Where?

Who? The voice on the phone was familiar. Someone from my past calling my old nickname. “Xavy, it’s me.” Despite the long silence between us, I of course recognized her voice. “Who?” I asked out loud, stalling to overcome my shock. “Grace!” Her tone was so recognizable, that pitch so confident. Only now the tone was a little tentative, slightly plaintive. Grace, one of the loves of my life. Long gone… Now returned? I became wary. Why was she calling me? After all that’d happened…. Some of which I couldn’t quite remember anymore. “Where are you?” I asked. “Vermont.” “Ah, good old Vermont, home of the hippie commune and the civil union.” I found myself slipping into my old persona—breezy, irreverent, laid back, on the fence nonchalance. Even though that mask no longer fit, I found myself trying it on again. That old facade gave me some breathing room as I tried to grasp the prospect of having Grace back in my life, after this long separation. Back, at least, within calling distance. “Where are you?” she asked. “Boston” I replied. How glamorous that might have sounded. If only she knew where in Boston. South of South Boston, trying to distance itself from its working class roots, welcoming gentrification with open arms -- the mistress to wealth and power, not the wife. Yet greedy enough now to charge an arm and a leg for this condo I’m subletting from a colleague on assignment in Afghanistan. “I figured that by your area code,” she said. She obviously wanted more. But I was reluctant to divulge any further personal information. I was immediately propelled back to our breakup. Even though it’d probably been my fault, as so many such things are, I was surprised to discover I still felt hurt. Funny how the past just sits there, like some prehistoric animal preserved in ice, waiting for animation into the same old primeval context. So instead I asked, “What’s up?” I knew Grace well enough to know she wasn’t just looking me up for old times sake. “I was just thinking of you. I miss you, Xavy. It’s been too long.” Too long indeed. Despite our annual exchange of birthday cards, I hadn’t really spoken to Grace in at least ten years. Whose fault that was I cannot say. A mutual hiatus, it seemed. But of course I felt guilty for not reaching out to her. I doubted Grace blamed herself for the chasm. Her guilt seemed to focus on social and political issues. When it came to personal relationships, she appeared almost always blameless. I, on the other hand, was a walking mea-culpa. “Yeah,” I said. “It has.” To stop myself from launching into a litany of excuses for not contacting her, I just repeated, “What’s up?” She was too savvy to protest any further. “I could use your help.” As I suspected, she needed something. “What kind of help?” I said suspiciously. At the moment I couldn’t think of anything I could do that she couldn’t do better, or just as well. Even then it would be a short list. She cut straight to the chase. “I’d like your help finding a lost child.” I was flabbergasted. “Are you kidding? Why me?” “You did such a great job looking for Iris.” She was referring to an ill-fated venture on my part, an attempt to play the role of private eye when a good friend of ours disappeared many years ago in Baltimore, in the backwash of the women’s movement, during one of my frequent lay-offs. In those days we were still clinging to remnants of the diverse, inclusive community which had formed around our initial, revolutionary push for equal rights. These days, while we are astonished by the strides women have made collectively, we miss that old camaraderie—at least I do. “I never found her—remember?” “I know, but you left no stone unturned. You’re a great investigator.” “Well, that’s because I’m an investigative reporter. Not a private investigator.” As a matter of fact, I was neither at the moment, but identity lingers. I was curious about the story of the missing child, but I wasn’t about to bite.