by T. Greenwood
“A puppy? Oh no! What’s her name? I can help call her for you,” she said.
The man smiled, his teeth long and yellow. He had a long scar on his cheek.
“Her name? Why, it’s Sally.”
SALLY
“Come inside,” Ruth said. “I made those sandwiches you like.”
Sally followed Ruth into her trailer, which, unlike Sally and Mr. Warner’s, was bright and cheerful. Her hands continued to tremble, and heat spread through her body. She wiped away the droplets of sweat forming at her temple.
“Sit down, hon,” Ruth said, motioning to a chair at the small kitchen table. “Let me get you a glass of water. You look like you seen a ghost.”
Sally obeyed, sitting down on the cool vinyl seat cushion. The table was covered with a blue-and-white gingham oilcloth, and at the center of the table was a Corningware cornflower bowl filled with oranges. This bowl was the same one her mother had at home: white ceramic with delicate blue flowers. It was something Sally had hardly noticed before: the way you can walk across the same floor every day and never notice the pattern and color of the linoleum. But still, it must have registered somewhere, deep in her memory. She could see her stepfather sitting across the table from her, scooping a spoonful of mashed potatoes from this bowl. A cold glass of beer in his hand and a plate piled high with roast beef. She could see him winking at her mother as she hurried from the stovetop to the table with a small matching gravy boat, steaming gravy inside. She remembered her mother sitting down, sighing and smiling, as she stole a sip of her father’s beer. Sally could recall having to sit on a Sears catalog to be able to reach the table, the pages cold on her bottom.
“Here,” Ruth said, pushing a plate in front of her. Deviled ham and yellow mustard on Wonder bread with the crusts cut off. Pickles. “Eat something. You look about to faint.”
Sun came through that window as well, illuminating the table in a clean, warm pool of light. Across from her, Susan would have been chattering on about something she’d read at school, or a joke she’d heard. Knock, knock, she might have said.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Ruth asked. “Listen, I was hoping we could talk about Frank. I know there’s somethin’ you ain’t tellin’ me…”
Sally hesitated and then pushed the envelope toward Ruth, who looked at her quizzically.
Ruth picked the envelope up and released the contents onto the table. Her brow wrinkled as her eyes scanned the photographs, the news clippings. When she saw the clipping with Sally’s photo, her hand flew to her mouth and she cried out.
“My real name’s Sally Horner,” she said. “And I want to go home.”
MARGARET
“Sir?” Margaret said. They had been looking for Mr. O’Keefe’s lost dog for at least twenty minutes (walking along the edge of the woods, calling, Sally! Sally!), when she realized they’d wandered away from the park along the winding trail that ran beside the Guadalupe River, the woods on either side growing thicker and thicker.
“What time is it, sir?” she asked, feeling like a sleepwalker startling awake from a dream.
“Not sure,” he said, shrugging.
Her mouth twitched; something about the man suddenly made her feel uncomfortable. He was grinning at her still; he’d been grinning at her the whole time, even though it looked like maybe he’d lost his dog for good.
“I should probably be getting back,” she said, starting to back away, but he reached out for her elbow.
She yanked her arm back, and his smile disappeared.
“I’m expected at school, sir,” she said, feeling her body grew rigid. Ossifying.
He peered back over his shoulder at the woods, still holding on to her elbow. Above them, the sky was dusky, ashen. He pulled at her arm, and she resisted, and so he yanked again, this time hard enough to hurt.
“You’re hurting me, sir,” she said.
“Listen to me,” he said, leaning in close to her. “You come with me, there won’t be any trouble. But if you so much as think about running, I’ll go straight to your mama and make sure she knows all about those cigarettes you were smoking back there at the park.”
“But I wasn’t smoking,” she said, and yanked her arm again. She felt like a rabbit in a trap.
Then she saw the gun in his waistband.
The scream rang out like an alarm. Had it come from her own mouth? Mr. O’Keefe held on to her arm but stepped backward, confused.
A young woman with bright red curls came running out of the woods, looking over her shoulder as if being chased. She squealed again, but this time, it was obvious that it was not a cry of terror but a playful shriek of delight. “I’m going home, Nicky Tremain!”
When the woman saw Margaret and the man, she stopped, and following behind her was a young man running, tripping, laughing. He nearly knocked the young woman over as he came tumbling out of the woods, his hair and clothing mussed. He stopped, stood next to her.
The redhead pointed, at Mr. O’Keefe, at Margaret. The young man with his flushed cheeks stood dumbly next to her.
“Are you okay?” the young woman asked Margaret.
The man turned to her, squeezing her arm tighter.
Margaret’s gaze darted back and forth, between Mr. O’Keefe and the young couple.
“I don’t know him,” she said, shaking her head. Terrified.
The young man in the khakis stiffened, throwing his shoulders back.
“Is he hurting you?” he said, stepping closer, chest puffed out.
She nodded, tears searing her cheeks.
She felt Mr. O’Keefe’s grip release. He let go, muttering something under his breath, and backed up. Then he turned and ran, dust from the trail kicking up behind him.
“Who was he?” the redheaded lady asked.
Margaret shook her head. “I don’t know. But he had a gun.”
SALLY
It was heavy. That was what Sally thought as her hand closed over the cold receiver of Ruth’s phone, that it was unbearably substantial. She thought of the motel phone, the way she’d thrown it against the wall, the sound of the dial tone buzzing in her ears for so long afterward.
“Go ahead, doll,” Ruth said. Her voice reminded Sally of a string tethered to that red balloon at the hospital. Tight and shivery.
“I’m scared,” she said.
Ruth nodded and squeezed Sally’s free hand. “I know, sweetheart. I know that.”
Sally looked at the bowl of oranges, closed her eyes. She thought of Mr. Warner. Of the blade, the taste of shaving cream.
“Do you remember the number?” Ruth asked.
Sally nodded. In the first grade, they’d had to memorize their telephone numbers, their addresses. They had to recite the directions home. She remembered standing before the class, her mind going blank as she tried to recall which way her house was. Until he died, her stepfather had always come to collect her from school. She never paid attention to which way they walked. She’d always been too busy chatting with him, avoiding the cracks, making wishes on dandelions gone to seed. Her classmates chuckled as she began to cry. She couldn’t remember the directions, but luckily she’d recollected her phone number. Her mother had made her recite it again and again, just in case she was ever lost.
“It’s long distance,” Ruth said. “A toll call. We’ll need to dial the operator.”
Sally pressed the phone to her ear and remembered holding a gift shop conch shell to her ear in Atlantic City just two years ago. Listening to the hollow empty shell mimicking the ocean.
When the operator came on, she did as Ruth had told her: “I’d like to make a long-distance call, please. To Camden, New Jersey.”
She rehearsed what she would say when her mother answered, tried to remember the sound of her mother’s voice. Her palms were sweating so much, she could barely hold on to the phone in her hand. She tried to picture her mother; where would she be in the house? How long would it take for her to make her way to the ringing telephone?
&n
bsp; She could hear the muffled sounds as the operators connected her call. It took forever, and then the operator came back on.
“Ma’am?” she said.
Was she talking to her?
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry. That phone number is no longer in service.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ella Horner in Camden, New Jersey? That number is no longer connected.”
Sally thrust the phone at Ruth, shaking her head.
“Mama’s phone isn’t working anymore,” she said. Had her mother moved? How on earth would Sally ever find her then? God, what if something had happened to her? Her stepfather was gone, had just disappeared one night. Had she been so foolish to think that it couldn’t happen again?
“It’s okay,” Ruth said. “There must be someone else you can call. Do you have grandparents? Aunts and uncles?”
Sally shook her head. Where was her mother? Maybe Mr. Warner was right. Maybe they had forgotten her. Moved on. But to where?
“My sister,” she said. Susan would know what had happened. Susan and Al. But they wouldn’t be able to come to California for her. How would she get home?
“Do you know your sister’s phone number?”
She tried to think where Susan would be. At home with the baby? But the baby would be nearly two years old now: her niece or nephew, she thought, growing up without her. She knew that California was three hours behind the East Coast. It would be almost five o’clock in New Jersey. They might still be at the greenhouse. They stayed open most nights so people could stop by on their way home from work. The greenhouse would be busy. It was spring. People would be beginning to plan their gardens. Sally closed her eyes again and thought of her stepfather’s garden. Remembered the strawberries that crept onto the sidewalk from their tangled vines. The tulips, erupting from the earth with their purposeful and alarming beauty every spring.
She heard tires on the dirt drive outside the trailer and stopped breathing. Could it be Mr. Warner coming home already? No. He’d gone into town on the bus, said he wouldn’t be home until suppertime.
Ruth left Sally and ran to the window, peering out through the curtains. Her hand pressed against her chest, she turned to Sally. “It’s just Mr. Ramirez,” she said. The neighbor on the other side.
“Do you need me to call the operator again?” Ruth asked.
Sally shook her head and dialed the operator. “I’d like to make a long-distance call. To Florence Township, New Jersey, please. The Florence Greenhouse.” It had always felt strange that there was a town that shared her given name.
She listened this time to the operators at their switchboards, the clicks and mutters and hums. So many people all over the country making calls. So many connections. As she waited, she wondered how many of them were about to change someone’s life with their voice. How many of them would deliver news, good and bad, to the person answering at the other end of the line. Her heart ached with the thought of all those people, waiting for their voices to be heard.
“Florence Greenhouse, this is Al.”
“Al?” She looked at that bowl, filled with oranges, and her eyes stung. “Al, this is Sally.”
“Sally?” His voice sounded far away. But it was Al. “Oh my God. Where are you?”
Sally looked at Ruth, who was sitting at the table, her eyes wide and expectant.
“I’m with a lady, my friend. In California,” Sally said, and the tears spilled, running in hot streaks down her cheeks. “Tell Mama I’m okay, and don’t worry. I want to come home. I’ve been too afraid to call before.”
“Where are you exactly, Sally?”
“Do you want me to talk to him?” Ruth asked.
Sally shook her head.
Ruth pushed a piece of paper at her where she had written the address of the trailer park.
“Send the FBI after me, Al. Please,” Sally said. “I am so scared.”
“I’m calling them as soon as I hang up. Stay exactly where you are, Sally. Are you safe?”
Sally nodded. “Yes, but please, Al. Please send them right away. He’ll be coming home soon.”
AL
Al knew the local police would be of no help. The Baltimore Police, the Dallas Police. None of them had managed to do a damned thing to help Sally in almost two years. It was like some Abbott and Costello sketch, “Who’s on First,” and all that. Nothing more than a bunch of silly Keystone Kops locked in a futile and ridiculous chase. This guy, Frank La Salle, had outsmarted them all. Maybe Sally was right: the FBI. He should go straight to the FBI. He could hardly believe this was happening. Just this morning, he’d called the Triple A to inquire about maps for the cross-country trip.
The operator connected him quickly to the FBI headquarters in New York City, and he recited the address where Sally was. Sally. God, that poor child.
He could barely feel his legs beneath him when he stood up. As he made his way from the front office out to the greenhouse, where he knew Sue was tending to a customer who was looking for ground cover, he tried to think how to break this news to her. How to tell her that her sister was in California like they thought. That she was alive.
“Where’s Sue?” he asked his kid brother Joe, who came to help out after school.
Joe shrugged. “Outside with a customer, I think?”
Al rushed past him through the rows of plants, the scent of soil and greenery so heady and fragrant, it made him feel almost dizzy. He made his way to the rear entrance and spied Susan standing in the back lot, talking to Mrs. Hoffmeier, one of their regular customers. Sue was holding the baby on her hip. His heart nearly stopped at the sight of his wife, his child. The idea that someday his daughter would be Sally’s age, would be vulnerable, would no longer be nestled safely in her mother’s arms once again overwhelmed him.
He recalled the long walk up the walkway to Bobby Lee Langston’s mother’s door, his dead shipmate and friend’s blackened boots in his hands.
“Sue!” he said, calling out to her, his voice breaking along with his heart.
Both women looked up at him expectantly.
“Al?” Susan said.
He watched as the realization arrived. She seemed to know exactly what he was going to say before he said it.
Mrs. Hoffmeier, too, seemed to intuit the news and reached out to take hold of the baby. Everyone knew what had happened to Sally. Their heartache and tragedy had become the heartache and tragedy of the entire state of New Jersey. Not a day had gone by in the last two years without a customer asking after Sally. Susan handed the baby to Mrs. Hoffmeier and ran to him.
“Where is she?” Susan asked. “Oh my God, Al. Where’s Sally?”
SALLY
“Pack your bag, quick as you can,” Ruth said.
Sally thought about what she should take with her. What from this life would she possibly want to bring back home? Two years ago, Sally had packed a suitcase and told her mother she was headed to the shore. So much had happened since then, so many moves. Even that little red suitcase had disappeared, abandoned in the Atlantic City rooming house. She wondered sometimes about that girl carrying it as well.
She stood inside the trailer and looked around. Her heart clanged like loose change in a tin can as she thought of Tex, the way he liked to sleep on her pillow during the day. Never Frank’s. As a matter of fact, he’d torn up one of Frank’s pillows, left a mess of feathers all over the bed. Frank had threatened to take the puppy to the pound over that. Poor little Tex. She ached at the thought of him.
Even most of the clothes she had now were almost too small: skirts inches too short, buttons straining against buttonholes. And everything she’d left behind belonged to that other girl.
She rifled through her drawer, looking for something her mother would approve of, because surely she would get to see her mother soon? Maybe her old school uniform from Our Lady of Good Counsel? It was the nicest thing she had.
“Hurry up, Sally,” Ruth said, poking her head into the trail
er. “They should be here soon.”
“I don’t know what to take,” Sally said, staring at the open drawer.
“I’ll pack for you,” Ruth said. “Go to the canteen and wait there. In case Frank gets back here before the police arrive.”
“I’m afraid, Ruth,” she said.
Ruth came to her and pulled her into a hug. The brass ring that rested against her sternum was so cold. Please don’t forget me, she thought.
POLICE CHIEF JOHN DARLING
The call had come in to the Santa Clara County Sheriff’s Department just as Police Chief John Darling was coming back in from lunch. He knew something big had happened the moment he walked through the station doors. Everything was abuzz. Phones were ringing. People were chattering. There was electricity in the air. Horner, Horner, the secretaries whispered. Before he knew what had happened, he thought they were saying hornet, and indeed, the station felt like a buzzing hive.
But the drive out to the trailer park in San Jose was quiet, the air between himself and his partner, Officer Alvarez, charged yet remarkably still.
The girl.
He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this. He, like everyone else, had read the articles in the papers, seen the shots of both Sally Horner and Frank La Salle. They’d seemed like characters in the books he liked to read. Dashiell Hammett. Raymond Chandler. The guy’s mug looked like the gangsters he’d only read about in the papers, seen in the movies. But now, here she was, not some black-and-white damsel in distress. No noir fiction. But a girl. A young, somewhat homely, but very real, teenaged girl.
All alone. Standing, shaking, quaking, clutching an envelope in her hand, she couldn’t have been much more than four feet ten in her dingy bobby socks and wrinkled skirt. Her hair was a mess of tangled curls, and her eyes were swollen and pink from crying. Her blouse was buttoned wrong as well, with one edge hanging longer and a single empty buttonhole. She was not dirty, but disheveled. For some reason, it reminded him of the time he’d taken his son to the circus, and they’d seen a chimpanzee dressed up in a little tuxedo. The monkey had been screeching wildly, manic inside that stupid suit. A wild thing that was supposed to look human. His heart had gone out to that poor beast, as it went out to this poor wild creature now.