That’s not the way it works, Officer Morgan clues them in on the intricacies of the law. He has an unkempt look about him, overweight, pale, with tiny nicks on his jaw.
Mona, whom their mother often said should have been a lawyer, points out that this is totally ridiculous, a catch-22 situation. Officer Morgan frowns; he doesn’t understand what Mona is referring to. Antonia flashes baby sister a cautionary look: Romona, por favor. We need the cops on our side.
It’s a novel, Antonia clarifies. How easily she slips into her former teacher role. Have you ever read it?
No, ma’am, he has not. When would he have time to read with three kids to take care of? (Divorced, widowed? He doesn’t say.) Always on the go, which might be why he has nicked himself shaving. His face looks like it got scratched up by one of the suspects his fellow officers brought in, before they were able to wrestle the offender to the ground.
The sisters have driven over to the station to file a report, leaving Kaspar behind to man the landline. They couldn’t bear waiting one minute longer; even Antonia changed her nay vote. Kaspar tried to calm them. Let’s be reasonable. There’s probably a good explanation. We can call the police tomorrow. No need to drive over there tonight.
The guy seriously doesn’t get it, Mona muttered. It’s like his heart’s in his head.
Remember he’s not Dominican, Tilly defended Kaspar. He’s really a good husband. He’s never left me, Tilly elaborated when asked for good-husband specifics. He’s not violent. He likes my cooking.
The description left Antonia feeling sad. The great loves they had all dreamed about as young women, reduced to the dubious compliment of horrors averted: at least I didn’t marry an ax murderer, at least he’s not a criminal, at least he didn’t kill his father and marry his mother. That way lies literature.
We’re the ones with strong emotions, the ones with heart, Mona asserted. Okay to give themselves all the attractive adjectives, the ethnic profiling they deplore admissible if one is a member of a targeted population.
Officer Morgan keeps referring to Felicia Vega. (She’ll kill you if she hears you call her that! As with many of her thoughts, Antonia keeps this one to herself. Not a good idea to threaten a police officer—even if only by way of a figure of speech.) She actually goes by Izzy, Antonia finally corrects him. As for Izzy’s profession, she used to work as a therapist in a group practice. She retired a couple of years ago.
A photo would be helpful, Officer Morgan says. Incredibly, the sisters discover none of them has a photo of Izzy on her cell phone. It’s like they’re making her up. We’ll email you one from home, Tilly promises.
How about her vitals? Any identifying marks? Piercings, tattoos, scars?
The sisters close their eyes, each one doing her own memory scan of Izzy’s body. There’s some debate about her height: five foot three or four, no way she’s five foot five, as she likes to give out; weight, anywhere from a hundred to a hundred and fifteen pounds, up and down depending on her moods and diets. Remember her breatharian phase? Mona reminds her sisters. Izzy was convinced she could survive on air and sunlight? The sisters launch into storytelling. Officer Morgan keeps running his hand over his face like it’s a magic slate he can wipe clean. The chip on her upper front tooth from when she fell on her face as a kid showing off she could fly from a not-too-high branch of a backyard tree; her really skinny, narrow feet, making it hard to find shoes that fit; her nails bitten down to the quick, and oh!—
She has this tiny birthmark on her left wrist in the shape of a plane, Antonia offers. Every time Izzy boarded a flight, she’d show off her birthmark. A santera, that’s like a fortune-teller, predicted I would die in a plane crash, she’d announce to her seatmates, knowing full well what she was doing, drama queen that she was, always stirring things up. Not a good idea after 9-11 and the widespread fear of terrorists blowing up planes. A couple of times flight attendants had to ask her to keep her fortunes to herself or she’d have to be escorted off the flight.
Officer Morgan wipes his face again. They keep this up and he’s going to tear that form up, Antonia reminds her sisters in Spanish.
When he’s done being the amanuensis to all their stories, Officer Morgan begins tidying up his desk—signaling the conclusion of their interview, not unlike the custom back home of standing a broom by the door to let la visita know it’s time for them to leave. He has done all he can do. He’ll enter Felicia’s information into his computer, but unless there is some proof of foul play or mental issues—and that, too, would need proof, he adds when their faces brighten—there’s not much else he can do. There are several internet registries that the sisters can access on their own and post photos as well as all the statistics of the missing person, thereby broadcasting their search worldwide.
The officer takes down Tilly’s home and cell numbers, Antonia and Mona’s cell numbers, dismissing them finally with a noncommittal We’ll keep an eye out. These missing-person situations resolve themselves on their own 95 percent of the time.
Has the data behind this claim actually been gathered? Mona challenges. Another hand wipe across his face. A gesture he has repeated so many times, several nicks have started bleeding again, leaving tiny red teardrops like birthmarks all over the tired face.
What a jerk! Mona vents in the car. Did you see how his whole face was full of scratches? I bet he beats his wife. I bet she tried to defend herself with her nails.
That’s hilarious, Tilly says, riding Mona’s riff. I bet that’s why he was so la-di-da about Felicia Vega. She mimics his mispronunciation.
I can’t believe he’s never heard of Catch-22, Mona adds, one more demerit. I mean, it’s even been on Jeopardy!
Her sisters are doing what they always do when they depart a scene, parsing the meat off its bones, analyzing, judging, exclaiming over the different personalities, a kind of sisterhood digestive system.
Come on, you guys, be fair, Antonia reminds them from the back seat.
How can you say that? He was a total idiot! Mona has turned around to face Antonia. The interior of the car is too dark for Antonia to see Mona’s outraged expression, but she knows it’s there.
Back at the house, the three sisters commandeer Kaspar’s laptop and spend the hours until dawn visiting all the missing-persons entries from Massachusetts to Illinois. Several times they have had to consult Google to figure out which states neighbor each other on the way to Tilly’s. The only geography they were taught as children was of their half island.
Do they post a profile? Or would that bring on el fukú of bad luck? Maybe Kaspar is right? Maybe they’re doing the familial overreaction and they just need to calm down? Officer Morgan said most times, especially with adults, these “disappearances” work themselves out. And Izzy loves the shock value of turning up when you least expect her.
As they scroll down the profiles of the missing, Antonia catches herself lingering among the entries. Maybe she’ll spot a familiar face, Samuel Sawyer, 71, last seen on the way to his favorite restaurant one evening in late June to celebrate his wife’s retirement.
Mona is the first to break down. She blames herself for not insisting earlier on an intervention. She has long suspected that Izzy was not well, and it’s only gotten worse in the last couple of years. Izzy with her grandiose plans of saving the world, wildly ecstatic during her manic phases, then plunging into dark moods during which, like astronauts behind the moon, she cannot be reached. But they’ve gotten used to it, inured to Izzy’s chronic craziness, even at times amused at how outrageous she can be. Bottom line, they’ve not wanted to be their sister’s keeper. Living your own life is a full-time job. Mona bewails the fact that she doesn’t even have a single photo of her sister on her iPhone, but dozens of shots of her dogs.