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Rose had heard enough of the news to know that Stannie was missing. Driving South on Wednesday morning, she listened to Senator Jim Colfax's comments on National Public Radio.

"Young Stan has been a full and beloved member of the Colfax clan, and all I have to say about him is that I wish he were home. Right now. As do his mama and daddy and sisters and cousins, and all others who love him. Now I have to admit I don't know whether this article he's written in this magazine about his birth mother is based on truth: I don't know all the circumstances of Stannie's adoption. And you know what? I don't care. If Stannie's birth mother has been in contact with him, or if she chose to terminate a pregnancy, that's none of my business, none of the American people's business. That's the main point. It's a private thing. And Stanley Colfax supports a woman's right to choose and he doesn't mind saying it. Not to capitalize on a thing like this—I would never want to do that—but you know it says something about the whole Colfax clan. We don't pussyfoot around. We tell it like it is, even if it ain't pretty. The Republicans think they have a corner on the hard truth, and they don't. But this is not political, this is about my nephew. And I won't rest till he's home."

Ordinarily Rose didn't read Stannie's columns. Today was a different kind of day: she bought herself a new copy of Tops in a grocery store in Montgomery, Alabama and read it while sitting in a hot car on a hamburger strip off I–65, not too far from Ernetta's hometown. The column appeared under the subheading, "Come Home Soon, Stan. All Your Friends Are Praying for a Safe Return." Rose read and re–read the part about herself (how she hadn't returned his phone calls and the joke about him threatening to cut off his ear: very funny). She sat still in the car for a few minutes afterwards. Evidently she hadn't known Stannie any better than he'd known her. She'd slept with him, she'd argued with him, she'd flirted with him and resented him—all in the same day—but she'd never thought she could hurt him. They'd remained strangers.

Not—NOT!—that she felt guilty about it. He hadn't deserved any better than he got. She was crazy not to have dumped him the day that whore answered his phone in a Texas hotel. But once he'd hurt her, she'd settled down and made herself just so very comfortable.

"You're cold," she growled to herself. "You're detached and cold, and you don't give a damn if Stannie Colfax ever shows up in the world again." Which maybe proved the whole point of his column, that his life hadn't meant much to anybody, and that maybe, if you judged people by the standard Stannie assumed—by how much they meant to those around them—a lot of people (maybe including me, Rose thought) really would have been better off not getting born at all. The world might have done better without them.

Something about this bothered her immediately, but she was in a strange mood. She felt dreamy and drizzy from the heat: the asphalt in front ofher curled and bent like a curtain of snakes. She was afraid to start driving again for fear of falling asleep. She took a piece of paper from her purse and wrote down everybody who had ever seemed important in her life, really indispensable:

My mother and father
My sister
My high school boyfriend
My niece and nephew
My two best friends from UNICEF
My best college art professor

She stared at the list for a long time, wondering if she'd been honest, wondering if she should scratch out the professor (he'd groped her once in a darkroom). Really, she could have done without any of them except the original two, her mother and father, and she hadn't actually seen her father in years. Why should her opinion count, anyway? The opinion of another person who hadn't contributed that much, hadn't loved anyone that much, hadn't sacrificed for anyone? How could anybody's feelings be the measure of another person's importance? She got back on the road again, sweating and wondering how she could possibly argue with Stannie, tell him that he was wrong and that his life was worth something even if he didn't believe it and she, his former lover, didn't want anything to do with him.

By the time she got to Le Crane, she was drunk with the heat. Her air conditioner had stopped working, but she hadn't thought to roll down the windows. Salty sweat ran down her cheeks like tears. Now she knew what else had been bothering her. It was the idea that Ernetta Duckworth—ERNETTA DUCKWORTH!—had once been given the chance to pass judgment on STANNIE COLFAX, someone so utterly remote from her (whatever their biological relation), with a life and a mind of his own. One particular woman had lifted the gavel over one particular man's life at his moment of greatest vulnerability, had held the imaginary gun to his head and decided whether or not the world would ever know him. So what if the world really might have been better off without Stannie? How could people be allowed to exercise such power over each other? How could lives be so intertwined and yet so individually vulnerable?(If in fact this story about Stannie's birth wasn't all a mistake, and Rose was still pretty sure that it was.)

And then suddenly she knew that by ridding herself of Stannie she was doing the worst thing a human being could do to another—turning away, putting him to death in her heart. It was a necessary evil: she had to get away from Stannie, no doubt about that. But when she considered that she didn't even feel moved, that she didn't feel anything for him or for almost anybody else … it was just like she'd been aborting people every day of her life, wiping them out and walking away without regret. She had a vision of children's faces in her camera lens, dead faces asking to be brought to life again, eyes pressing in and searching for her. Damn!

A little less than an hour later she knocked at Ernetta's front door. She waited in the quiet shade of the porch, her heart pounding. A dog barked down the block. A moment later, the door opened slowly, just as ithad so many times the summer they'd met.

"Ernetta?"

"Yes?" The woman standing across the threshold had changed. It was Ernetta all right, but skinnier and bent over, as if all the life had been sucked out of her in only a few months. She looked like she'd been crying.

"Ernetta?" said Rose again. "Remember me?" A blank second passed. "I'm Rose."

Ernetta's face suddenly lit up.

"You! Oh Lord, I'm sorry—"

"I came back to see you."

"Lord, yes!" Ernetta threw out her cool, bare arms and hugged Rose tight. The hug felt good. "You come back!" she said. "I never thought you'd come back and see me!"

"I told you I'd get down here again sometime."

"But I thought you'd be too busy! And I saw my picture in a magazine, so I knew your book come out." Ernetta pulled her over the threshold, into the dark living room. A TV was blaring from somewhere in the house, probably the kitchen. Rose took an unconscious inventory of everything she'd liked so much before: the ivy, the Jesus picture on velvet by the door, the bright red lamp by the faded gold brocade chair in one corner.

"You saw the review in Tops?" she asked nervously.

Ernetta pushed a pile of newspapers off the chair. She wasn't listening.

"I feel so good now," she said in a breathless voice. "It's going to be OK."

"Did you see it in Tops?"

"What?"

"The picture from the book."

Ernetta stopped and frowned.

"Yes, that's where I saw it. Sit down here in this chair. I'm sorry it's messy. I been in the kitchen all day,watching the news."

Rose settled into the recliner and fished in her carry bag.

"Ernetta, I brought you a copy of the book. I hope you'll like it."

"Oh Lord!"

"What?"

"I better turn off that TV."

"Sure, take your time."

Ernetta hustled away. The house became suddenly quieter. Rose heard the squeal of truck brakes outside and then the dog barking again. "Shut up before I kill you!" shouted a male voice.

"Oh my!" said Ernetta, hurrying back in with a glass of ice water. "I'm embarrassed my house is so hot. And it's not even summer yet." She turned on an oscillating fan, then sat down on a folding chair next to it, huffing and puffing.

"Have you been watching the news?" said Rose, as the fan oscillated past her. It blew a loose hair out of her butterfly clip. Ernetta's face tensed up.

"Yes."

"Well, there sure is a lot of news to keep up with."

"Yes." They both sat quietly for a moment, while the fan raked across Ernetta's curls and turned back toward Rose. "A lot of news," mumbled Ernetta.

Rose took a sip of her ice water and sighed.

"I've missed taking pictures."

"You missed it? What were you doing instead?"

"Research and writing. But if the book sells I'll go back to pictures. I'm not sure how it will do—"

For the first time, Ernetta smiled widely. "Probably not too good, with my face in it. I told you to take some pretty flowers if you want to sell books."

"It's not true, Ernetta!" Rose laughed and then stopped and listened to the dog barking outside. She pushed her hair out of her face: more and more of it was falling into her eyes. Why bother with the clip anyway? She pulled it from the back of her hair and stared at it; it looked like a pair of clenched hands.

"You want a hair net?" asked Ernetta.

"No thanks."

"You're a good photographer, Rose, I have to say that. It's just I warned you how I might look—out there in the dirt with my shirt coming open."

There would never be a good time to ask about Stannie. Rose looked up and winced.

"Will you please tell me something, Ernetta?"

"What?"

Rose hesitated.

"I want to know what's happened to you recently?"

"What?"

"I can see it in you. Something's happened to you."

Ernetta put her hand up to her hair.

"Do I look bad?"

"No, not that." Rose smiled. "You look fine, Ernetta. It's just that I know something's been going on. I've been in Washington. I heard you visited a friend of mine, Stannie Colfax."

Ernetta's mouth opened slowly. "Stannie Colfax?" She sat that way for along time, rubbing her hands together. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking."You know Stanley?"

"Yes. I haven't talked to him, but I heard about this."

"You know, it was because of that picture of me in his magazine. I went to see him."

"And you thought he was your son?"

Ernetta nodded.

"He is my son. Might not want to be, but he is."

"Maybe you think it's none of my business."

The old woman stood up and stretched out her hands.

"I don't think nothing! I don't know about his life!"

"I don't know much either. And he's been—he's my fiance."

"What? He didn't tell me!"

"Actually, that's dishonest." Rose frowned. "No, we weren't like that. But I am worried about him. I thought I'd talk to you."

Ernetta sat back down and leaned forward.

"I'm worried too. Do you know what's happened to him?"

"No, I have no idea. I hoped you would."

"I don't!" The old woman burst into tears. "But I'm just worried sick. I done told the police all about it, everything I could. And there's a lot to tell."

Rose nodded slowly. "Will you please tell me some of your story,Ernetta?"

"I'll tell you the whole thing if it'll help. I'll even tell you about Arvin. Oh, I don't care no more about Arvin."

* * *

At her home in Hollywood, Brett Bordley–Young was still trying to pick a gown for the Oscars. She'd bought and discarded five sure bets already. At the moment she was having herself glued into a Roberto Napoli original in the presence of Roberto Napoli, himself. She had no qualms about stripping down to nothing in order to have various parts of this crazy thing glued to various parts of herself. The only thing that worried her was what Roberto REALLY thought about her angel–wing tattoos (just above the shoulder blades) as he made slow, deliberate circles around her like a search–and–rescue plane. Did he think she had juvenile taste? No taste at all? Well, she was trying to have taste. At least she'd ditched the navel ring and the Christina Aguilera hair, and she'd recently made totally decent chitchat with Jack Nicholson at a majorly boring dinner party. She kept a regular journal and she was even considering a role as a special ed teacher for a TV movie. Did that sound juvenile? "I don't think so," she said to herself.

Roberto frowned at her and folded his arms across his barrel chest. Why, she wondered, could a fat Italian designer get away with wearing a tight black tank top and black leather pants? He looked like an eggplant. The phone rang just then. Brett gathered a few sheets of gauzy material around her front parts and went to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Hello, this is Stan Colfax."

"Who?"

"Stan Colfax. I'm a writer for Tops Magazine."

"I didn't tell anybody to have you call me."

"It was my own idea. We were supposed to present an Oscar together."

"Oh yeah! OK. You're that writer guy. What an asshole."

"Hey, can we talk? I'm in the area, I'd like to come over."

"Aren't you supposed to be missing?"

"Can I come over?"

"I said aren't you supposed to be missing?"

"I am missing. Nobody knows where I am."

"Well don't change a thing. And don't call me again, or I'll tell the police you're stalking me." She slammed the phone down.

Outside the house and down the long driveway, on the other side of the electric fence, Stannie was parked in Ernetta's truck. "Bitch," he said,and threw down the phone.

The sky overhead was a whitish blue, the color of Stannie's truck. A half an hour later, he slipped over the Hollywood hills like a pale cloud, following the black limousine from a distance. Past pepper trees, avocadoes, oaks. The bright sun felt good on his bare arm. He was listening to his new Brett Bordley–Young CD on his portable player:

I'm yours baby,
Wherever you are
Just like a brand new car
Believe it 'cause it's true
Put your hand on my wheel
I'm yours boy
Press the pedal to the floor
I need more more, more
Of this love,
Take me everywhere
You go,
Woah woah woah

He pulled out his earphones and fished his cell phone from the briefcase behind the seat. He dialed the number of his producer pal.

"Hey, it's me."

"OK, Stan. Where are you now?"

"I need her cell number."

"Did you try her at home?"

"She hung up on me. Now we're on the road."

"Stan, what the hell are you up to? Everybody in the world thinks you're dead or something and you're out chasing a teenager."

"I'm not chasing her, I'm stalking her."

"Don't tell me that. I didn't hear that."

"I just want to talk to her."

"What's the point? Leave her alone before you get arrested. Why don't you drive over to my house, chill for a while by the pool, get whatever you need, and then check into a hotel. Or even stay. Hey you're here till Saturday anyway, right?"

"I'm not going to the awards."

"Are you kidding? After all this Bobby Fischer stuff you've pulled? Everybody in America's going to tune in just to see if you show up, Stannie."

"So give me her cell number and I promise I'll go."

"I don't have it. I really don't. Goodbye, Stan. You know where I live if you change your mind."

"I'll keep this phone on. Get that number and call me—aw, man, I'm going to lose her."

The limo turned down an alley in the middle of downtown Hollywood: a gate closed behind it and Stannie made three circles around the block, staring from building to building, trying to decide where she might be,what she might be doing.

He went around the block once more and then drove back the way he'd come, all the way to the house, which seemed as good a place to wait as any. He parked under an acacia tree, lay down across the front seat, and propped his feet up on the steering wheel. The sun lit up the pink membranes between his toes like jewels. He picked up the phone again and started thinking about the message he'd like to leave for Brett Bordley–Young before he drove back to Washington.

Before he started dialing the phone rang. He flipped it open.

"Yeah? You got that number for me?" A slow whine drifted through the phone, a long, rubbery squeak of a breath.

"Hello?" said Stannie.

"What number am I calling?" said a muffled voice.

"Who's this?"

"Guess."

"Cut the crap," said Stan. "Who's this?"

"Ain't no crap here. I want you to guess."

"Who is it?"

After a pause, the man said, "Ed."

"Ed Who?"

Another couple of wheezes.

"Ed from Florida. I been trying to call you, boy."

"Oh, Ed!" Stannie relaxed. Who had he been thinking it was, anyway? "That was too weird. I'm fine, Ed. Tell them I'm fine and to leave me alone."

"I read your letter in your mother's magazine. She was reading it all day."

"Like she gives a shit."

"I told her it's not her fault, it's not her you're asking for."

"That's right. You tell her that. I'm not asking for anybody down there, I'm through with that family. I don't owe anybody anything."

"I tried to tell her that. I'm the one you want, you're looking for."

Stannie waited for a second, and then laughed cautiously.

"Yeah. Me and you."

"That's exactly … " He sputtered excitedly. "I knowed it, boy. I knowed you seen it too."

"I was joking."

"But it is you and me, ain't it?"

"Old man, I don't want to be rude. You've been hanging with drunks too much."

"I'm just answering your question."

Stannie smiled to himself.

"What question was that?"

"About your life means something. You're a chosen man, chosen and brung into this world for a purpose. And I'm here to tell you what it is."

Stannie sat quietly looking at his feet in the sunshine.

"Ed, listen to me. I want you to go back to your basement, sit for a minute, and bring your core body temperature down a few degrees. And I'm hanging up now."

"Your real mama!" Ed shouted. "Ernetta! She came to see you, didn't she? She tell you about me and the baby–killers? About old Arvin? Killed his giants."

Stannie sat up and put his feet on the floor.

"Your real name's Arvin Jr. I call you A.J."

Stannie licked his lips but couldn't say anything.

"Hey A.J. A.J. Sound of that, I like. I been watching you almost your whole life, almost ever since the sister brought you here."

"What sister are you talking about? My aunt?"

"Sister Judas Jacob and Jezebel, she's a liar. Cut my balls right off ever time I ask for nothing— I hate her worse than dead babies."

"Ed—" Stannie started. "I don't want you to bring this up again."

"You owe me your life twicet over. Twicet over you owe it to me."

"Did you really do it, Ed?" Stannie said, slowly. "It was you who bombed those places? Are you the one?"

"They think I got killed in New York, but I ain't dead. And this time you're going to help me."

"What?"

"I'll tell you in a hour. Keep your phone on."

Ed was gone. Stannie lay back against the seat, looking up at the acacia tree swaying against the sky.

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture Magazine.
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