The sympathetic woman squatting at my feet sighs like Jesus would if He heard me say that, which, of course, He did. I’m a worm. If Greg is depending on my faith to conjure a divine rescue mission for him, he’s a goner. “It’s time for us to get proactive, Libby.”
Proactive. That’s the advice she gave eight months ago when I finally confessed how empty this pseudomarriage makes me feel. Get proactive, Lib. Don’t let it die for lack of attention. Don’t throw away a good man without a fight.
Believe me, Greg and I are no strangers to the concept of fighting. We call our version the clam boil. I boil over. He clams up. Relational healing interaction of the highest quality. Jen pounds the kitchen table pulpit. “Proactive, Lib. You and me. We can do something. Yes, we have to stay out of the way of the authorities and let them do their jobs. But don’t you think two extremely intelligent women,” she says, lifting her chin and affecting the timbre of an English professor, “can think of a dozen ways we can help this investigation along?” “What do you want to do? Drain the boys’ college funds and rent a float plane to cruise at treetop level over the whole Quetico?”
She leans back. “Now, see? You do still have a brain in that head of yours.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“And if not that idea, there are others. We can call motels. I suggested that before. We can call hospitals and resorts and . . . did you call your credit card company? Has there been any suspicious activity on your cards?”
It’s a good thing one of us can think.
“Credit cards, Lib. That’s a great place to start.”
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CYNTHIA RUCHTI
Jen conquered cancer five years ago. Now she thinks like a
conqueror.
I suppose I should have expected this. I dragged her to
concerts in between chemo sessions. I forced her to go to the cosmetology college for free eyebrow-drawing lessons. Some days she might not have gotten dressed if I hadn’t insisted it would make her feel better. I would have been less pushy if I’d known she’d turn around and club me with it now.
I look at her pleading eyes and beautifully arched reborn
eyebrows and know the final dollop of excuses is about to meet the spatula of Jenika’s insistence. But I’m nothing if not relentless, so I try one more.
“I don’t have the energy to spit.”
She rises, grabs the phone from its cradle, points it at me,
and says, “It’s a good thing you’re not on your way to the den- tist, then, isn’t it? Dial.”
I choke on the unspoken questions. What if we find him?
What if we don’t?
39
What is it called when computer screens get that bleached- out area if you don’t use a screensaver? There’s a word for it. It’s the reason Bill Gates or somebody created screensavers. Whatever it’s called, I think I have it. On my tongue. I’ve recited Greg’s description, his Jeep’s make and model and license plate number so many times the message is imprinted forever. I wonder if God ever thought about creating a memory screensaver. A beach scene or mountain view or a vision of puppies to automatically flash in our minds when we’ve dwelt too long on something ugly. Good idea. I’ll take it up with Him when this is over. We could share the patent.
Switching the phone to my right ear will mean writing with my left if I find a reason to take notes. So far it’s not been nec- essary. A simple checkmark suffices. Is he here? No. Here? No. No. No. No sign of him.
I dial again. While I wait for the number to connect, I lean back in the kitchen chair. A knot at the base of my neck pops as if a vertebra rudely smacked its gum. One ring. Two. Three. Come on. Come on!
“Dew Drop Inn. Are you calling to make a reservation?”
4
40
CYNTHIA RUCHTI
“No. I’m—” I consider a smart-aleck answer. No, miss.
Thank you, but I have more than enough reservations. Among them are, how badly do I want my husband back? Am I absolutely, posi- tively certain I’m not capable of homicide if he’s done something reprehensible? If the wilderness became his grave, am I ready to be a widow?
I swallow my sass acid and say, “I’m looking for my hus-
band and thought he might have stopped there on his way home.” Home.
“He’s not here.”
That was quick. I haven’t even told the woman his name or
vehicle model.
“Would you just check for me, please? This is important.
A family emergency.” That’s not a fabrication. The arm Zack broke years ago might be acting up in the Chilean climate. Who’s to know? My Zack—the only kid who’s ever broken a limb in a marching band incident. That’s one family emer- gency on record. Two? Lacey. Now this.
“Ma’am, I know for certain that your husband is not a guest
here.”
“But I haven’t even told you his description.” Uno, dos, tres,
quatro. . . . Counting in Spanish is bound to be an even stron- ger stress-eliminator than in English.
“We got no guests registered.”
I rub the prickled skin on the back of my neck. “None? Are
you sure?”
“Only the four rooms. So, yeah, I’m sure.”
The tiny little bubble of hope that appears with each num-
ber I dial dissipates faster than normal. Pop. Gone.
I’m developing a pressure sore on my tailbone. Time to get
up and move. The sludge at the bottom of the coffee carafe looks like a science experiment gone bad. What happens if
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you drop crushed Oreos into a cup of Mississippi backwater? Compare and contrast.
I drink the sludge anyway. Something’s wrong with me. Seriously.
When I bring the mug to my lips, I overshoot the angle. The vile liquid dribbles out both corners of my mouth and onto my shirt. It’s going to stain. I don’t care.
It’s time to pick up the phone and resume the search. I’m sure a counselor worth his salt would suggest there’s something unhealthy about rehearsing the truth too often. “My husband’s missing . . . missing . . . missing.”
Any number of volunteers from church or the neighbor- hood would do this phone call research for me if I asked. But Jen’s right. As acid-producing as it is to say the words, taking on a proactive role is better than sitting in a lump of festering concern.
Even considering the desk clerk at the Dew Drop Inn, I haven’t met any unfriendlies on the phone. Privacy laws must be different north of the border. Everyone seems genuinely dis- appointed they can’t help me. I have to believe they’re telling the truth. Wish I could flush from my mind’s eye the image of Greg slipping the motel managers a twenty and putting a finger to his lips to invoke their silence.
Every picture my imagination conjures rings false. None of these scenarios sounds like Gregory Michael Holden. But doesn’t every neighbor of a serial killer or pipe bomber report, “He was such a nice, quiet man”? Could the same be true of good men who live lives of quiet desperation until given the opportunity to leave home and never return?
It catches me totally off guard when a throaty voice on the other end of the line says, “Yeah. White Jeep Cherokee? Wisconsin plates? Sounds familiar. You’ll hold for a moment? I’ll go look.”
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CYNTHIA RUCHTI
What is this? He’s there? My hand is shaking as my pen
traces where I am on the list Jen printed out for me: Black Otter Inn—Whiskey Run, Ontario. I grab the MapQuest page for the area and scan for Whiskey Run. East? West? Where—? There it is. It’s not even a day’s drive from Beaverhouse. Way to be clandestine, Greg. You’d never make it with the FBI or CIA.
“Jen!” I’m waving madly at her. Wonder what made her
come back to the kitchen at this precise moment. “What is it?” she whispers.
“A lead. We might have a
lead.” I drop her when the voice
comes back on the line.
“Yep, he’s here. Checked in last night. You want I should
ring his room?”
I have no idea. Do I? Jen’s ear is pressed close to mine,
listening in like any good friend would. She pulls away and signals with hands, head, and eyes, “No!”
What? Of course, I want the guy to ring his room! Or wring
his neck. Take your pick, mister. “Yes, please. I need to speak with him.”
“Sure thing. Hang on.”
Oh, I’m hanging on.
Jen’s lovely eyebrows practically cross in the middle of her
forehead. It’s a new look for her. I wouldn’t recommend she keep it.
“Hullo?” I hear through the receiver.
“Greg?”
A two-seconds-longer-than-eternity pause. “What?”
Is he drunk? That would be the first time ever. Unless this
is more evidence I don’t know him as well as I thought. “Do you want to explain what you’re doing there?” No one will blame me for sounding less than gracious, right? “What’s this about, eh?”
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I drop the phone. It hits the table, then the floor. The little plastic door to the battery compartment pops open and spills battery guts on the tile. My stomach contents will be next. Breathe. Just breathe.
Jen’s voice is oddly distant. My vision is shrinking. Full field. Tube. Pinhole.
“Libby! What’s wrong?” Is she shaking me or am I doing that on my own? “Libby!”
“He’s lived in the Midwest all his life,” I drone through my zombie state.
“Yes? Sweetie, what is it?”
I cough out, “It’s not him.”
********
I should have called the Canadian authorities before I talked to the guy with Greg’s Cherokee but not his voice. If the imposter has a teaspoon of smarts in him, he’s long gone already. But even half a teaspoon would have sent him to a motel considerably farther away from the scene of the crime, wouldn’t it?
And what was his crime? “Offing” my husband so he could steal our high-mileage Cherokee? The villain is bound to regret that move, if he’s caught. Which might not happen, thanks to my faux pas.
The driving need to talk to my husband exceeded my speed limit of wisdom. I should have let the authorities handle it, should have given them the information about the Jeep sight- ing and let them show up unannounced at the door of the motel room. No, I had to talk to him myself. I’ll pay for this, won’t I?
Jen uses her cell phone to dial the Ontario Provincial Police. She hands it to me to do the talking. As if I can.
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CYNTHIA RUCHTI
With stretches of silence, the sergeant on the other end of
the phone line expresses his disapproval of my techniques and poor judgment.
“I’m sorry, Officer. I wasn’t processing my thoughts. All I
could think about was talking to my husband.”
“Is it possible,” the man ventured, “that it was your husband
but his voice sounded strained?”
Do I need to detail how intimately I am acquainted with
Greg’s tummy-rumbling low voice?
Libby, I can’t imagine my life without you. Will you marry me?
Deep, slow breaths, Lib. You can do it. One more good push,
hon.
Libby. Oh, Libby, when you get this message, call me on my cell
right away. It’s Lacey. I’ve got to get to the hospital. Oh, Lib!
Lib, I don’t know how to help anymore. What do you want me
to do?
I return to the moment and reply, “I’ve heard my husband’s
voice when it’s strained and that wasn’t it.” Strained. Every day for the last three years.
“The accent,” I tell the officer. “I heard the Canadian accent,
that way of pronouncing ‘about.’ A Peter Jennings accent. Not like my husband would say it, no matter how stressed. And the ‘eh?’ at the end.”
No response.
“Okay, so it proves nothing except it wasn’t my Greg! If the
desk clerk had his information correct and it was Greg’s Jeep in the parking lot, then the person who drove it to the motel was not my husband, and any way you view that, something’s not right.”
“We’ll look into it.”
I drop my chin to my chest. “You will.”
“I have someone in the area who will check it out.”
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They Almost Always Come Home
And check out my story, he must be itching to say. How can he not want to investigate my there’s-this-guy-in-a-cheesy- motel-and-he’s-a-Jeep-thief story? I’m still a person of interest, aren’t I? By some accounts, I can add obstruction of justice to my list of sins.
As Jen watches, I tell him, “Thank you. Please keep me informed if you discover anything?”
“Of course. But I must caution you not to let your own investigation sabotage the efforts of the professionals, Mrs. Holden.”
Coffee. I need more coffee.
********
Jen may never forgive me for ignoring her warning. Oh, sure she will. Eventually. But for now she’s letting me stew in the caldron of my error.
“What part of ‘No, no, no!’ do you not understand, Libby?” I pull open the junk drawer and paw through the refuse for the roll of duct tape. The battery compartment door on the portable phone won’t stay latched. Duct tape. Why was that my first thought? It would have been Greg’s—the Greg who may have been maliciously separated from his vehicle and his wife.
“Jen, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Put yourself in my shoes.” It helps to focus on patching the phone while ratio- nalizing. “If your husband were missing and you thought you were just a phone click away from finding out why, wouldn’t you say, ‘Sure. Be a doll and ring up his room for me’?”
“Not if my highly intelligent best friend were standing an inch away miming, ‘No, no, no!’ ”
“My peripheral vision’s not great.”
“Uh-huh.”
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CYNTHIA RUCHTI
“I blacked out for a moment. Must be the heat.”
“It’s a cool seventy degrees in here.”
The phone’s fixed. A small but important victory in light of
the recent string of defeats.
“Look, I can guarantee this won’t be my last mistake.”
“And it wasn’t your first, either.”
“Excuse me?”
I watch the skin around Jen’s eyes and mouth soften from
accusation to sympathy. “I know, it was a knee-jerk reaction. And who could blame you?”
“Besides you and the entire Canadian police force?”
“Hon, we’re all on your side. We’ve got your best interests at
heart. You know that, don’t you?”
I put the phone on the table. Some would say I slammed
it down. “Why are we debating this? You either forgive me or you don’t. What’s important is that we do have a clue. The Jeep is not in Greg’s possession. Someone else has it. How did that slimeball get it?”
“Mr. Slime stole it?”
“Most likely.”
“And that could mean—”
“I don’t know.” I grab fistfuls of my hair as if preparing to
make tight pigtails. “Was Greg mugged in the parking lot? At a gas station? The authorities would have found evidence of a fight, wouldn’t they? Or a . . . a body.”
Jen reaches for a paper towel, wets it at the sink, then uses
it to wipe something frown-producing from her elbow and the table on which she’s been leaning.
“Maybe this guy you talked to swiped the Jeep while Greg
was out in the wilderness somewhere. It doesn’t necessarily mean Greg’s hurt.”
“If that’s the case, why wouldn’t Greg have made his way
from the put-in point back to civilization by now and called
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They Almost Always Come Home
home? He’d be fuming mad and maybe have worn out his walking shoes, but we would have heard from him.” “Ah.”
A new thought dawns on me. “Unless Greg sold the Jeep to him.”
“What?”
“We’re exploring every possibility,” I say, eyeing the call list I’m not eager to return to.
“It’s also possible, and a lot more likely, that it wasn’t Greg’s Jeep at all. If the clerk read the license plate incorrectly—” “It was a Wisconsin plate. He knew that much.”
“And how many Jeep-driving guys from Wisconsin chose Canada for their vacation destination this year? Hundreds? Thousands?”
She’s too smart for my own good. “Point well taken. But how many guys from Wisconsin sound like Peter Jennings used to and punctuate their sentences with ‘eh’?” “Point and counterpoint.”
When it’s all over, I should make an appointment to have this pain in my stomach checked out. When it’s all over. Where will I be when this is all over? Widowed? Divorced? Angry? Brokenhearted? Jilted? Relieved? Did I just say relieved?
God help me. Is it an unpardonable sin to wonder what life would be like without the man I vowed to love and cherish and blah, blah, blah?
********
It looks like soup. Smells like soup. Feels like medicine going down.
Jen offers me another ladleful. I refuse her and use my spoon to point to what’s left in my bowl—recalcitrant chunks
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CYNTHIA RUCHTI
of chicken floating in a cream-and-wild-rice sea with celery and mushroom flotsam. On an ordinary day, it would taste like a cooking contest entry. I’m not sure how long it will be before I see another ordinary day.
We’re drinking cranberry juice with our meal and using
Taco Doritos for crackers. Sooner or later, I’ll have to get some groceries. Which means I’ll have to leave the house. And see people. And answer questions. And pretend faith is enough. And that I have some.
Pastor asked if I’m planning to attend the prayer service at
church tonight. Can you imagine? He’s a good man, but he thinks like a male, no offense to the handful of sensitive men in the world who aren’t gay.
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