Lost

by Devon, Gary;

  Mamie awoke startled, her hands reaching for the bluebirds, the words of her dream still warm in her mouth. She had to withdraw suddenly inside herself to keep from crying out. She caught her breath, then let it go all at once. Closing her eyes, she tried to reclaim her dream but it was gone for now.

  To Mamie, only the dream seemed real: her family gathering at the supper table, nobody sick or hurt, no scabs on her, Sherman skinned up like he always was, but not bad—everything the way it should be. That was real. It didn’t seem real to be riding in this lady’s car and not going home. She thought she should be going home now, even though she knew her home was no longer there. Someone had carried her away and she had seen it burning, but knowing that did not slacken her longing for it.

  Every time she slept and opened her eyes, she expected to wake up in her own bed, with the sun shining through the window, kids playing in the yards below, and the Chinaman dragging his chain, barking. She wanted to feel the cool planks under her feet as she went to the bathroom half asleep and washed her face with cold water and soap and a washcloth. Sometimes, when she opened her eyes, she could almost smell the soap she had once used. Instead she awoke with empty hands and the countryside rolling by outside and the monotonous rumbling of the car. All she wanted was to leave her eyes shut and live in the place she had just left, in her dreamland. She slept more than she should—too many hours, the woman said, for a girl her age.

  In the beginning, she kept telling herself there’d been a mistake, an awful mistake, and that sooner or later the woman would realize what she’d done and take her back. Sometimes she stood in the back seat staring at the woman’s head and just purely hated her for what she had done. She wanted to cry out, This is wrong, all wrong! She wanted to tell her what was wrong, but the woman was no one to talk to. She was a stranger. And besides the nurse had told her not to talk, because people would think she was crazy.

  She knew what happened to crazy people. They put them with a crowd of other crazy people and never let anybody out. That’s what it was like to be crazy and she didn’t want to be like that. Mamie believed there had been some kind of crazy mistake, though, until the woman picked up the other little kids, and then she knew it wasn’t a mistake any more. She had done it on purpose, and now they had Patsy and Walter with them all the time. At first she’d thought Walter was like Toddy. But he wasn’t Toddy. It was all wrong somehow. It scared her when she thought about it, and she was afraid most of the time. She didn’t want to be put away in a crowd of crazy people.

  She saw the names of towns fly by her window, and they were like names in a book with the pages turned too fast. For a while, she tried to remember the names in a string, but there were too many of them and she couldn’t. She tried to keep track of the days, but the days all ran together. And she never knew where they were or where they were going. It upset her beyond her ability to comprehend it.

  Again and again, she thought she saw Sherman. A boy walked by a store window, turned to look down at a display of model airplanes, and she thought it was him. Her heart quickened. She trailed toward the glass. Then he glanced up and moved away, and she was left trembling with disappointment.

  The last time she had seen Sherman, he was bending over her at the hospital. He still carried that strange look in his eyes and his mouth was like a cut in his face. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you dressed and get outa this dump.” He was struggling with her, trying to get her to pull on some jeans he’d brought for her, and she wanted to help, wanted to go with him in the night the way she used to, but it must’ve been the medicine that made her so sleepy. Even so, she was surprised and glad to see him at last. “I’ve got the Chinaman,” he told her, “and I’ve got a place for us to hide.” Then they heard hurrying footsteps in the hall. If he hadn’t told her about the Chinaman, she might not have been led astray so often, but the sight of a boy and a dog anywhere made her heart leap. She always thought it was Sherman and the Chinaman come to take her away. Her deepest feelings rushed out to meet them, only to be hit by a numbing backwash when the truth struck her. It wasn’t them.

  The hospital bracelet hadn’t worked.

  She thought if she could leave some kind of trail behind like the movie star captured by Indians who left scraps of her clothes on bushes—if she could only think of something like that while the other kids were asleep! Keeping most of her body on the seat, she leaned down to the floor of the car and opened the Little Lulu funny book to the second page. With a blue crayon she wrote across the top margin: SHE TOOK US, turned the book and wrote down the side: MAMIE. She closed the book. The next time they stopped to buy gas, she dropped the funny book and watched the wind blow it across the street. Another time, she wrote HELP SHERMAN FINE ME on the inside of a chewing-gum wrapper, and signed it, her printing jiggled by the bumping of the snowy road. She folded the wrapper in a small, tight square, and while the woman and the kids were busy buying candy, she slipped it inside the end of an opened cigarette pack lying on the counter. Then she quickly replaced the chrome lighter on top of the cigarette pack and turned away. Again and again in their passage along the road, she scribbled her little notes and dropped or hid them. And she waited for Sherman to come. She waited until she thought she could wait no longer. She would have to try to talk to somebody.

  Then three nights after they had taken Walter and Patsy, very late in the night, the woman said quietly, mostly to herself, “Either my eyes are deceiving me or our lights are going out.” Slumped in the corner of the back seat, Mamie heard her. The other kids had appeared to be asleep, but at the sound of her voice the two rose and stared through the windshield. “They are,” Walter said finally, his voice croupy. “Didja see that flicker?” And Patsy said, “There. It just did it again.” Mamie heard them, listened to their small voices piping back from the front seat, waiting as she had been waiting all day.

  “We’re having a wreck,” Walter said, glancing at her, big-eyed. “You want to see it?”

  “You two certainly have vivid imaginations,” the woman said. “We’re not having a wreck and we’re not going to have one, much as I’d enjoy hearing you describe it. There must be something wrong with the battery, that’s all.”

  They drove in silence, the road slicking away beneath them. If something’s wrong with the car, Mamie thought, maybe I can get away or get somebody to help me. She stood on the floorboard next to Walter.

  Snow splattered the windshield and the wipers carved it away with unremitting regularity. They passed a glowing white sign: BURDETTE, POP. 903. At a slower speed, the car stalled and sputtered and rocked forward. They entered a small downtown area, four blocks of tall ornate stores, all of them closed and dark, the shape of the Buick wriggling along the plate-glass windows like a lurking shadow. The headlight beams thinned to darkness, blazed, and went out. A half mile beyond the edge of town, a lighted sign revolved in the air. HORSESHOE COURT, it said; TOURIST COTTAGES.

  The Buick coasted into the exit end of the horseshoe drive, cracked through frozen puddles, and rolled to a stop. The woman turned everything off in the car, the wipers, the heater, the radio, before she turned the key in the ignition once again and the motor gave a guttering moan. “Well,” Patsy said, “what’re we gonna do now? Camp out?”

  The woman said, “That was close.” She undid her scarf from her neck and tied it around her head. “At least we can get a room.” She told them to stay in the car and leave all the knobs alone, and they watched her disappear toward the blinking vacancy sign. Not yet, Mamie thought.

  After Leona had brought in the few things they would need from the car—one of the suitcases, her shopping bag, and the briefcase—she locked the cottage door. Like most of the other places she had rented, Cottage 12 was outdated and meagerly furnished, but with the storm blowing up outside, it seemed warm, almost cozy. Once they were all safe inside, she went to the window, spread the venetian blinds with both hands, and peered across the bleak peninsula of horseshoe drive. Taking a l
ast look out had become part of her nightly ritual; somehow it answered a deep abiding need to believe that all was well. There was nothing to see—her stalled car, the falling snow. She let the slats go shut momentarily and stepped back. Silent, except for the soft bleating of its exhaust, a car moved round the horseshoe drive, passed her window, and proceeded on its way. This time when she parted the blinds, she let her eyes stray beyond the vacancy sign to the long curve of road leading to the Monongahela River and eventually to Hastings, West Virginia, the road that would take them away.

  Their already slow progress had now come to a standstill. After she’d taken Walter and Patsy, Leona thought it best to remain hidden; she had avoided the main highways as much as possible, choosing instead the country roads that skirted the patrolled thoroughfares. And of course the side roads were often poorly maintained and much more hazardous; seldom did her speedometer climb above forty. Tomorrow, at last, they would cross into West Virginia and the going should be easier, but tonight, before they left Pennsylvania for good, she would try once more to write that miserable woman a letter. And yet no sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she wished it hadn’t. Dear Mrs. Aldridge … Who was she trying to fool? Just trying to come up with exactly the right thing to say in that kind of letter was enough to drive her to distraction. Dear Mrs. Aldridge, this is to say your children are safe.… Dear Mrs. Aldridge … She should forget this unreasonable urge to explain and confess and tell her side of the story, she told herself. She should be changing the children’s clothes, getting them ready for bed.

  Dear Mrs. Aldridge … She went among the children in this shoddy rented room. Please forgive me.… They were looking at her, waiting for their pajamas. She knelt and opened her suitcase, then handed out their nightclothes and said, “Now, Walter, remember, before you wash up, I want to look at your ear.” And sad-eyed, shy Walter shrugged and said, “Okay.”

  Forgive me for the terrible news I have to send you.… “You and Patsy can change first—in the bathroom, please.” I’ve taken your little boy and girl. Leaning sideways into the edge of the double bed, her feet sliding slowly out from under her, Mamie stared at the pajamas clutched in her fist with an expression of curious disgust. “Mamie,” Leona said, “I’ll help you in a minute.” She set out her own nightclothes and snapped the suitcase shut. I’ll be keeping them with me for a while.…

  Mamie hadn’t spoken to her since the night they fled the restaurant.

  Walter stuck his head around the open bathroom door. “Hey,” he said, “you want to look at it?”

  “Yes,” Leona said, “I’m coming.” She looked steadily at Mamie, who stood alone, always alone, and she wondered what it would take to really break through to her. She watched her until the walls—the cheap pictures of herons, the mirror, the mock-candle wall lights—all of it began to reel away from her and she pushed herself up to her feet. I know this will come as a shock to you.… Maybe you will appreciate them more when they are returned to you.…

  In the bathroom, she turned Walter so the side of his head was to the light, and examined his ear. Patsy stood close by, protectively, to watch. The swelling at the hinge of his jaw and the welt above his ear had receded. “Does it hurt?” she asked him softly, and she realized, not for the first time, that he had trouble hearing. She couldn’t get used to it in such a small child. “Walter,” she said a little louder, looking at him. “Does your ear hurt? If it does, I’ll put bandages back on it.” He shrugged and rolled his head. “Nahh,” he said. “Is it okay?”

  She smiled. “Yes, it looks okay.” You see, I have a little girl who desperately needs other children.… “Are you two ready for bed?”

  Patsy nodded enthusiastically and Walter looked doubtful. Leona had seen these children in one form or another all her life. There had been children like these two when she attended grade school. It was a quality in their faces that always struck her, something beaten down and yet indomitable, as if their character had been forged at the first spank of life. Now they were with her, getting ready for bed. At times it seemed unreal.

  “That’s strange,” she said. “You don’t look ready. Patsy, wash your face and brush your teeth. And maybe you could help Walter wash his face, too.” She stepped to the doorway. “Mamie, come here. And—well, look at me. I’m not ready either. Mamie …”

  Mamie came into the bathroom as Leona was handing the two children a towel. Walter insisted on drying his own face, and Leona told them to go ahead; they could get into bed. She changed Mamie’s clothes, checked the bandages on her hip and shoulder, and told her that tomorrow they would leave the bandages off altogether. Shut away from the other children, she lifted Mamie onto the countertop of the sink. When the child still wouldn’t acknowledge her, Leona cupped her chin and turned the small face till it was level with her own. “Aren’t you ever going to talk to me again? I mean really talk to me? I know this is all strange to you, Mamie, but they’ve had their bad times, too, you know. Probably not as bad as yours, but bad times just the same. I want to tell you something, Mamie—we had to bring them with us.” Mamie was beginning to tremble, and her trembling grew more pronounced the longer Leona talked. And yet at that moment Leona needed to explain to someone what she had done. “Yes, that’s right, we did—I’m sure of it. And now we have to take care of them.” There was more she’d meant to say, but Mamie’s thin hand came up and touched Leona’s cheek in no touch at all, like the touch of someone blind. She thought she felt the slight dig of fingernails and it chilled her for a moment. Mamie jumped down, away from her, and ran out of the room.

  You see, Mrs. Aldridge, I didn’t know what to do.…

  That night, as she tucked them in, Leona sat on the side of the bed. “You must be tired of this,” she said. “I’m tired, too. But I know a place where all this trouble will end. A place where it’s safe and they’ll never find us—at least, not this winter. Do you understand?”

  Mamie just stared at her, but the other two shook their heads.

  “All right,” she said. “Try to imagine an island. A beautiful little island in the middle of a river. It’s still a long way from here. We’ll have to take a boat. You can’t reach it by road—no road even goes near the closest riverbank. And on this island there’s a house made of stone, a nice, clean little house with pine trees all around it.” She watched their faces, looking from one to the other.

  “It’s really a wonderful place. I used to go there in the summertime with some friends of mine. It’s like a little fort off all by itself, but we could stoke up the furnace and have all the heat we want. And I could cook for you. I could make all the things you like. And when it rains on the roof you could sleep forever. Does that sound all right to you?”

  Imagining it herself, Leona could see the island now, breaking through layers of fog, could practically smell the surround of pine trees. Then she had to laugh because Walter and Patsy were muttering, and had been for some time, that it was all right with them. “Okay, then,” Leona said. “That’s where we’ll go.”

  Patsy twisted her head on the pillow and looked at her. “At your place—does it have any kitty cats?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I think I do recall some kitty cats. They lived off all by themselves. They’re kind of wild and hard to find. You’d have to be awfully careful. Because they could scratch you, and they can disappear just like that!” She snapped her fingers.

  “That’s the kind I like,” Patsy said.

  She kissed them good night, shut off the light, and went to the bed she’d made for herself in a lounge chair by the window. She was nearly asleep when she heard footsteps and realized that Walter, head bowed, was beside her. But he wouldn’t look up, waited instead for her to lean down for his whisper. “Muz …” he said. It was the name he and Patsy had given her, although they used it very sparingly. He rose on tiptoe, closer to her ear. “I think I want to go home now.”

  She never knew what to say. “Oh, Walter, I do too,” she whispered to him ea
rnestly. “I’m so lonesome for home it’s a disgrace. I miss so many things. That’s why I told you about the place I have all picked out for us. And you’ll like it, too, Walter—really you will.”

  “Okay,” he whispered, leaning up to her again. “But I really want to go home right now.”

  She lifted him to her lap. “You miss your mother, don’t you? Yes, I know you do. Even if she hurts you sometimes, you still miss her.” It was much the same answer she had given him other nights. “I think you’re better off with us for a little while, Walter. Things’ll be better, you’ll see.”

  He studied her for several seconds and tonight he said, “Muz, don’t sleep in a chair. Come stay in our bed.”

  “No,” she told him. “You stay with me.” Then she saw that Patsy had come toward them in the dark and Leona motioned for her to join them.

  In a few minutes, Mamie knew, the woman would bring the children back to the bed. Find me, Sherman, she thought, find me, please find me, before I’m all gone. She could feel an immense loneliness filling her up. Please, somebody, hurry. I don’t want to go to no ireland with river water all around it. She peered into the dark until tears filled her eyes. Then she hid her face in the pillow. Without uttering a sound, her lips shaped the only prayer she had ever really learned: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep …” Again and again, into the smothering dark.

  The next morning, while Leona talked to the garage mechanic about the car, Mamie wrote her last note, in a Field and Stream magazine: SHES TAKEN US TO IRLAN. Seated on a plastic-covered bench in the waiting room, she glanced past the heads of the other two children, who were standing at the glass, and saw the woman giving the man some money. She returned her crayon to her coat pocket and put the magazine among the others.

  Just then the door to the glassed-in room opened and the woman and the garageman came in. “You’re lucky it’s the battery,” the man said. Leona said she’d like to hold on to the trunk key unless he needed it. He shrugged, went into his dark cubbyhole, and brought out a receipt. Still writing it, he asked for her name. “Merchassen,” said the woman whose name was Leona, “Helen Merchassen,” and she spelled it for him. She acted cheerful, but a little nervous and talkative. “This won’t take long, maybe half an hour, if you want to wait,” the garageman said. “No,” Leona told him. “Maybe we’ll do some shopping. We’ll be back by then.”