“Hey, Munchkin. What are you doing home?”
She wore a blue jumper and a white turtleneck. She was barefoot and, although her feet were clean, her shins showed spatters of dark muck. Her hair was pulled back into a messy braid she must have done herself.
“Get back inside. Go on,” he said, his voice tight with worry he hoped didn’t sound like irritation. She was all skinny arms and legs, fragile elbows and knees. He gently pushed her inside and closed the door against the suck of wind. “So, what are you doing home? Are you sick, sweetpea? The school close because of the storm?” He couldn’t believe the school would send the kids home in this weather.
The expression on Ivy’s face puzzled him. She looked very serious, almost angry, and he wondered for a moment if she and Patty had had an argument. But there was something else. There was worry in the way her forehead puckered and in the narrowing of her dark eyes. Tom felt a jolt, as though some great hand shook him. “You okay, sweetie? Everything all right?”
“Daddy . . .” she said in a whisper, as though she were afraid to make any sound at all, afraid of what the merest ripple in the air would do. “Mommy . . .”
“What about Mommy? Is she okay? Ivy, tell me!”
“She’s not here.”
“Not here? Where is she?”
“Her things aren’t here either.”
An avalanche of understanding rolled over him, a frigid tumbling of his senses, so that for several seconds he didn’t know whether he was standing or had fallen, didn’t know where up was, or down. Without thinking, he scooped Ivy up in his arms and she put her hands over her head as he narrowly missed whacking her skull on the doorjamb. “Patty! Patty!” He raced, holding her in his arms as though each room was on fire, from one room to the other, and was aware of very little other than the emptiness of each space. The dog slinked behind the couch. In the kitchen, he stopped. Bobby sat at the kitchen table, a half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich on a plate in front of him. His son stared at the plate, at the greasy, congealing sandwich, not looking at Tom. And then Tom moved on, bellowing now, calling for her, room by room . . .
Everywhere he looked were discarded things—shoes and rubber boots and backpacks, magazines, a Barbie doll, a toy truck, a glass with half an inch of crystallizing red wine staining the sides. Everything looked left behind, forgotten, cast away.
“Daddy, you’re hurting me,” said Ivy, softly, so softly it was the only thing that got through to him.
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry.” He kissed her head and put her down and then he ran upstairs and roared into the bedroom he had shared with his wife, into the room where on the anniversary of their beginning he had made her writhe and moan on the bed, calling out his name. He tore open the closet door. His clothes were pushed to one side. And on her side: empty hangers, skeletons where the flesh of cloth had been. Scraps left behind. A blue lace scarf he’d given her as a birthday present ten years ago. A yellow sandal. A T-shirt. He quickly scanned the room. Drawers half closed. A pair of corduroy pants abandoned. Detritus. Flotsam. He fell to his knees and reached to the back of the closet, groping blindly past his own clumsy enormous shoes and her empty shoeboxes, a plastic package of sanitary napkins, a pile of tattered, swollen paperbacks Patty read in the bath, two ties, fallen and forgotten. Then his fingers found the jewellery box with the little dancer inside, the very one she’d put on the stool in front of her the day he’d first seen her, there to collect coins in return for her song. The one they used as a sort of sentimental savings account. Ten dollars here, thirty there. It grew over the years. They’d been saving for something special, or so he thought. He had used the talisman of the box, place of his first offering to her, as their promise to the future.
He held the box in his hands and dared not open it. Knew by the weight what was not there. By the feather-light, bird-has-flown weight of it, he knew what he would find. Not find. He was tempted, sorely tempted, to crush the box. He could do it, too. Mash the thing with his bare hands to a crumple of cardboard and metal winding gears. He lifted the lid and was startled, and felt a fool, when the little dancer began to twirl to the tinkle-y strains of Chopin. Nothing. A bobby pin. A lone cufflink, brass with an enamel thistle. Furry bits of ancient dust. Less than nothing. He closed the lid, gently, and put the box back into the shadowed recesses of the closet.
He sat on the unmade bed, in the imprint her body had made. He would go downstairs. He would find out what Bobby knew. And then he started, for it came to him that he had noticed something, registered it down in the little lizard part of his brain. Patty’s car in the garage. That tree limb. Pushed up against the garage. Knowledge of what that meant stood briefly outlined in his mind and then panicked, tried to slip back into the shadows of his frantic thoughts. But he’d seen it now. Could not ignore it. He knew Patty had not walked away alone, knew that as surely as if he’d been there to see her leave himself. Someone had come with a car of their own. A tree limb blocked their path. Someone had moved that tree limb from where it had most likely fallen across the road. Moved it out of the way, against the side of the garage, so the car could be driven away. It was too big for her to lift herself. Someone had helped her. He imagined a Paul Bunyan who could toss aside a tree limb as if flicking away a used match. No obstacle too large to stand in his way. Someone who hadn’t even come up to the house, probably, but had the power to draw her to him. Might it have been a woman, a friend who had taken one end while she took the other, both of them struggling with the weight and bulk? He considered. It was no woman.
Tom tried to think back over the past few days, the past few weeks; he re-ran every argument, every harsh word that had flown through the house like glass shards in a windstorm. Found no clue to give him purchase. Found every clue to confirm she was leaving him, but nothing told him with whom. Faces flashed in his mind’s eye. Men he knew well, men he knew hardly at all, friends and acquaintances, men at the garage, at the market, in the stores. The world seemed filled with men capable of any sort of deceit. He recalled the way conversations cut off when he entered certain places: the loading docks of certain stores, his own company’s lunch room. The room spun. He sat on the edge of the bed, his head between his knees, afraid he was about to pass out.
“Daddy?” Ivy and Bobby stood in the doorway. Tom was ashamed then, for he had forgotten he had children. Bobby kept his eyes on the floor, as though he was guilty of something. Was he? Did he know something? Ivy held her brother’s hand and it was evidence of Bobby’s anxiety that he let her.
Tom opened his arms wide. “Come here,” he said. Ivy hesitated, and then ran for him, throwing herself into his arms. Sobbing. He held her on his knee and patted her, feeling her skull, so easily cupped in his hand. Instinct made him want to hold her tightly, but he was afraid of crushing her. Bobby hung in the doorway, his hands in his pockets now.
“Son . . .” The boy looked at a spot somewhere near Tom’s face. “ . . . come here.”
Bobby slouched over to the bed and sat at the end, one leg hooked up under his skinny behind.
After a while Ivy’s crying turned to hiccups. She held onto the Boy Scout whistle she wore around her neck. A lot of good that had done, thought Tom. He produced a tissue from his pocket and she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
“What happened?” Tom said. “Bobby, was Mom gone when you got up this morning?”
Bobby shook his head.
“She was here, then?”
Ivy nodded. That was good. He’d had visions of them waking up to an empty house. “Okay. Okay. Did anything happen this morning? I mean anything at all?” He would have given anything to have someone else to ask.
“There was a storm.” Ivy twisted the tissue in her hand.
“I know. It’s all right, baby. Everything’s fine. Did Mommy say anything to you? Did she leave a note? Did she say where she was going? To the store, maybe?
Or when she’d be back?”
Ivy shook her head. Tom willed himself to breathe in to the count of five, breathe out to the count of five. “Tell me what happened.”
“You and Mommy had a fight last night.”
“You’re always fighting,” said Bobby.
“I know, but that happens sometimes, people fight. It doesn’t mean anything. Tell me about this morning.”
Ivy raised her eyes to her father’s and screwed up the side of her mouth, one eyebrow raised. It was a look Tom knew well, older than her years, disapproving. “She said sometimes she thought I was the mother around here, because I take such good care of you and Bobby.”
“You’re just a kid,” said Bobby.
“All right,” said Tom.
“I knew something was up,” said Bobby.
“What do you mean?”
“She was funny. I don’t know. Antsy.” Bobby shrugged.
“What does that mean?” It was hard not to raise his voice, not to shake his son.
“Like she wanted us gone.”
“Anyway,” said Ivy, dragging the word like it was made up of three distinct syllables. “It was Bobby’s idea.”
“What was?”
“We left for school, but we didn’t go to school.”
“You didn’t.”
“I just figured, all right?” Bobby said.
“What? For God sake, Bobby, what did you figure?”
Bobby rose and faced his father. “I figured out what was going on, all right?”
Ivy pressed up against her father and his grip tightened around her.
“Tell me. Now.”
“We waited around back of the house.”
They stood out in the wind and the mud and the rain; Tom saw them as clearly as if he’d been there himself, stood out in the thunder and the flash in the strangely dark morning, the rain running into their hair, spattering mud against Ivy’s white socks, Bobby’s nose running; him wiping it off on his sleeve. Watching their mother. Knowing she was leaving. Leaning up against the weathered wood, trying to stay out of the wind. Had they done it before? “What were you waiting for?”
Ivy sighed heavily, her breath huffing out as though she were walking down a flight of stairs. “Until the car came and Mommy left.”
“Who was in the car, Bobby?” And he wanted to ask, Why didn’t you stop her?
Ivy squirmed off his knee. “Is she coming back?”
“Of course she is,” said Tom, then he thought better of it. What good would it do, to lie to them now, to show them no one could be trusted, no one at all. “I hope so. Bobby, who was in the car?”
“I don’t know.” Bobby turned, then took a step toward the door.
Tom reached for his arm and was very careful not to hold him too tightly. He concentrated on this effort, for his fingers worked of their own free will and if they gained control he knew Bobby’s arm could snap. “Look, I know somebody moved that broken branch. She couldn’t have done it alone. It was somebody you knew, wasn’t it? Was it a man?” He understood Bobby was frightened and defiant and nearly as full of fury as he was. Tom wanted to stop. “Bobby, this isn’t a game. If you know who the man is, you have to tell me. Now. Listen to me. This is very important. I’m worried about your mother.”
“Right.” He nodded, but looked unconvinced.
“You have to tell me. You know that. Either you tell or Ivy will. You be the one. Don’t make her do it. Who was in the car?” He released Bobby’s arm.
“Some guy. I don’t know.” Bobby hugged himself as though cold.
The centre of Tom’s chest constricted, tightened, easy enough to explain; and then a small pop, as though some muscle, some tendon, something necessary for holding his insides in their proper place, stretched beyond its limit. Whatever it was gave way softly, almost gently, and he felt like he was bleeding inside, his breath turning to blood in a broken vessel, leaking away down into his boots. It occurred to him he might very well die of love.
“Are you okay, Daddy?” Ivy’s voice was far off somewhere.
“Yes, baby.” What would they do, now? What would they do if she came back? What would happen to Ivy and Bobby in a town like this, with a mother who had run off with another man? But what would they do if she never came back? They would be the abandoned ones, the ones rejected, left behind, tainted forever. They would look at Ivy and Bobby for signs of badness, signs of cursed blood showing through. They would be tainted either way, with her return or her rejection. If he didn’t love her so much, oh, how he could hate her.
“Are you mad at us? Don’t be mad,” said Ivy.
Her words brought him to the world and he saw Bobby had gone and his daughter was shaking. When he took her in his arms she almost vanished. He could put her in his pocket if he wanted. Keep her safe there. The problem was he couldn’t feel her, couldn’t get a sense of her in his arms. He’d gone numb, an icy radiating freeze from his heart to the end of his fingers. The rain had started again; it streamed against the windows with such force it was impossible to see past it.
Chapter Sixteen
Dorothy carlisle was unable to concentrate on her reading. It was after four, nearly five, and she couldn’t wait to close the shop, a feeling to which she was unaccustomed. But today nothing held her interest, not Rilke, not Homer, not Alice Munro, not Graham Greene. Ever since Tom Evans called to say his wife had, as they used to call it, “run off,” Dorothy’s mind was unable to settle on much of anything, not even those writers who had been her solace and refuge for decades.
Tom had called her several days after Patty disappeared, by which time it seemed clear even to him his wife would not be back any time soon. He was barely able to speak through his swallowed tears, his voice choked and halting. Practical matters precipitated the call, or so he told her, concerns about what to do with the kids when he had to return to work. Did he want Ivy to come and stay with her for a while, Dorothy had asked, and he went silent as though he had not considered that, and then said no, maybe it was selfish but he needed her with him. He had some time coming, some vacation. He would decide what to do and let her know. If he found a day job with regular hours, maybe she would look out for Ivy in the afternoon? She had said of course, of course. She said how sorry she was, and did he need anything, and surely Patty just wanted a little time alone and would be home soon, and all the other words one spoke in the hollow cave of loss. She had put the phone down softly, as though afraid a harsh gesture would transmit down the telephone line to Tom and crack open the thin, brittle shell of what remained of his reserve.
No one could ever accuse Dorothy Carlisle of being overly sentimental toward children, but there were some things Dorothy knew one simply did not do and deserting your children was very high up on that list. She imagined the Evans household, shut off in its shock and grief. Something like this was almost harder than a death. Death brought round the casseroles and condolences. She remembered when she was a child—a grandparent’s death, her older brother lost in the Korean War—remembered the late-night phone call, the telegram, the unexpected knock on the door. The pots of coffee. The hushed voices. The sacred quiet of mourning. In contrast, she remembered, too, the sniggering whispers about a girl who lived down the road and had run off with a jazz clarinettist, only to return in disgrace less than a year later. There had been little kindness and certainly no sanctity over that pain. It was her own fault, people said. Her father should have locked her in her room, or beaten some sense into her. The family paid the steep price of shame and moved on within a few years, to no one knew where.
No one had much sympathy for the cuckold, which was, of course, what Tom was. And not for the first time. Dorothy clamped her hand over her mouth, as though afraid she might say the words out loud. Dorothy might be capable of keeping her thoughts to herself, but there were those in town fo
r whom diplomacy was a foreign concept, and everyone knew what Gideonites thought of foreigners.
The next day, Ivy had come by after school, her eyes clouded with anxiety no child should ever have to experience, her shoulders set, and her posture at once defiant and vulnerable. She had come, she said, to tell Mrs. Carlisle she was needed at home, and that she was awfully sorry, but she would not be able to help in the store for a little while. Dorothy gathered the girl into her arms, and Ivy stiffened at first, and then collapsed into tears. She would not talk about it, though, and after a few minutes she pushed herself away from Dorothy, dried her eyes on her sleeve and said she had to get back, that her father needed her.
“I’ll drive you,” Dorothy had said.
“No, thank you,” Ivy said with rigid formality. “I would really rather walk.”
With that the little girl had gone and although Dorothy had called the house twice since, there was never any news. Tom answered the phone on the first half-ring, disappointment thick in his voice when he understood it was only Dorothy, and he told her they were coping, and that Ivy said hello, but no more. Dorothy thought she would give it another few days, and then she would go over there. It made her practically break out in hives just thinking about how intrusive this would be, and what an invasion of Tom Evans’s privacy, but her worry outweighed her natural reticence to becoming involved in someone else’s trouble. Far too late for remaining uninvolved. What she had begun that day, letting Ivy find refuge in her store from the bullying girls, she must see through. One does not, she told herself, see a job only half done.
Dorothy consulted the wall clock. Another half hour and she would leave. A grand total of six people, three sets of couples, had been in the shop that afternoon. It had been a virtual stampede by normal standards. Tourists who were, now the weather had finally turned warm again, beginning their annual spring migration through the small towns in the area. They swung through twice a year, once in the spring and once in the fall when they were referred to as “leaf peepers.” Odious, most of them, sure they were being ripped off, trailing dripping ice cream cones and slurping coffee from plastic travel cups that appeared designed for enormous infants, only too happy to say in loud voices that they knew their antiques and would not be fooled by cheap imitation. It was enough to make one shut the doors until the season was over. Today, however, Dorothy hadn’t minded the diversion and was happy enough to sell a lovely satinwood tea caddy for not much more than she’d paid for it, although she did refuse to sell the small bentwood chair, stamped Thonet of Vienna, because it was the chair she thought of as Ivy’s.
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