coming had been enough.
‘i^b V9 West cruised past the Cadillac Grill, Jazzbone’s, and finally headed to Davidson,
deciding that Brazil might be hiding out in his own house and not answering the phone.
She pulled into the eroded driveway, and was crushed that only the ugly Cadillac was
home.
West got out of her police car. Weeds grew between cracks in the brick walk she
followed to the front door. She rang the bell several times, and knocked. Finally, she
rapped hard and in frustration with her baton.
“Police!” she said loudly.
“Open up!”
This went on for a while until the door opened and Mrs. Brazil blearily peered out. She
steadied herself by holding on to the door frame.
“Where’s Andy?” West asked.
“Haven’t seen him.” Mrs. Brazil pressed her forehead with a hand, squinting, as if the world was bad for her health.
“At work, I guess,” she muttered.
“No, he’s not and hasn’t been since Thursday,” West said.
“You’re sure he hasn’t called or anything?”
“I’ve been sleeping.”
“What about the answering machine? Have you checked?” West asked.
“He keeps his room locked.” Mrs. Brazil wanted to return to her couch.
“Can’t get in there.”
West, who did not have her tool belt with her, could still get into most things. She took
the knob off his door and was inside Brazil’s room within minutes. Mrs. Brazil returned
to the living room and settled her swollen, poisoned self on the couch. She did not want
to go inside her son’s room. He didn’t want her there anyway, which was why she had
been locked out for years, ever since he had accused her of taking money from the wallet
he tucked under his socks. He had accused her of rummaging through his school papers.
He had blamed her for knocking over his eighteen-and-under singles state championship tennis trophy, badly denting it and breaking off the little man.
The red light was flashing on the answering machine beside Brazil’s neatly made twin
bed with its simple green spread. West hit the play button, looking around at shelves of
brass and silver trophies, at scholastic and creative awards that Brazil had never bothered
to frame, but had thumbtacked to walls. A pair of leather Nike tennis shoes, worn out
from toe-dragging, was abandoned under a chair, one upright, one on its side, and the
sight of them pained West. For a moment, she felt distressed and upset. She imagined
the way he looked at her with blue eyes that went on forever. She remembered his voice
on the radio, and the quirky way he tested coffee with his tongue, which she had
repeatedly told him wasn’t a smart way to determine whether something was too hot. The
first three calls on his machine were hang-ups.
“Yo,” began the fourth one.
“It’s Axel. Got tickets for Bruce Hornsby .”
West hit a button.
“Andy? It’s Packer. Call me.”
She hit the button again and heard her own voice looking for him. She skipped ahead,
landing on two more hang-ups. West opened the closet door, and her fear intensified
when she found nothing inside. She, the cop, went into drawers and found them empty,
as well. He had left his books and computer behind, and this only deepened her
confusion and concern. These were what he loved the most. He would not abandon them
unless he had embarked upon a self-destructive exodus, a fatalistic flight. West looked
under the bed and lifted the mattress, exploring every inch of Brazil’s private space. She
did not find the pistol he had borrowed from her.
West drove around the city much of the night, mopping her face, popping Motrin, and
turning the air conditioner on and off as she vacillated between hot and cold. On South
College, she slowly passed street people, staring hard at each, as if she expected Brazil to
have suddenly turned into one of them. She recognized Poison, the young hooker from
Mungo’s videotape, undulating along the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and enjoying
being watched. Poison followed the dark blue cop car with haunted, glassy eyes, and
West looked back. West thought of Brazil, of his sad curiosity about bad people and