Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides [256]
My mother had been awake when Milton slipped out of bed less than an hour earlier. Lying on her back, she heard him dressing in the dark. She hadn’t asked him why he was getting up in the middle of the night. Once upon a time, she would have, but not anymore. Since my disappearance, daily routines had crumbled. Milton and Tessie often found themselves in the kitchen at four in the morning, drinking coffee. Only when Tessie heard the front door close had she become concerned. Next Milton’s car started up and began backing down the drive. My mother listened until the engine faded away. She thought to herself with surprising calmness, “Maybe he’s leaving for good.” To her list of runaway father and runaway daughter she now added a further possibility: runaway husband.
Milton hadn’t told Tessie where he was going for a number of reasons. First, he was afraid she would stop him. She would tell him to call the police, and he didn’t want to call the police. The kidnapper had told him not to involve the law. Besides, Milton had had enough of cops and their blase attitude. The only way to get something done was to do it yourself. On top of all that, this whole thing might be a wild-goose chase. If he told Tessie about it she would only worry. She might call Zoë and then he’d get an earful from his sister. In short, Milton was doing what he always did when it came to important decisions. Like the time he joined the Navy, or the time he moved us all to Grosse Pointe, Milton did whatever he wanted, confident that he knew best.
After the last mysterious phone call, Milton had waited for another. The following Sunday morning it came.
“Hello?”
“Good morning, Milton.”
“Listen, whoever you are. I want some answers.”
“I didn’t call to hear what you want, Milton. What’s important is what I want.”
“I want my daughter. Where is she?”
“She’s here with me.”
The music, or singing, was still perceptible in the background. It reminded Milton of something long ago.
“How do I know you have her?”
“Why don’t you ask me a question? She’s told me a lot about her family. Quite a lot.”
The rage surging through Milton at that moment was nearly unbearable. It was all he could do to keep from smashing the phone against the desk. At the same time, he was thinking, calculating.
“What’s the name of the village her grandparents came from?”
“Just a minute.” The phone was covered. Then the voice said, “Bithynios.”
Milton’s knees went weak. He sat down at the desk.
“Do you believe me yet, Milton?”
“We went to these caverns in Tennessee once. A real rip-off tourist trap. What were they called?”
Again the phone was covered. In a moment the voice replied, “The Mammothonics Caves.”
At that Milton shot up out of his chair again. His face darkened and he tugged at his collar to help himself breathe.
“Now I have a question, Milton.”
“What?”
“How much is it worth to you to get your daughter back?”
“How much do you want?”
“Is this business, now? Are we negotiating a deal?”
“I’m ready to make a deal.”
“How exciting.”
“What do you want?”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“All right.”
“No, Milton,” the voice corrected, “you don’t understand. I want to bargain.”
“What?”
“Haggle, Milton. This is business.”
Milton was perplexed. He shook his head at the oddity of this request. But in the end he fulfilled it.
“Okay. Twenty-five