Between Lost and Found

by Shelly Stratton

  “Who’s—”

  The door slammed shut before he could repeat his question.

  “What did you get yourself into, Bill?” Mabel asked a few seconds later after the bedroom fell silent.

  “A whole heap of trouble,” he whispered as he watched Mikey stretch yet again and roll onto his back.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Oh, honey, you poor thing!” Nancy Wannamaker cried as Connie walked into the festival backstage area—a ten-by-twenty-foot section cordoned off by steel poles, black curtains, and a well-worn gray carpet that revealed the asphalt roadway beneath in some spots.

  Connie barely had time to drop the cardboard box she was holding before Nancy reached out and pulled her into a tight embrace. Connie blinked and kept her arms hanging limply at her sides, letting the smell of Nancy’s overpowering perfume fill her nostrils, feeling herself crushed against Nancy’s bountiful chest.

  “You poor, poor girl,” Nancy repeated, patting Connie’s back like a crying babe. “I’m so sorry to hear about Bill!”

  The fashion show would start in less than an hour, and Connie had about three hours’ worth of things that needed to be done. Her truck still contained the last of the boxes and garment bags filled with dresses and shapewear, boots and high heels that needed to be sorted or steamed. A quick glance around her showed that she was still short about a half dozen models whom she would have to track down to find out if they were on their way and would arrive in enough time for the show. She had about five million tasks on her to-do list and wanted to get to them all, but she kept being stopped by random townsfolk, offering their condolences, telling her how Bill was in their prayers. And they would all ask her the same question, “How are you doing? ”—like they really wanted to know the answer.

  I’m on an emotional high wire and could go plummeting to the earth at any moment where I would go splat, she wanted to tell them. I’ve lost Bill. My daughter isn’t speaking to me. I feel hopelessly alone.

  But instead, she’d paste on a kind smile and quietly accept their words of sorrow before murmuring, “I’m getting through.”

  They’d then nod their heads sadly, move along, and leave her to do her work.

  She’d have to do the same thing now, whenever Nancy finally released her from her death grip.

  After a minute or two, Nancy took a step back. She gazed at Connie and frowned. “Oh, honey, you look horrible!”

  “Thanks,” Connie answered flatly.

  Nancy sniffed. “Well, I mean you don’t look very . . . rested. But I wouldn’t expect you to be, considering . . . well . . . everything!”

  It was true that she wasn’t very rested; she had had only two hours of sleep last night, but Nancy’s version of “you look awful” didn’t just include the bags Connie was carrying under her eyes. Connie also had foregone wearing makeup today—something Nancy would never do and frankly, something Connie hadn’t done in quite a long while. It was the first time she hadn’t worn makeup since she was thirteen years old and had stolen her foster mother’s frosted pink lipstick and coated her mouth with so much of it that she looked like she was wearing a vat of Vaseline on her lips. But she didn’t want to wear makeup today. She wanted to be clean.

  That morning, she had stood in the scalding hot water, scrubbing her face so much that the skin started to burn. She had been sobbing as she did it. She had cried to the point that she had vomited on the shower’s tiled floor, choking on her own sobs. When she had emerged from the shower stall, a fine coat of steam was on her bathroom mirror and walls. She stood naked on her powder blue bath mat, feeling the heat from the shower rise off of her skin and the blood drain from her head.

  When she was a little girl, her grandmother had told her stories about the inipi ceremony—what the Lakota would do to purify themselves. White people called it a sweat lodge. Connie had felt almost purified standing naked in her bathroom with her body cooling in the draft coming through a crack in the room’s only window. She had stared at herself in her bathroom mirror for a good twenty minutes, examining her crow’s feet, her frown lines, and every blemish she had accumulated in the last fifty-two years. She ran her hand over her body. Her breasts were losing their buoyancy. The gray strands on her head and in the thick patch of hair over her vagina were growing in number. Her hips had widened and so had her thighs, which had once been so thin that she could see between them.

  Why had she been hiding this for so long under lipstick and mascara, balconette bras and skinny jeans? This was who she was. This was the real Connie Black Bear, the woman whom Bill had loved, for whatever reason.

  This is what I want the world to see when I talk about my Bill, she had thought while gazing into her mirror.

  She had decided that she would dedicate the fashion show to him. Instead of talking about designs and fifty percent discounts, she was going to do a speech about Bill, since she would probably never get the chance to do a proper eulogy in his honor.

  It felt good to do it. It felt right.

  “I’ve got something you can put under those eyes that’ll help,” Nancy said, scurrying to one of the tables in search of her makeup bag and a concealer.

  Connie ignored her and started to walk into the crowd, looking for Janelle. She found her standing in a bathrobe, pulling rollers out of her hair as she nodded and smiled at two women: Mary Elizabeth Barnes and Bernice Faber, collectively known around town as “the church ladies.”

  The church ladies weren’t in the Hot Threads & Things fashion show. In fact, they probably believed they would burst into flame being in proximity to clothes that were so indecent.

  Bernice was the widow of the long-deceased reverend of Christ Church, and Mary Elizabeth was her gal pal. The two women had been virtually connected at the hip since 1997. They dressed in the same ankle-length dresses and baggy sweaters that made them look like they were wearing burlap sacks, finished each other’s sentences, and seemed to consider it their vocations to separate the wheat from the chaff among God’s flock.

  Connie knew from the looks they gave her whenever she ran into them in town what category they thought she fell into.

  She couldn’t hear what Bernice and Mary Elizabeth were saying to Janelle, but she could tell from Janelle’s eyes and the look on her face as she approached that she wanted out of whatever conversation the three were having.

  Save me! Janelle silently pled as she turned to her.

  “Bernice . . . Mary Elizabeth,” Connie said, “how are you doing today? Can I help you with anything?”

  The two women turned in unison to stare at Connie like those creepy little twin girls in the movie The Shining. Their polite smiles disappeared. Pure contempt was on their wrinkled faces.

  “No, Connie, no assistance necessary,” Bernice said primly. “We were—”

  “—just telling Janelle here that we were performing today and planned to dedicate a song in our performance to her grandfather,” Mary Elizabeth finished for her.

  “Oh? Well, that’s nice of you,” Connie said.

  “Janelle,” Bernice said, turning back toward the younger woman, “you are new to our fair town, but know that your grandfather was a man who was well liked . . . dare I say, loved by many in Mammoth Falls—myself included.”

  At that, Connie almost snorted.

  Bill had told her that he had tried to shake Bernice’s hand once at some town event, and she had given him a look like he had lowered his zipper and taken a piss on her shoes.

  “We would like to venerate him as a soldier of the Lord, a servant of God,” Mary Elizabeth explained, “to—”

  “—to honor him, and bring some healing to our little hamlet with the good word,” Bernice finished for her with a big smile.

  Connie took a tiny pleasure in seeing Bernice had a smear of pink lipstick on her teeth.

  “I agree,” Connie said, speaking up again. “I’m dedicating the fashion show to Bill, too. It’s about damn time everybody stops talking about him like he’s some
crazy old coot. I’m gonna set the record straight and let everyone know what a great man Bill is.”

  The duo stared at Connie.

  “The fashion show?” Bernice asked. “You mean—”

  “—a show where women wear low-cut dresses with their bosoms hanging out?” Mary Elizabeth said the word “bosom” in a breathy, scandalized whisper that made Connie frown.

  Bernice scrunched her pug nose. “Where they’re wearing more makeup than dime store floozies?” She blinked her watery blue eyes rapidly. “You really think that honors Bill’s memory with such a . . . a crass presentation?”

  Connie lowered her brows. Her lips tightened. She opened her mouth to respond, but Janelle cut her off.

  “Well, thank you so much for letting me know, ladies! I’ll be sure to keep an ear out for the song.”

  “God bless you, dear,” Bernice said before reaching out to squeeze Janelle’s hand.

  “Bless you,” Mary Elizabeth echoed like a parrot.

  They then turned away, not bothering to say good-bye to Connie.

  “Those self-righteous old bitches,” Connie muttered, shaking her head.

  “Just ignore them,” Janelle urged. “Let’s focus on the fashion show, okay?” She glanced at a nearby rack filled with clothes. “All the dresses look great, by the way! I’m sure it’ll all turn out fantastic! You should be really proud.”

  Connie didn’t respond. Instead, she stomped back toward the black curtain, simmering with anger.

  CHAPTER 22

  Regina Marshall

  April 28 at 1:58 p.m.

  To: Janelle Marshall

  Subject: What do you mean Mark isn’t there???

  Hi Sweetheart!

  How is Mark not there with you? Did he say why he couldn’t come? Did his mama die?

  There’s a hurricane in the Atlantic. Can you believe it??? It’s not even hurricane season yet! They aren’t sure if it’s going to touch down in N.C. or N.Y. so, needless to say, my flight home got canceled. (I KNEW I should have booked that first flight back home when I had the chance!)

  Are those hillbilly cops still trying to identify that body they found? I’ve made many promises to God, telling him I’ll do anything he wants as long as it isn’t Daddy who they dug up!

  Again, wish I could be there with you, honey. I’ll try to book the next flight as soon as I can. My heart is with you (even If I can’t be.)

  Luv you!

  XXXX

  Lydia Roach

  April 28 at 2:04 p.m.

  To: Janelle Marshall

  Subject: How are you?

  Hello Janelle!

  Thank you for sending those documents. They were a bit late, but you do what you can, right?

  I wanted to check in with you again to see how things are going. Please let me know how you are doing! We are all thinking of you and several of your colleagues have asked me for an update. I told them that unfortunately, I haven’t spoken to you in several days but that’s understandable considering the circumstances.

  Also, when you get the chance, if you could give me an estimate for when you plan to return to work. That would be lovely! There’s no rush (please don’t rush!) but I really need to know. We have that important training seminar coming up next week so I may have to bring in assistance if you won’t be here.

  Sincerely,

  Lydia Roach

  Assistant Human Resources Director

  Bryant Consulting Group Inc.

  Mark Sullivan Jr.

  April 28 at 2:23 p.m.

  To: Janelle Marshall

  Subject: ARE WE REALLY DOING THIS?

  I’ve called you and texted you and emailed you for almost THREE DAYS now. WHY AREN’T YOU RESPONDING?

  I said I was sorry I couldn’t fly out there, Jay. Again, I know you’re going through a lot but let’s not be childish about this. If I could get away, I would, but unfortunately I don’t have a job with the same flexibility as yours. I’ve checked my schedule and I should be able to catch a flight tomorrow, though I would have to take the next flight back Thursday night. (Another important meeting Friday.) But frankly, I’m not sure if I should buy a ticket. DO YOU STILL WANT ME TO COME???

  —M

  BTW, I didn’t say it at the time but I resent you insinuating I have something going on with Shana. And we had teriyaki beef and wonton soup that night, if you really want to know!

  * * *

  It was ten minutes to showtime, and Janelle was adrift in a sea of barely contained pandemonium. Between the shouts for lipstick, blush, eyeliner, curlers, hairspray, and double-sided tape (there were several calls for that one), and the pitchy singing from the gospel duo currently on stage, Janelle could barely hear herself think, let alone hear the chime of her cell phone. But she caught the trill, even as the woman in front of her started to whine that her boots were too tight and the woman behind her screamed that she needed a safety pin.

  Her phone chimed yet again, letting her know that she had another email—one of several today that sat unread. But she’d have to ignore it. There was too much going on around her and way too much she had to do to answer her phone right now.

  “Are you Connie’s assistant?” a bottle-blonde with curls made big and wide by styling spritz and a teasing comb asked Janelle.

  Janelle numbly nodded.

  “Can you get this for me? I can’t reach that far back,” the woman said, wrapping her arm around her shoulder and clawing futilely at the dangling zipper of the denim dress she was wearing.

  Janelle stepped forward. She furrowed her brow at the puckers of pale back fat bubbling over the top of the dress. She gritted her teeth and slowly pulled up the zipper, feeling it tense against her fingertips with each inch. When she finished, both she and the woman let out a loud breath of relief.

  “Thanks,” the woman said before adjusting her silver belt buckle around her corseted waist and reaching for her white bolero on a nearby table. She then turned back to Janelle. “Hey, you’re Little Bill’s granddaughter, right?”

  Janelle paused, slightly surprised that the woman already knew who she was, but then she reminded herself, This is Mammoth Falls.

  “Yes, I’m Janelle Marshall,” she said with a smile and extended her hand.

  “Norma,” the woman said, shaking the hand Janelle offered. “And I’m real sorry about your grandpa.”

  “I am, too,” Janelle admitted, though she was ashamed to also admit that she had hoped for a few blissful hours that she could push her missing grandfather to the recesses of her mind and instead focus on the fashion show. But she couldn’t. No one would let her.

  “Everybody’s torn up about it,” Norma continued. She reached out and squeezed Janelle’s shoulder. “You have my condolences, honey,” she whispered, making Janelle frown.

  “Condolences? Why?”

  Norma’s drawn-on eyebrows rose comically. For a second, she looked like an emoticon wearing too much rouge. “Well, for your grandpa, of course!” Norma lowered her hand. “It’s a shame that he died out there, but at least now you’re no longer wondering what happened to him. You can give him a proper burial and, I promise you, we’ll all be there! Mammoth Falls turns out for its own.”

  Proper burial?

  “And if someone is really behind what happened to Bill, I hope they find that son of a bitch,” Norma said, dropping her voice and leaning toward Janelle’s ear. “I hope they throw the bastard in jail and he gets his balls ripped off! I’d do it myself if I could.”

  “Everybody line up! We’ve gotta be on stage in two minutes!” Connie barked from the stage stairs.

  Norma grabbed a white Stetson and gingerly placed it on her head. “That’s our cue! Guess we better get ready.”

  Norma then darted to the rudimentary line near the stairs that was more like a huddle of big-haired women before sc
rimmage.

  Janelle stared after her, dumbfounded. She watched as Norma whispered something to the woman standing beside her—a plump redhead wearing turquoise suede chaps with rhinestone accents. The woman nodded, turned, and glanced at Janelle. Pity was in her big hazel eyes.

  So they all think he’s dead.

  Janelle felt that realization tumble onto her like a boulder.

  The entire town of Mammoth Falls was ready to dig her grandfather a six-foot-deep plot and carve a headstone in his honor.

  Here lies Little Bill—a doddering old man who went soft in the head and froze to death in the woods.

  How could they all give up on him when Janelle—his own granddaughter—refused to allow herself to do the same? What gave them the right?

  “Janelle?” Connie shouted. “Janelle!”

  Janelle snapped out of her malaise and turned to find the older woman striding toward her. Connie didn’t look good. Her clothes were disheveled. She looked tired and haggard. She seemed moody and short-tempered—more so than usual. Janelle was really starting to worry about her.

  “There you are,” Connie said. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

  Connie then began to talk and point over her shoulder, but Janelle wasn’t listening. Her thoughts drowned out whatever Connie was saying.

  Does she think Pops is dead, too? Like everyone else?