Between Lost and Found

by Shelly Stratton

  He exhaled heavily, and his shoulders sagged. His green eyes scanned the glittered sign overhead. “Evie, your mom hates my guts. She ain’t gonna let me in there.”

  “You’re just taking a piss, Ty! If she bitches about it, I’ll tell her she’s lucky you did it in the bathroom and not in the middle of the shop floor.” She giggled and waved him forward.

  Reluctantly, he cut the engine and dropped the Harley’s kickstand, letting his motorcycle rest near the sidewalk. The chrome glistened in the midday sunshine. He set their helmets on his seat, lowered his jacket zipper, and walked toward her. They strolled to Hot Threads & Things. She playfully looped an arm around his neck to reassure him, ruffled his greasy hair, and licked the side of his bearded face. He smiled, revealing the tooth he had chipped when he got into a fight with another guy at a bar last year. The fight had landed him not only the dental flaw but also a night in Lawrence County jail.

  Yvette unwound herself from around Tyler and reached out to open the shop’s glass door but paused when she saw who was standing behind the counter. Instead of seeing her mother, she spotted Janelle Marshall digging through the jewelry display case, the key dangling from her wrist by a plastic chain. She was removing necklaces and earrings from the glass shelves and setting them on top of the case, like she worked there, like she owned the place.

  Yvette’s confident stride faltered. Her hand lingered on the doorknob a beat too long. What the hell, she thought, at first confused. Then she felt a rush of adrenaline and an inexplicable pang of anger. She yanked open the door, and the bell overhead swung wildly as it jingled.

  “What are you doing?” she yelled, making Janelle drop the gold-and-cubic-zirconium necklace she was holding and turn to look at her.

  Janelle stared at her mutely.

  “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Yvette asked again, taking another step toward the counter.

  Janelle held up her hands and backed away, like she was being held at gunpoint. “I was . . . I was just—”

  “Where’s Mama?” She looked around the shop. Her mother was nowhere to be found. “Does she know what you’re doing?”

  Yvette heard her mother’s rushed footsteps. The older woman emerged from the stockroom with dark brows lowered, holding a cardboard box filled with sunglasses. “Evie, what are you yelling about?”

  “Why is she standing behind the counter, digging through stuff like she works here?” Yvette asked, jabbing her finger at Janelle.

  Connie rested the box on a nearby display table filled with spring merchandise. “She’s helping me with the fashion show. I told her to pull some jewelry for the models.”

  “What do you mean she’s helping you with the fashion show? I thought I was helping you!”

  “I thought you were, too. But you haven’t shown up here in three days! I couldn’t wait around forever.”

  Yvette crossed her arms over her chest, her anger multiplying tenfold. “So you just gave my job away without telling me?”

  “I didn’t give it away! She agreed to do it yesterday when you weren’t here . . . because you’re never here, Evie, so don’t act mad. I told you that I needed help with the show.”

  Yvette dropped her arms from in front of her chest. Her face fell.

  Connie took a step toward her daughter and sighed. “Look, honey, I wasn’t trying to . . .” Her words faded when Tyler stepped into the doorway, and her facial expression abruptly changed. It settled into a stony scowl.

  “What’s he doing here?” Connie asked in a voice so low and menacing that it caught even Yvette by surprise.

  “He had to use the bathroom.” She glanced over her shoulder at Tyler, who looked on edge, either because he still had to take a piss or because he could feel the thick tension between mother and daughter. “I told him he could—”

  “You get the hell out of my store!” Connie exploded at Tyler, marching toward the doorway, baring her teeth like a guard dog ready to pounce. “And if I catch you anywhere near here again, I will call the—”

  “Don’t talk to him that way!”

  “Babe, it’s fine,” Tyler said, backing away from the entrance. “I’ll just head to Toby’s.” He turned on his muddy boot treads and walked down the sidewalk in the direction of Toby’s Bar & Grill with his head ducked down and his hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

  “No, don’t . . . don’t go, Ty!” she sputtered before whipping around heatedly to face her mother. “What is your problem?” she shouted.

  “Don’t you ever bring that man to my place of business again. Do you hear me, Evie? Not ever.”

  Connie gave the order in a voice so firm, flat, and cold that it no longer sounded like herself. Her face had gone harder than the visage of George Washington carved in granite thirty miles away.

  “Mama, I don’t know what crawled up your ass and died, but I can bring whoever the hell I like around here. It’s a free country! Besides, if Ty can’t come around, then I won’t come around, either.”

  Connie gazed at her a long time then finally nodded. “So be it.”

  So be it?

  Yvette flinched as if her mother had struck her across the face. She stared at Connie like the older woman had morphed into someone else—the counselor at the twenty-eight-day rehab facility who rolled her eyes when Yvette told her she didn’t have a coke problem but a life problem, or the cop who took one look at her green hair, low-cut top, and miniskirt and put her in handcuffs because any girl who looked the way she did was either in trouble or would soon cause trouble. Her mother didn’t bear any resemblance to the woman she had known for the past twenty-six years.

  She glanced at Janelle, who sheepishly shifted her gaze to the jewelry assembled on the display counter, like she wasn’t eavesdropping.

  “So that’s it, huh? You’re through with me now,” Yvette said. She could still feel the sting of her mother’s words. She felt it more vividly than if Connie had really slapped her. “Is she your new daughter? You’re gonna confuse a lot of folks. She doesn’t look a thing like you.”

  She had said it with a laugh in her usual smartass way, but the tone was a mask over her true feelings of hurt and betrayal, a mask Yvette had worn for a very long time.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s doing the fashion show with you. You’re kicking me out . . . you’ve found a good replacement, right? A classy one who wears cashmere sweaters and doesn’t have a criminal record or a boyfriend covered in tattoos. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  Connie tiredly closed her eyes. “Evie, don’t start.”

  “Don’t start? Don’t start?” she shouted before backing toward the door. “You know what, Mama, unlike everybody else in this town, I see right through you. Right through!” She jabbed her finger at her. “I hope she’s all you ever wanted, but I’ll warn you, Janelle, ”—she stopped to give the other woman a cryptic smile—“Mama’s not all she pretends to be.”

  She then turned and left, slamming the door behind her. She walked back to Tyler’s Harley, all the while feeling tears stream down her reddened face. Her mother was one of the few people who could bring her to tears.

  “Fuckin’ bitch,” she muttered, wiping her runny nose and her eyes on the sleeve of her coat, seeing smears of blue metallic eye shadow and mascara on the bright wool fabric. She stopped in front of the Harley, feeling her heart pounding furiously in her chest. She leaned against the motorcycle with her eyes downcast and waited for Tyler to return. The laughter, shouts, and gaiety of the festival music seemed to mock her dark mood.

  It was moments like this that she missed the woman her mother used to be. Not that she particularly liked when her mom would stroll through the front door loud, drunk, and clinging to the arm of some random man, or when she sat sullenly at the kitchen table, bitching that the electric bill or water bill was so high because Yvette never turned off any of the damn lights around the house and took twenty-minute showers. But at least back then, Yve
tte had known what to expect from her.

  Connie Black Bear was a terrain she had traveled many times before. Turn left and you’ll see Connie pulling a pack of frozen peas out of the fridge to put on the shiner one of her boyfriends had given her. Turn right at the fork and you’ll see Connie complaining about the dishwasher never being emptied or that the laundry needed to be folded and “Could you just help me out for once, Evie?”

  But Yvette didn’t know her mother anymore. That was plainly obvious from the way her mother had behaved today. The terra had twisted and shifted like sand dunes slowly making their way across the Sahara Desert, pushed forward and backward by heavy winds and time. Ever since her mother had hooked up with Little Bill and started her boutique at his urging, she had begun changing in ways that Yvette knew many around Mammoth Falls would view as for the better. She wasn’t as quick to anger. She’d have a drink every now and then, but stopped long before she was fall-down drunk. She didn’t have a man stumbling through the front door every night and out the door before the cock crowed. Even Yvette had been fooled for a while. She had thought her mother had turned into the “new and improved Connie”—but that wasn’t true.

  Her mother had just gotten sneakier, and worse, she had become a liar.

  “What happened?” Tyler called out as he walked toward Yvette while chomping into a Snickers bar.

  “Nothin’,” she muttered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself to ward off the chill inside and out. “Let’s just go.”

  He stood in front of her, chewing slowly and examining her with a wary eye. “What’s wrong?”

  “I said it’s nothing!” She slapped the driver’s seat with her open palm. “Just drive.”

  He finished the last of his candy bar and tossed the brown wrapper to the ground. “Okay. Where do you wanna go?” He sucked at the peanuts and nougat stuck in his teeth.

  “I don’t care. Let’s just get out of here.”

  He stared at her worriedly for several more seconds before shrugging, putting on his sunglasses, and throwing his leg over his Harley. He pointed it away from the festival gates, away from the singing, dancing, and shouts. She hopped on the bitch seat and tugged on her helmet. They pulled off a minute later with a rumble and then a guttural roar.

  Yvette lowered her head into the crook of Tyler’s shoulder, inhaling the smell of leather mixed with the scent of gasoline and cigarette smoke that clung to the jacket’s surface. She kept her eyes focused forward, staring at nothing and everything. She cried, but her tears were whisked away by wind whipping across her face.

  As they drove, she closed her eyes and thought back to a similar ride one night nearly a year ago on a muggy day in late July.

  * * *

  Tyler had driven her home that night. They had partied hard and drank even harder and Yvette was happy the cops hadn’t pulled them over. She had intended to spend the night with him but wanted to stop home to grab the leather teddy she had bought the week before and unwittingly left in her bedroom. When Tyler drove up to her front porch, she cackled after hopping off the back of his motorcycle and almost tumbling face-first into a thorn bush. Across the street, the neighbors were loudly blasting Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the U.S.A.” in honor their grandson’s deployment to Qatar. Several cars were parked along the shoulder and driveways, leaving only a narrow pathway for cars to pass.

  “I’m prooooud to be an American, ’cuz at least I know I’m freeeeee!” Yvette belted at the top of her lungs.

  “You are so fuckin’ drunk,” Tyler said with a grin. “You need help getting in?”

  Yvette laughed again and blew him a kiss before stumbling toward the wooden stairs. She gripped the handrail to steady her wobbly feet and pushed the screen door open. It closed behind her with a thwack. She swerved into the kitchen with its tulip wallpaper and pale green tile that Yvette often joked was a shade somewhere between pea soup and puke. She yanked open the fridge door, pushing aside a jar of mayo and a metal tin filled with leftover apple pie in search of the Red Bull she had opened that morning. That’s when she heard it—the moan. Though she couldn’t tell for sure thanks to ol’ Greenwood next door, it sounded a lot like her mother’s voice.

  Oh, hell, Yvette thought as she tipped the Red Bull to her lips and took a sip. She shut the refrigerator door and raised her eyes to the water-stained ceiling. Her mother’s moan was followed by a thump, a muffled male voice, then a rhythmic squeak that sounded like bed springs.

  It looked like Little Bill was spending the night. He had been staying over at their house off and on since he and Connie had started dating, though he would barely make his presence known. (The exception being the toilet seat he left up in the bathroom she shared with her mother.) But it seemed that tonight Little Bill couldn’t be ignored. Yvette would be forced to listen to the sounds of the newly engaged couple’s geriatric lovemaking.

  “Oh, goodie,” she slurred sarcastically before walking through the kitchen to the stairs leading to the second floor. She tiptoed up each riser, careful not to make too much noise, though the old wood squeaked with each step she took despite her best drunken efforts, making her cringe. She finally reached the upstairs landing and started to scurry past her mother’s bedroom door, which was ajar. She was halfway down the dimly lit hall when she made the mistake of glancing over her shoulder into the open doorway. What she saw stopped her in her tracks.

  A wide, hairy back slick with sweat and a pale pimpled ass hovered over her mother, who lay naked on the bed with her legs spread wide. The man grunted as he stood on the edge of the bed with his jeans pooled around his ankles as he humped for dear life. His belt buckle jingled on the floor against his work boots.

  Gradually, the image in front of her and the realization of what she was seeing fell into place in Yvette’s liquor-addled brain, clicking together like tumblers in a lock.

  That’s not Bill, Yvette thought, swaying on her feet. That’s not Bill in there.

  She watched the couple for a minute longer before slowly shaking her head and sadly laughing to herself.

  Old habits die hard, huh, Mama, she thought, feeling a mix of resignation and disgust. She then continued on her way down the hall.

  In her room, she turned on the overhead light and set her now forgotten Red Bull on a dresser that was already littered with smashed cans, magazines, and crumpled fast food bags. She quickly opened one of dresser drawers and yanked out her teddy before heading back into the hall then to the staircase. She didn’t rush down the stairs as she made her way out of her house. She didn’t walk quietly, either. Her footfalls sounded like clomping horse hooves on ceramic tile. She wanted her mother to hear her and know that she was there.

  I know who you are, Mama. I know what you are, you fucking hypocrite.

  But Connie’s moans, the guy’s grunts, and Lee Greenwood’s ode to patriotism continued unheeded.

  Yvette made her way across the kitchen, then lunged for the screen door, letting it slam shut behind her.

  * * *

  The Harley was ripping through town now. The couple blazed down Main Street, dodging trucks and cars, and barely making it through yellow lights before they turned red. All the buildings passed in a hazy blur—Joanna’s Bakery, Mason’s Grocery, Cuppa Cup of Joe, the post office, and City Hall. As they drove, several faces and eyes turned in their direction. An old man hobbling with a cane paused to look up at them. A blond woman holding several grocery bags glanced at them over her shoulder. All bestowed them with looks of disdain or outright disgust.

  Fuck all of you, Yvette thought as she wrapped her arms tighter around Tyler.

  Who were they to judge them? Who knew what secret indiscretions that woman committed behind closed doors? Who knew what lies that old man had told in his decades of living?

  We never really know anyone, do we?

  “Faster, Ty,” she whispered in his ear. She wanted to get away—far away from this place, leaving all her disappointments behind.

  CHAPTER
18

  “So what’s the next step?” Janelle asked as she and Sam sat on the plaid couch in her grandfather’s living room. They were finishing off the rest of a bottle of Merlot in front of the fireplace where a few logs burned, filling the living room with light popping sounds and the smell of burning embers.

  Sam had agreed to have dinner with her again under the guise of giving her more details about the ongoing search for Bill. Over beef tenderloin and Caesar salad, he had talked about terrain, what leads seemed the most promising so far, and search-and-rescue patterns. But the truth was he was really here because he wanted to see her. Knowing that he would spend a few hours talking and laughing with Janelle had been the one thing he could look forward to at the end of an arduous day.

  “What do you mean, what’s the next step?” he asked as he drank from his wineglass.

  “I mean . . . we’re approaching day four of the search. You guys have already covered the terrain twice. The door-to-door canvassing hasn’t turned up anything . . .” She let her words trail off.

  “We keep looking. We keep trying. That’s all we can do.”

  “But you can’t keep looking forever, right? You’re going to stop at some point.”

  She was right. If this dragged on for too long, eventually the men would have to return to their regular duties. Some were doing it already. Eventually, the disappearance of William “Little Bill” Marshall would become a cold case file that would wait for some industrious detective in the future to solve, or it would sit abandoned and forgotten.

  But he wasn’t sure Janelle was ready to hear all this quite yet, so he decided to keep it to himself.

  “Yes, the official search will stop one day,” he said, willing to give her a sliver of the truth. “But I won’t give up until I can give you some answers. I can promise you that.”

  “Thank you, Sam. I appreciate it.”

  He nodded.

  “You know, sometimes . . .” She rubbed her thumb along the rim of the glass, gazing into the dark red pool inside of it like she was reading tea leaves and deciphering the future. “Sometimes I feel so guilty because I’m starting to lose hope. I want to believe that you’ll find Pops, but some days I wake up in the middle of the night and I think, ‘Oh, God, I’m never going to see him again. Am I?’ I mean, I knew he wasn’t going to live forever. Pops is spry, but he’s old. I knew that. But I never thought I’d lose him like this. And there are so many things I wish I had said to him, Sam. So many things . . .”