“We’ll eat something and then we’ll go to the county offices,” Blair says. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Don’t you want to drive by our old houses?” I am anxious in a childish kind of way to see Corinthia. It feels strange that she is just a few miles away from me.
“There will be plenty of time for that. You can have those two drawers and I’ll take these.”
She points to the dresser drawers and I am reminded as Blair deftly changes the subject that, for her, this is not a pleasure trip.
We get back in the car and head toward the main business district, driving slow and causing other drivers to impatiently ride our backend. It’s a little difficult to remember where everything is. It doesn’t appear that the town of thirty-thousand has changed that much but we didn’t drive anywhere by ourselves when we lived here before. We were just kids. By luck we find the Sonic drive-through that had been our favorite place for hamburgers and shakes. My old street is only a few blocks away from this fast-food place, but Blair doesn’t seem to care about this as we eat. I’m itching to at least drive by my old house, but Blair has only one thing on her mind. She wants the last name and the address of the family that adopted an abandoned baby fifteen years ago.
When we are done, Blair asks our server where the county offices are and we are directed to a four-story gray building a few blocks away. Within minutes, Blair is parking her Lexus across the street. We stare at the building in silence for a few minutes.
“I suppose we could start with the county recorder,” she says.
“That sounds good,” I say, but neither one of us move. We both know the real search starts here. It could also end here.
“C’mon,” Blair finally says.
It’s a little after one in the afternoon. Hopefully whoever works in the recorder’s office will be back from lunch. The air inside the building is cool and the hallways are dimly lit. A wide, graceful staircase leads to the other floors. The recorder’s office is on the first floor. Our steps echo on the linoleum as walk to the office and step inside.
A woman looks up from one of several desks as we approach a customer counter. There are two other employees in the room and a woman sitting in a chair in a waiting area just inside the door we came in.
“May I help you?” says the woman behind the counter; in a voice laced with a Southern accent I haven’t heard in a long time.
“Yes,” Blair says, trying to sound confident. “Births and adoptions are recorded in this office, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, my friend and I used to live here and fifteen years ago we found an abandoned infant on the doorstep of a church here in town.”
The woman’s eyes get a little wide. There’s something you don’t hear every day, they wordlessly say.
“The baby was adopted eight months later in this county. My friend and I are traveling through Blytheville and we would like to see how he is doing. We are hoping you can tell us where we can find him. I know the first names of the couple who adopted him but not their last name. I need to get in touch with these people because I have… I … there’s something I need to give that boy.”
It would sound like a reasonable request if we lived in a world where there are no pedophiles or sociopaths or stalkers. You can’t just give information like that to a stranger off the street. I can see it in her eyes before she says anything.
“Well, I am sorry to tell you that that information is protected by law. I wish I could I help you, but I am afraid I can’t.” she says, her accent making every one syllable word at two-syllable word.
“I assure you I mean this child no harm,” Blair says, reaching into her purse and pulling out the envelope that had been between the seats in the car. “Look. Here is the newspaper article about it. See? That’s me. And that’s my friend Tess here. And this is Jewel Mayhew. She lives in Tennessee now. But her father and mother still live here. In the background is the Church of the Beautiful Gate.”
The woman is looking and nodding but I can see she will not budge. How can she?
“Well, the law doesn’t allow me to give out that kind of information, no matter what the circumstance. I’m really very sorry. But I can assure you that the county most certainly did a thorough background check on the family that adopted him. I’m sure he is doing just fine.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Blair says, all confidence lost in her voice. “I already know the couple’s first names! John and Patricia! I just can’t remember the last name. And I have to find this child. I… I have something that belongs to him.”
I watch as Blair reaches into her pocket and brings out the locket. But not the note. I am certain she will show no one the note.
“This locket belongs to him. It was in the box when we found him. It… it somehow got misplaced that day. But I’m sure his birth mother wanted him to have it. So you see, I need to give it to him. Maybe… maybe you could call the family and tell them I am looking for him.”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“Please,” Blair is pleading.
I want to leave before she totally loses it. The other two women in the office have raised their eyes from their desks and are watching the whole thing. I can see the woman in the waiting area is watching, too, with a look of dismay on her face. I wonder whom she is feeling sorry for: Blair, the adopted boy or the harried employee.
“Maybe you can come back tomorrow when someone from court administration will be here. Maybe you can see if there is a way to petition to the court for the information you want.”
“Will… will that work?” Blair’s hands are shaking.
“Well, I am not sure, miss. But I think it’s a better place to start than here, okay?
She says “okay” like “oak high.” She is being very patient with Blair.
“No one is there today?” Blair says.
“No, but they will be there tomorrow.”
“All right,” Blair says, defeated. She puts the locket back in her pocket.
“Thank you,” I tell the woman as Blair turns to leave.
“Yes, thank you,” Blair says.
We walk out of the office and I can feel every pair of eyes on us: the woman at the counter, her two co-workers and the woman in the waiting area.
Blair says nothing as we get back into the car.
“So what do you want to do until tomorrow?” she says quietly, starting the engine.
“I think you know,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
She offers me a half-smile.
“Okay, but we’ll look at my old house first. It won’t take as long. You’ll probably want to see Corinthia when we get to yours.”
Oh, yes. I probably will.
Twelve
The person who coined the phrase, “You can’t go home again,” probably did so after visiting a childhood home after many years away and finding that time did not stand still for him while he was gone. Blair and I are halfway prepared to visit her home at the air base, but only halfway. We know everything about her old neighborhood will be very different, for mostly physical reasons.
The air base in Blytheville was deactivated a few years after both our families moved away from it. Maybe the mission of the command changed or maybe the money ran out or maybe it was some other reason altogether, but one day the squadrons of B-52s and KC-135s flew away from the base and did not come back. I didn’t think much about it at the time because we had already moved away, but now as we drive onto Memorial Drive, past the base’s once-guarded entrance, I can see that going home for Blair will be different than for me. Her house on base is no doubt still there, but everything else about the base is very different.
The wide streets are very quiet and the flight line and the sky above it is eerily empty. Some of the old buildings have found new uses in the private sector, but many more sit quiet and vacant. The housing area has been taken over by a property management company that specializes in active retirement communities. The geraniu
ms, spurting sprinklers and gazing balls on the front lawns thankfully declare that people still live here. But none of the cars in the driveways bear Department of Defense stickers; none of the people living inside wear Air Force uniforms. There are no children here.
It takes a little while to find Blair’s duplex since the street names and house numbers have all been changed. But we finally find it, tucked away on a quiet cul-de-sac that used to be officer housing. The yellow brick looks the same, the white carport, too. Missing from the driveway is Jack Devere’s Roadster, but everything else about the house looks like it did thirteen years ago when Blair and her family moved to their new base in Idaho and I moved to mine in Ohio.
“Do you want to ring the doorbell and see if anyone is home? They might let us in to see the inside,” I ask.
“No,” Blair says, shaking her head. “It was just a place to live. I never felt like this was home for me.”
We head out of the housing area, through the unmanned front gate and make our way back to town. Again, we have a little trouble finding our way, but soon the Sonic drive-through is in sight and I know where we are.
“Turn here,” I say, pointing to a street just past the Sonic.
“I know,” Blair says. “I know where we are.”
We see the white steeple of the Church of the Beautiful Gate first and my breath catches in my throat. Then we see Jewel’s old house, the one Corinthia and Samuel Mayhew still live in. I can’t help smiling. Then there is my house, the two-story, ageless brick one. Blair pulls up to the curb on the opposite side and stops the car.
“Nothing has changed here,” she says, looking at the two houses and the white church.
I just nod my head.
There is no car in the driveway of my old house and the garage door is closed. No one appears to be home. The same is true of Corinthia’s house.
“Let’s see if Corinthia is home first.” I get out of the car.
We walk across the street and up the cement path to Corinthia’s front door. The screen door is new, made of metal. I wonder when they got rid of their old wooden one. I liked the way it squeaked. I ring the bell and we wait. I ring it again.
“She’s not here,” Blair says.
I’m disappointed to say the least.
“Let’s see if there is anyone home at my old house,” I say and we walk across the grass separating the two houses. I ring that bell twice, too. No one answers but I do not want to go.
“We can come back,” Blair says. “I want to go back to the hotel and get on my laptop and on the Internet. I want to know what the adoption laws are in this state.”
She starts to walk away.
“Blair, I think I will stay and see if anyone comes home,” I say. “You can go back to the hotel. I don’t mind waiting. And Corinthia might return while you’re gone.”
Blair hesitates for a moment and then shrugs. “Suit yourself,” she says. “I might be an hour or more.”
“It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be back.” She starts across the street.
I watch her drive away and then turn my attention back to the two houses wondering if I would attract attention if I just sat at the patio table in Corinthia’s backyard. The yard is open to the street and the table is in plain view. Then it occurs to me that maybe Corinthia is at the church. I wonder why I didn’t think of this sooner.
I walk over to the Church of the Beautiful Gate and stop for a moment at the sign that bears its name. I can remember seeing the sign for the first time two days after we moved in. I remember being puzzled by it since there is no gate on the church grounds. I had asked Corinthia about it the third time she invited my dad and me over for dinner. It was another conversation that had taken place while we did the dishes.
“Well, in the book of Acts in the Bible, Tess, there is a story of a man who had been crippled from birth,” she had said, plunging a dish into soapy water and scrubbing it. “Every day people would bring him to the city gate to beg for money. The gate had a name. It was called ‘Beautiful.’ Well, one day—now, this is all after Jesus rose into heaven—the apostles Peter and John were walking through the Beautiful gate and the crippled man asked them for money. Peter said to the crippled man, ‘Silver and gold have I none. But such as I have I give thee. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk!’ And do you know what happened, Tess?”
I had given her another scraped plate and shook my head.
“The man who had been crippled from birth got up and he walked! The Bible says he was so overjoyed that he started walking and jumping and praising God!” Corinthia replied, her eyes bright and animated.
“That’s why our church has that name, child,” she continued. “All of us need to come to the gate called Beautiful. All of us are crippled from birth. I don’t mean in the physical sense, Tess. I mean in here.”
And then she had touched my chest with her wet finger. It left a little watermark.
I have not thought about that moment in her kitchen in a long time. I don’t even know how long. There weren’t many dinners at her house after that. In the following weeks my father began to politely decline every dinner invitation Corinthia extended to us. I’m fairly certain that that same night, Samuel Mayhew, in his own way, had approached my father about his own need to come to a gate called Beautiful. And my father had quickly decided, “Well, that’s enough of that.” I ate with the Mayhews whenever I spent the night with Jewel and whenever my dad had to go out of town. But he and I never went over to the Mayhews’ again as a family to share a meal with them after that night.
Standing here now and looking at the sign I am struck by two things that I have never thought of before. The baby we had found—the same baby Blair and I have come back to Blytheville to find—was also crippled from birth. Just like the man in the story. Just like me. No wonder, like Blair, that I’d wanted to keep the baby as long we could that day. I identified with him. In a way, I felt crippled from birth, too. The difference is no one has ever been able to see my deformity. No one really knows what my birth did to my mother and what it subsequently did to me. Except perhaps for Simon.
I leave the sign and these heavy thoughts and walk up the front steps to the church. The wooden double doors are both unlocked. I step inside the darkened church sanctuary where rows of dark wooden pews sit empty. All the inside lights are off and I can see that the altar and the pulpit are dark and empty as well. I know how different this big room can be on Sundays. I’d gone to church with Jewel several times when we lived here. I remember feeling awkward being the only white girl in the little congregation but it didn’t seem to bother anyone else. The services, unlike the few I’d gone to with other friends at other bases, were anything but boring. There was a lot of singing, clapping and shouting. The women and girls dressed like they were going to a fancy wedding with lots of beautiful hats, shiny high-heeled shoes and white gloves. The men, and even the littlest boys, wore starched white shirts and ties. These memories stand in stark contrast to the quiet room I am now standing in.
I walk to the front of the church to the side door by the organ that leads to the Sunday school rooms, Samuel Mayhew’s office, and the door whose outside steps once bore a peach box with a baby inside it. The Sunday school rooms are all empty. Samuel’s office door is closed and there is no answer when I knock on it.
I walk back to the sanctuary, disappointed. I slide into a pew near the front and stare for I don’t know how long at the plain wooden cross that hangs in front of me against a backdrop of stained glass.
Many minutes later or a perhaps just a few minutes later—I don’t know which—I feel a hand on my shoulder and I hear a familiar voice.
“Can I help you, friend?”
I turn around to face Corinthia Mayhew. Despite the darkness of the unlit room and the passage of time, when she sees my face she knows who I am. I stand and she enfolds me into a tight embrace like I knew she would. Like I am her child.
By
the time Blair returns it’s nearly four o’clock. Corinthia and I are sitting in her backyard sipping sweet tea, talking as if no time had escaped between us. I’ve told her about the death of Blair’s husband as well as about the note and the locket. I’ve also told her about Simon—calling him my fiancé and causing her to immediately ask if we have set a date. I told her about Simon’s accident, his dark days and his new friend Pastor Jim but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her we are living together. I know this would make her sad. I told her about my little brother Zane, my hopscotch college days and my job at Linee Belle.
Though I am nothing like the teenager she last saw, Corinthia looks the same except for strands of gray at her temples. All of her children except for Marigold are grown and have left home to build their own lives. She has five grandchildren, counting Jewel’s three boys. Corinthia has also told me that no one is presently renting my old house; that the owner has had some trouble keeping it rented since the air base closed and the steady flow of newcomers to town abated.
Corinthia is telling me she will try to contact the owner if I would like to see the house, which I do, when Blair arrives. She gets out of her car and begins walking toward us. Corinthia stands, embraces Blair warmly and invites her to sit down.
Blair accepts a glass of iced tea and sneaks a look my way. The look says: “How much did you tell her?”
I have no idea how to communicate to Blair that I told Corinthia nearly everything.
“My dear, I am so sorry about the loss of your husband,” Corinthia says, patting Blair’s hand. “I truly am.”
“Thank you,” Blair says and again looks my way to see how much Corinthia knows. I shake my head just once and I trust it is barely perceptible. I did not tell Corinthia that Brad had been unfaithful.
“I will be praying that God will heal your heart, Blair.”
“Oh. Um. Thanks.”
“Do you have pictures of your little girls?” Corinthia asks.
“Oh. Yes,” Blair says, reaching into her purse and pulling out her iPhone.
The Remedy for Regret Page 11