GENRE FICTION

By Sage Tyrtle

The actors they’ve hired to play the Thomp­sons are all wrong. I can see them from my bedroom window, the living room lit up, the cur­tains open the way they never were when Angie and her family lived there. The cameras are pointed at the woman playing Angie’s mom. She’s too thin and she’s holding baby Jason and cooing at him and I think of the real Mrs. Thomp­son. Of the way she would look at the baby, like she couldn’t let herself love him.

The girls play a board game on the carpet while Mr. Thomp­son smiles at them. He’s the only one who looks right, with his feath­ered hair and aviator glasses. He’s wearing a T‑shirt with a sunset on it that looks so famil­iar I wonder, feeling sick, if it was in the closet. After.

The girl playing Angie cheers when she wins the board game. No one ever cheered in that house.

 

UNSOLVED MYSTERIES, S01E29, 09.20.89

ROBERT STACK

This unas­sum­ing sub­ur­ban house looks like any you might pass in your own neigh­bour­hood. Well-kept, indeed, one might say well-loved. Inside, children’s toys are still strewn around the bed­rooms. The table is still set for break­fast. Clean clothes wait in the laundry basket to be put away. The only jarring note is the per­pet­u­al cal­en­dar, care­ful­ly set on the dresser in the master bedroom. It seems as if, any moment, the family will troop down­stairs. But appear­ances are deceiv­ing. No one has been inside the Thomp­son house for nine years.

 

BARBARA JACOBY, NEIGHBOUR

They were just a lovely family. The Thomp­sons moved in, oh, I think the mid-sev­en­ties. I used to sit for the girls and they’d call me their Celery Grandma, because their parents had said I was their sur­ro­gate grand­moth­er, you know. They were just dar­lings. Mr. Thomp­son coached the Pee Wee foot­ball team at the com­mu­ni­ty center, and Mrs. Thomp­son took won­der­ful care of the house. When it hap­pened — well. No one could under­stand it.

 

At the P&C I’m running Mrs. Jacoby’s gro­ceries through and she says, “Shannon, did you hear? They tried to get per­mis­sion to make the house look abandoned.”

I don’t have to ask what she means by house. By they. I weigh three egg­plants and say, “Per­mis­sion from who?”

“From Jason, of all things.”

Jason, the only nine year old in the world who owns his own house. He was gone so soon that I can only imagine him as a baby, his solemn wrinkly face. How Angie and Rebecca would look at him so proud. Some­where he’s sitting by a lake, with Angie’s dark curls, or Rebecca’s wonky teeth. He’s dan­gling his feet in the water and he is never going to know that they called him Grumpaloola because he never smiled. He’s never going to know how much they loved him.

Mrs. Jacoby hands me a mar­garine coupon. “I heard they went to his aunt and uncle out in Maine, just knocked on the door bold as brass, said they wanted to talk to Jason. They asked if they could break the windows! And the aunt said absolute­ly not. She said as soon as filming was done they were selling the house and putting the money into an edu­ca­tion fund for Jason and to go away before she called the police.” Mrs. Jacoby puts her hand on her heart. “Can you imagine?”

“They’re selling the house? But they can’t! What if Angie comes  — what if…” and my voice breaks a little and I shake my head and dis­count the margarine.

“Oh honey,” says Mrs. Jacoby. She touches my hand. “Honey.”

 

UNSOLVED MYSTERIES, S01E29, 09.20.89

ROBERT STACK

The Thomp­sons were just like any thriv­ing sub­ur­ban family. Mr. Thomp­son worked as a systems admin­is­tra­tor at IBM, while Mrs. Thomp­son took care of their chil­dren. Angie and Rebecca had many friends at the local ele­men­tary school. Baby Jason had just learned to sit up on his own. They were well liked, friend­ly, and the closest any of them had come to the law was a shoplift­ing charge when Mrs. Thomp­son was fifteen.

 

Heather’s driving her mom’s station wagon which always smells like granola bars. We were going to go to the movies but Kimmy wanted to see a horror movie and Heather said that sounded stupid and that we should go see the Robin Williams one and Kimmy said that sounded stupid and they wanted me to be the tie-breaker but I knew if we went to see a movie I’d just sit and think about Angie. So I said did they want to go driving up in the foothills instead and they did.

Heather turns in at the scenic view and we all get out, leaning against the rock wall and looking. Our town is down below in neat grids, like a gigan­tic Lite-Brite, then farther in the dis­tance we can see San Fran­cis­co and the Bay. Kimmy says, “Are those lights where they’re filming?” and even up here in the foothills I can see the blaring lights, my own house next door looking prac­ti­cal­ly candle-lit.

I say, “They were there yes­ter­day until three in the morning. My mom was going bananas.”

Heather says, “Is it hor­ri­ble? Having them there?”

We haven’t talked about Angie before. Of course Heather and Kimmy knew her from school, but I was her best friend. The other kids used to ask stuff, like did I know what hap­pened, or what the family was like. One day Tony Keller was saying in the cafe­te­ria that prob­a­bly they were all dead in the woods, that it was a murder-suicide, and I threw my choco­late milk carton at his face and left a bruise on his fore­head that lasted a week. People didn’t ask after that.

I take a breath. “It’s sad that they’re making stuff up, you know? I can see them filming from my room. They were doing this whole scene where Angie and Rebecca were doing gym­nas­tics in the back­yard but it was just that one class that Angie took, and it was only because I was taking it. We both hated it, the teacher was always saying stuff like, ‘Girls, eating is for fatties.’”

“What an asshole,” says Heather.

Kimmy says, “She was nice. Angie was, I mean. In kinder­garten I peed my pants and I was afraid to go to recess because I knew every­one would see. Angie came and asked what was wrong and when I told her she went and got the teacher for me. Never told anyone about it.”

“Yeah,” I say, think­ing of the hurt in her eyes, the last time I saw her.

We lean on the wall and watch the lights and I feel bad knowing I’d trade Heather and Kimmy for Angie. If someone offered me that? I wouldn’t hes­i­tate. Not for a second.

 

UNSOLVED MYSTERIES, S01E29, 09.20.89

ROBERT STACK

On the evening of May 6th, 1980, the Thomp­son family was gath­ered at the hos­pi­tal. Baby Jason was there, recov­er­ing from a par­tic­u­lar­ly severe bout of the flu. But now he was well enough to have his evening bottle in Mr. Thompson’s arms.

 

DELILAH GRANT, NURSE

Of course the family was worried but Jason was a trooper. He’d weath­ered the worst of the flu and was set to go home if he con­tin­ued improv­ing. The girls just doted on him, I remem­ber they asked me if they could sing him a song. When the police came, after, they asked if the parents could have — well — done some­thing. But the Thomp­sons were like a family out of a fairy tale. Heck, I wish more fam­i­lies who come to the pedi­atric ward were like them.

 

That night, after watch­ing them film next door, I close my cur­tains. I get the enve­lope labelled ANGIE out of my desk drawer and open it. My mom said that missing Angie would get easier. That I wouldn’t forget her, but the sadness would get smaller. When she asks, I pretend she was right.

There’s a photo in the enve­lope I’ve never showed anyone. It’s of Angie’s room. I’m sitting on the carpet in front of her little black and white TV, the one she got to have when her parents bought the big console because she was the oldest. I’m holding a joy­stick and there’s a joy­stick on the carpet next to me.

I’m looking behind me and the Space Invaders game on the screen says PAUSE because Mrs. Thomp­son came in and said, “Smile, girls,” and Angie paused the game and we both turned and smiled except Angie isn’t in the photo anymore.

And that’s impos­si­ble, right? There’s no way one person could — I don’t know, fade from the sun or what­ev­er — and every­thing else stay the same, is there?

There are other things missing from that photo. But they were always missing. How when I knocked on the door I’d be able to hear the faint mutter of a foot­ball game but nothing else. How Angie would come to the door and open it and the living room would be dim, cur­tains closed, the only light from the flick­er­ing TV. How her dad would be sitting on the burnt orange couch that he seemed to have grown out of like a poi­so­nous flower, staring at the game. How I knew to wait in silence until the com­mer­cials, when we could walk by the couch and up the stairs and into her room. Until she closed the door and we could finally hug each other and say each other’s names.

 

UNSOLVED MYSTERIES, S01E29, 09.20.89

ROBERT STACK

The morning of Monday, May 7th dawned bright and warm. The town was waking up, getting ready for work and school. At the hos­pi­tal, baby Jason’s tem­per­a­ture was back to normal. On that fateful day, when Mr. Thomp­son didn’t show up at his office, when the girls weren’t in school, no one worried much. At first.

 

GARY LEE, POSTAL WORKER

My wife, she teaches over at the primary school. Our lunch hours match so she can come home and we’ll eat togeth­er. That day she said that Angie hadn’t been in her class and the Thomp­sons must be vis­it­ing the baby at the hos­pi­tal. And I said well now, that couldn’t be true. I’d just been deliv­er­ing their mail and both their cars were there.

 

Angie’s mom had a raspy voice from the cig­a­rettes she didn’t smoke anymore. She’d stopped when she married Angie’s dad because he didn’t like the smell. But her hands always seemed lost somehow, forever grasp­ing for a match to light.

When Jason cried, moving fit­ful­ly in the portable crib, she would drift out of the house and stand as far away as she could get, her breath turning to smoke in the cold.

It was Angie who would pick Jason up and get his bottle. Check his diaper. Make sure he was quiet. Some­times she would take him outside, but her mom never turned around. Just stood, staring up at the sky.

After Jason was born Angie started missing school. There was always a reason, she always had a note from her mom, but I worried that she was really home doing all the things for Jason that her mom wouldn’t do. But if I told someone, wouldn’t Mrs. Thomp­son get in trouble?

Except every time Angie came back to school she was buoyant. She couldn’t stop smiling. So I didn’t ask where she’d been. I told myself I’d ask the next time. I told myself I’d ask the time after that.

 

UNSOLVED MYSTERIES, S01E29, 09.20.89

ROBERT STACK

Inside the empty Thomp­son house, the phone rang. The hos­pi­tal was calling with good news: baby Jason was ready to go home. The hos­pi­tal called again and again with no answer. After trying Mr. Thomp­son at work and finally the ele­men­tary school, the hos­pi­tal called the emer­gency contact, Mrs. Thompson’s sister in Maine, who imme­di­ate­ly called the police.

 

TERRY FAZELLI, POLICE OFFICER

When we got there, the little girl who lived next door was sitting on the porch. She looked up and asked if I’d please find her friend because they were going to go for a bike ride and she’d been waiting and waiting. Kids. They’ll break your heart without even trying.

 

Two months before it hap­pened I was sleep­ing over at Angie’s house. I woke up to pee and when I got back Angie was sitting up in her sleep­ing bag. She whis­pered, “I know where Mom keeps the Snickers.”

We tip-toed down the stairs, quiet as feath­ers falling, the living room filled with shadows. In the kitchen Angie climbed up on the counter without making a sound. She opened the top cabinet and handed down the Snick­ers package and I took it, not letting the plastic crinkle, my heart pumping like we were robbing Fort Knox.

We ate one candy bar each and Angie put the package back. When she came down off the counter her eyes were sparkling. “Want to see some­thing weird?” she said.

I fol­lowed her down the hall and it wasn’t until she opened the door that I real­ized it was her dad’s study, where no one was allowed. I hung back at the door but Angie said, “Come on.” She clicked on a small lamp and it made a pool of light on the desk that felt like a billion megawatts. There was a type­writer and some sports pages from the news­pa­per and a per­pet­u­al cal­en­der kind of like the one Mom had in the kitchen, where you turn the dials so it says the date. Ours was plastic but this one was metal, it looked like it was really old. Ours only had a place for the day and the month but this one even had a place for the year.

I sucked choco­late from my fingers and said, “You should turn that light off,” but instead Angie grabbed my hands.

“I went to yes­ter­day,” she said.

“What?” I tried to get my hands back but Angie wouldn’t let them go.

“Listen,” she said, “I went to yes­ter­day. And this time, when those sixth graders started fight­ing, I went and got a teacher.”

“You weren’t at school yes­ter­day, what are you talking about?”

“I was but it was yes­ter­day so you couldn’t see me.”

I stared at her. “No one called a teacher.”

“Yes! And that’s how come I knew to call one!”

I could feel my fore­head sweat­ing. Every second we were in here made it more likely that Mr. Thomp­son would find us. “Please, we have to turn the light off and go back.” She didn’t say any­thing. “Angie, please, I’m scared.”

Angie let go of my hands and I’d been pulling so hard I stum­bled and bumped into the desk. It made a huge bang. Like light­ning Angie turned off the light, grabbed my hand and we ran up the stairs so fast we barely touched them. We were were back in our sleep­ing bags before we heard heavy steps leave her parents’ bedroom.

 

UNSOLVED MYSTERIES, S01E29, 09.20.89

ROBERT STACK

When the police entered the house that evening there was no sign of foul play. Aside from the two cars in front of the house and the fact that no one was home, there seemed no reason to worry.

 

ERIC HIATT, CO-WORKER

Enemies? Not a chance in hell. Every­one loved Mark. He was the kind of guy, you’d be in a meeting and the boss would be giving him credit for what­ev­er and he’d speak up, he’d say no, no, the credit mostly went to so and so. Some­times after work some of us would go out to the, uh, you know. To see strip­pers. And he’d head home to be with his family. We used to tease him about it. When the cops showed up we all thought it was a prac­ti­cal joke.

 

 

Angie’s dad didn’t look like the other dads. He looked like a movie star, like Robert Redford, all blond hair and quick grin. There were photos of him playing foot­ball all over the house, from high school and college. Outside of the house he was dif­fer­ent. A lot of times he’d bundle Jason up in the stroller and we’d all walk to the park and he’d stay there for ages while we all played. One time I came over and he was teach­ing Angie to ride her bike and I asked if he’d teach me too and he did.

So the first time I saw Angie hit her little sister I thought Angie was the monster.

Rebecca was running down the hall singing Jingle Bells, drown­ing out the sound of a touch­down on TV, and Angie grabbed her arm and smacked her butt hard and Rebecca didn’t cry, she just shut up like a record that you took the needle off of and I felt like throw­ing up but I just stood there. I didn’t say anything.

Later, though. At school. When we were sitting under the big oak tree and I was drawing designs in the dirt with a stick. Without looking up I asked why she’d done it. Angie whis­pered her answer into my ear, so close I could small the Star­burst on her breath, she told me what hap­pened when anyone was too noisy in her house. She made me promise not to tell. And then she showed me her scars in the dappled light under the oak tree and I under­stood why she’d hit Rebecca to make her stop singing. I under­stood why Rebecca hadn’t cried.

 

UNSOLVED MYSTERIES, S01E29, 09.20.89

ROBERT STACK

There were the­o­ries at the time, of course.

 

RODNEY HUBBARD, JOURNALIST

There were search parties in the foothills. The cops took dogs through the woods. Not one damned thing. People said it must have been a drifter, a thrill kill. But if that’s true, there would be other similar cases, and believe me, I looked. Nothing before, and nothing in the nine years since.

 

By April Angie was missing school a lot. Once I went to her house after school with a home­work packet from our teacher because she’d been gone for three days. And I knocked and she came to the door like it was nothing. She looked behind her at her dad on the couch and whis­pered that she had a cold so she had to get back inside. I gave her the home­work and on my way down the side­walk I could hear her fake-coughing.

She came back after two more days. She was smiling and tanned like she’d been to Disney World or some­thing. Even­tu­al­ly she missed so many days of school that they called her into the principal’s office with her mom. I sat on the swings and waited for her, turning and turning so when I let go the swing turned the other way fast and I watched the play­ground whirl by until it slowed. Angie stood in front of me, grin­ning, her new front tooth half-grown.

“Are you in trouble?” I said, steady­ing myself against the dizziness.

Angie sat on the swing next to mine. “Nah. My mom was great, she just kept saying that if I was keeping up then what was the problem and the prin­ci­pal didn’t have an answer. But Shannon, guess what.”

I didn’t want to guess what. I knew she was going to say that she’d been to yes­ter­day again and what if she really thought that it was real? What if her mom thought it was real? Wouldn’t that mean Angie was in the kind of trouble that needed grown ups?

Angie nudged my leg with her foot. “Shannon! Guess what!”

On the other side of the play­ground I could see Kimmy and some other girls playing. I got up and said, “I’m gonna go do jump rope,” and ran over. When I got there, I turned and looked. Angie was sitting by herself on the swings, looking at the ground.

 

UNSOLVED MYSTERIES, S01E29, 09.20.89

ROBERT STACK

What hap­pened to the Thomp­sons? No one has seen them in nine years. Soon this house will be emptied. The con­tents put up for auction. The house sold to a new family. Perhaps a young couple start­ing out just as Mr. and Mrs. Thomp­son were. The echoes of the two little girls and their parents will fade.

 

The day before it hap­pened I was going to Angie’s house. Mrs. Jacoby came outside and called, “Shannon, come on over. The girls spent the night, you’re welcome to join us.”

In the kitchen, Angie and Rebecca were stand­ing on step stools in too-big aprons not doing anything.

“What hap­pened?” I said.

“The girls are a little worried,” said Mrs. Jacoby, getting flour and baking soda out of a cabinet. “But it’s all going to be just fine.”

Rebecca wailed, “Jason’s at the hos­pi­tal and he’s going to di-i-ie,” and col­lapsed on the kitchen floor, burst­ing into tears.

We all sat on the floor with her. Angie rubbed her back. Mrs. Jacoby said, “Sweet­heart, Jason’s just got the cruddy old flu. Like you’ve had the flu, right?”

“But I didn’t have to go to the hos­pi­tal,” sobbed Rebecca, “with doctors.”

I met Angie’s eyes over Rebecca’s shaking back. Her eyes were sparkling and she had a small smile. “It’s okay, Becky. Remem­ber? We have the calendar.”

Mrs. Jacoby looked at Angie for a moment, then launched into a long story about her niece who had bron­chi­tis when she was six, but all I could think about was Angie’s face when she said cal­en­dar like it was a magic thing. If it turned out that Jason was really — that he needed help — did she think they could go to yes­ter­day and save him somehow? In that moment, filled with terror for what Angie thought was real, I almost told Mrs. Jacoby.

While the cookies baked, Mrs. Jacoby sat on the couch with Rebecca, reading Ramona the Pest out loud. Angie and I played Go Fish, or I played Go Fish, and Angie stared at her cards and said things like, “Do you have a two?” then “Wait, never mind. I don’t have a two.”

After the third round Angie pointed to the couch, where Rebecca and Mrs. Jacoby had dozed off. She whis­pered, “Come with me for a second.”

I didn’t want to follow her but I did, and she led me to the guest room. It was painted yellow with the cur­tains open, with two twin beds and a bowl of pot­pour­ri on the night stand. Angie’s back­pack and Rebecca’s little suit­case were on the floor.

Angie reached into her back­pack and got out the calendar.

I shook my head.

“Shannon,” Angie said, her eyes too bright, glit­ter­ing. “Come with me. I want to show you what it’s like.”

I just stood there shaking my head harder and harder.

“Don’t worry, we’ll only go look at yes­ter­day for a little while, we’ll be back before they wake up.”

“It’s not real,” I finally said, but Angie just grinned.

“I know you don’t think it’s real,” she said, “that’s why I want to show you, dummy.”

She started to turn the day dial, the six going down while the bottom of the five came into view and I felt the room start to swim, I felt like when I went to the dentist and they gave me laugh­ing gas, like I couldn’t catch my balance, and I yelled, “Stop, STOP!” and Angie turned the dial back to where it was and I could stand steady again. I said, “You’re crazy, nothing hap­pened, you’re just stupid and crazy!”

From the living room Mrs. Jacoby called, “Is every­thing all right, girls?” and I pushed Angie out of the way and ran out of Mrs. Jacoby’s house and into my house and up the stairs and into my room. And I never saw her again.

#

The actors playing the Thomp­sons are all wrong. I watch them filming from my bedroom window and Angie’s too-tall mom is arguing with her gun-toting dad while the girls cower.

I know it’s wrong because I was getting ready for school, putting my times tables home­work in my back­pack, and I looked over. I could see Mrs. Thomp­son upstairs in her bedroom, by herself. She was crying so hard. I could see her holding the per­pet­u­al cal­en­dar and I wanted to call out, to stop her, but I think she turned the year dial. I think she turned the 8 in 1980 until it was a 6, I think she turned Angie and Rebecca into dreams, I think she saved them from Angie’s dad. But I don’t know. Because my dad said from my doorway, “Almost ready, kiddo?” and I turned to answer him and when I looked back Mrs. Thomp­son was gone.

They finish filming just after mid­night and my parents are asleep soon after. I put on my wind­break­er and my shoes. If it’s really being sold, I want to see the house one more time. Like it was.

The key is still under the bird­bath in the back yard. My hands shake as I unlock the front door. The console TV is silent, the screen dark, but still I don’t look at the couch as I run by, whis­per­ing, “You’re okay you’re okay, you’re okay.” I creep up the stairs, staying as quiet as I can.

In Angie’s room I shut the door and lean against it. I see her Holly Hobby bed­spread and my legs go weak because we’re almost there, we’re almost sitting, leaning against each other, dis­solved in giggles. I open her desk drawer (still quiet because the couch, the couch) and there’s her math home­work, there’s her hand­writ­ing. There’s her name at the top, Angie T., the g printed because she never got the hang of a cursive g.

I didn’t cry when Angie dis­ap­peared. Mom was so worried she took me to a child psy­chol­o­gist who assured her that every­one grieves in their own way. But I didn’t cry because I knew Angie would be back. Just like all the other times. I knew, knew, Angie would appear in a few days and hand the teacher a note from her mom and every­thing would be fine.

I was in seventh grade before I stopped looking for her around every corner.

 

UNSOLVED MYSTERIES, S01E29, 09.20.89

ROBERT STACK

In nine years, there has not been one cred­i­ble sight­ing of any member of the Thomp­son family. Today, Angie would be sixteen years old. Her sister Rebecca would be four­teen. Mark Thomp­son and his wife Debra would both be thirty-five. For every mystery, there is someone, some­where, who knows the truth. Perhaps…that person is you.

 

This story orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 19. Support local book­sellers and inde­pen­dent pub­lish­ers by order­ing a print copy of the mag­a­zine.

Photo by Devon MacKay