The Road Home

by Patrick E. Craig

  Reuben looked over Jenny’s shoulder. “That’s you, Jenny,” he said.

  Jenny looked again. It was the face from her dreams. The woman’s eyes looked so sad, and her face was set as though she didn’t want anything of herself to show in the picture. Jenny’s heart went out to her. The picture was taken in front of Magdalena’s house, and Rachel was standing by the front steps. Afternoon shadows were creeping toward her up the sidewalk, and Jenny could see the shadow of the head of the person taking the photo. Magdalena was standing on the porch, smiling. The little girl was turned in Rachel’s arms looking directly at the camera. Jenny devoured the photo with her eyes. It was her mother and her!

  Then Magdalena handed Jenny the blue book. Slowly Jenny opened it. The pages had once been blank, apparently to be used as a diary or journal. About half of the pages had been torn out. On the inside cover someone had written something at the top, but Jenny couldn’t read it because it had been crossed out so thoroughly that it was illegible. Under that, written in neat cursive was the name Rachel St. Clair.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The Journal

  JENNY STARED AT THE LITTLE BLUE BOOK. Her heart was racing as she reread the name—Rachel St. Clair. The handwriting was strong and smooth, evenly spaced, in cursive letters that slanted slightly to the right. The stubs of the missing pages were smooth, as though someone had torn them out in one piece. The book was obviously a journal or a diary of some sort because the entries were dated. Jenny read the first one.

  April 23, 1950. Today I arrived in New York with Jenny. I have a little bit of money and got a room in a hotel in Manhattan. The room is tiny and smells of cigarettes, but it will have to do. Jenny has been awfully fussy. I know she misses Robert very much. Tomorrow I will go to see Robert’s parents. Robert told me where they live. It’s in someplace called the Upper East Side, right on the East River. I hope they are as kind as Robert said. Surely they will love their granddaughter and want to help her. Robert, I miss you so much too.

  Robert! Somehow the name seemed so familiar. Why did she remember that name? Robert! But was his name St. Clair or something else? And why did she miss him? Suddenly Jenny was overwhelmed. She closed the book and looked at Reuben.

  “Oh, Papa,” she said as the tears started in her eyes. “I don’t think I’ll find the answers I’ve been looking for, just more questions. I’m anxious and tired, and I just want to go home.”

  Reuben met her gaze and smiled. “This is a difficult time for you, I know. But, Jenny, I’ve never known you to be a quitter. Your mother knows that you need to follow this journey to its end if you ever want to really know peace. I believe that too, and your Uncle Bobby and I and even Jonathan have been put into your life to help you now.”

  “Don’t give up, Jenny,” Jonathan said. “You’ll find the answers, I know you will, and then we…I mean, you can go home. I remember how much it meant for me to find out who I really was and where I came from. You did that for me, and I’ll never forget.”

  Jenny looked at Jonathan. He had changed so much since she had met him. He somehow seemed older and more serious about his life. The hippie ways and the devil-may-care approach to life were fading away, and yet he was still the same person she had fallen in love with. Maybe Mama was right after all. She had given her heart to this man, and she knew it would always belong to him, even if they couldn’t be together. She reached over and took Jonathan’s hand.

  His eyes, I love his eyes!

  “Thank you, Jonathan, for encouraging me,” she said. “I don’t know how everything will turn out, but I want you to know that you’ll always be my friend.”

  “There are a few more things we can do to answer your questions, Jenny,” Bobby interjected. He turned to Magdalena.

  “Didn’t you say that Joe called from Stroudsburg the night he told you Rachel was dead, Mrs. Bender?”

  “Yes,” Magdalena answered. “Like I said, he was always calling me up and acting crazy, so I took most of what he said with a grain of salt. But when he told me Rachel was dead, I somehow knew it was true. And yes, he did say Stroudsburg. I remember that.”

  “Then I propose that we go to Stroudsburg and check the police records,” Bobby said. “We may be able to find something about her death. Joe called home the day before Thanksgiving in nineteen fifty. That means that right after he called, he started on his way west and crashed at Jepson’s Pond sometime that night. Jerusha found Jenny in the car on Friday. So if any women were found dead in Stroudsburg, it would have to be within a very narrow window of time. That should be helpful. If we leave now we can get to Stroudsburg in a few hours. I’ll phone ahead to the local authorities.”

  Everyone got up to go. Magdalena struggled to her feet. She looked at Jenny sadly. Jenny could tell that Magdalena was distressed, and a great feeling of pity came over her. She hesitated but then gave Magdalena a hug.

  “I’m very sorry we had to bring you the news of your son’s death,” she said as she held Magdalena close. She could feel quiet sobs shaking the old woman’s body.

  Jenny spoke again. “I feel like you’re a part of my life. I want to thank you for taking care of me when I was little. I’m wondering if it would be all right for me to write to you and let you know how everything turns out.”

  “Why, that would be wonderful, child,” Magdalena said. She took Jenny’s hand and looked into her eyes. “Your mother loved you very much. You were the only bright sunshine in her life. I don’t know what happened to her before I knew her, but she was always so sad and quiet. The only time I saw her smile was when she was with you. I’m angry with Joe for what he did to her, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Joe made his own choices in life, and they turned him bad. I’m sorry he’s dead, but somehow I always expected someone to come knocking on my door to tell me. I’m glad it was you, just so I could see you again. You’ve grown up into such a lovely young woman. I hope everything turns out all right for you and for your young man.”

  “My young man?” Jenny stammered, pretending not to understand.

  “Why, dear, I may be old, but I’m not blind. Surely you are going to be married to Jonathan someday?”

  Jenny blushed. She bent over to whisper in the old woman’s ear. “I hope so, Mrs. Bender, but I just don’t know how it will work out.”

  “Pshaw,” Magdalena said with a laugh. “The Lord knows even if you don’t. I’ve been around long enough to pick up the hint when He drops one. Now you go find out about your mother, and don’t forget old Magdalena. Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. Then He will direct your path.”

  Jenny hugged her again. “I will, Mrs. Bender. Thank you.”

  As they drove away, Jenny could see the old woman on her front porch, waving with one hand and wiping her eyes with the other.

  “I don’t know, Sheriff,” the woman behind the receptionist desk at the Stroudsburg police station said to Bobby. “That’s a long time ago, and of course we’ve had a lot of turnover in our department since then.”

  It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Bobby and Jonathan were standing in front of the reception desk. Jenny was exhausted, so they had left her and Reuben at a motel downtown, promising to come get them if anything turned up.

  The receptionist, an older woman dressed in the uniform of the Stroudsburg police, paused a moment to think and then brightened.

  “I can call Bill Martin,” she said. “He was our lead detective in nineteen fifty and still comes around to do training. He might be able to help you.”

  The woman got on the phone and dialed. The two men could hear it ringing, and then a tinny voice said, “Martin here.”

  “Hi, Bill,” the woman said. “This is Ethel down at the station. I have Sheriff Bobby Halverson and a friend of his from Wayne County, Ohio, here. They’re trying to find out about any unsolved deaths or unidentified bodies from…”

  She put her hand over the receiver and looked at Bobby. “When was it
again, Sheriff?” she asked.

  “Thanksgiving week, nineteen fifty,” Bobby said.

  “Right!” Ethel said.

  She spoke back into the phone. “Thanksgiving week, nineteen fifty, Bill. What? Oh, okay, I’ll have them wait.”

  Ethel put down the phone and motioned to some chairs against the wall.

  “Bill will be here in about twenty minutes, if you care to wait.”

  Bobby and Jonathan sat down in the chairs. They were both tired but willing to wait. In about twenty-five minutes a short, burly man walked through the door. He was balding and wore a jacket that was a little too big for him. The man walked over and stuck out his hand.

  “Bill Martin,” he said brusquely.

  Bobby got up and took the offered hand. “Sheriff Bobby Halverson. This is my friend, Jonathan Hershberger.”

  “How can I help you, Sheriff?” Martin asked.

  “We’re trying to trace a woman, Rachel St. Clair, who may have died here in Stroudsburg around Thanksgiving Day, nineteen fifty. We can’t be sure if she was here at all, but we were hoping that if she did die here, there might be some record or perhaps an investigation that you would have notes on.”

  “Nineteen fifty, eh?” Martin said. “That’s a while ago, but I can look through the records. Come with me.”

  Martin waited for Ethel to buzz him into the back part of the station house and waved Bobby and Jonathan ahead of him. They walked down a hallway floored with gray-and-white checked linoleum. The sound of their shoes echoed off the walls as they passed several offices. When they arrived at a door at the end of the hallway, Martin pulled out a key and led them into a small, windowless office with a desk and two chairs. He waved them to the chairs and sat behind his desk. A picture of Martin in uniform with a group of men holding rifles hung on the wall behind the desk. Under the picture was a caption—“Pennsylvania State Police Rifle Team.” The other walls in the room were bare.

  “Sharpshooter?” Bobby asked, glancing at the picture.

  “What? Oh, yes. I was captain of the State Police Team in nineteen fifty-eight. That picture was taken at the Pennsylvania State High Powered Rifle Championship.”

  “I was a Marine Corps sharpshooter-sniper in World War II,” Bobby said. “First Marine Division, Guadalcanal.”

  Jonathan spoke up. “So that’s why you didn’t take my head off when you fired through the car window at Sal.”

  “Yes, but I nicked your ear, and I remember thinking that I probably should get back out to the range for more practice,” Bobby laughed.

  Bill Martin stared at them with a puzzled look.

  “It’s okay, detective,” Bobby said. “It’s a long story.”

  Martin shrugged. “Now, what was the woman’s name again?”

  “Rachel St. Clair,” Bobby replied. “She was with a man named Joseph Bender. They were fleeing a bank robbery in New York. Bender died in a car crash on or before Thanksgiving Day, nineteen fifty, in Apple Creek, Ohio. We know the car he was driving was in New York on Monday of that week, and we know the woman was with him, as well as a small child. A friend of mine found the little girl in the car the day after Thanksgiving, but she was alone. It was in the middle of the big storm that year. During the storm, the car sank into the pond. When the police recovered the car from the pond in the spring, they also found Bender’s body, but there was no one else in the car or the pond.

  “Bender had made a call to his mother before he died, claiming Rachel St. Clair had died in Stroudsburg, probably from a drug overdose, which would explain why he was alone with the little girl. We’re hoping you might have a record of that death.”

  Martin thought for a moment. “It seems there was a Jane Doe about that time. It wasn’t my case; Jerry Hanks handled it, but he passed away last year. I can go check the cold case records.”

  “That would be great,” Bobby said.

  Martin got up and left the office.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned that you almost shot my ear off,” Jonathan said.

  Bobby laughed. “Yeah, it did seem to get his attention, didn’t it?”

  In a few moments Martin came back. “I looked in our cold case files, but for some reason they only go back to nineteen fifty-six. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you.”

  Bobby and Jonathan looked at each other with disappointment.

  “Are you sure?” Jonathan asked.

  “Yes, I looked everywhere in our file room, but there was nothing before January first, nineteen fifty-six.”

  The three men walked back down the hallway. Bobby and Jonathan shook hands with Martin and started to leave.

  “Did you find what you wanted?” Ethel asked.

  “No,” Bobby said, “we didn’t.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Ethel said.

  “For some reason our cold case files only go back to January of fifty-six,” Martin said.

  “No, they don’t,” Ethel said. “They go back a lot further than that.”

  “Hmm…I couldn’t find them,” Martin replied.

  “They’re up in the attic,” Ethel said. “Remember? We had that horrible flood in fifty-five. Almost the whole town was underwater. We moved all the records to the attic to keep them dry. And then we left them up there because we didn’t use them that much.”

  “You’re right,” Martin said. “I completely forgot that we did that. Wait here.”

  Martin went in the back and came back in a minute with a tall ladder. He went out in the reception area and set it up. Bobby looked up and saw a trapdoor in the ceiling he hadn’t noticed before. Martin climbed up and pushed the trapdoor open. He reached up into the darkness. There was a click, and a light came on. Martin climbed the rest of the way up the ladder and scrambled up into the attic. In a few minutes he came to the edge of the trapdoor with a box in his arms.

  “I think I’ve got it,” he said.

  Bobby climbed up and took the box from him and handed it to Jonathan, who set it down on a chair. Martin went back into the attic and returned with a small suitcase and another bag. He handed them down and then climbed back down out of the attic, and the three men gathered around the chair. The box was labeled with black indelible marker on the end. “Jane Doe—overdose—Mill Wheel Motel, November 21, 1950.” Martin took out a file and opened it. On top was a photo labeled “Coroner’s Report.” The photo showed the body of a young woman with dark hair lying faceup on an examination table. The woman was the same one that was in Magdalena’s photo—Rachel St. Clair.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Robert

  EVERYTHING WAS LYING ON THE BED in the motel room—the suitcase, the bag, and the journal. Jenny held a copy of the picture Uncle Bobby had brought from the police station. She had been staring at it for a long time. She looked at the other picture they had gotten from Magdalena. This was how she wanted to remember her mother—alive and holding her close.

  “Once we confirmed that the woman in the coroner’s report photo and the woman from our snapshot were the same woman, Bill Martin turned all this stuff over to us,” Bobby said, nodding toward the suitcase and bag on the bed. “They were glad to clear out some space and close out one of their cold cases.”

  Jenny looked at Reuben. “It’s so sad that someone’s life comes down to a suitcase and a bag on a motel room bed.” She sighed deeply. From the moment she had seen the coroner’s picture of her mother and known for sure that Rachel was dead, she felt a strange heaviness come over her, and her shoulders started aching. A slight headache throbbed behind her eyes. She felt detached and isolated from everyone in the room, as though they were all strangers.

  She lifted the bag and set it on the dresser by the bed. It was made of canvas with two handles and a zipper. Slowly she pulled the zipper and looked inside. A familiar face stared up at her. She couldn’t connect for a moment, but then it came to her in a rush.

  “Bear!” she exclaimed. “Bear!”

  Jenny reached into the bag and pulled
out an old brown teddy bear. One of the button eyes was missing, and there was a tear on one of the seams, but it was Bear. Her bear. He had comforted her when she had been afraid, staying close to her in the darkest nights. She turned to the three men who were watching her.

  “This is Bear,” she said slowly. “Except for my mother, he was my closest friend. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.”

  Jenny held the old bear close. Despite the slight musty smell, there was another fragrance she remembered, one that had comforted her at night so long ago. Memories began to flow in her mind. She was in a rocking chair with her mother and Bear, and there was a red-haired man with them, and everything felt right and good. The man’s face was kind, and he was looking at her with love in his eyes. Who was he? Was he Robert? Jenny felt as if she had opened the lid of an old chest in an attic and found…what?

  She dug farther into the bag to find a child’s underwear, a small flowered T-shirt, and two small dresses. At the bottom was a plastic zipper bag. Slowly she examined the contents—a small comb, a brush, a bar of soap, a washcloth, and a toothbrush. She felt a deep sadness and a yearning she couldn’t express.

  For some reason, thoughts of her mother brought Jerusha to her mind. Suddenly Jenny wanted to just go home and crawl up in her mama’s lap and sit for hours wrapped in Jerusha’s arms. Those arms had always been her refuge and her strong tower of safety. Now she felt confused and defenseless. Tears began to run down her face.

  “I didn’t think it would be this hard, Papa,” Jenny said.

  Reuben came behind her and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m here, dochter,” he said. “It’s all right. We’ve been led to this place by du lieber Gott, and now, with His help, we will be able to put to rest the questions you’ve carried for so long. He is doing this for the good of us all.”