The Vanishing Girls

by Callie Browning

  “Holding on,” Mrs James said with a slight lift of a bony shoulder as she held out a tattered envelope to Holden. Her fingers lingered on the edges of the package before she bit her bottom lip and looked away.

  “Thank you very much, Mrs James. It’s unfortunate that we met under these circumstances, but I wish you and your family all the best.” Holden handed her the receipt for her final payment. “I hope that we offered you some comfort during this difficult time.”

  Mrs James shook her head in disbelief as she stared at the envelope. “I was saving that for Lydia to go overseas and study to be a chef.”

  A tear slipped down Eileen’s face. She saw Holden look at it as though unsure what to do with it now that he knew the funds symbolized her child’s hopes and dreams. “I’ll bet she was quite the cook,” was all he could say.

  “Yes… she was talented with food. Last thing she did was get a little part-time job to pay for her plane fare.”

  Holden bowed his head. “They say that only the good die young. In this particular instance, it’s painfully true.”

  That was too much for her mother; Ernesta excused herself and went back into the house. Holden took his time coming back down the path to get into the car.

  “Lydia was my age,” Eileen said slowly as a muffled wail came from inside the house. “When I took this job, I only thought about old and sick people; not healthy young women with so much potential.”

  Holden looked at her, his eyes speculative, and rested his hands on his knees. “This isn’t easy, and neither is it what you’d imagine it to be. The hard part about these situations is that those who remain are left to puzzle over what they could have done.”

  Eileen exhaled, sorry gripping her heart as she asked, “Don’t these things haunt you?”

  “It’s not the dead who haunt you; it’s the living with their tears and worries and problems. You’d be surprised what people confess when their minds are heavy with grief. I’m both a mortician and a counsellor. Someone who relieves their pain, but also easily aggravates it. It’s a difficult thing to straddle this line between the living and the dead.”

  “How do you do it?”

  His smile was benign, his eyes patient. “By listening, but not absorbing. Sympathizing, but not empathizing. There’s a lot of freedom in this job if you let it be so.”

  She eyed him warily. He snickered at the look on her face.

  “Yes: freedom. Death is the point at which the living reconcile everything. It’s the finale; no longer is hindsight 20/20 because there are no other options to exhaust. So…” he clasped his hands. “…instead of focusing on how sad a family is, I learn from them. What did the deceased do right in life? What financial mistakes did they make that I can avoid? Are marriages of convenience worth it? Did particular circumstances cost them their life?”

  Eileen bit her lip and considered his words. She couldn’t deny the wisdom behind it. She had assumed he would revel in the macabre given his line of work, but Holden's optimistic outlook surprised her.

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” she conceded. “But how do you get past the emotion to arrive at the lessons?”

  “This business makes me boil everything down to one question: who and what would I need to sustain myself if I were stranded on a desert island? When I think of it like that, life isn’t so hard anymore.”

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT, Eileen gazed out the window at the bushy pasture next to her apartment. Sandflies buzzed against the dusty mosquito screen, fluttering in the light winds that blew in from the northeast. Downstairs, the baby awakened his mother at 1 a.m. to feed and the bus driver who lived next door entered his house with a weary yawn an hour later. Eileen had grown accustomed to this new monotony of the night, a dark reality that she resented having to embrace. She had poured a glass of brown rum as she watched the news, a recent addition to her nightly routine. Each night she grew more jittery about turning on the TV. The headlines could go either way: another woman could have been found, or the killer might have been apprehended. Tonight, neither option materialized. The only assurance that the commissioner offered to the public was that the police force had stepped up neighbourhood patrols and they were was still investigating the serial murders.

  After she had turned off the TV, her nerves were still on edge as she thought about her day. Many parts of it stood out, but more than anything else, her mind replayed Holden’s words: “Who and what would I need?” It was a statement so childishly parabolic, that at first, Eileen didn’t think much of it. But as the day went on, the universe conspired to illustrate his point.

  Earlier that evening, as Eileen walked out of the funeral parlour, a little girl toddled away from her mother and stepped into the path of an oncoming bus. The wheels turned, the gears shifted, and the bus picked up speed as that little person kept moving further into the driver’s blind spot while she blew spit bubbles with her mouth. Inertia gripped Eileen. Her chest grew tight and her stomach flipped. And then everything happened in slow motion. The mother flung her handbag and a crate of eggs on the sidewalk and scooped up the child, instincts kicking in long before the tears did. The woman’s emotions came out as a scolding garble of words and tears that competed with the startled child’s red-faced sobbing.

  The mother retrieved her handbag and went on her way, the broken eggs abandoned and laid waste on the sidewalk. Still in shock, Eileen watched the eggs go from floating balls of sunshine to a muddled mess that mixed with two fat wads of pink chewing gum before they slid down the rain gutter.

  How many times did people say they’d grab a treasured photo or memento if the house was burning? When forced to pare down our possessions, how many things does one have to leave behind for the good of a healthy future?

  Her past felt like that crate of eggs. Theoretically healthy, but Eileen didn’t even like eggs, nor was she proud of the choices she had made if it came down to it.

  She looked around the apartment and cringed at the state of her existence. She saw it in the pile of unread books, the unhung art on the floor, the junky closet with the previous tenant’s belongings. Her thoughts drifted to Holden. As much as she poked fun at him, she found him to be fascinating. Eileen was impressed by his wisdom, and his diplomacy was enviable: he didn’t sugar-coat things and his habit of weighing his words was one that Eileen wanted desperately to learn from. If only she’d exercised that caution with her words, her life might have been very different today. She got up and dug around in her bag, extracting a cloth and a length of wire that she pulled taut. Now was the time to surround herself with the things that she wanted her life to manifest.

  Chapter 7

  Mouth Open, Story Jump Out

  In the six weeks that Eileen had been at the funeral home, Holden noticed that she sat outside on the picnic bench with Clifford every Friday evening to drink beer. More than once Holden had stayed behind to peer at them through the bathroom window, feeling like a churlish schoolboy whenever he did. He’d considered wandering outside to join them more than once, but he worried that Clifford would find his actions odd and say something. Finally, on the sixth Friday, fortune smiled on him when at four o’clock, a call came for a collection at the geriatric hospital. He waited until Clifford had driven off the lot and into the evening traffic before he picked up two beers and pushed open the back door. Eileen sat atop the table with her feet resting on the bench and eating biscuits out of a plastic bag when he joined her.

  “Want a beer?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “One: I’m off the clock and therefore within my rights to cuss, so don’t be alarmed if anything slips. Two: I didn’t know you drank beer.”

  Holden had a penchant for fine champagne, well-aged cognacs and even the occasional Irish whiskey if he was feeling particularly rambunctious, but it wasn’t for Eileen to know that. “Whatever gave you that notion?”

  She smirked. “Let’s just say that if I was a betting woman, I doubt I’d lose my shirt on that particular wager.”<
br />
  “Why is that?”

  Eileen bit the inside of her lip, but her eyes were alight with mischief, reminiscent of the twinkle in her eyes on the night he’d hired her. “You forgot the opener.”

  Holden looked down at the beers and realized with dismay that they were indeed covered with bottle caps.

  “You don’t know how to open them without an opener, do you?” She reached over and took the two bottles, flicking the caps against each other so quickly that Holden had no idea that she’d opened one of them until he heard a metallic ping when the cap landed next to him. She took the other beer and a soft carbonated hiss sounded when she prised off the cap with her back teeth before she handed it to him.

  “Now you know two ways to open beer bottles.”

  Holden grunted. “Not really; still not sure what you did with the first one.”

  Eileen broke into a fit of giggles. “I like that you’re honest.”

  Holden sipped the beer and smacked his mouth as though he’d swallowed a mouthful of grey mopping water. “A well-aged cognac, this is not.”

  Eileen grinned. “Biscuit?”

  Hoping that the sweet flavour would help to untie the knots in his tastebuds, Holden reached inside the bag and said in surprise, “But they’re broken.”

  “I know. That’s what makes them taste so good.” She looked at him quizzically for a moment before she said, “You’ve never had broken biscuits from the biscuit factory? It’s practically a right of passage for every Bajan.”

  Holden studied the biscuit in his palm with the imprint of a tiny chattel house etched in its golden surface. He enjoyed sweet biscuits but usually, when they looked like this, he’d already taken a bite.

  “I can’t say I have.” He nibbled the biscuit and his eyebrows shot up. “You’re right… but why does it taste better?”

  Eileen smiled. “I have no idea, but why fight it?”

  He grinned and sipped his beer again.

  She chewed and tilted her head back to catch the last rays of dying sunlight. “I’m kinda glad you came outside today. I saw you watching us from the bathroom and I figured it’s gotta be kinda lonely — not to mention, smelly — in there.”

  He averted his eyes. How the hell had she seen him?

  “I didn’t say that to embarrass you or anything.”

  “And yet, you’ve done just that.”

  “Sorry,” she said, sincerity etched on her face. “I’ve realized recently that I’d do well to take a leaf out of your book and think before I speak, but I admit that it’s a work in progress.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with how you express yourself; rough honesty is better than a gentle lie. But I’m glad you feel inspired.”

  “Yeah… I’m learning a lot from you and Clifford.”

  Holden’s face soured. He shook his beer gently and said, “I take it that Clifford’s company is scintillating enough that you spend your evenings here instead of with your…loved ones.”

  Eileen shrugged. “I’ve only been here a few weeks and I’ve got some bills to catch up on; I can’t exactly be blowing my money on wild hobbies.”

  Holden had to hand it to Eileen; she had responded, but she didn’t answer.

  “So do you have any hobbies…maybe some that you like to do with…others?”

  “I go to the library on Saturdays and I spend Sundays reading and cleaning.” She looked across the car park toward Buckworth Street. The after-work rush had subsided and now only a handful of vehicles went up and down the road. Eileen dusted her hands on her skirt and handed Holden the biscuits before she descended from her perch on the table. “I’m going to skedaddle now that traffic has eased up.” She smiled as she reached for his empty beer bottle. “I’ll take that. And…it was nice talking to you. I had fun.”

  She took both bottles with her to the car, started it and drove off, honking the horn twice as she careened down the road. Eileen had grown more and more perplexing as the days went on. Her afro was as big as her attitude and Holden had never been exposed to antics as quirky as hers. He’d hoped to learn more about her but all he’d been able to gather was that she was thrifty; she’d probably taken the empty bottles to claim the deposits at the bottle depot. But he had to admit that he’d never imagined that he could have so much fun drinking beer and eating broken biscuits.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY was quiet. Clifford and Holden were at a funeral and Eileen was left to lock up since they wouldn’t return until after closing. It was the first time Eileen had experienced such quietude at work. With no incoming calls or filing to do, the solitude soon turned to boredom and Eileen spent the bulk of the afternoon spinning in her chair and staring at the ceiling.

  Later in life, Eileen would question if fate intervened when she accidentally spun too quickly, sending her chair crashing into Holden’s desk and knocking over his treasured obituary book with a heavy thud. Yellowing scraps of news-sheet checkered the book’s white pages like a deathly chessboard as it fell open on the floor. Lydia James’ face smiled back at her, a pretty pawn in a madman’s game. Eileen bit her lip as she picked it up. She’d never looked at it before; she found the idea of keeping pictures of dead people to be creepy and she was never entirely sure why Holden relished the notion. Eileen flipped through the book until she found the Slasher’s victims, each of them barely separated by a few pages. She shuddered. With no way to predict who else might attract the killer’s attention, who knew how many more young women would soon fill the book’s pages? The thought sent a chill down her spine.

  The only connection between the victims was that they were young and came from humble neighbourhoods. Using that profile, half the island was at risk, including herself. Eileen massaged her forehead and glanced at the time. Mercifully, the clock on the wall told her it was time to lock up and go home.

  Traffic was intense: buses, trucks and cars were at a standstill on the busy road. Only a snow-cone vendor was able to wend his way through the tangle of vehicles, his even pace propelling his bicycle and its large ice-box mounted on the front. Down the road, a man was loading animal feed onto a donkey cart as the supermarket manager pulled the sliding doors together and secured them with a padlock and a heavy chain.

  Eileen tossed her bag into the car and slid behind the wheel. As she was about to pull onto Buckworth Street, a hand snaked through the open passenger window, flipped the lock and yanked open the door. Eyes wide, Eileen was about to slam her foot on the gas when in tumbled her nosy neighbour, Debra.

  Chest heaving and arms sweating, Debra flopped down on the seat with two large grocery bags.

  “Oh…g-good evening,” stammered Eileen.

  “Good thing I see you before you pulled off,” Debra wheezed as she settled into the seat. She glanced at the sign on the building behind them and her eyes lit up. “Wait…one of your family dead? What you doing at the funeral home?”

  “Oh, well, I…” Eileen hesitated, wondering if to risk karma’s wrath in case the universe punished her for lying. “…I was just turning around in the car park.”

  “Oh… alright,” Debra pouted as though juicy gossip was more important than if Eileen’s family was alive and well. “Thanks for offering to drop me home,” Debra said as she shoved her handbags onto the backseat.

  Offering? Eileen raised an eyebrow. Debra would only worsen her headache. Eileen had to find a way to get her out. “But I’m not going home yet. I’ve got a stop to make and I don’t want to keep you.”

  Debra’s eyes lit up. “That’s perfect. I was wondering why you does leave home at all hours of the day and night.” She beamed at Eileen. “You could explain as you drive.”

  Eileen rolled her eyes as she eased her rumbling car slowly into the traffic. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got a headache and don’t really feel like talking.”

  Debra nodded knowingly. “Probably from trying to figure out what happened to Anna, the girl who lived in your apartment before. But, don’t worry; I’m
gonna tell you now.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Eileen. Her temples started to pound.

  “She is one of them girls that get kill by the Cane Slasher.”

  Eileen’s ears perked up. “The serial killer murdered someone who lived in my apartment?”

  “Yes, girl,” Debra effused with the air of someone with a captive audience. She smacked her lips and leaned in as she stage-whispered, “The day she went missing, I see a man lurking in a car by the apartment. A tall, slim fellow. He waited outside for over an hour.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  Debra snorted. “Them ain’t ask me nothing, so how I going to tell them?”

  Eileen made a mental note to mention this detail to Holden so he could pass it on to Derricks. It might just be the clue the police needed to make the country safe again.

  “Had you seen him before?”

  “No, that’s why I noticed him. This fellow looked real twitchy like he didn't up to no good. He had on a brown uniform, kinda like what the road works men does wear. Name tag say he name J. Walker.”

  “How did you see his name tag?” Eileen was flabbergasted by the depth of Debra's details.

  “How you think I know he was waiting for Anna? My mother always used to say if you want to know, you would ask. So I went and ask him what he was doing there.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  Debra pursed her lips, glanced at Eileen’s cracked dashboard and said, “It was old and rusty like this, except it was brown.”

  Eileen ignored her and asked, “Anything else you remember?”

  “Yeah, he hair coulda use a good combing.” Debra gave Eileen a knowing look. “A man who looks that rusty is capable of anything.”