“Oh no,” she said, and a spark of life showed in those dull eyes.
“Mind you, we wouldn’t expect him to do that for nothing; we would pay him for selling it.”
“No, don’t do that,” she said rather forcefully for a woman who never had anything to say.
“Well, I won’t burden him with it, but it’s a shame to let it keep on taking up room in the parlor.”
“Before you do anything, let Al—Mr. Ringstaff look at it.”
“Okay,” I said.
On the way home, everybody was happily showing their purchases to each other and talking up a storm. Angela sounded off on “Old Time Religion,” and they all joined in. Then it was “Sanctuary” and half a dozen more choruses.
Raining like it was, I took it slow and easy on the Old Turnpike and kept thinking about Ringstaff. The only thing I got out of that conversation with Lenora was the fact that he worked for a piano company, but I was more curious about the connection between him and her. Did he meet her in a nightclub where she worked? He didn’t look like a man who hung around nightclubs—he had more class, but you never could tell. . . . He didn’t strike me as a married man. Probably divorced or a widower, I thought. I did wonder if those two could be more than friends. Before she caught herself, Lenora had almost called him Albert. No, I decided, he was older than her, and she was an alcoholic who popped pills. A man like him wouldn’t be interested in a woman like Lenora. . . . Even so, I remembered how excited he got that day on the rock when he first saw her.
Solving this mystery was not going to be easy.
Back at the house we ran around closing the windows to keep out the rain. That done, I helped Ursula go through the packages of stuff the girls bought in town. Linda was bragging about shoplifting. “In high school my friends would tell me what they wanted from such and such a store and I’d go get it for them. I was good at it, I tell you—so good I was banned from the mall. After that I just went to the next town to do my shopping. Before you know it, there wasn’t a town within twenty miles that didn’t ban me from their stores.”
Wilma picked up on that. “If you were so good at shoplifting, how come you got run outta all those stores? You musta got caught lots of times.”
“Linda, did you steal this bra?” I asked as I poked it back in the bag.
“I’ll never tell,” she said and laughed.
Portia turned her back to Linda and whispered in my ear, “It’s paid for, Miss E. I paid for it.” Of course I knew it was paid for because the sales slip was in the bag. I didn’t let on that Portia had said anything to me because I knew Linda would get even with her one way or another. It bothered me no end the way Linda bullied that girl. Sooner or later I’d have to do something about that.
Ursula took a small package from Evelyn’s bag and put it in her desk drawer. Evelyn was a sweet girl, and I was surprised that she would bring in outlawed stuff. Ursula didn’t say anything to her and allowed her to go on upstairs with the rest of the girls.
When they were gone, she showed me what Evelyn had brought in—a package of laxatives. “Evelyn suffers from anorexia nervosa, an eating disorder,” Ursula told me. “She is starving herself by consuming little or no food. If she eats anything she purges with laxatives or uses self-induced vomiting.”
I had read about that in one of them supermarket scandal sheets. Pictures of those skinny women was something awful. They looked like warmed-over death.
“I’ve evaluated her case,” Ursula was saying, “and there’s very little we can do for her. She probably needs psychotropic medications.”
“Has she been to the doctor?”
“She’s been to a number of doctors—been hospitalized several times critically ill. And she’s been in and out of mental health programs.”
“She’s such a sweet girl.”
“Lady, Esmeralda, lady, not girl.” She leaned back in her chair and started talking like a textbook. “Perfectionism is a part of the problem. Failing to be perfect is unbearable to an anorexic patient. In counseling her I have reinforced Evelyn’s positive qualities to reduce her fear of failure and to build a positive sense of self. I’ve also given her an assignment to keep a journal of her food intake, her thoughts, and feelings associated with her eating behavior.”
“What causes her to be like this?”
“Our society. Society values thin bodies for females, and some young women become obsessed with having a thin body. Evelyn wants to become an actress, so she emulates fashion models. No matter how thin she becomes, she perceives herself to be fat.”
“That’s hard to believe,” I said. “Mirrors don’t lie.”
“Another factor in this equation is a history of being controlled by an authority figure. Evelyn was brought up by foster parents who never let her out of their sight. The one thing she could control was her intake of food, and it has become her obsession.”
I was amazed at how much Ursula knew. She was really smart, and I tried to understand everything she was telling me.
Ursula put the laxatives in the medicine cabinet and locked it. “At Evelyn’s age, there is very little we can do for her. If we could have reached her when she was in her early teens, we could have helped her. Probably now all her organs are affected by the lack of nutrition. The prognosis is not good. Patients eventually die.”
“Oh, Ursula, there must be something we can do.”
“About all you can do, Esmeralda, is use Evelyn’s spiritual belief system to reinforce the concepts I have endeavored to convey. We will pray for her and give her the plan of salvation, but apart from that, Evelyn is a hopeless case.”
“Ursula, nobody is hopeless!”
I left the office about as disturbed as a body can get. Boy, I was going to pray for that girl! I might not have understood all that gobbledygook Ursula gave me, but I was sure of one thing—Evelyn was not a helpless victim. It all boiled down to her choosing to do what she was doing. Once the Holy Spirit starts dealing with her, maybe she’ll take the responsibility for what she’s doing to herself.
I was looking for Dora, and when I couldn’t find her I poked my head in the office and asked Ursula if she knew where she was.
“Oh yes,” she said. “Dora got upset during the counseling session and ran out of the house about an hour ago. I don’t know where she is.”
“What upset her?”
“It was nothing. I asked her to write a letter to her son who died to tell him she was sorry and ask his forgiveness.”
“Oh,” I said. She thinks that’s nothing? That’s enough to push Dora over the edge! I hurried upstairs, hoping I’d find her on the third floor.
The rain sounded thunderous on the roof and battered against the sides of the house. I called, “Dora!” but got no answer. She was not in her room, not in the bathroom—nobody had seen her on the third floor. I ran downstairs and looked for her in the kitchen, on the porch, in the parlor. Then I hurried down to the first floor, checked the laundry room, the crafts room, even the guest bedroom, but she wasn’t anywhere down there.
I threw on a jacket, pulled the hood over my head, and raced outside. Leaning into the strong wind, I crossed the parking lot to the garage.
Dora was not in the garage nor in back of it. I looked up the driveway. With the stormy winds blowing and the thunder crashing, there was no use yelling out her name. I was getting drenched. I looked over toward the garden up to the road but didn’t see her anywhere.
Where in the world is she? Maybe she’s on her way back to Tennessee. But no, we would have met her on the Turnpike when we were driving home.
The falls! It hit me like a ton of bricks. That’s where she is! She’s gone up there to kill herself! I could just see her throwing herself down those boulders!
13
There was nothing I could do but go after Dora and pray I found her before it was too late. I headed straight for the footpath. By the time I reached it, I was wet to the skin, and the footpath had become a gully gushing torrents. I splashed alo
ng in it and alongside it, crawling over fallen limbs and logs, slipping on the rocks, stumbling in the mud. I lost my shoe to the mud, retrieved it, washed it off as best I could, and hurried on.
With so much noise from the driving rain, it was some time before I could hear the roaring of the river. When I reached it, the river was swollen out of its banks and plunging downstream, forcing its way over everything in its path. With water streaming down my face, I tried to scan the rocks for a glimpse of Dora, but trees blocked the view. Despite the roar of the wind and water, I cupped my hands and screamed “Dora!” but was drowned out.
Maybe I can see better from that rock that juts out in the stream—the one I sat on.
I scrambled to find the trail that led to the rock. No such luck; the river was overflowing the trail. I quickly studied the situation and saw how I could wade to the rock by holding on to branches and limbs. I sloshed through mud and water up to my knees, but I made it. I made it, yes, but that slab of rock was under water so swift it would be suicide to venture onto it. Lord, help me! I prayed.
I was getting very scared thinking Dora might have already reached the top and flung herself down. Lord, don’t tell me she has—don’t tell me she’s dashed to death on those boulders! Frantically I searched the river below to see if her body was being carried downstream. She could be lodged somewhere out of sight. I searched that wide place in the stream, my heart in my mouth for fear I’d see her body bobbing around in the swirling water.
I tried to tell myself I was overreacting, but I knew I wasn’t. Dora was so chock full of guilt and pain it was a miracle she hadn’t killed herself before now.
Scared as I was, I had to find her. That’s all there was to it—I had to find her! There was only one thing to do—climb up to the falls. Since the trail alongside the river was flooded, I would have to find a way up to higher ground. Not far beyond where I was standing, there was a ledge that would take me to the high ground if I could make it. It was slippery as all get out, and with my shoes full of water—well, anyway, I had to try. Hikers had gone up that way, so there were footholds as well as brambles to hold on to. Lord, you know I got to do this . . . help me now, I prayed.
I slipped and slid climbing up that ledge, but I did make it to the top. Everything up there was soaking wet, but I was out of the reach of the river. I probably had scrapes and bruises that would show up later, but I was just thankful I had made it this far without killing myself.
Rhododendron was all over, but with the rain filtering down through the trees, the way was easier to handle than when it was pelting down full force. I tackled the first of them thickets head on. There was some kind of animal track tunneled through the laurel or rhododendron, whatever it was, and I got down on my hands and knees to crawl through to the other side. There was hardly enough room for me with all my weight problem, and the ground was marshy, all muck and mire. It made me nervous crawling through what might be home to all kinds of creepy things. I came out on the other side muddy from head to foot, but I felt pretty proud of myself. That wasn’t too bad.
After that, the going was straight uphill with me thrashing through underbrush, old jack vines, and briars, fighting my way toward the top. When my heart started pounding and my head buzzing, I just kept on climbing, slipping and sliding but getting higher and higher. Even though I was panting like a bloodhound on a hot day, I was beginning to think coming this way was easier than going by the riverside trail where there were all kinds of obstacles I could never climb over or go around.
Then, lo and behold, I come smack dab up against a roadblock as bad as the worst of them—boulders, one after another piled high with no way to get past them. One was split in half, but the crack was too narrow to crawl through. Grappling to find a way, I groaned, Oh, Lord, this can’t be!
All of a sudden, I was flat on my face! I guess my feet got tangled up in all those ferns and stuff. That fall just about knocked the breath out of me. And the mud! I just rolled over in it, sat up with my back against the rock, and was about to bust out bawling. Stop it! I told myself. This ain’t no time to get historical!
But I come pretty close to it, I tell you. Somewhere I had lost my hood, I was soaked to the skin, and water was pouring down my neck like it could add something more to my misery. Smarting from it all, I had to jerk a knot in myself. You can’t just sit here, Esmeralda. You got to find a way.
It sounded like the rain was slackening. At least the thunder was just rumbling overhead, not crashing down like before. I was dragging myself to my feet when I thought I heard something. I listened hard, hoping to hear it again. Sounded like some animal caught in a trap. I pulled myself up, made sure of my footing, and commenced to go around that boulder one more time.
Feeling my way, I came to that crack that halved one of those boulders. That’s when I heard the cry again. It had a peculiar sound—not so much like a trapped critter. Can that be Dora? I wasn’t sure, but I cupped my hands and hollered as loud as I could. “Dora!”
The only answer I got was the wind and rain thrashing through the trees.
Well, I didn’t waste a minute. I was going to make it through that crack if it was the last thing I ever did! With all that lard I’d put on, it would be hard, but I had come too far not to try. I squeezed in between the two halves of that rock and pushed myself sideways a foot or two. The crack got narrower. I panicked. What if I get stuck in here!
About that time I heard that cry again. Really, not a cry, not a scream—it was more like a wailing. Like nothing I ever heard before. But it had to be a human—it had to be Dora! I sucked in my breath and forced myself through that crack another foot, then another. My heart racing, I kept hearing her—the wailing coming from high up on the falls.
It was dark in there between the rocks and, feeling my way, my hands felt nothing that wasn’t slimy. That did not help my nerves one bit. Inching along, I wasn’t hearing Dora anymore. The longer that went on, the more I wondered, Maybe it ain’t Dora, after all.
It seemed like forever before I glimpsed light at the end of the crack. Pushing and pushing, I kept squeezing myself through until I fairly popped out on the other side.
Trembling all over, I rubbed my bruised elbow and looked around. Up ahead I saw a break in the trees, which meant I was almost at the top. If I could make it up there, I could break out of the woods and be at the falls. If Dora was up there, I would find her. It would help if only I could hear her wailing some more.
It didn’t take me long to cover that last lap. I stumbled out of the woods out of breath and shaking like a leaf. Looking all around to find her among the boulders, I didn’t see a thing. I listened, but all I could hear was the roaring falls. As I kept looking, I had the color of that old hunting coat in my mind’s eye. Lord, please gimme a glimpse of that old coat!
Then I heard something. Not the wailing but shrieking. Downright shrieking! Even above the roar of the falls, that shrieking was loud and clear. It came from somebody, and it came from the other side of the river. I cupped my hands and screamed, “Dora! Dora! Where are you, Dora?” The shrieking kept up, uninterrupted.
I didn’t spot the coat, but I did see a ledge overhanging the bank on the other side; something just told me she was under that ledge. I would have to get over there to make sure, and getting over there would be dangerous. Even more dangerous than the slippery rocks were the wide channels worn down in the stone where floodwater rushed swift and deep. Yes, it was dangerous. And yes, I was scared, but I had to believe the Lord would not have brought me that far if he hadn’t intended for me to go all the way.
The shrieking had stopped. I yelled one more time and listened, but all I could hear was the deafening roar. I knew she was there, and I was determined to get to her, so I decided the safest way to get over there was to sit down and slide across the rocks on my bottom. No, I was in no shape to take such risks. If I slipped I would go bouncing down the falls to my death, or at best wind up with broken bones or a busted head.
I eased out onto the nearest rock.
Even with the rain peppering down, sliding over one rock after another was not as hard as I imagined it would be. The hard part was when I came to a channel too wide for me to step over and no way around it. The only thing to do was stand up, take a deep breath, and jump. I stood up, prayed, prayed again, then jumped! Landing on the other side, I fell to my knees, which shook me up pretty bad. I didn’t try to get up right away. In a few minutes, I looked up, and there! I saw Dora huddled under that shelf. With her arms wrapped around her knees, she was rocking back and forth. I scrambled to get closer, and when I was close enough, I heard her moaning.
As I made my way down to the shelf, Dora seemed unmindful of me and everything else outside herself. I could have used a hand getting down to where she was, but without any help, I managed to crawl part way, then roll under there alongside of her. Breathing hard, my nose running, and me still shaking, I couldn’t talk.
If Dora noticed me, she didn’t show it. She looked terrible—downright wild—and sounded worse. That moaning was coming from somewhere deep, deep inside her, from someplace nobody could reach. I had seen plenty of people get historical, even go berserk, but I had never seen a mortal soul in the state she was in. Who could understand the hell that must have been going on inside her.
I didn’t know what to do. To tell the truth, I was in no shape to do anything but lay there trying to get hold of myself. Water was dripping down on us from the shelf overhead, and that old wet hunting coat gave off the smell of a long-haired dog, but after all I had went through, the space under that rock felt like my own personal “Rock of Ages, cleft for me.” I was safe and I wouldn’t worry about getting back across those rocks and making it home.
The thunder was rumbling off in the distance, rolling away across the hills. Maybe the rain had spent itself or was moving on, too.
After a while I was breathing more easy; I could live with the buzzing in my head. Looking up through the opening I had climbed in at, I saw that the rain was letting up. Dora was no longer moaning—with her head buried in the crook of her arm, she was whimpering like a whipped puppy.
Good Heavens Page 14