angie out of the apartment before she discovered that Jenny’s clothes and makeup and jewelry were gone.

Yay! Where?

Boston. He said. It was the first thing that came to mind. We’ll take the subway into Park Station and find a place for breakfast near the park and the swan boats.

What are swan boats?

You don’t remember? John asked, trying to recall their last ride.

No.

We were there a couple of years ago. You’ll remember when we get there, he said. Now get yourself washed and dressed, kiddo. Meet me in the living room in ten minutes. O.K?

O.K.

He sat in the living room and stared out the window. The maple tree on the sidewalk right in front of the house was beginning to fill in with new yellow-green leaves. Several chickadees darted about the branches and a grey squirrel appeared and disappeared as she scampered up and down the trunk. A pair of cardinals briefly stopped in the tree, then flew off.

Where’s mommy? Angie asked as she entered the room.

She’s not here. She said she was staying at her friend’s house last night. Are you ready to go?

Uh, huh.

O.K. let’s get our jackets on and we’re off to Boston.

It was a short walk to the Field’s Corner subway station. John liked living in this neighborhood. He enjoyed the different ethnic sounds and smells of the place, although he certainly would have felt better if there was less violence. He had to admit to himself that he did not feel comfortable going out alone at night. But, he had lived in Dorchester his whole life and had no intention of leaving just because the area was changing, and new waves of immigrants were moving in.

A chilly light gust kicked up the dead leaves that had finally dried out after spending the winter under snow banks on the side of the road. John draped his arm and his jacket around his little girl as they walked. She was singing a song. He couldn’t catch most of it, but it seemed to be about trees and birds. Did you learn that song in school? he asked.

Nope. I made it up, she replied, and continued singing – but, a little softer.

Angie loved riding on the subway, especially when it wasn’t full. And since it was before eight on Saturday morning, there weren’t too many people heading into Boston. She sat next to him, munching on a granola bar he had given her to tide her over until breakfast. He appreciated the noise of the train on this morning, since it kept him from having to speak. He still had not figured out what he would say, or when and how he would say it.

When they emerged from Park Station he was ready for a cup of coffee, but Angie wanted to play in the park and he agreed. It was a way to kill time. He sat on a bench and watched her flitting from the rocking hippo to the monkey bars then back to a rocking zebra. Push me on the swings, Dad! she called out, and he went over and got her going. O.K. she said, when she felt she could keep the momentum going on her own, so he sat down again and just observed her.

She’s so little.

There were very few people in the park at this time of day. Only one other child was playing, and an elderly woman who seemed to be his grandmother was seated several benches away. The boy ran over to the swings and called out something in a language John did not recognize. The old lady replied but did not move, and the boy raised his voice, begging.

Angie shouted. Daddy, help push this boy.

John stood up and walked over to the boy at the swing. Hop on.

Thank you, said the boy, My grandma says she’s too old, and within a minute the boy was swinging on his own. The old lady waved briefly to John in acknowledgement. The two children chatted as they moved back and forth, somehow managing to keep the same pace. John glanced over at the grandmother. She was bathed in sunlight and she held her head back, her face turned toward the sun while her eyes followed the children on the swings. She was smiling.

After several minutes the boy had had enough and he abruptly jumped from the moving swing, to his grandmother’s amazement and delight. He ran over to her and the two of them walked slowly away, laughing and giggling as they went.

Angie jumped from the swing and landed on her knees and hands. I’m O.K. she called as she saw the concern in John’s face. He went over and inspected her palms – minor scrapes, no blood.

You are O.K. he said. Ready for breakfast? We’ve got a little bit of walking to do before we can eat. They set off across the Commons toward Newbury Street, passing the small ponds where the swan boats were moored. He pointed them out to her and they detoured to check out the sign giving the hours of operation. The first boat ride was at ten, the ticket office opened a half hour before that. He looked at his watch. We’ve got plenty of time to eat and make it back to buy tickets for the first ride of the day, he said.

The air was crisp, the early Spring sun warmed them as they went. They found a cozy breakfast place a short distance from the Commons. Angie said she was starving, and ate her way methodically through a Belgian waffle with strawberries and whipped cream, with a cup of hot chocolate. John had a large coffee. After breakfast they took a walk down to Commonwealth Avenue to see the magnolias which were starting to bloom. Purple! Purple flower trees! she yelled and broke from him to run in circles around the flowering trees.

He stood motionless, watching her run figure eights around the magnolias. After some time, she circled round to where he was, took his hand and said, Come on, daddy. We don’t want to be late for the swan boat!

They arrived at the ticket office a few minutes after it had opened and bought their tickets. There was a short line of people waiting for the first outing. Angie watched intently as the crew made the final preparations, wiping down the seats and the swans, checking the pedal and steering mechanisms, and making sure that the ancient vessel was in order.

Finally they were allowed to board and she raced to the front of the boat. John couldn’t take his eyes off her, as she pointed at and commented on every lily-pad, every funny-shaped rock and every duck they passed. She loved going under the low bridge and screamed in delight on both occasions. Then the trip was over and they climbed out and walked slowly back towards the play area.

Angie noticed a vendor selling stuffed animals, and she ran to her. Oh daddy, can I have one? Oh can I have a panda? So he bought the panda and, as they walked away he said, Angie, let’s go and sit on that bench over there. There’s something I need to talk to you about.

They sat on the bench. He put his arm around her and told her that her mommy had gone to live with someone else and that he did not know when they would see her again. He told her that he loved her more than anything, that he would always be there to look after her, and that together they would be O.K. Then he hugged her and was unable to hold back his tears.

She sat silently, head downcast. She clutched the panda fiercely to her chest. After a long while Angie said very softly, I don’t think I want to go to the zoo today. Is that O.K. daddy?

Let’s go home. And hand in hand they went.

And now he sat on her bed, holding the old panda bear on his knees, waiting anxiously for the police.

Chapter 2

The snapping and squawking of the police radio forced John Dawes to the window. Two police officers sat in their car parked in the driveway, exchanging details of their whereabouts with the dispatcher. The blue light on top of the vehicle continued to turn slowly, drawing gazes from a couple of young teenagers who were making their way to the school bus stop at the foot of the street. The officer behind the wheel took a last sip of coffee, gulped the remainder of a donut, then opened the door and walked slowly toward the house. The second officer, a younger more athletic man, followed.

John met them at the front door, introduced himself and showed them into the living room. The older officer extended his right hand, Sergeant Bill O’Reilly, he said. He looked around the room, then sat down on the sofa. John sat opposite him on one of the side chairs. The second officer, Stan Kozon, stood and prepared to take notes.

Have you lived here long? O’Reilly asked.

About eighteen years in this house. I grew up in Dorchester.

Own this place?

No, the landlady lives upstairs. She used to be a school-teacher in Dorchester, Sadie Fletcher.

Mrs. Fletcher. Wow, I think I had her in grade school! Small world! O’Reilly bubbled. Mrs. Fletcher, Mrs. Fletcher. Wow. She was a great lady! She must be a hundred years old! Is she home?

I guess so, John responded. Can we talk about Angie, please!

Mrs. Fletcher! I have to go’n see her!

John did not respond. He gripped the arm rests of his chair and stared directly at the officer, wondering if the man was ever going to start asking about Angie.

Kozon was writing in his note-pad. He got to the end of the first page and noisily flipped to the second. O’Reilly got the hint. Mr. Dawes, he said, you called to say that your daughter is missing. Right? Let’s get some basic information. Your full name, age, occupation?

John responded mechanically. John Michael Dawes. Thirty-eight. I work as a quality inspector for Massachusetts Electronic Devices in Watertown.

Your daughter’s full name, age, school.

Angela Dawes – no middle name. She just turned seventeen. Her birthday is April 14th 1963. She goes to Jeremiah Burke High School, eleventh grade. She also works at the Brighams downtown, near the Government Center and Federal Building.

When last did you see Angela, Mr. Dawes?

Yesterday morning, when I left for work. She was getting ready to go to school.

That was Thursday. What time was it when you last saw her, Mr. Dawes?

About six-fifteen.

What was she wearing?

She was still in her bathrobe.

O’Reilly paused, scratched his top lip and asked, Where is Angela’s mother?

John hesitated, then replied, She left when Angie was six. I haven’t heard from her since then, except to sign divorce papers. She was in California at the time, but she could be anywhere. I have no idea where she is now.

So it’s just the two of you living here?

John nodded. He looked over at Kozon who was still standing, and writing. This can’t be real, John thought. He knew that words were coming out of his mouth in answer to questions being put to him, but they seemed to be unassociated, disconnected from him. It was as though the simple truth was too true to be true. He was looking at O’Reilly, seeing every detail of his uniform, his face, the donut crumb at the corner of his mouth unmoving, even as the mouth was opening and closing creating words and sentences.

What kind of relationship do you have with your daughter? O’Reilly said, casually.

John pulled himself back, trying to refocus. He was aware that O’Reilly was watching him closely, holding his eyes. We have a very good relationship, John said. "We talk a lot. I try to guide her, to encourage her. She’s a teenager, and I know she doesn’t tell me