Ra pa pa pa. Louder this time.
I pad, barefoot, to the door, and peer through the eyehole. A cluster of humans is crowded in front of the eating house. They are all different sizes and ethnicities, packed together under the slight overhang to remove themselves from the rain. I latch the security chain before I unlock the door. Then I peer through the gap at their hodgepodge group.
“Yes?”
A man, near the front of the group, steps forward and shoves a piece of paper at my face. He’s grizzly looking, with a gray beard and a brown head of hair. I look from him to the paper. There is a little girl’s face in the center; she has pigtails and two missing front teeth. HAVE YOU SEEN ME? is written in bold, black letters along the bottom. A chill creeps up my spine.
“We are part of a search team for Nevaeh Anthony,” he tells me. “Have you seen this little girl?”
I slam the door shut and unlatch it. When I throw it open, everyone, including me, looks surprised. Seen her? Seen her? I see her every day. I saw her what…? Two days ago? Three? I take the paper from him.
“Wh-when?” I ask him. I press my palm against my forehead. I feel funny. Clammy and sick.
“Mother says she hasn’t seen her since Thursday. Got on a bus to see her gramma and never came back?”
Thursday … Thursday was the day I braided her hair.
“I saw her on Thursday,” I say. I step out of the house and pull the door shut behind me. “I’m coming with you.”
He nods at me real slow. “You have to go down to the po-lice station. Let them know what you seen,” he says. “When they done with you, we’ll be canvassing this whole area. From Wessex to Cerdic. You come find us, hear?”
I nod. I’m running down Wessex, barefoot, my fat jiggling around my body like jello, when I hear Judah call my name.
I stop, breathing hard.
“You seen her?” he calls. His brow is furrowed, and he’s pushing himself up out of his chair by his arms so he can see me.
“On Thursday,” I yell back. He nods. “Where are your shoes?”
“They broke.” I shrug.
“Go! Go!” he says. I run—fast and barefoot.
I wait for Detective Wyche at his desk while he gets himself a cup of coffee. When I walked in, the first thing he did was ask where my shoes were. “I need to speak to the detectives in charge of the Nevaeh Anthony case,” I said, ignoring his question. He looks startled for a minute, then he leads me to his desk, announcing that he needs a cup of joe. He has bobble heads of the last ten presidents lined up around his computer. I examine my filthy feet and wonder how a person’s shoes can fail them on a day like this. I’m bleeding in a couple places where the sidewalk nicked me. Even the sidewalk in the Bone is broken, I think.
Detective Wyche comes back with his partner—a much fatter, older man with sweat stains around his armpits. He grunts loudly when he sits down next to me. He smells of Old Spice and desperation. They question me for two hours while I bounce my knees up and down and wish I could have a cup of coffee, too. I don’t ask for one, because I’ve been taught to believe it’s wrong to ask for things. You suffer quietly so no one has the right to call you a pussy. Detective Old Spice takes the lead. He wants to know when I last saw Nevaeh.
On the seventeen bus; she was going to her grandma’s, I was going to work. I don’t know exactly where her grandma lives.
What was she wearing?
Red tights and a T-shirt with a smiley face emoji that said: Don’t text your ex. When I say that, Detective Wyche raises his eyebrows. Oh shut up, I want to say. Nobody has money for clothes.
Did she say anything unusual?
No, she was happy. Normal.
Did she have any bruises on her arms and legs? Not that I could see.
Did she ever mention anything about abuse? No. She spoke a lot about her grandma. She loved to be with her.
Do I know Nevaeh’s mother, Lyndee Anthony? Just in passing.
We’ve never spoken? And on and on it goes. When I finally think it’s over, they ask me all of the same questions in a different way.
I walk home in the rain, my feet throbbing, and grab my raincoat. It’s getting dark. I wonder how long the search party will look for her in this weather. It’s too late to find them now.
I am walking down Wessex with a pile of the posters I took from the detectives when Judah wheels himself in my path. I stare at him blankly before he hands me a pair of rain boots.
“They’re my mom’s,” he says. “She doesn’t use them.”
I take the boots. They are green with red cherries. I pull them on my bare feet without saying a word.
“Give me some.” He holds out his hand, and I slide a thick stack of posters between his fingers. We decide to hand out the flyers at Wal-Mart. Neither of us speaks. I’m not entirely sure Judah knows Nevaeh; he never had reason to run into her, but his face is drawn and pale. That’s how it is in the Bone. You are scared for yourself, mostly, but sometimes you are scared for someone else. As for me, I know what it is like to be a kid, and to be alone. When we run out of posters, we go home.
“We had to shove them at people,” I say. “It’s like no one wanted to look.”
“You have to understand something about the Bone,” Judah says. “Every bad thing that happens here reminds people of what they’re trying to forget. When you’re rich and you see stuff like this on TV, you hug your children and feel grateful it’s not you. When you’re from the Bone, you hug your children and pray you’re not next.”
I’m quiet for a long time, thinking about this. I’ve been sitting alone in a dark room with a box of Honey Buns for so long that it’s nice to talk.
“Why don’t they do something? Why don’t we do something? We could all leave here—every last one of us—and go look for something better.”
“It’s not that easy,” Judah says. “The Bone is in our marrow. It’s complacency and fear handed down from generation to generation.”
Judah stops at a food truck and studies the menu. I wait for him under the stubby metal awning of the bus top, trying to stay warm. The guys behind the window seem to know him. They step out of the truck to bring him his bag of food, which he sets on his lap when he wheels over to me.
“Dinner,” he says.
I sit awkwardly as he doles out tacos and chips onto napkins he puts on our laps. There are little cups of bright red salsa to go with everything, and a large fizzing cup of Coke. It’s the first time someone’s bought me dinner.
I pad, barefoot, to the door, and peer through the eyehole. A cluster of humans is crowded in front of the eating house. They are all different sizes and ethnicities, packed together under the slight overhang to remove themselves from the rain. I latch the security chain before I unlock the door. Then I peer through the gap at their hodgepodge group.
“Yes?”
A man, near the front of the group, steps forward and shoves a piece of paper at my face. He’s grizzly looking, with a gray beard and a brown head of hair. I look from him to the paper. There is a little girl’s face in the center; she has pigtails and two missing front teeth. HAVE YOU SEEN ME? is written in bold, black letters along the bottom. A chill creeps up my spine.
“We are part of a search team for Nevaeh Anthony,” he tells me. “Have you seen this little girl?”
I slam the door shut and unlatch it. When I throw it open, everyone, including me, looks surprised. Seen her? Seen her? I see her every day. I saw her what…? Two days ago? Three? I take the paper from him.
“Wh-when?” I ask him. I press my palm against my forehead. I feel funny. Clammy and sick.
“Mother says she hasn’t seen her since Thursday. Got on a bus to see her gramma and never came back?”
Thursday … Thursday was the day I braided her hair.
“I saw her on Thursday,” I say. I step out of the house and pull the door shut behind me. “I’m coming with you.”
He nods at me real slow. “You have to go down to the po-lice station. Let them know what you seen,” he says. “When they done with you, we’ll be canvassing this whole area. From Wessex to Cerdic. You come find us, hear?”
I nod. I’m running down Wessex, barefoot, my fat jiggling around my body like jello, when I hear Judah call my name.
I stop, breathing hard.
“You seen her?” he calls. His brow is furrowed, and he’s pushing himself up out of his chair by his arms so he can see me.
“On Thursday,” I yell back. He nods. “Where are your shoes?”
“They broke.” I shrug.
“Go! Go!” he says. I run—fast and barefoot.
I wait for Detective Wyche at his desk while he gets himself a cup of coffee. When I walked in, the first thing he did was ask where my shoes were. “I need to speak to the detectives in charge of the Nevaeh Anthony case,” I said, ignoring his question. He looks startled for a minute, then he leads me to his desk, announcing that he needs a cup of joe. He has bobble heads of the last ten presidents lined up around his computer. I examine my filthy feet and wonder how a person’s shoes can fail them on a day like this. I’m bleeding in a couple places where the sidewalk nicked me. Even the sidewalk in the Bone is broken, I think.
Detective Wyche comes back with his partner—a much fatter, older man with sweat stains around his armpits. He grunts loudly when he sits down next to me. He smells of Old Spice and desperation. They question me for two hours while I bounce my knees up and down and wish I could have a cup of coffee, too. I don’t ask for one, because I’ve been taught to believe it’s wrong to ask for things. You suffer quietly so no one has the right to call you a pussy. Detective Old Spice takes the lead. He wants to know when I last saw Nevaeh.
On the seventeen bus; she was going to her grandma’s, I was going to work. I don’t know exactly where her grandma lives.
What was she wearing?
Red tights and a T-shirt with a smiley face emoji that said: Don’t text your ex. When I say that, Detective Wyche raises his eyebrows. Oh shut up, I want to say. Nobody has money for clothes.
Did she say anything unusual?
No, she was happy. Normal.
Did she have any bruises on her arms and legs? Not that I could see.
Did she ever mention anything about abuse? No. She spoke a lot about her grandma. She loved to be with her.
Do I know Nevaeh’s mother, Lyndee Anthony? Just in passing.
We’ve never spoken? And on and on it goes. When I finally think it’s over, they ask me all of the same questions in a different way.
I walk home in the rain, my feet throbbing, and grab my raincoat. It’s getting dark. I wonder how long the search party will look for her in this weather. It’s too late to find them now.
I am walking down Wessex with a pile of the posters I took from the detectives when Judah wheels himself in my path. I stare at him blankly before he hands me a pair of rain boots.
“They’re my mom’s,” he says. “She doesn’t use them.”
I take the boots. They are green with red cherries. I pull them on my bare feet without saying a word.
“Give me some.” He holds out his hand, and I slide a thick stack of posters between his fingers. We decide to hand out the flyers at Wal-Mart. Neither of us speaks. I’m not entirely sure Judah knows Nevaeh; he never had reason to run into her, but his face is drawn and pale. That’s how it is in the Bone. You are scared for yourself, mostly, but sometimes you are scared for someone else. As for me, I know what it is like to be a kid, and to be alone. When we run out of posters, we go home.
“We had to shove them at people,” I say. “It’s like no one wanted to look.”
“You have to understand something about the Bone,” Judah says. “Every bad thing that happens here reminds people of what they’re trying to forget. When you’re rich and you see stuff like this on TV, you hug your children and feel grateful it’s not you. When you’re from the Bone, you hug your children and pray you’re not next.”
I’m quiet for a long time, thinking about this. I’ve been sitting alone in a dark room with a box of Honey Buns for so long that it’s nice to talk.
“Why don’t they do something? Why don’t we do something? We could all leave here—every last one of us—and go look for something better.”
“It’s not that easy,” Judah says. “The Bone is in our marrow. It’s complacency and fear handed down from generation to generation.”
Judah stops at a food truck and studies the menu. I wait for him under the stubby metal awning of the bus top, trying to stay warm. The guys behind the window seem to know him. They step out of the truck to bring him his bag of food, which he sets on his lap when he wheels over to me.
“Dinner,” he says.
I sit awkwardly as he doles out tacos and chips onto napkins he puts on our laps. There are little cups of bright red salsa to go with everything, and a large fizzing cup of Coke. It’s the first time someone’s bought me dinner.
