Goodbye, Miss February

by Sally O'Brien

  I patted Esther’s arm. “I can’t imagine how you must feel. Do you think she, ah . . .?”

  “Ran away?” Esther shook her head. “No. The police think she did but she wouldn’t do that. I’m her mother and I’d know. She tells me everything.” She thanked two women for coming before continuing. “Bart—he’s the sheriff--claims every parent thinks their child wouldn’t run away but Elizabeth loves her family. She doesn’t do drugs either. Oh, I hear people whispering about it, but they’re wrong. Children can’t hide that kind of thing from their mothers.” She twisted a button on her skirt. “Are you a mother?”

  “Yes, I have a daughter.”

  “And you’d know if she had a problem, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course.” Actually, I wouldn’t know if Chris were swinging naked from the Golden Gate Bridge but I didn’t want to mention that. “What do you think happened?”

  Esther sat silent for a minute before answering. “Someone took her, forced her to go with him against her will. Has to be the reason. A stranger, one of those awful perverts . . .” Esther’s voice broke. “I just pray she’s still alive.” Another interruption for farewell hugs, then: “Did you know they found her car abandoned near Dubuque?”

  I shook my head. “I hadn’t heard that. Did she have a cell phone?”

  Esther’s shoulders sagged and guilt lined her face. “Yes, but we took it away from her. She’d been running over her minutes and when we caught her texting while she was driving, Bob said that was enough and locked it in his desk drawer. Just for a week but that was when . . .” Esther looked down at her lap, probably picturing her little girl trapped in a car trunk, unable to text for help thanks to her unreasonable parents.

  The church ladies were cleaning around us. My turn to hug Esther. “I’m staying at Andy’s for a few days. Come by anytime you want to get away.”

  “I clean there every week.”

  “I know but you’re welcome to come as a friend.”

  I hugged Bob too, and Andy and I left feeling as sorry for Bob and Esther as we did for ourselves.

  What an Illinois farmer was finding by the side of the road would make us feel even sorrier.

  Twelve

  The sound of meowing woke me. I’d been dreaming that I was surrounded by white cold in a log cabin on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains and had to hitch my faithful dog Thelma to the sled so I could find Andy. Now Thelma was protesting (sorry, sweetie, I didn’t mean the thing about the dog) but as I surfaced I realized her cry was more pathetic than belligerent. She was trapped in the closet again. No, not Thelma. Andy was meowing in the closet. No, Andy was crying.

  My head cleared as my feet hit the cold floor. The digital clock on the dresser read three twenty-seven. Grabbing my fuzzy red robe and fur-lined slippers, I hurried to Andy’s bedroom. Empty. I looked in the closet and under the bed to be certain. Nope, not there. Maybe the bathroom. I was staring into the linen closet when I heard the wailing again.

  Following the sounds down the steps, I found Andy and Bob sitting side by side on the couch, her arm around his shoulders. The only light came from the antique brass table lamp in the entryway. Bob was crying, pathetic little noises surprising in such a big man. Andy looked up and saw me. “They found Elizabeth,” she said, her voice trembling. “She’s dead.”

  “No!” My stomach went hollow and I grabbed the back of a nearby chair for support. “How awful.” Andy patted Bob’s back while I hovered at the edge of the room, wanting to help, not knowing what to do. Should I take his hand? Leave him alone? Try to hold him on my lap? At last I fell back on the women-in-crisis standby: I made coffee. The aroma itself could get a person through almost anything.

  By the time I returned with the tray, Bob seemed more composed. “What happened?” I asked, setting the cups on the table in front of them. I’d used the snowman mugs so Bob could get his finger through the handle.

  He stared past me and, after a brief hesitation, Andy answered for him. “A farmer found her near Rockford, Illinois—under some brush by the river.”

  I closed my eyes and held the hot coffee against my stomach, thinking of the lovely girl in the poster and of my own Chris. The very idea of . . . I shook my head to clear it. “Oh, Bob, I’m so sorry.” My words sounded inadequate even to me, and Bob made no sign that he’d heard. I smoothed a clump of fur clinging to the front of my robe, a comforting reminder of ordinary nights. Then I realized he was alone. “Where’s Esther?” I asked.

  He looked around as though surprised his wife wasn’t beside him. “Um, home. Her sisters was there. I had to get away.” His voice shook.

  “Here, drink this,” Andy said, holding out his mug. As he stumbled to his feet, the back of his hand batted away the cup. It crashed to the floor, the coffee making an accent puddle on the honey-beige carpet.

  I ran for a towel to clean up the spill before the stain set. While I blotted, Bob mumbled something about leaving and grabbed his coat. Andy walked him to the door, her hand on his arm, assuring him everything would be all right when they both knew it wouldn’t. I heard the front door open and close followed by Andy’s shaky sob.

  “I think I got the worst of it,” I said as she came back into the room. “Do you have any carpet cleaner? I bought some really good stuff at the floor covering store. Takes out almost anything, even red wine. I could send you some.”

  “Jane, it’s only carpet. It doesn’t matter.” Andy sank down onto the couch and, leaving the towel to soak up the rest of the coffee, I huddled in the big armchair across from her. We stared into the fireplace and watched nonexistent flames.

  “That poor girl,” I said, “lying there and . . . Mountain lions are so dangerous. Did you know people in Colorado are afraid to let small children play alone in their yards?”

  Andy frowned at me. “Who said anything about animals? They don’t have mountain lions in Illinois anyway.”

  “Well, they can be a problem in Colorado. Little dogs are called cat chow.”

  “What’s that got to do with Elizabeth? Don’t you ever think before you open your mouth?”

  That hurt. I busied myself with picking up the mugs. “Sorry, I was just trying to help.”

  “Stupid remarks don’t help.”

  My hands shook and the cups rattled on the tray. I started to leave the room but changed my mind and turned back to Andy. “You seem very fond of Bob,” I said.

  She smiled. “Bob’s like a son, the one I could have had if Roger hadn’t died.” Hard to imagine Andy with a son who didn’t use plural verbs. “Don’t you think Bob’s a lot like Roger?”

  I thought Bob and Roger had as much in common as a buffalo and a mountain goat. “Hmm,” I said. “Actually, Bob reminds me more of Dad, solid and steady.”

  Andy brightened. “You’re right, Bob is like Dad.”

  I nodded. “Marvin reminded me of Dad too.”

  “Oh, yes, Marvy.”

  “Don’t call him that. You know he hates it.”

  “Marvy! Marvy! Marvy! What does he care? He’s dead.”

  “Stop it! You can’t speak that way about Marvin. He was a dear, wonderful man.” I could feel the tears on my cheeks.

  “I most certainly can, and he wasn’t wonderful. He wasn’t even nice. Oh, he was a charmer, that’s for sure, won me over when we first met. I thought he was great but he had me fooled. He was a jackass.”

  “Cassandra!”

  Andy gave me a knowing look. “Well, he was, and everyone but you knew it. In the first place, he was a crook. You think he made all that money honestly? He cheated someone for every cent.”

  I set the tray on the coffee table to keep the dancing cups from sliding off. “That’s not true.” My voice shook as much as my hands.

  “Oh, it’s true all right. I bet if you asked the salesmen who worked for him, they’d tell you the same thing. They
had to know.” Andy plunged on as though compelled to cover every grievance. “In the second place, he never let you do what you wanted. Everything was his way, even vacations. You always went camping and fishing in the mountains. He-man Marvin loved roughing it—for a week.”

  I pressed my fingers against my lips. This couldn’t be happening. Andy wasn’t really talking like this. I took a deep breath and said, “I did things for him because I wanted to and none of that is true and anyway I don’t care. He was my husband and I loved him. You don’t know what it’s like to have a husband, let alone lose one.” I stopped with a gasp. Oh dear heaven, I’d done it again. If only I could take back the words.

  We sat there, stunned, the memory of dead men hanging between us. Andy looked as shocked and hurt as if I’d slapped her across the face.

  “I didn’t mean that,” I said.

  Andy pulled herself up from the sofa and walked to the window. She stood with her back to me, hands on her hips. Then she whirled toward me, eyes blazing. “I may not have had a husband but I know what it’s like to lose someone I love.” Her mouth trembled as she fought for control. “I’m sorry I upset you about Marvin but he kept you from being a person and I hated him for it.”

  I searched through my pockets for a handkerchief as I shook my head. “We’re both tired right now and saying things we don‘t mean. Let’s get some sleep. Things always look better in the morning.”

  She handed me a tissue. “You go ahead. I’ll be up in a minute.” I left her gazing out into the cold Iowa night.

  Back in bed, I tried to thaw my feet. I hadn’t been warm since Marvin died. We’d slept wrapped around each other for forty years and I missed him. Did I regret marrying Marvin? The wedding itself, maybe—not exactly the white-dress event I’d pictured. Instead of a church full of family and friends, we had a justice of the peace and a woman introduced only as the witness standing in the center of a plain room. The JP asked how to spell and pronounce our names and then said, “Dearly beloved.” The whole thing lasted less than ten minutes.

  But I didn’t regret Marvin himself. He hadn’t been a big man, only eight inches taller than my five feet, but his air of purpose and self-confidence made him seem larger. I felt safe with him. Although Andy was right about one thing. We did mostly what Marvin wanted—it was easier not to argue with him—but I didn’t really mind. Andy had asked if I wondered what my life would have been like without Marvin. The real question was, what would it have been like with Dusty?

  I hadn’t realized Andy hated Marvin. Naturally, I’d sensed the lack of rapport between them and suspected she was envious of our marriage. She and Roger were planning their wedding when a semi crossed the center line and hit his car, killing him instantly. Andy had planned to go with him but changed her mind at the last minute. She never forgave herself.

  I stretched out my arms and tried to reach the edges of the mattress. The queen-sized bed was too big for one person. Had I hung on to Marvin to keep from falling?

  Thirteen

  I dozed a little but never really went back to sleep. Finally I got up and baked an apple pie and fried two chickens.

  I was packing the food into a box when Andy walked into the kitchen rubbing her eyes. “What’s this?” she asked. “Fixing yourself a little snack?”

  I bit my lower lip. “Food we’re taking to Esther and Bob. You need to get ready. Or are you going dressed like that?” I eyed her faded gray sweatshirt, torn in several spots.

  “What’s wrong with what I have on? Besides, I’m not going. I can’t.” Andy threw the paper on the table and opened the refrigerator door.

  “Sure you can and we‘re leaving now.” Did I say that?

  “You go. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you say. Just being there is what counts, showing you care. And you know you care.” I added a pound of Starbucks French roast coffee to the box.

  Andy kept shaking her head, chilled air wafting around her. “Of course I care. It’s not that. I just . . . you know.” She closed her eyes and forced out the words. “I can’t handle being around death right now, knowing the next one could be me.”

  I patted her arm and reached around her to shut the refrigerator door. “Oh, Andy, these people are your friends and they need you. Come on, you’ll feel better for going. Get your coat.”

  She stared for me for a moment. “I never realized how much you’re like Mother.”

  Once Andy had changed into more grief-appropriate attire—dark gray slacks, black cashmere sweater, no holes—it took us fewer than ten minutes to reach the Stone farm. The house was white and old with a big front porch and plastic-covered windows that crackled in the wind. We parked between two pickups by the machine shed and inched our way along the icy sidewalk to the back door. Fine feathers of snow swirled across the frozen yard.

  A little metal plaque under the doorbell said WELCOME, and two plump, gray-haired women wearing identical clothes in different colors invited us into the wonderfully warm kitchen. They looked like older Esthers and introduced themselves as her sisters, Chastity and Charity. Andy put on her polite face and said, “I’m Andy Stendler and this is my sister, Jane Emerling.”

  “We know,” one of the sisters said before shaking Andy’s outstretched hand. I stood holding the food carton, enjoying its warmth and uncertain about the protocol for mittened handshaking.

  In the time it took to kick off our snowy shoes and drape our coats across a chair, the women explained that they’d helped raise Esther, who was the baby of the family, and seeing her suffer like this was almost more than they could bear. I handed our box to Charity—or Chastity—and Chastity—possibly Charity—led us into the family room.

  The house smelled of fresh coffee and wet wool. The furniture was comfortable, a tan recliner for Bob and a smaller red-cushioned rocker for Esther with a basket of knitting beside it. Balls of yarn within paw’s reach; Thelma would love it. Magazines—Successful Farming, Better Homes and Gardens, Family Circle—sat on the maple coffee table. Photographs of Elizabeth and her brother in frames of all sizes and shapes covered the walls and flat surfaces.

  Esther sat in the rocking chair, hands folded in her lap, no tears, surrounded by about fifteen people dressed in dark, funereal clothes. Her eyes were fixed on a shadowbox with a picture of Elizabeth wearing her blue and gold cheerleading outfit and a smile that made you think of summer.

  As we entered the room conversation stopped and Charity—or Chastity—introduced us. “Everyone, this is Andy Stendler, the artist lady who lives in the Stephenson place, and her sister from out West.”

  We smiled at the room in general and said hello to Esther. “How are you doing?” I asked, bending down for an off-balance hug. Just what did I expect her to say? She stared at me hopelessly, her dark eyes revealing exhaustion.

  Two fortyish women rose to leave, and we took their seats on the couch, Andy on the end, me in the middle. With a shy smile the big man on the other side of me who looked like he was swallowing a squirrel inched over to make room. I nodded my thanks as I stuffed one of the floral decorator pillows behind my back to help my feet reach the floor.

  One of the sisters cleared her throat and said, “Cold enough for you?” We agreed it was, although the temperature was now nearly up to zero and spring was surely close. Could snow, though. Conversation lagged as we used up the weather.

  The other sister spoke: “Bob’s gone to Rockford to identify the, uh, her.” Her voice tapered off, and Andy and I murmured our sympathy. “Then, if it’s her, we’ll have to . . . well.” She looked out the window. “Reverend Carmichael will be dropping by soon. He’ll want to . . . you know.”

  “Did you hear about Jack Murtaugh?” a thin man who looked old but was probably ancient asked. “He had an MRI. Full of cancer.” A chorus of compassionate murmurs followed. “They gave him four months.” More murmurs. “Gonna
be a big funeral,” someone else said. “He’s a Walmart greeter.” Nods of agreement.

  One after another, people piled on their tales of the dead, dying, and diagnosed—horrible diseases, terrifying accidents—in what appeared to be a can-you-top-this contest. At last, with a warning nod in Esther’s direction, a woman wearing a pale blue, clearly expensive blouse interrupted with, “Could we talk about something besides death?”

  Everyone shot furtive glances at Esther; a few looked uncomfortable. Then someone said, “Sissy died peacefully in her sleep.” Andy and I looked at each other and shrugged. Apparently quiet deaths didn’t count.

  The phone rang and Charity, grim and efficient, hurried out of the room to answer it. I’d decided it was Charity in the pink slacks with the green plaid blouse and Chastity in the green slacks with the pink plaid blouse.

  While Charity was on the phone, Chastity hurried off to greet new arrivals. I could smell fresh air as the door opened and feel the cold on my ankles. My toes tried to find a warm spot on the gold shag carpet, and I wondered what Miss Manners would say about taking furry slippers on condolence visits. I imagined that depended on her experience with Iowa farmhouses in February As I looked at the pictures of Elizabeth, I tried to decide whether mentioning her would make things better or worse for Esther. Andy stared out the window, apparently watching for Reverend Carmichael.

  When my seatmate rose to leave with the assurance that he’d enjoyed our talk, the person I pretended I wasn’t waiting for came into the room.