Idyll Banter (24 page)

THE LADIES' ROOM JUST INSIDE TOMORROWLAND: A SHORT STORY

This is the only short story in this book, the only piece of writing that is fiction by design—rather than fiction because my memory has become a spaghetti colander. I have included it because although it is wholly invented, it does express the panic I certainly experienced (and the anxiety that I believe any sentient parent must feel) the first time my young daughter ventured alone into a bathroom in a public place.

HE LEANED AGAINST
the cement wall, a father who was no longer young with a daughter who was, and listened briefly to the sounds of the toilets flushing.

He checked his watch, noting the speed with which the second hand was traveling around the small clock's face—the black line was moving in tiny fits and starts, and he wondered if it had always moved like that and he had simply never noticed, or whether the battery was about to go—and memorized the exact time.

It was 5:17. Five-seventeen in the afternoon.

His daughter had entered alone into the ladies' room at exactly 5:17—5:17 and seven seconds, if he was going to be precise (and he was)—in the afternoon, the sky just starting to darken as the sun fell somewhere far to the west of Frontierland.

It was January and the days were short, and he realized that if they stayed for the fireworks at 7:00
P.M.
(and, it was inevitable, they would), he would have to hold on tight to his daughter's hand as they tumbled into the roiling stream of people leaving the park at one time for their cars. He'd never witnessed the exodus firsthand, but he'd heard, he'd heard: Virtually the entire human contents of Disney World converging on Main Street at once—a horde tens of thousands strong being funneled together toward the turnstiles and the trams and that ridiculous, retro metro monorail.

It was like a fight for the lifeboats, he'd been told, in which a man's most noble instincts would be subsumed completely by the urge to flee . . . and live.

Yes, he decided, he would insist that his daughter hold his hand. Or allow herself to be carried. Or accept the fact that he was going to tie her to his back like a thirty-eight-pound, three-and-a-half-foot-tall papoose. But he would not lose her.

She had just turned six, and—though she still believed that Snow White was precisely who she said she was, and Cinderella really did live in that phantasmagorically garish castle that served as the Magic Kingdom's centerpiece—these days she was feigning the walk, the distance, and the incredulity that marked an adolescent.

She was an only child, the youngest girl in her first-grade class, as well as the smallest. And though there were other girls and boys who lived with only a mother or a father, she was the only one who lived with a single parent because half the equation had died.

The two of them had been in the park since 10:15
A.M.,
and this was the first time that the girl had expressed any interest in going to the bathroom. After a lengthy discussion before leaving Boston the night before, they had agreed that she would be allowed to enter the ladies' room alone when she had to pee, and he would wait outside. He had wanted her to use the men's rooms so he could keep her—or, at least, her ankles beneath a stall door—in plain sight, but she had fought hard against this indignity.

And, in truth, he wasn't sure that he wanted her in the men's room with him anyway. How in the world do you explain a urinal to a six-year-old girl? Why in hell would you want to?

But this was their first trip alone, just the two of them, the first time, in fact, that they had ventured together beyond Massachusetts—beyond their street in Newton, practically—since the girl's mother had died in October. They were still figuring things out, and bathrooms were a part of the puzzle.

“And what'll I do when you have to go to the bathroom?” she had asked, once they had agreed that she would be allowed to venture alone into ladies' rooms. “I don't want to wait around inside the men's room!”

He didn't want that, either. The truth was they had never been one of those peace-love-and-tie-dye families in which parents and children bathed together or swam naked together or—God forbid—went to the bathroom with anything like visual or aural proximity. She hadn't seen him naked since she was seven or eight months old and he would take her into the bath with him when he'd come home from work, and bounce her around in the shallow water in the tub. He hadn't seen her naked since she'd been in preschool—and, he imagined, she would be appalled if she understood that as recently as two years ago she hadn't cared if he walked into the bathroom to hand her a towel before she started the long climb over the porcelain side of the tub.

“I won't go to the bathroom until we return to our motel, I promise,” he'd said, convinced that this was the only workable solution. After all, what was he going to do, hand her off to some stranger while he disappeared inside the men's room? Leave her standing alone in the open air in the midst of Disney World's crowds and chaos and rides? Not a prayer. He'd sooner cause permanent kidney damage than lose his little girl because he'd had a second cup of coffee at breakfast.

He glanced at his watch. Five-eighteen.

She'd been alone in the ladies' room for just under a minute. Perhaps half a dozen women—old and young, some with gray hair, one with a stud in her nose and lines of steel balls along the cartilage of both ears—had come and gone through the arching entrance in the time that he'd stood there.

He wished he'd been able to find a handicapped bathroom like the one they'd discovered at the airport. It was as big as a studio apartment, but housed a single stall, which meant he could be there with his daughter while giving her the privacy she demanded.

He wondered suddenly if he looked like a pervert. Here he was, a slightly plump forty-one-year-old in khaki shorts, standing outside one of the ladies' rooms in Tomorrowland. A balding guy whose thinning straw-colored hair was largely hidden by an aging Red Sox cap. He realized he was wearing sunglasses and quickly removed them. He didn't need them at this time of day, unless he had something to hide.

Which, of course, he did not.

He tried to ignore the sensation—sensation? who was he kidding, this was pressure—in his bladder and groin that he had begun to feel perhaps an hour earlier, when they had ridden Splash Mountain. All that water. The rivulets that ran down the cavernous walls as their little boat bounced along the inside of the man-made Ozark Mountain. The fact that the ride had made his seat—and then, therefore, his pants—wet. But he could last another two hours. Or, if there was a logjam at the exit, three.

Still, the sounds of the toilets and the faucets inside the ladies' room, a small orchestra of rushing water barely fifteen yards away, didn't help. But there was nothing to be done. He wished a mother with a little girl—one child, just one, so it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience—would approach the bathroom so he could ask her if his daughter was OK. Someone like his own wife, perhaps. But there didn't seem to be a doppelgänger present right then.

A thought crossed his mind, and the vague unease he'd been feeling about allowing his daughter to leave his sight abruptly became more pronounced: Somewhere in this world were bathrooms with two entrances. It was inevitable. And, perhaps, he had inadvertently stumbled upon one. He had escorted his little girl, that single person on the planet he cherished above all others, to a bathroom that was a free ticket to separation or abduction or (it was possible) something far worse.

He felt his skin growing clammy, because he understood that one of two things was about to happen: Either his daughter was going to emerge from that second entrance, wherever it was, and become lost forever in the massive amusement park as she searched for her father. Or a child molester or serial killer was waiting just outside that other entrance for a child exactly like his, because child molesters had known all along what he had just discovered: this rare, dual-entranced bathroom. It was a playground for perverts. A rec room for psychos.

Either way, unless he went into the ladies' room that very second and rescued his daughter, she would be gone from him forever. Unless he took a deep breath that moment and ventured inside the concrete-and-stucco inner sanctum, he would never see his little girl again. This reality was obvious.

He shook his head and reminded himself there was no reason to believe there was a second entrance. He was being ridiculous. It was barely 5:19. His daughter had been inside the bathroom a mere two minutes. Any second now, she would shuffle out in her sandals and shorts, pushing her hair behind her ears exactly the way her teenage baby-sitters did back home. The two of them would find a place in the park for dinner and then settle in for the fireworks.

His daughter was fine. Yes, indeed.

Unless there was a window. Maybe that was how she would be taken from him. Through a window. He realized that he had seen lots of women exiting the bathroom, but he wasn't sure he had seen any go in who hadn't already come out, meaning his daughter might be alone in there with no one to protect her from—how could he have missed it?—that kidnapper with the rolling bucket and mop. That kidnapper who had been pretending to be a park employee all day, just waiting for the moment when he'd be alone in the bathroom with a small child. In an instant he'd have her gagged and they'd be gone, the two of them disappearing forever into the January twilight.

He saw an older woman with bluish hair and a Camp Mickey sweatshirt approaching the bathroom, her mouth working hard on what had to be an apple-fritter-sized piece of chewing gum. She wasn't a young mom with a child in tow, but she would do, and he was about to ask her to check on his little girl, make sure she was all right—good God, simply make sure she was even still inside the damn bathroom!—but before he could make his own mouth open, she was through the archway and gone.

But that was good, too. It meant that the criminally insane, incompetent-to-stand-trial sociopath who had spent his day in the bathroom just waiting for a small child on which to prey could no longer operate with impunity. There was a third person inside there. Did it matter that his daughter's protector was a gum-chewing senior citizen in a Camp Mickey sweatshirt? Certainly not.

Unless this woman happened to be dangerous. He knew from an article he had read a year ago that there were forty-three women on death row, and some of them were senior citizens. Child murderers.

And, clearly, the woman with the bluish hair was strong enough to steal or murder his child, if that was something she wanted to do.

But why would anyone want to do that, ever? Why would anyone want to hurt a child? Yet bad things happened all the time, and they happened to kids every bit as adorable as his. Look at what she was already having to endure: Her mother had died.

He could make no mistake about this: A bad thing—a very bad thing—could happen at any moment, and there was no way he could even begin to explain or justify or rationalize the grotesque bits of tragedy that appeared in this world out of nowhere. A physical exam with something unexpected in the blood work. That was all it had taken to begin the slide—and
slide
was precisely the right word, he decided, with its connotations of a quick and slippery and out-of-control descent—that had done in his wife. Five months, start to finish. Five months.

Every single day, children disappeared in a positively incalculable fraction of that amount of time. A blink. They disappeared on their way home from school, they disappeared as they played on their front lawns, they disappeared from grocery stores while the parents pressed their thumbs into melons in the extra-wide aisles of fruit.

And, he had to assume, they disappeared from Disney World. The only reason you never heard about those kids or saw them on milk cartons or the TV news was because the Disney empire controlled the world. Didn't they own some TV network? Of course they did. They probably owned all 500 channels on the satellite dish that sat outside the guest-bedroom window back home.

It was 5:19 and 55 seconds. Almost 5:20. She'd been in there three minutes.

Her bladder couldn't possibly hold three minutes of pee. His could—he figured it had about three hours' in there right now—but not hers. Something clearly had happened, and that's when it hit him: No one was interested in abducting her from the bathroom, because that wasn't possible. There was no second entrance; there weren't even any windows. Instead, someone had hurt her and left her bleeding or unconscious in a far corner stall. It had been one of the last women he'd seen leave the bathroom. The tall woman who'd been wearing the scarf and the sunglasses.

He knew firsthand there was no need for sunglasses at this time of day, unless your intentions were suspect. (Hadn't he taken his off?) That woman had done something: She had done something awful.