Marry Me, Connecticut

Dumont never likened Dumont to a poet. Nobody would, though the thought was still funny. Dumont, caressed by some foreign fantasy, pink and soft-handed, so distant from the muddy greens of life. Sometimes a report would come out overly floral and the whole thing would have to get redone, carving out another minute of mindless, funny daydreaming.

When the call arrived, Dumont was in the midst of another morning of stale coffee and parking tickets. Her hands were cold as she perused through a cabinet to give off the impression that she was working, telling herself that breaking through the glass ceiling over a decade ago gave her the right– she had long given up on finding poetry in the scuffed beige of the station or the soulless autumn ahead. It had been almost a month since the September equinox, another two since Lonnie’s death;

He fell in the bathtub and got tangled in the shower curtain. There was no investigation to conduct, just a report. Once, Dumont gave him a ticket and got spat in the face. As she drove off Lonnie cursed her again for good measure, mouth foaming before keeling over, pillowed by burning asphalt. Dumont would leave the funeral early, silence ringing through the cathedral until it made her sick with unease, something she forgot she was still capable of. Regardless, it was the most interesting thing to have happened in the summer of 1974, up until the call.

With the phone cradled between her ear and shoulder, that ill feeling returned. There was only so much incoherent weeping she could bear before stubbing out her smoke and promising things she couldn’t ensure. The four-man precinct regained consciousness after the fact. Most of these men never expected to put their training to use in a town that had given them no reason to. A falling boulder in ‘55 and a suicide in ‘68 summarized the extent of town maladies up until that point, tangible. The disappearance of the mayor’s daughter was an entirely different thing altogether.

Search parties commenced an hour after the death of the line, with the officers filing out as soon as they could. Dumont lit a new cigarette just as the Sheriff of Fairfield County stepped in through the station, with him a man in tow.

Sheriff Boyd, portly and weathered, nodded to Dumont. “Lieutenant, this is Detective Charles Aubert from the Bridgeport precinct. He’ll be working with you on the Goodman case.”

The detective looked like the guy on the cover of police academy pamphlets, or a youth pastor in training, or a mouse. Clothed in gray gabardine, hair styled into a solid block of gel, with the wettest brown eyes Dumont had ever seen. Dumont made a noise, breathing out a puff. “Pleasure,” She said. “I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of work back in Bridgeport.”

The man –boy, really– snapped out of his disposition and shot up straight. “I try my best,” He said, smiling a little too widely. “I’m very excited to learn from you, Lieutenant.”

“Someone’s kid is missing,” Dumont replied. “Don’t get any funny ideas.”

By late morning Dumont got the notice that the search parties had proven to be useless so far, and the two of them ventured into the town square. Lighting another smoke, she stepped into the practiced, purposeful stride of a cop, Aubert following closely by her side. The town square was always sullen around that time of that day anyway, missing homecoming queen or not. In spite of the cold, the sun clung to Aubert’s profile in burning white.

“So you’ve lived here your whole life?” Aubert suddenly asked.

Dumont took a long drag. “Born and bred.”

She glanced back at Aubert, noticing the way he took every detail of the town, from sun-bleached playground equipment to cracked cobblestone. “Must be nice,” He chirped. “I’ve been all over the place until I enrolled in the academy at Bridgeport. Ever been?”

“Once or twice, not my thing,” She answered. ”Noisy.”

Aubert sniffed at that, like the conniving rodent he was and the brilliant detective he surely thought himself to be, which made Dumont pick up her pace. Still, he didn’t push it, just turned back to the desolation of the path.

“I’d love to live in a place like this someday.”

Smoke curled around Dumont, something that felt like a smile tugging at her. “You say that now.” The sound of the church bell cut through the air, the peal like a chortle.

“It can’t be that bad,” Aubert said. “I had a delicious slice of pie at the inn this morning. I’d move here just to have it every day.”

They turned the corner and walked into the local pub. “Don’t think a sixteen-year old would ever be at a bar,” Aubert half-murmured, meek but not opposed to nagging.

“Clearly you’ve never been sixteen,” Dumont countered before clarifying. “We’re getting testimonials.”

“Right,” Aubert muttered, red-faced.

The bar was the one place in Pepperstock that was never truly empty, crippling jukebox selection and all. The door let out a pained squeak when they walked in, and all five heads in the establishment turned to them. Aubert fished a little notepad out of pocket as he assessed his surroundings, eyes grazing over the warped paneling on the walls from unresolved water damage.

Dumont never likened Dumont to a poet. Nobody would, not even Red Cogswell, bartender of The Odyssey. Red was as good as a man could be– he never said anything when she concluded her weekends slumped in a booth, pool of drool at her feet. The past weekend had been one of her worst, and the last thing she wanted to see was the bar. Though it wasn’t lost on her the way Red took in the sight of them— he shifted, Adam’s apple bobbing, leaning against the counter strangely. Aubert’s sunshine dissipated as soon as he opened up the questionnaire, wherein Red claimed to have not seen anything worth telling and grew offended at the implication that he would’ve sold alcohol to a minor.

“I don’t know anything,” Red insisted again, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s a quiet town, kids sneak out and do fuck all. Ain’t no big deal.”

Aubert looked over the rim of his glasses obnoxiously. “Parents usually care.”

“You pigs don’t get to tell me a lick about anything,” Red spat. “I don’t know shit. If the Goodmans didn’t want their kid to go missing they should’ve left this shithole years ago.”

Dumont cleared her throat. “That’s not a way to make business. Cooperate, Red,” She then slid a couple of bills across the counter, which Red eyed hungrily.

“You still need to pay your tab. I won’t serve you again if you don’t,” He warned, well-rehearsed.

“It’s in there.”

Red took it, flicking over the bills with ease before stuffing them into the pocket of his soiled apron. Almost cartoonishly, he schooled his expression into something akin to docility, then ran a hand across his bald head. “…Sorry, officers. We got off on the wrong foot,” He sighed theatrically. “I’ve had this crick in the neck all morning… Can I get you anything?”

As it turns out, Red did see something– on Sunday, when he was trying to get another drunkard off of the floor for the night, Richard Goodman’s sparkling Ford beauty pulled up to the front of the bar. It was rainy, so Red couldn’t see the driver, but the headlights shot beams of light through the window and into the sullen bar, and the drunkard sobered enough at the sight to crawl off.

“It was that Howard Cain. Bastard,” Red nodded to Dumont.

“Is that it?” Aubert asked. Dumont’s eyes narrowed.

“Did you see him get in the car?”

“No. He was slurring something about some Maggie, and he went the other way,” Red reached for another glass to uselessly polish. “But I can’t say more than that.”

When they pulled up to the property, three hours after the first call and a quarter of that after the second, Dumont’s mouth went dry. She killed the engine but made no move to leave the car, eyes fixed on the lawn. Even from there, they could see the news vans by the front gate— there it was, the second time in her life she felt any sort of empathy for the town’s elites.

She muttered to Aubert, “Keep your head down. You know nothing,” He nodded, doe-eyed.

They strode past journalists, sensationalists crawling over themselves for a lick of a story. “Whatever happens in there, you don’t speak,” She reiterated as they neared the front door. “Leave the talking to me.”

Though this time, Aubert deflated. “Why?”

“Because the first on-site you conducted went nowhere,” Dumont asserted. “Least, it would’ve if I didn’t end up bribing the sucker. You might’ve been the golden boy of the precinct back home, but we do things my way here.”

Aubert’s face hardened at that, though not enough to make him look more intimidating than a mouse. “You don’t know me. I’ve been following you around all day and you— I will not let myself get trampled by some—”

The door suddenly opened to reveal a pale-faced Lucille Goodman, ringlets flat against her face, haggard for once in her life. Something gripped Dumont, and she took off her hat.

“Mrs. Goodman,” She said, the title funny on her tongue. “You called?”

Dumont never likened Dumont to a poet. But the sight of Lucille could make even the driest of wells want to churn prose out of freshwater. She looked like an amalgamation of all of those late-night sitcom starlets, all red lips and porcelain gloss. They had only spoken twice before– the day of the funeral, and the day her son knocked over a hydrant by the schoolyard.

“Damage is damage. Doesn’t matter who the driver is, ma’am,” Dumont had said out on the porch. “You think lemonade’s going to change how I write this up?”

Lucille just laughed lightly. “Officer, I’d never. Just trying to be a good host. It’s how I was raised,” She preened. “I understand you and my husband haven’t always seen eye to eye. Over the budget committee, wasn’t it?”

“Among other things.”

“I won’t pretend to speak for my husband. Lord knows I wouldn’t want anyone to speak for me,” She leaned forward, looking up at Dumont, soft-eyed. “I know how us women can get. But I’ll say. You don’t want to turn a teenage mistake into a report just to make a point. Especially when you’re up for review next month.”

Dumont could’ve laughed, but didn’t. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’d never,” Lucille repeated, and her voice had echoed in Dumont’s head ever since, swirling into her worst attempts at a poem. “I’m reminding you— Reputations cut both ways in a town this small.”

Dumont and Aubert were ushered past the foyer into the drawing room, where one Richard Goodman uselessly sat, looking worse than his wife. Their second interview of the day went a bit better than the first, with Dumont leading the conversation though neither Goodman could mutter more than a few words at a time.

“The bar owner said they saw your car pass by The Odyssey last night,” Aubert spoke up, notepad in hand again. “A… ‘72 Mercury Cougar?”

“Impossible,” Richard’s eyes were dry, staring blankly ahead. “I had it sent away for repairs on Saturday.” Realization reached him then, as he paled.

The second search parties Dumont had insisted on went nowhere. Five hours after the first call and three after the second, Dumont and Aubert ended up stepping foot on the concrete yard of the high school, with the most color nearby coming from the new hydrant. Small groups of teenagers were scattered across the concrete basketball court— at the sight of them, some huddled closer in conversation. Dumont grumbled over to Aubert, “You get this one.”

Most were unremarkable, aside from a kid gushing about the girl’s last party and another attempting to flick Dumont’s badge.

“Sure you didn’t hear anything about something that happened over the weekend? Like an out-of-town party?” Aubert tried with the twelfth interviewee.

“I don’t know her like that, man,” The kid said. “Heard she’s got a killer rack, though.”

Aubert’s lips curled in displeasure. “Have a good one.”

His nerves were getting frayed, Dumont could tell.

“How are you liking it now?” Dumont asked later.

“Just fine,” He huffed.

“Right,” She parroted back. “At least you’re not getting your suit dirty.”

On the thirteenth, things shifted. Immediately, a freckled brat spat at Dumont’s boots. “We don’t know anything, pig,” He snapped at the sight of them.

Dumont sighed. “I’m assuming you’re a Cogswell?” It really wouldn’t be an outrageous assumption to make.

“What’s it to you, pig?” The brat spat again.

“Mac, quit it,” The boy next to him interjected before any more spitting could be done. “You’re driving me up the wall.” And at that, Aubert saw an opening.

The brat’s friend did know the girl. Closely, in fact. “The Goodmans didn’t mention her having a boyfriend,” Aubert said.

“That they knew of,” George Cain, the boyfriend, supplied. His fingers were either frostnipped or kissed yellow with nicotine, either of which told enough. “I have every letter, Detective. I’m not a liar.”

“And you don’t know where she went?” Dumont asked.

“We were supposed to make it out together. She’s going to marry me. We’re in love,” He insisted senselessly. “You have to find her.”

Aubert shot Dumont a pained look. “Well, we’re trying,” He said gently. “Maybe if we took a look at those letters–”

“You can’t do that, pig,” The brat shrieked. “Pigs and perverts. You people make me sick.”

Dumont ignored him again. “Make it out?” She repeated, foreign in her mouth, and George stilled his breathing. On the contour of his cheek, she saw it– a half-healed dime-sized welt, the unflinching signature of a branding iron.

“Maybe she did just leave,” Aubert stared out the station window, blankly, at the afternoon sun. “Stole one of her Dad’s cars, didn’t tell a soul. But why?”

His coat was draped over a chair in Dumont’s office, and could see the inside of his pockets– keys, wallet, notepad. His reports were anything but floral, like they could’ve been written by anyone else. “Teenage girls,” Dumont half-drawled, having something to say but not letting any prose leak out.

Aubert stiffened. “I’ll be sure to write that one down,” He said, and Dumont could palpate his crumbling spirits.

“Snappy,” She reproached, almost involuntary. “You’re becoming just like me. It’s the town, I’m telling you.”

“It’s not the town,” Aubert turned to face her, eyes unnaturally narrowed. “All day, you’ve been dragging this investigation down. With your– your pestilence, like there’s a cloud over your head.”

He held up a righteous finger, from the hand where another equally righteous finger was wrapped by a gold band. “When I was on my way here, I was really looking forward to working with you. Because I know how much effort you put into getting where you are, and I thought, who better to learn from?” His arms fell next to his sides. “And I’m sure you’re a good cop, when you’re not in one of your moods, but you don’t care for these people. What’s the point, then?”

Dumont didn’t say anything, just sat uselessly. Any other day she would’ve snapped right back— she had mastered it, before the academy and before the war. And, for the longest time, she thought that was enough to earn the respect of this world.

“What’s the girl’s name?” Aubert suddenly asked.

“What?”

“What’s the girl’s name?” Aubert repeated. “Someone’s kid who is missing?”

Dumont stilled even more.

Aubert nodded to himself. “Right. This isn’t going anywhere,” He gathered his coat, fingers filing through pockets before Dumont finally looked up.

“Where are you going?”

“To the inn,” He replied hastily.

“The bed-and-breakfast… I thought it was done for,” Dumont’s voice took on a life of its own. “The owner died two months ago.”

“His daughter picked it back up,” said Aubert. He softened as he stood there. “She said she’d been meaning to send you a pie in the mail for getting a pothole paved over. She just didn’t know your address.”

A strange noise left her. “I didn’t know he had a daughter.” She swallowed, battling against the illness that seemed determined to choke her. She held her hands over her lap, as if in prayer, seeking refuge against the revelation coming either as a lover or executioner.

“It troubles me,” Aubert spoke up eventually. “The case, I mean. Something’s not right. And we better crack this soon. My reputation–”

“Charles. You’ll be fine.”

When the third call arrived, wailing like a beast with horns, Dumont knew.

“And I do care,” She clarified, picking it up. “I do.”

They found Dorothy on the beach, sat blue on a cage of twisted steel, pillowed by stone as salt percolated through the forensics team. They noted a scar on the elbow from a tennis injury and another in the neck from a curling iron. Stuffed into her pocket was a badly crumpled letter, in cursive pink.

Aubert left the next day. But the night before, twelve hours after the first call, nine after the second, and four after the last, Dumont promised him a drink. Her consolations were sincere if clumsy, a wounded gentleness she had long since ripped out of her chest, casually beating for the night as she fished through her fridge.

Agnes never likened herself to a poet. Nobody would, not even Charles that night, though it was close. If she put another face over his nobody had to know, because they were laughing, through shimmering pools of champagne. Not on the beat-up couch, but elsewhere, caressed by some funny, foreign fantasy.

Daniela Garcia is a 20-year old student based in New York City. In "Marry Me, Connecticut,” she explores the failures of empathy tangled up in a sullen small-town mystery.