Keeper

by Michael Garrett

  The letter was almost finished. Liz Farrell was writing to Jeffrey, a former pen pal from Rochester, New York with whom she’d fallen out of contact over the past couple of years. The thought had recently struck her that young Jeff might well have been drafted and if he was serving in Vietnam, might be badly in need of a friend back home. Wherever he might be, if his parents still lived at the same address, perhaps they would forward the letter to him.

  Liz felt foolish at being stumped by how to sign the damn thing. “Love Ya!,” which they’d both used before, seemed too juvenile at this stage of life. Finally, she settled on “Sincerely”. Funny, she thought, how the simplest solutions were often the last to come to mind.

  Ignoring a gentle knock at the front door, she heard her mother’s footsteps tapping down the hardwood hallway to answer the door. She heard the blinds on the front door rattle open, then a brief moment of silence. Finally her mother gasped and uttered, “Nancy!

  So her body had been found at last, Liz thought. What a relief! But then her mother’s excited voice broke into sobs—oddly enough, sobs of happiness. “Nancy!” she said it again. There was a commotion at the door and Liz could hear Aunt Helen burst out, “Oh my God—she’s alive!”

  Liz scrambled to the living room and couldn’t believe her eyes. There Nancy stood, as alive as she’d ever been! But she was dressed very peculiarly and there was something different about her—the vibrancy she’d always been noted for was gone. But where on earth had she been?

  Liz pushed past her mother, but Aunt Helen and Uncle Ralph were clinging to their daughter’s side like leeches, moaning and crying uncontrollably. Finally, Nancy peered over her mother’s shoulder, tears streaming from her eyes.

  “Lizzie!” she sobbed. “Oh, God, it’s so good to see you.”

  Liz forced herself between Helen and Ralph to deliver a sharp hug. Trying to push them away, Nancy said laughingly, “Hey, folks—I can’t breathe!”

  Ralph escorted his daughter to the sofa and for a moment silence filled the room—everyone stood spellbound. Finally Helen sniffled, wiped away her tears and asked, “Nanny, where have you been?”

  They waited breathlessly for her response, as Nancy, taken off guard, wondered what to say. There simply hadn’t been time to think about it.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” she muttered, drying her tears. “Well, there was this accident, and … and …”

  Nancy stopped in midsentence, confused by the emotion building inside her. It was an empty, lonely feeling and she suddenly found herself overcome with sadness.

  “What’s the matter, honey?” her father whispered, placing an arm around her shoulders, and noticing how pale and weak she looked.

  In her mind Nancy saw Wayne, not as a monster or a kidnapper, but meek and timid, plain and simple Wayne. Where was he now?

  She burst into tears, her chest heaving so hard that her relatives promptly vacated the sofa so she could lie down.

  Her face etched with worry, Helen stared at Martha. “Please call a doctor,” Helen said, her voice cracking from the strain.

  The Mason household stood ominously still and quiet in the late afternoon as Sheriff Arnold stopped his patrol car outside. Shutting off the ignition, he sat behind the steering wheel, the tick of the cooling engine the only audible sound until, suddenly, the boy’s dog rounded the corner of the house, growling. Swinging the screen door to its outermost limit, young Nat bounded from inside the house, and led the dog to its familiar shed. Skipper twisted and turned in the boy’s grasp, making every effort to escape, but finally succumbed to Nat‘s sheer determination.

  Preacher stepped from the house to the front porch wearing an uneven smile. But why? What could the man possibly have to be happy about? Sheriff Arnold watched questioningly from behind the steering wheel.

  As the sheriff slowly got out of the car, Preacher descended the front steps. “Mr. Sheriff, there’s somethin’ you need to know about that purse,” he said. “You see, my youngest boy found that purse and took the money. He told me about it just this evenin'. And Demetrius, you see, he had nothin’ to do with—”

  The sheriff hung his head and motioned to the front door. “Can we go inside?” he asked softly.

  Observing the lawman’s solemn expression, Preacher rushed up the steps and opened the door for the sheriff to pass through. Sheriff Arnold stood inside the living room and glanced through the doorway into the kitchen. “Is Maybelle able to get up?” he asked.

  Preacher slowly shook his head. “She ain’t been doin’ too good. The doctor, he gave her some medicine to make her sleep.”

  “We’ll let her rest, then,” said the sheriff with a deep sigh.

  “Did y’all find my boy?” Preacher asked. “Can I see him?”

  Sheriff Arnold fumbled with his hat and avoided the colored man’s eyes before finally locking stares. “Preacher, your boy died this evenin'.”

  A blank expression seized Preacher’s face. “Dead? But how? Who -?”

  “Rayburn did it. He killed his three companions, then took off on his own. He was already wanted for rape and murder in Tennessee, we learned. But he’s dead now, too. Got shot during an attempted holdup down in Dothan.”

  A trickle of tears glided down the dark man’s cheeks. “But … he was so … young and innocent.”

  “I know he was,” the sheriff said. “Just made a mistake gettin’ mixed up with the wrong crowd, that’s all.”

  Preacher sniffled, covering his face with both hands. “It was the Lord’s callin',” he sobbed. “It was time for Demetrius to go. And it’s not for us to question, but to—”

  Suddenly Preacher stopped and stood frozen, gazing out a nearby window. “Damn!” he suddenly cursed. “Shit!” he roared, getting down on his knees to the floor, and pounding the flimsy coffee table with his fist.

  Sheriff Arnold looked on, open-mouthed and at a loss for words.

  Abruptly, his chest heaving, Preacher began to wail loudly and pitifully. His eyes overflowed as he lifted his face to the ceiling. “Forgive me, Lord,” he cried. “I’ve served you good, and I don’t mean to be disrespectful. But I can’t help but be angry with You, Lord. Please forgive me. I’m just a man, Lord. Just a wore-out, ol’ man …” he cried, his voice tapering off to deep sobs.

  Drying the tears from his own eyes, the sheriff then helped the bereaved father to his feet and seated him on the sofa. With a ballpoint pen he scribbled a telephone number on a scrap of paper and offered it to Preacher.

  “If there’s anything I can do, call me,” he said.

  Preacher took the paper and nodded.

  “Is there somebody I can notify to come and stay with you? To comfort you and your wife?” the sheriff asked.

  Preacher shook his head. “The Lord gives us all the comfort we need,” he sobbed.

  Sheriff Arnold stood, patted the sorrowful man on the shoulder, and stepped away, hesitating at the door. “I lost a deputy today, too,” he said. “Died of a rock slide in the cave where your boy was found.” The sheriff noted the pain and anguish in the bereaved father’s face. “But he wasn’t half the man your son was,” he added.

  17

  Wednesday

  Day Six

  At a roadside picnic table near Winona, Mississippi, Wayne Crocker finally fell asleep. He lay tangled in an uncomfortable angle across the front seat of the Chevy, exhausted and confused, and, at the moment, indifferent as to whether he might be discovered by the police. All was lost.

  And worst of all, Nancy was out of his life.

  Unable to sleep for most of the night, Edith Crocker tossed and turned in a strange bed. Her life had taken a sudden turn for the worse, and at the moment she found it difficult to cope. Lying awake, listening to the floor furnace click on and off in the hall, she reviewed the day’s events.

  James had been drunk when she’d picked him up at the doctor’s office, and when they got home, he had wrecked her china cabinet. They’d had a violent argument, the worst
of their entire marriage. James flew into such a rage, Edith was afraid he would aggravate his injury further. He mumbled incoherently, hurling verbal abuse left and right. Finally she walked out and stormed across the open hillside to Wayne’s trailer, hoping he might have left the door unlocked, but the place was sealed tight.

  She had walked to the nearest neighbor, Lois Baines, and phoned her sister in Talladega. Immediately, Annie came to her rescue, driving to pick her up and bring her back home to Talladega. Tears rolled down Edith’s cheeks. She cursed her years of dependence. Having dropped out of high school her junior year and worked in a five-and-dime for only three short months before marrying James, she’d never supported herself, never even learned to drive. Now, a tremendous adjustment lay ahead. Of course, she could live with Wayne awhile. He had told her before that anytime she needed breathing room, she would be welcome at his place. But Wayne was nowhere to be found and she had more to worry about than she could possibly stand.

  Something strange had been happening in Wayne’s life. He’d ignored her for the past several days, much unlike her son, especially in light of the immense pride he held in his mobile home. Wayne was all she had left in the world, and now even he had seemed to have disappeared.

  Edith rolled to her side and prayed. She’d lost count of the one-sided conversations she’d had with God during this long, sleepless night. With a concluding verbal “Amen,” she lay on her back and stared through the darkness at the illuminated clockface on a chest of drawers across the room. Abruptly the furnace clicked on again. She concentrated on the vibration of its metal grill in the hallway.

  It seemed as if morning would never come.

  Reports of the astounding appearance of Nancy Sue Barnett spread quickly across the southern region, many smaller broadcasting stations deeming the story newsworthy enough to interrupt normal programming with a special bulletin. Representative of the newscasts was the following from WBAM, Montgomery:

  “As a dramatic follow up to last week’s bizarre but tragic automobile accident in Shelby County, Sheriff Chester Arnold announced early this morning that Nancy Barnett, presumed dead, has been found alive and well. Searchers along Kelley Creek, where the Barnett automobile plunged over a dismantled bridge, had been baffled by unsuccessful dragging efforts. Sheriff Arnold refused to elaborate on the whereabouts of Mrs. Barnett for the past several days, but stated that the probe continues.

  “Meanwhile, speculation hints of a conspiracy in the death of Charles Barnett. Sources close to the Barnetts confirmed that the young couple had been embroiled in marital problems for quite some time. Sheriff Arnold again refused to comment on this or any other aspect of the accident.

  “In a related story, Shelby County District Attorney Albert Reynolds insists that this latest development will have no bearing on negligence charges against Arbor Construction Company. Reynolds maintains that the safety of Alabama highways remains high on his list of priorities.”

  As he approached Texarkana on Highway 82, Wayne envisioned a grainy photo of himself plastered across the front page of The Birmingham News, with a headline that read, “Kidnapper Sought in Disappearance of Accident Victim”. He wondered how much of the story had been released to the public, and exactly what his parents knew. Of course, Dad had already figured it out. Was he cooperating with the police? Were detectives now swarming over his empty trailer, taking fingerprints and gathering evidence for prosecution?

  It was his mother he was most worried about. He’d left her alone to deal with an unreliable husband who would become even more of a burden following his injury. For weeks, Wayne had expected his Mom to move in with him temporarily, to escape her husband’s abuse. But now she was likely ashamed and embarrassed by her son’s actions. And that’s what hurt most. Aside from the pain and anguish he’d caused Nancy, his own mother would now suffer as well.

  He had to talk to her, to try to explain.

  Soon he found a convenient telephone booth and got several dollars in change from a nearby service station. With the operator on the line, Wayne deposited the appropriate coins and waited for the connection. How would he begin? What exactly would he say?

  The telephone grew sweaty in his grasp. His heart pounded harder, his mouth was cottony, his lips trembling. The telephone began to ring at the other end of the line. One ring. Two. Three. And then, no longer able to take the tension building inside, he slammed the receiver to its cradle and ran to his car.

  In the far off reaches of his mind, James Crocker heard the telephone ring. Its clanging sound aggravated the spinning confusion inside his head. He rolled over in bed, opened his eyes, and smelled his own vomit.

  “Answer the goddamn phone!” he yelled, unaware that Edith was away at her sister’s.

  After three short rings, the telephone stopped and James returned to a deep, distant sleep.

  Edith Crocker was overjoyed at the news of Nancy Barnett’s reappearance. Edith had been acquainted with the Farrells for years and remembered a time long ago when Martha had stopped by the house for a brief social call. Accompanying her was her young daughter, Lizzie, and Nancy, her niece. The two girls were so cute, dressed in matching cowgirl outfits, pigtails dangling below their necks—Edith remembered the scene well because, at the time, she’d wanted Wayne to come out and talk to the girls. But he’d locked himself in his room, too bashful to speak, and Edith, embarrassedly, had had to apologize for him.

  So now Nancy was alive, almost as if she’d returned from the grave. Proves you should never give up, Edith thought, as her own problems came back to mind.

  There was still no answer at Wayne’s trailer. Edith hung up the phone, surrendering a last hope that he might have returned home. Should she report his disappearance to the police? But, of course, Wayne couldn’t get in touch with her—he had no way of knowing she was in Talladega. Perhaps she should go home and demand that James leave the house. Then Wayne would have a chance to call before she reported him missing. Annie would naturally try to talk her out of it. And if it weren’t for Wayne, she wouldn’t even consider going back.

  But it seemed the only proper thing to do.

  Though Nancy’s eyelids remained heavy, she slowly forced them open. Bedside conversations seemed to come to her as if from a distance, and her head felt light and dizzy, her vision blurred.

  Slowly, steadily, the images around her bed began to come into focus. A nurse was taking her blood pressure. She saw a policeman, her cousin Liz, Aunt Martha and Uncle Tom, her parents—they were all at her side, flashing broad, happy smiles. She tried to speak, but the words failed to come.

  God, she thought. I feel like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Could it all have been a dream? So much had happened …

  “Nancy?” her mother said. “Can you hear me, honey?”

  “Mom?” she whispered.

  Helen Anderson leaned over to embrace her daughter as the others crowded close by.

  “Excuse me,” the nurse called to the group in a stern voice. “You folks’ll have to spread out, so the patient can breathe.”

  Ralph Anderson squeezed his daughter’s hand and felt teardrops tickle his chin. “Nanny, it’s nice to see you smile again,” he said.

  Her parents huddled at her side until Deputy Granger cleared his throat, hinting for an introduction.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Ralph apologized. “Honey, this is Deputy Jesse Granger from the Shelby County Sheriffs Office.”

  Granger nodded. “I’m pleased to meet you, Ma’am.”

  Nancy glanced at the uniformed officer, then scanned the other faces in the room.

  “He’d like to ask you a few questions,” her father added.

  The house reeked of beer and vomit when Edith arrived, and James sat on the living room sofa, his shoulders slumped, his face stubbled with two days’ growth.

  “Get out,” she said calmly as she entered the room.

  He looked up from the television with a questioning glance.

  “Get out, I said,” s
he repeated.

  “Now, Edie, let’s not go through this again—”

  “If you’re not out of this house in five minutes,” she interrupted, “I’m callin’ the law.”

  “Aw, shit—leave me alone, will you?” he drawled.

  Edith went to the bedroom for a change of clothing and gagged at the smell of the puke-ridden bed. She held her breath as she gathered slacks and a blouse from a closet and quickly went into the bathroom.

  James returned his attention to the television where he had just learned that the Barnett woman had mysteriously reappeared. Wayne had been involved with her disappearance, he was certain, though the trailer had been empty and the boy’s name had yet to be mentioned in any newscast. Obviously the cops were keeping it quiet, for some reason. Hell, who could figure out why the law did things like that? But at least the woman was alive. And James believed that his own confrontation with Wayne might have saved her. Since the girl would tell everything, there was no need for him, James, to get involved.

  Edith returned to the living room in her clean outfit, waving away the putrid fumes that violated every corner of the house. “I’m worried about Wayne,” she said. “Have you heard from him?”

  “He’s all right,” James answered.

  “How do you know?” she snapped. “Have you heard from him?”

  James leaned back on the sofa and snarled, “The nurse said he was goin’ away for awhile. Said not to worry.”

  Edith stared him down. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” James slurred. “Shit, give me a break.”

  She opened her mouth to deliver a verbal beating, then stopped short and flashed a cold stare instead.

  James stalled, considering his next move. Maybe it would be best if he did get out of the house, give Edith a chance to cool off. By suppertime, she’d welcome him home.