Gone by Randy Wayne White

privacy I was protecting,” I replied, feeling my face redden, “maybe you’d see it differently. I know you’re mad. If it helps you feel better talking that way, I don’t mind—as long as there’s a chance of helping the girl we’re discussing.”
    The woman leaned closer, and I realized she had spotted the faint scars that had made life miserable in high school. My abdomen went tense, but it didn’t last. I’ve gotten over that embarrassment—more or less. Instead of providing another target for her meanness, though, my dabble of scars—mostly hidden by the way I wear my hair—caused the woman to soften for some reason.
    “Pass that here, would you?” Mrs. Whitney was stabbing an ashtray with her cigarette but also looking at the photograph of Ricky Meeks. There was a shakiness in her voice that told me she was done being mad and giving in to something else. Plain weary of being mean was a possibility. Or maybe she’d been reminded of scars she had carried into adulthood, as all people must.
    She took a breath, reached for the photo, hesitated, then finally held the face of Ricky Meeks an arm’s length from her own. “You son of a bitch,” she whispered. What felt like a minute later she said, “You filthy animal.”
    After that, I didn’t watch. The woman was battling her emotions so hard I got up and went to the kitchen out of respect for her privacy. In the cupboard, I found Tetley tea bags and a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle, which I heated in a pan without adding water. Strong soup would be good for someone in Mrs. Whitney’s condition. Aside from some canned milk and stale crackers, there wasn’t much else in the cupboards but stacks of tinned capers, cocktail onions, rolled anchovies, and other stuff no one uses unless they’re making a pizza or having a party.
    On the counter, there were also three more little bottles of whiskey, part of a six-pack Nathan had managed to find. I knew it would be wrong of me to get the woman drunker in hopes she’d talk about Ricky Meeks. The last thing a fragile little thing like her needed was more alcohol. So I wrestled with my conscience until I found just the right lie to excuse my sneakiness, then carried the soup, a cup of milky tea, and the whiskey into the main room.
    Mrs. Whitney was old enough to make her own decisions—to ease my guilt, that’s what I’d told myself. But the lie didn’t help when I saw the state she was in. The woman’s face was so pale and makeup-streaked from crying, I didn’t think I could feel any worse than I did when I put that tray on the table.
    I was wrong. Without hesitating, the woman moved the cup and soup bowl out of her way and went straight for the whiskey as I knew she would.
    “You asked if he’s dangerous,” she coughed, the first miniature bottle down her. “ Yes. He’s dangerous. And what he does—the goddamn pervert, he’s a thief, too—he does it without breaking the law. He’s not smart, but he can smell weakness. It’s like an animal thing. And that’s a hell of a lot more dangerous than being smart.”
    More concerned with the guilt I felt than with what she’d just told me, I said, “Mrs. Whitney, at least try the soup. It’s good and strong—”
    “And stop calling me Mrs. Whitney!” the woman snapped, sounding more sober and in control. She was holding out the second bottle, wanting me to crack it open, the wounded-dog look in her eyes gone. “It makes me feel even older. My name’s Elka. And I’m not as old and washed-up as I might look.” She waved vaguely at the chair next to her, then reached for her cigarette case. “Have a seat.”
    I did.
    “There was a shrink I started seeing after Mickey took off ”—she turned her head away from me to exhale smoke, the first show of politeness since I’d arrived—“and this shrink kept preaching to me about forgiveness. Forgive the man who’d totally screwed up my life, forgive myself. Yatta-yatta-yatta. Know what I told