Gone Girl: A Novel (19 page)

The man kept his eyes on us but called toward the back of the juniors section, where four sets of feet poked out from the dressing rooms, men camped out in their individual cubicles.

“Hey, Lonnie! Hey, all! The assholes are back. Five of ’em,” the man said. He kicked an empty beer can toward us. Behind him, three sets of feet began moving, men pulling themselves up. One set remained still, their owner asleep or passed out.

“Yeah, fuckos, we’re back,” Mikey Hillsam said. He held his bat like a pool cue and punched the mannequin torso between the breasts. She tottered toward the ground, the Blue Book guy removing his arm gracefully as she fell, as if it were all part of a rehearsed act. “We want some information on a missing girl.”

The three men from the dressing rooms joined their friends. They all wore Greek-party T-shirts:
Pi Phi Tie-Dye
and
Fiji Island
. Local Goodwills got inundated with these come summer—university graduates shedding their old souvenirs.

The men were all wiry-strong, muscular arms rivered with popping blue veins. Behind them, a guy with a long, drooping mustache and hair in a ponytail—Lonnie—came out of the largest corner dressing room, dragging a long length of pipe, wearing a Gamma Phi T-shirt. We were looking at mall security.

“What’s up?” Lonnie called.

We cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground …
the kids were reciting in a pitch that was close to screaming.

“We’re looking for Amy Dunne, you probably seen her on the news, missing since Thursday,” Joe Hillsam said. “Nice, pretty, sweet lady, stolen from her own home.”

“I heard about it. So?” said Lonnie.

“She’s my wife,” I said.

“We know what you guys’ve been getting into out here,” Joe continued, addressing only Lonnie, who was tossing his ponytail behind him, squaring his jaw. Faded green tattoos covered his fingers. “We know about the gang rape.”

I glanced at Rand to see if he was all right; he was staring at the naked mannequin on the floor.

“Gang rape,” Lonnie said, jerking his head back. “The fuck you talking about a gang rape.”

“You guys,” Joe said. “You Blue Book Boys—”

“Blue Book Boys, like we’re some kind of crew.” Lonnie sniffed. “We’re not animals, asshole. We don’t steal women. People want to feel okay for not helping us.
See, they don’t deserve it, they’re a bunch of rapists
. Well, bull
shit
. I’d get the fuck out of this town if the plant would give me my back pay. But I got nothing. None of us got nothing. So here we are.”

“We’ll give you money, good money, if you can tell us anything about Amy’s disappearance,” I said. “You guys know a lot of people, maybe you heard something.”

I pulled out her photo. The Hillsams and Stucks looked surprised, and I realized—of course—this was only a macho diversion for them. I pushed the photo in Lonnie’s face, expecting him to barely glance. Instead, he leaned in closer.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “
Her?
”

“You recognize her?”

He actually looked stricken. “She wanted to buy a gun.”

DIARY ENTRY

H
appy anniversary to me! One full month as a Missouri resident, and I am on my way to becoming a good midwesterner. Yep, I have gone cold turkey off all things East Coast and I have earned my thirty-day chip (here it would be a potato chip). I am taking notes, I am honoring traditions. I am the Margaret Mead of the goddamn Mississip.

Let’s see, what’s new? Nick and I are currently embroiled in what I have taken to calling (to myself) the Cuckoo Clock Conundrum. My parents’ cherished heirloom looks ridiculous in the new house. But then all our New York stuff does. Our dignified elephant of a chesterfield with its matching baby ottoman sits in the living room looking stunned, as if it got sleep-darted in its natural environment and woke up in this strange new captivity, surrounded by faux-posh carpet and synthetic wood and unveined walls. I do miss our old place—all the bumps and ridges and hairline fractures left by the decades. (Pause for attitude adjustment.) But new is nice too! Just different. The clock would disagree. The cuckoo is also having a tough time adjusting to its new space: The little bird lurches out drunkenly at ten minutes after the hour; seventeen minutes before; forty-one past. It emits a dying wail—coo-crrrrww—that every time brings Bleecker trotting in from some hideaway, eyes wild, all business, his tail a bottle-brush as he tilts his head toward the feathers and mewls.

“Wow, your parents must really hate me,” Nick says whenever we’re both in earshot of the noise, though he’s smart enough not to
recommend ridding ourselves of the thing just yet. I actually want to trash it too. I am the one (the jobless) at home all day, just waiting for its squawk, a tense moviegoer steeling myself for the next outburst from the crazy patron behind me—both relieved (there it is!) and angry (there it is!) each time it comes.

Much to-do was made over the clock at the housewarming (
oh, look at that, an antique clock!
), which Mama Maureen Dunne insisted on. Actually, not insisted on; Mama Mo does not insist. She simply makes things a reality by assuming they are such: From the first morning after the move, when she appeared on our doorstep with a welcome-home egg scramble and a family pack of toilet paper (which didn’t speak well for the egg scramble), she’d spoken of the housewarming as if it were a fact.
So when do you want to do your housewarming? Have you thought about who I should invite to the housewarming? Do you want a housewarming or something fun, like a stock-the-bar party? But a traditional housewarming is always nice
.

And then suddenly there was a date, and the date was today, and Dunne family and friends were shaking off the October drizzle from umbrellas and carefully, conscientiously wiping their feet on the floor mat Maureen had brought for us this morning. The rug says:
All Are Friends Who Enter Here
. It is from Costco. I have learned about bulk shopping in my four weeks as a Mississippi River resident. Republicans go to Sam’s Club, Democrats go to Costco. But everyone buys bulk because—unlike Manhattanites—they all have space to store twenty-four jars of sweet pickles. And—unlike Manhattanites—they all have uses for twenty-four jars of sweet pickles. (No gathering is complete without a lazy Susan full of pickles and Spanish olives right from the jar. And a salt lick.)

I set the scene: It is one of those big-smelling days, when people bring the outdoors in with them, the scent of rain on their sleeves, in their hair. The older women—Maureen’s friends—present varying food items in plastic, dishwasher-safe containers they will later ask to be returned. And ask and ask. I know, now, that I am supposed to wash out the containers and drop each of them back by their proper homes—a Ziploc carpool—but when I first came here, I was unaware of the protocol. I dutifully recycled all the plastic containers, and so I had to go buy all new ones. Maureen’s best friend, Vicky, immediately noticed her container was brand-new, store-bought, an
imposter, and when I explained my confusion, she widened her eyes in amazement:
So
that’s
how they do it in New York
.

But the housewarming: The older women are Maureen’s friends from long-ago PTA meetings, from book clubs, from the Shoe-Be-Doo-Be at the mall, where she spent forty hours a week slipping sensible block heels onto women of a certain age. (She can size a foot on sight—women’s 8, narrow!—it’s her go-to party trick.) All Mo’s friends love Nick, and they all have stories about sweet things Nick has done for them over the years.

The younger women, the women representing the pool of possible Amy-friends, all sport the same bleached-blond wedge haircut, the same slip-on mules. They are the daughters of Maureen’s friends, and they all love Nick, and they all have stories about sweet things Nick has done for them over the years. Most of them are out of work from the mall closings, or their husbands are out of work from the mall closings, so they all offer me recipes for “cheap and easy eats” that usually involve a casserole made from canned soup, butter, and a snack chip.

The men are nice and quiet and hunker in circles, talking about sports and smiling benevolently toward me.

Everyone is nice. They are literally
as nice as they can be
. Maureen, the tristate’s hardiest cancer patient, introduces me to all her friends the same way you’d show off a slightly dangerous new pet: “This is Nick’s wife, Amy, who was
born and raised
in New York City.” And her friends, plump and welcoming, immediately suffer some strange Tourettesian episode: They repeat the words—
New York City
!—with clasped hands and say something that defies response:
That must have been neat
. Or, in reedy voices, they sing “New York, New York,” rocking side to side with tiny jazz hands. Maureen’s friend from the shoe store, Barb, drawls “
Nue
York
Ceety
! Get a rope,” and when I squint at her in confusion, she says, “Oh, it’s from that old salsa commercial!” and when I still fail to connect, she blushes, puts a hand on my arm, and says, “I wouldn’t really hang you.”

Ultimately, everyone trails off into giggles and confesses they’ve never been to New York. Or that they’ve been—once—and didn’t care for it much. Then I say something like:
You’d like it
or
It’s definitely not for everyone
or
Mmm
, because I’ve run out of things to say.

“Be friendly, Amy,” Nick spits into my ear when we’re refilling
drinks in the kitchen (midwesterners love two liters of soda, always two liters, and you pour them into big red plastic Solo cups, always).

“I
am
,” I whine. It really hurts my feelings, because if you asked anyone in that room whether I’d been friendly, I know they’d say yes.

Sometimes I feel like Nick has decided on a version of me that doesn’t exist. Since we’ve moved here, I’ve done girls’ nights out and charity walks, I’ve cooked casseroles for his dad and helped sell tickets for raffles. I tapped the last of my money to give to Nick and Go so they could buy the bar they’ve always wanted, and I even put the check inside a card shaped like a mug of beer—
Cheers to You!
—and Nick just gave a flat begrudging thanks. I don’t know what to do. I’m trying.

We deliver the soda pops, me smiling and laughing even harder, a vision of grace and good cheer, asking everyone if I can get them anything else, complimenting women on ambrosia salads and crab dips and pickle slices wrapped in cream cheese wrapped in salami.

Nick’s dad arrives with Go. They stand silently on the doorstep, Midwest Gothic, Bill Dunne wiry and still handsome, a tiny Band-Aid on his forehead, Go grim-faced, her hair in barrettes, her eyes averted from her father.

“Nick,” Bill Dunne says, shaking his hand, and he steps inside, frowning at me. Go follows, grabs Nick, and pulls him back behind the door, whispering, “I have no idea where he is right now, headwise. Like if he’s having a bad day or if he’s just being a jackass. No idea.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Go shrugs pissily.

“I’m serious, Go. Grab a beer and take a break. You are relieved of Dad duty for the next hour.”

I think:
If that had been me, he’d complain that I was being too sensitive
.

The older women keep swirling around me, telling me how Maureen has always said what a wonderful couple Nick and I are and she is right, we are clearly made for each other.

I prefer these well-meant clichés to the talk we heard before we got married.
Marriage is compromise and hard work, and then more hard work and communication and compromise. And then work
. Abandon all hope, ye who enter.

The engagement party back in New York was the worst for this, all the guests hot with wine and resentment, as if every set of spouses had
gotten into an argument on the way to the club. Or they remembered some argument. Like Binks. Binks Moriarty, my mom’s best friend’s eighty-eight-year-old mother, stopped me at the bar—bellowed, “Amy! I must talk to you!” in an emergency-room voice. She twisted her precious rings on overknuckled fingers—twist, turn, creak—and fondled my arm (that old-person grope—cold fingers coveting your nice, soft, warm, new skin), and then Binks told me how her late husband of sixty-three years had trouble “keeping it in his pants.” Binks said this with one of those
I’m almost dead, I can say this kind of stuff
grins and cataract-clouded eyes. “He just couldn’t keep it in his pants,” the old lady said urgently, her hand chilling my arm in a death grip. “But he loved me more than any of them.
I
know it, and
you
know it.” The moral to the story being: Mr. Binks was a cheating dickweasel, but, you know, marriage is compromise.