Page 11 of Middle of the Night

I tried my hardest to answer that question and give the police at least some small clue about what had happened. With my parents’ consent, I was put under hypnosis a week after Billy disappeared, in the hopes some forgotten tidbit would bubble up from the dark depths of my subconscious. When that didn’t work, I was taken to a dream analyst, who had me talk about The Dream and every other one I could remember having since the night Billy was taken. That also led nowhere.

After that, we all had to make peace with uncertainty. Maybe I didn’t see anything, maybe I did. Maybe it was too traumatic for me to process and so I sliced it from my memory, with only The Dream to intermittently remind me of this self-edit.

Everyone understood but Mrs. Barringer, who convinced herself—and tried to convince me—that the key to finding Billy was buried somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain. One morning a month after Billy had vanished, she lurched into my yard. Worry had aged her so much that she looked like a stranger. Someone to fear.

Mrs. Barringer had dragged Billy’s younger brother into the yard with her, likely too afraid to let him out of her sight. Andy, seven at the time, couldn’t bring himself to look at me or his mother. He simply stared at the grass, scared and ashamed.

“Ethan,” Mrs. Barringer barked, her mouth turning into an O of surprise, as if even she was shocked by how harsh she sounded. She dropped Andy’s hand and hobbled toward me, her footsteps slick-swishing through the grass. “You need to tell them,” she said, gently this time. “Okay, sweetie? Just tell the police what you remember about that night.”

“But I don’t remember anything.”

Mrs. Barringer was within arm’s reach now. I took a backward steptoward the house, but she latched onto my shoulders with both hands. Her grip was tight and rough. The complete opposite of her still-soothing voice.

“You have to remembersomething. Even if you don’t think you do. You couldn’t have slept through the whole night.”

Her grip on my shoulders became a pinch. She started shaking me, lightly at first, but growing more violent with each passing second. Soon I was being jerked back and forth, my head bobbing uncontrollably. Even though I was young and scared, I knew what Mrs. Barringer wanted from me. I wanted the same thing myself. Some clue, no matter how small, that might help find Billy.

But I remembered nothing.

I knewnothing.

“I’m sorry!” I cried. “I’m so sorry!”

At that point, my mother rushed outside and pulled me away from Mrs. Barringer’s grip.

“He doesn’t know anything, Mary Ellen,” she said, not without kindness. I’m certain she saw a bit of herself in Mrs. Barringer’s unhinged state. The way she gazed at our neighbor, my mother seemed to understand that, had it been me who was taken, she would be the one intheiryard, shakingtheirson, pleading for information.

I’m taking that first, blessed sip of coffee when I realize the noise outside has stopped. No lawn mower. No leaf blower. In their place comes the jaunty chime of the doorbell. I answer it, finding one of the lawn guys on the front porch.

“Are Mr. and Mrs. Marsh home?” he says, using a rag to wipe sweat from his brow.

“They just moved, actually.”

“Are you the new homeowner?”

“No,” I say, because technically I’m not. Which makes me wonder what, exactly, I am. “I’m their son. I’m staying here until my parents put the house on the market.”

It dawns on me that he might already know this and is gearing up to politely request payment for the lawn he’s just mowed. I try to spare him the chore by saying, “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Your parents paid in advance for the entire summer. I’m here because there was something in your yard this morning. It was no problem today. But in the future, I’d really appreciate it if you made sure your kids don’t leave sports equipment in the grass when we come to mow.”

“I don’t have kids.” I squint, confused. “What sports equipment?”

“This.”

The man digs into a deep pocket of his cargo pants. He removes his hand and holds it out so I can see it.

There, resting in his cupped palm, is a baseball.

Friday, July 15, 1994

8:56 a.m.

Billy looks at the baseball in his hand, surprised by how battered it’s become after just a few weeks of use. The once-white leather is now a dull gray and scuffed with dirt and grass stains. There are even a few teeth marks from the couple of times Barkley found it before Ethan could. That might happen again today if he’s not careful. Billy can hear the dog with Ethan on the other side of the hedge.

He knows it’s weird. The way he crouches behind the hedge, listening to Ethan play with Barkley in the yard next door. Other boys would just pop through the greenery and say hello, but where’s the fun in that?

No, Billy prefers to do it his way.

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