Something Down There

by Nancy Widrew

  A small committee, comprising Carl, Joan, Jeff, and Phil, had proposed an informal ceremony where participants could reflect on touching memories or add tasteful jokes to help everyone make sense of their sorrow. As a result, their two missing friends, perhaps gone from this world forever, would never be forgotten. A second service, one they prayed would not be necessary, would be held in another six-month interval, as a final tribute, if the couple still was not found.

  After the minister’s moving words, Carl reminisced on his personal and professional relationship with “My good buddy Jeremy.” When he finished he turned to his wife who took her place before the sober gathering. Uncomfortable in crowds, Joan blushed as her voice shook and lips trembled. But for Karen’s sake, she fought back, praising her friend as if she were still alive.

  “I’ve only known Karen for one year,” she said, “but during that time, we grew close and I think of her as the sister I never had. We share many things, particularly a fondness for things past: old movies, music, and singers I’m sure you’ve never heard of. Well, most of you, anyway. Why just before she disappeared we were planning to see some MGM musicals at the Paradise. If I hadn’t come down with that stupid cold I’m sure events would have turned out differently.” She turned to her husband who shook his head solemnly.

  “And most of all, we talked of the children we planned to have. Since I’m an only child, I was in a hurry. More of a hurry than Karen. While I always dreamed of a big family, she said two kids would be plenty.” Joan patted her belly. “Still I had hoped we’d share this experience together, but the funny thing is I can’t help but feel we are. Carl says it’s wishful thinking, but I still feel her presence. Maybe it’s because we have their cat, Boots. We thought of changing his name, but decided to leave it as is—for the day they return.” She wiped her face. “That’s right. I haven’t given up hope, but in the meantime let’s all give thanks for friendship.” Eyes glistening like twin stars, she turned to the large photograph of Karen and Jeremy on display.

  After Joan rejoined her husband, Phil rose, checked his tie, pushed back his hair, and made his way to the front. “I didn’t know Jeremy well,” he began. “Only met him a few times, but I’ve heard so many stories that I feel like I did. And the times we did talk, he was a funny, upbeat guy. And helpful. Not only in giving me writing tips but telling me where I could get the best steak in the city. And then to top it off, I wound up getting his job.” To hold back a satisfied grin, he pictured his soon-to-be ex-wife, sitting on the toilet with pink rollers in her hair.

  “Since my advancement came at Jeremy’s expense, I want to announce that I ordered a plaque with his name to hang in the newsroom. Jeff thinks it’s a good idea. And speaking of Jeff, he also wants to say a few words.”

  Following Jeff’s off-the-cuff but sincere tribute, the minister spoke again, announcing it was time for a symbolic gesture. He led them over to a newly planted flowerbed where everyone tossed handfuls of dirt as a sign of renewal. Joan wept silently, loosening a button around her expanding belly.

  On his way back to the parking lot, Jeff draped one arm around Carl and the other around Phil. “I want to express my thanks to you, Phil, for putting in those extra hours at the newspaper. I don’t know how we’d have managed without you. Have you thought about what I said the other day—about becoming Senior Staff Writer? There’d be a raise, of course.”

  Phil smiled, showing perfect teeth. “I’d like that,” he said. “Especially the part about the raise.” His laugh, although artificial, softened the witticism.

  “How does ten percent sound?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  The men shook hands. Phil waved good-bye to Carl and Joan, mouthed a thank you to Jeff, along with the words, “See you Monday, Chief.”

  #

  Upon opening the door of his Dodge Dart, Phil breathed deeply to take in the new car smell. While far from the Corvette on his wish list, the Dart outshined his beat-up, old ’67 Plymouth Belvedere. With his livelihood now secure, he could relax about the monthly payments.

  The sky had darkened and those threatening thunderclouds suddenly burst forth with a pouring rain and angry wind, whipping his car from side to side as he headed down the street. Disregarding the weather, he allowed his mind to drift for a minute. He tittered at the thought of the changes in his life, arriving so quickly, one after another. They said good fortune came in threes, but his was already at four. Besides his job, Wendy had finally agreed to a no-fault divorce; he had exchanged the dumpy rooming house for an apartment in a nice neighborhood on Charles Street; and his girlfriend, Patty, was hot. His wife had never looked so good, even before the baby’s birth.

  And thinking of Patty, he checked the time, noting he was running late for their rendezvous. Her parents didn’t approve of her seeing an older man, especially one with a child and still not divorced, but so what? They’d come around, and if they didn’t, well, who cared? Certainly, not him.

  Phil drove onto the highway leading to Silver Spring. Teeming with excitement, he hit the gas despite the wind. He turned on the radio, playing one of his favorite songs, “American Pie,” and sang along with the chorus: “‘Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and Rye singin’ this’ll be the day that I die.’”

  Visibility worsened, became murky, and Phil was forced to slow down as he tightened his hands on the wheel. Suddenly, he regretted not fixing the buckle on his seat belt. The ends fit but failed to lock. I’ll bring it to the dealership tomorrow, he swore to himself. After moving the lever of the windshield wipers to full force, he glanced up at the rear-view mirror and noticed a large white Cadillac, wavering, but still going top speed. As it tried to pass, it clipped the left side of the Dart’s bumper with enough force to spring open the unlocked glove compartment where Jeremy’s pen now lay. The A.T. Cross ballpoint flew out onto the passenger seat. Phil blanched at the sight, cursing, and his car went into a skid. Not accustomed to driving in such slick conditions, he slammed on the brakes, sending the car further out of control into a near 180-degree spin before heading up an embankment and hitting a tree, dead on. The Cadillac continued down the highway, along with other cars, all occupants indifferent, not wanting to become involved, or too lazy to bother getting out in the downpour. Finally, after a full five minutes a car stopped. A man got out and reached through the broken window. He felt for a pulse. Then turning toward his wife, he lifted his hands, palms up, and shrugged.

  #

  Jo Ellen hadn’t been back to Junkyard Bridge since last fall when that two-timing creep, Joey, pulled a fast one. Her eyes filled like over-watered houseplants, despite ordering herself not to cry. Still, she needed to be here alone, to think.

  She took a deep breath and cracked her knuckles. No one had asked her to the junior prom yet, and with time running out, she felt downright sick. The thought of going with her brother (a mere sophomore) sent flip-flops to her stomach. But what other choice did she have? “I hate boys,” she said.

  A noise in the bushes set her heart racing. She gathered her belongings to rush off, but seeing the tip of a shoe, she froze, almost wetting her pants. A boy stepped into the open. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, staring at Joey. “You scared me to death.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I followed you. I thought you noticed.”

  “Well, I didn’t.” She looked away, not wanting him to see the nervous tic suddenly contorting her mouth. “So what do you want to talk about?”

  “I was wondering … if you don’t have a date yet for the prom, would you go with me?”

  “Aren’t you going with Lisa?” She snuck a peek.

  “I told you months ago that she means nothing to me. Besides, she’s going with someone else. Not that I care!”

  Jo Ellen huffed. “I’ll have to think about it. I sort of made other plans.”

  Joey squirmed, causing an old wooden board t
o squeak. “There’s one other thing I wanted to bring up. The other day in civics class when Mr. Brooks passed that article around, you almost raised your hand.”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “I was wondering why.”

  “Because of the two people in the article. You know, the ones that went missing. Wasn’t that the same weekend we heard a car go off this bridge?”

  “No, they disappeared the following week, but even if it was the same, what’s the big deal? There’s no connection.” He ran his fingers through his hair, causing clumps to stick out like carrot sticks. “Listen Lisa, if you tell anyone we were here, I’ll be in deep shit.”

  “Why?”

  “Remember how I got probation for egging those cars last year? Well, part of the deal was my curfew. If anyone found out I broke it, they can extend my probation or even send me to juvy hall.”

  Lisa laughed. “So you want me to keep my mouth shut. My, my, my.”

  “And don’t forget, you’ll be in trouble too.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. True, I’m supposed to be home by twelve, but since it was months ago, I doubt my parents would make a fuss.”

  “Yeah, but there’s no point in stirring the pot.”

  “I guess you’re right, and like you said, it probably wasn’t even their car. Okay, I won’t say a word. Now what was it you asked me about? Something to do with the prom …”

  #

  Carl dropped Joan off at the airport for an early flight to Tampa. “Call you tonight,” he said. “Say hello to your parents for me.”

  “I will. You still visiting Phil?”

  “Yep. His wife phoned again, said he’s doing somewhat better so he’s cleared for surgery later this morning. I want to speak to her and drop off a card.”

  “He’s lucky Wendy took him back. He would have had nowhere to go. Still, she must be nuts.”

  “She did it for the kid, but I agree.”

  After kissing Joan goodbye, Carl drove to the hospital. He rode the elevator up to orthopedics, finding a somber Phil with his leg in a splint, held off the bed by an overhead system of pulleys and weights. Wendy whispered that his doctors had delayed operating on his leg until today to check that he didn’t have permanent neurological damage. With his confusion and fuzzy memory, they wanted to run tests to help determine if the injury to his brain would heal with time.

  “It looks like it will,” said Wendy, bending over to speak directly into Carl’s ear. “But we won’t know for sure for a while. As for the broken femur, we’re looking at four months minimum for complete healing.”

  A nurse came in to give Phil a pre-op sedative and pain medication.

  “Mind if I step out a bit?” Wendy asked Carl. “They’re not bringing him to the operating room for another half hour, and I could use some coffee.”

  “Sure. Go ahead. I’ll talk to Phil while you’re in the cafeteria.”

  Phil lowered the sheet revealing oozy, bloodshot eyes. “Is she gone?”

  “Yes, but she’ll be back soon.”

  “I sure messed up. All my fault. All my fault.”

  “Wendy loves you,” said Carl. “Thank your lucky stars for that.”

  As the meds took effect, Phil began to drone on, his words getting slurry, forming a hodgepodge. “My fault. Wendy. All my fault. Jeremy. A.T. Cross. The cave. The waterfall.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Carl.

  “Waterfall. Jeremy. Dinky pen cave.”

  “Huh? What’s that about a pen?”

  “A.T. Cross. At the waterfall. Saw it.”

  “You saw Jeremy’s pen? At the waterfall? What happened to it?”

  “Gone all gone with the car. Gone, gone, gone, Gonna sleep now. Gonna sleep.” His lips flapped like two sheets of paper, placed on a desk near a fan. He began to snore.

  “You sonofabitch,” swore Carl under his breath, as Wendy returned with two medical assistants in her wake.

  “Time to take you to surgery,” said one of the white-coated men.

  Carl left without saying good luck or leaving his get-well card. Steaming, he sat in his car, his mind honing in with a tunnel-vision fixation, as he obsessed over Phil’s disclosure. True, Phil was fuzzy brained, but he had made enough sense to be plausible.

  At work, he explained the situation to Jeff. “With the pen gone, no one’s going to spend more time or effort at Dinky Cave.”

  “Why would they?” said Jeff. “Money’s tight and they already checked it out.”

  Carl pressed his thumb into his chin. “Knowing Phil, he’ll deny ever seeing the pen, or, thanks to his concussion, forget about it after surgery.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Jeff. “Still it can’t hurt to make some phone calls. Use your extension and don’t worry about the long-distance charges.”

  Carl’s first call was to the West Virginian detective who’d been involved in the initial investigation. Just as Carl presumed, concrete evidence was necessary to justify sending out another search party.

  “Your sick co-worker is probably hallucinating, delusional, or confused,” said the detective. “I’m sorry. Call back if you have more to go on.”

  Carl gnashed his teeth. After a third mug of coffee, he called the chairman of his local speleological society. “I’ll check around and get back to you in a couple of hours.”

  By mid-afternoon, Carl had been put in touch with two brothers from Pocahontas County in West Virginia, who had volunteered to meet him the next day.

  “Say, eleven o’clock?”

  “Sounds good. And thanks.”

  With Jeff’s blessing he was given the day off.

  #

  After waking at six a.m., Carl ate a quick breakfast, fed Boots, and left. He drove on autopilot: shift—gas, shift—brake. With each mile, he fine-tuned his course of action: drive straight through to the cave, check inside, and be back in time to call Joan in Florida.

  A burning sensation in his bladder signaled the need for a slight modification to his plan. Looking about, he saw a sign for a restaurant just over the border and turned off the road. After using the facilities, he checked his watch, and having time to spare, thought he might as well get something to eat. May be my last chance before I hit the cave.

  All the booths were taken so Carl took a seat at the counter.

  “Coffee?” asked the waitress.

  “Sure,” he said.

  The waitress poured. “If you’re hungry, the house special’s our best deal.” She pointed to a large menu board hanging on the wall.

  For a moment Carl considered ordering baked beans, remembering Jeremy’s fondness for them, then laughed since he hated the taste. “Actually, I’ll just have an English muffin, lightly buttered.”

  “No problem,” she said, “and if you want, we have free pastries today. All kinds. They’re leftovers from Betty’s party. You just missed it by one day. Everyone was invited, even customers.”

  “Betty?” Who’s Betty?”

  “Didn’t you see her picture on the door? It’s also in the newspaper”—she handed him one from the counter. “She was a waitress here. What a character. I’m sure gonna miss her.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t notice. You know, I don’t particularly like anything sweet in the morning. I’ll just stick with the English muffin. Thanks, anyway.”

  “More coffee then?”

  “Yes, please, it’s damn—I mean darn good.”

  After pouring a second cup, the waitress walked off to place his order.

  While waiting, Carl skimmed through the local newspaper. On page two was a grainy picture of Betty in front of the entrance, a sign above reading KATE’S PLACE. She held a coffee pot in one hand and a menu in the other. He shrugged, wondering if Betty could have been the waitress mentioned in the initial investigation, then kicked himself because he’d never bothered to learn her name or that of the restaurant either. Probably not her and besides it wouldn’t have mattered. Looking closer at the photo, he chuckled at the c
orny image of small-town life, almost wishing he’d never left home for Baltimore. Been nothing but one problem after another.

  After a third refill, he continued the drive, blocking out all thoughts but one: solving the mystery. “And I will, Jeremy,” he swore out loud. “No matter what, I’ll solve it today.” When he arrived two hours later, he was surprised by how quickly time had passed and that he had gnawed a raw spot in his lower lip.

  The sun was high in the sky as three teenage boys exited the cave, but still there was no sign of the volunteers. He got out, opened the trunk, and reached inside for his helmet, groaning when he saw its broken carbide lamp. No big deal. All he needed was his flashlight and the spare batteries in his glove compartment.

  He checked his watch. At a quarter past eleven a car pulled up. A young girl, perhaps sixteen, got out. “Sorry,” she said, “There’s been a family emergency and no one can come. My cousins tried calling, but you’d already left.” She shrugged. “You might as well go in by yourself. If you stick to the main path you should be fine. Everyone knows this is a baby cave.”

  Carl jangled his keys. “That’s great, just great.” But after coming this far, there was no way he’d turn back, three-person rule or not. Anyway, Dinky Cave isn’t a real cave, he told himself. Like the girl said, it’s just a small underground pit that local teens use for orgies.

  During his snake crawl through the tunnel, Carl juggled the flashlight from hand to hand. As a result, he wound up with torn sleeves and a few abrasions on his forearms. The rocky road down to the main section, however, had been further leveled by an increase in foot traffic, making it easy as pie. Although the cigarette butt was long gone, he didn’t need it to find his way to the correct passage. “And now on to the waterfall,” he said out loud, counting as he passed the first two offshoots.