Expiration Date

Fortunately the tumble lock worked from the inside, so all I had to do was flip the latch and twist the doorknob. But with my other self, simple tasks took on a new and startling complexity. I flipped the latch, but I was unable to grab hold of the knob. The moment I had the knob, the latch would slip out of my three remaining fingers. And…repeat.

A few minutes later I finally made it out the front door. Halfway down the staircase I heard a shrill laugh, like someone was being tickled to the point of death. I was wrong. It wasn’t a laugh. It was a scream—a child’s scream.

Coming from 2-C.

Then there was a sickening thud as something hit the wall right next to the door, so hard I felt the entire hall shake around me. There was another cry followed by something sharp—a slap. Another thud against the wall, then a please please please Mom no.

Goddammit I told you to be a quiet!

This was none of my business. I knew that. What happened behind closed doors should stay behind—

Oh screw that.

I raced to the door and tried the handle. Locked. I guess if you’re going to beat your son you’re going to want to bolt your front door for privacy.

So I made a fist and pounded it into the door five times quickly, hard as I could. The crying choked off into a startled gasp. I heard a shhhhh. Footsteps approached the door. There was a hushed Shut up! Now! I mean it! Then a snuffle and a cough. The lock tumbled, the door creaked open. Erna, the woman from DeMeo’s office upstairs, peered out into the hallway. Mascara was running down the sides of her cheeks. Her skin was flush, hair askew. She couldn’t see me of course.

“Is someone there?”

“Yeah, Erna. It’s me. How about you stop smacking your kid.”

“Hello?”

I doubt if I would have been so bold in real life. But here, my other self was invisible. Nobody could hear my words—except maybe the kid. And that’s what I was counting on. To make sure he knew someone was listening. That his abuse was not going unnoticed.

Erna looked around the hallway again, then took a step back and started to close the door. But before it shut completely, she looked directly into my eyes. It wasn’t a momentary gaze—our eyes meeting by accident. I swear, for a second there, she saw me.

Then she slammed the door shut.

I stayed outside the door for a while, listening for the slaps or the crying to resume. If it did, I would pound on the door again. I could do this all night, or until the pills ran out, whichever came first. But 2-C remained silent. Soon I felt awkward, standing in a dark hallway in 1972. So I put my ear to the door one last time, heard nothing but silence, and continued down the stairs to Frankford Avenue.

It was bitter cold outside. Traffic crawled down the avenue. The El rumbled overhead, bringing home workers from downtown. The frigid air felt good in my other lungs.

I wasn’t quite ready to go to Darrah Street yet, so I wandered across the street to the newsstand. A headline on the cover of the Evening Bulletin caught my eye:

4 Y.O. GIRL MISSING

Standing belly-to-counter at the newsstand—hoping nobody would bump into me and/or through me—I skimmed the story. The words were tough to read in the near-dark, and there were just a few inches of copy before the jump, but it was enough to get the idea. A four-year-old girl named Patty Glenhart had gone missing from Kresge’s, just a few blocks from where I stood.

At first I was filled with that sick feeling you get when you read about something tragic like this. You wish this didn’t have to happen. Then my self-defense system kicked in. Push it away, because there was nothing I could do about it except send thoughts and prayers to the little girl’s fam—

And then I remember where I was, when I was.

I could do something.

VII

The Pit

I needed a copy of the paper. I needed details. Names, addresses. Reporter stuff. Another fumbling routine later—this one lasting a full half-minute—I had a copy of the Evening Bulletin tucked under my arm.

Back upstairs in the office I opened the paper and memorized as much as I could. The Glenhart family lived on Allengrove Street in Northwood, about six blocks away. Patty had two older brothers, both in school. The girl, even though she was barely out of toddlerhood, was incredibly precocious. According to her mother, she had the habit of marching up to the Kresge’s luncheonette counter and ordering something to eat before her mother could say otherwise. The waitress and cook thought it was cute, and usually gave her a free snack.

But the same waitress and cook were quoted as noticing some “creepy” guy with long sideburns and a yellow jacket lurking near the lunch counter around the same time the mother started screaming for help, where’s my baby, oh God, where’s my baby. Police are seeking all leads, please call MU6-8989…

I read as much I could, committing as many details as possible to memory, then laid down on the floor and waited until I felt the familiar dizzy feeling again. I had taken four pills. I thought I would need the time, stalking my own father. I hadn’t counted on this.

After a while I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew I was back in the apartment.

After pulling myself up off the floor I checked the time on my laptop—3:17 a.m. Only a few hours until sunrise. Not much time at all left.

I hit Google and typed in “Glenhart” and “Allengrove” and “missing” and I got a hit immediately.