When a child is taken, a mother must accept that it is for the best.
The letter was unsigned.
With her heart caught in her throat and her face growing ashen, Rachel heaved a ragged breath.
“Call George!”
Helen grabbed the phone, and her fingers flew around the dial. It had been two, maybe three years since she’d called the store, but the number was forever printed on her heart. In earlier years she’d called it a thousand or more times to ask what Henry would like for dinner or if he’d be working late. When George answered, his voice sounded so like Henry it startled her.
“Something’s happened,” she said and told of the letter. “This person spoke of her mother, so they’re referring to a girl. It could be—”
Before she finished, George said, “I’m on my way!”
Moments later Helen called the sheriff’s office and told Wilson the same thing she’d told George.
“I’ll be right over,” he answered.
The two men arrived at the house minutes apart.
There was no supper that evening, and Helen did not drive home as she had the other nights. Sheriff Wilson questioned both women about how the letter had arrived. Was it dropped at the door? Delivered by hand? Had they seen anyone near the mailbox? Did they know of any person who might have surreptitiously slid the letter between the phone bill and the Sears circular? Question after question came at them, but Helen and Rachel could do little more than answer with baffled shrugs.
For the first time in all the days Helen had spent at the house, Rachel sat beside her and held tight to her hand.
“I think this will lead us to Emmy,” Rachel whispered.
“God willing.”
Helen wanted to believe it, but she couldn’t shake loose the memory of the night Henry died. It was the sheriff who’d called and said, A mild heart attack. He’ll be fine once he gets to the hospital. Henry wasn’t fine; he was gone before the hour was out.
Helen clung tightly to the slender hand she held in her own.
Emmy is just a baby. Please, God, watch over her and keep her safe.
That evening two of the sheriff’s part-time deputies were called to Yellowwood Road. They dusted the Dixon mailbox for fingerprints, searched the yard for marks of a prowler, then went door to door asking about the mail carrier, unfamiliar faces, and cars pulled to the side of the road. After the sky darkened they continued, following flashlight beams as they moved about.
Sheriff Wilson remained inside with the family, asking the same questions over and over again, adding in a new thought or structuring the sentences differently in hopes of pulling loose some small fact that had been overlooked: an unusual sound, a car door slamming, a stranger in need of directions. The clock struck midnight, and when George insisted Rachel get some rest, the sheriff left.
In the morning Wilson was standing at the door before the Hesterville post office opened. For more than two hours he questioned the postmaster and Zack Cramer, the mail carrier assigned to Yellowwood Road. Like the Dixons, they had no answers. It was a plain, ordinary envelope, one of the hundreds that passed through their hands each day.
It was near noon when he finally left the post office. He stopped at the luncheonette, bought a can of Coca-Cola and a ham sandwich, then returned to his desk. As he ate, he pulled a road atlas from the drawer and reluctantly mapped out the nine-hour drive from Hesterville to Culvert Creek, Kentucky.
WYNNE BLUFFS
For two days after the big blowup he’d had with Vicki, Murphy didn’t mention taking the baby back. They went from day to day avoiding each other’s touch and barely speaking. In the evening they sat on opposite sides of the room, him stiff-necked in the club chair, her on the sofa with her legs folded beneath her and the baby in her lap.
On the third night, he again broached the subject, this time with a gentler voice and considerably more compassion.
“I understand you want a child of your own,” he said. “I want the same thing. But it needs to be our child, an adopted child, maybe, but not one we’ve stolen from somebody else.”
Vicki hiked the right side of her mouth and gave him a look of skepticism. “Nobody’s gonna let people like us adopt a kid. I’ve got a lousy high school education, and you don’t even have a job. Those adoption agencies aren’t stupid; they check you out before they give you a kid. They come to your house, make sure the kid’s got their own room and a place to play. All we’ve got is a rent-by-the-week one-bedroom apartment.”
“I can change all that. Mrs. Palmeyer rents most of these places by the year. We’ll sign a lease, settle in, and become part of the community.”
“Yeah, and just how are you gonna explain it when Lara up and disappears?”
For three days he’d avoided telling her because he suspected she’d take it in a way different from what was intended, but now with the question flung at him, there was no way of skirting the issue.
“I already told Mrs. Palmeyer the baby isn’t ours. I said we were taking care of your sister’s kid for a week or two.”
Speaking through clenched teeth, Vicki hissed, “You said she wasn’t ours?”
Murphy scrubbed his hand across his forehead and grimaced. “She’s not, and you know it, Vicki! You broke into that house and took this kid out of her crib. She’s not yours. She never was.”
“Really? Then why do you think that door was unlocked? Why do you think the baby bottles were left out for me to see? It’s because I was supposed to take her, that’s why! She’s meant to be my baby!”
The compassion in his voice disappeared, and his words came at her as angry and stinging as the crack of a whip. “No, she’s not! She belongs to the family who lives in that house; she’s got a mother and father who are frantic because their daughter’s been kidnapped.”
“Stop it!” Vicki turned away and cupped her hands over her ears. “I’m not listening to another word.”
He stood, crossed the room, pulled her hands from her ears, and held her shoulders in a firm grip.
“Whether you want to or not, you’ve got to listen. This is wrong in so many ways. Even if you don’t care what that family is going through, at least care about what happens to us! If we get caught with this baby—”
She wrenched herself free of his grasp, then turned back. “God wants me to have Lara. He saw how I was hurting and led me to that house—”
“No, he didn’t!” Murphy screamed. “It’s what you want to believe, but it’s not true! Thou shalt not steal! God would not tell you to steal that woman’s child!”
For a moment she stood there looking like a chastised child, her lower lip quivering and her eyes filling with tears. When she did speak, her voice was thin and fragile. “In the Bible it says an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; God took my baby, then gave me Lara to make up for it.”
She brushed the tears from her cheeks, then dropped onto the sofa, her shoulders hunched and her arms wrapped around herself. Biting down on her lip, she sat there saying nothing.
He waited for a long while, hoping she would acknowledge the truth of his words. When he finally realized she was not going to, he sat beside her and took hold of her hand.
“Please understand, Vicki, I’m not trying to deprive you of anything. I love you and want you to be happy. I’m willing to work my fingers to the bone to give you whatever you want, but I can’t stand by and let you do this. Keeping this baby will bring us more trouble than we ever dreamed possible.”
Vicki’s eyes narrowed and grew dark, no longer the blue of a clear sky but now the color of an angry ocean. “And if I refuse to let you take Lara away, then what?”
It was a long time before he answered, and when he did his words were heavy and almost tearful. “I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that.”
Vicki studied him, his neck bent, his face tilted toward the floor, his eyes now avoiding hers. She could tell his fear of what might happen was bigger than his love for her.
“Okay,”
she said. “You win.”
He lifted his eyes and turned to her. “What do you mean, I win?”
She tipped her head in a solemn nod. “I’ll let you take her if you prove to me that you’re serious about us building a life of our own.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Start by getting a real job, not pushing bags of MJ or hanging out at bars. I’m talking about a job where you report in every day and get a paycheck at the end of the week. You do that, then I’ll let you take Lara and leave her in a church, but until you actually do it I get to keep her.”
He gave a troubled sigh. “I have no problem with getting a job, but I’m worried about keeping the baby here with us. It’s dangerous. If somebody sees—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll stay inside, keep her hidden.”
Murphy smiled and pulled her into his arms. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I know how difficult this is, but it’s something we have to do.”
She gave an almost imperceptible nod, and he felt the moisture of her tears against his neck. A small crack opened up in his heart as he lifted her face to his.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “I swear I will. Tomorrow I’ll drive back to Bardstown, get the rest of our stuff, pick up my VA check, and tell Mrs. Bachinski we’re giving up the apartment. Monday I’ll start looking for a job.”
On Friday morning Murphy was up early and ready to leave the house before eight a.m. He kissed Vicki’s cheek, said goodbye, and started for the stairs.
“What time will you be back?”
“Depends on traffic, but I won’t be late. Probably before dinnertime,” he said and disappeared down the stairs.
Vicki stood at the window and watched as he climbed into the car, then pulled away from the curb. Once the car turned onto the main thoroughfare, she hurried into the bedroom, pulled on a pair of jeans, and dressed the baby.
Speaking in a powdery-soft voice as she folded the diaper into place, she murmured, “We’ve got a big day today.”
At 9:45 she walked over to Mrs. Palmeyer’s building with the baby in her arms and rang the doorbell. When the door swung open, she gave an almost apologetic smile.
“I hate to bother you, but I was wondering if maybe you had a stroller I could borrow. Lara and I could both use a bit of fresh air, and I forgot to bring my sister’s stroller.”
Lou Palmeyer eyed her suspiciously. “Seems your sister would have remembered to give it to you.”
Without a moment of hesitation, Vicki said, “She’s expecting her second and is sick as a dog. Doctor has her on bed rest; that’s why we volunteered to take Lara for a while. It’s totally my fault for not remembering the stroller.”
“Oh. Well then, I’ve got one in the basement, but it probably needs a good washing.” She chuckled. “It’s been down there for twenty-plus years. Since my youngest was a toddler.”
“If you don’t mind my using it, I’ll clean it up spick-and-span.”
“I can’t say for sure what shape it’s in.” Lou Palmeyer pulled the door back and waved Vicki inside. “Come on in—we’ll bring it up and have a look-see.”
Trailing behind the short, stocky woman, Vicki followed her back through the kitchen toward the cellar door. Before they started down the stairs, Lou Palmeyer snapped a light switch, but nothing happened.
“Well, shoot, Elroy still hasn’t replaced that blasted bulb.” She turned to Vicki. “With my knees bad as they are and no overhead light, maybe we ought to wait till Elroy puts a new bulb in.”
A flutter of panic passed through Vicki. “I’ve got real sharp vision. If you hold Lara, I’ll go down and poke around till I find it.”
A look of apprehension settled on Lou Palmeyer’s face. “You sure?”
Vicki nodded. “Absolutely. Just tell me about where to look, and I can feel my way around.”
“At the foot of the stairs, go left. There are a few itty-bitty windows over on that side, so you’ll be able to see some. The stroller’s behind a tricycle and a box of toys.”
Vicki passed Lara to Mrs. Palmeyer and started feeling her way down the stairs. Before she got to the foot of the staircase, a spiderweb caught the side of her face. She squealed and swatted at it.
“You all right down there?”
Pulling pieces of the sticky substance from her hair, Vicki answered, “I’m fine. It was just a cobweb.”
“That’s Elroy’s fault. He was supposed to clean the basement two years ago, and he still ain’t done it.”
“No problem,” Vicki called back as she made her way across the room.
Butting up against the ceiling were three small windows just big enough to allow a sliver of light into the room. Vicki spotted the stroller right where Lou Palmeyer said it would be. She moved the tricycle, then slid the box of toys aside and reached for the stroller. The wheels refused to budge, so instead of rolling it across the floor, she had to drag it.
Lifting her foot and feeling for each step, Vicki climbed the stairs backward, bumping the stroller up one rise at a time. It was heavier than she’d expected and covered in years of dust. When she finally pulled it onto the top landing and out into the kitchen, Lou Palmeyer applauded.
“You’ve got spunk,” she said with a laugh, “that’s for sure.”
Once Vicki unlocked the wheels and cleaned the stroller with Lysol, it turned out to be in fairly decent shape: a bit old-fashioned, perhaps, but serviceable. By ten thirty she had Lara in the seat and was headed toward the shopping area Lou Palmeyer had mentioned. Hopefully she’d find a pay phone.
FINDING ANGELA
A Mexican restaurant sat at the far end of the shopping plaza and to the side of it, a pay phone. No booth, just a small plastic shield on each side of the phone. Vicki pushed the stroller into the restaurant, handed the cashier a five-dollar bill, and asked for eight quarters and the rest in dimes.
With her pocket full of coins, she circled around to the side of the building, pulled the stroller close, and spread the scattering of dimes and quarters on the small counter just below the phone. She picked up a single dime, dropped it into the slot, and dialed 110.
“Long-distance operator,” a crisp voice answered. “How may I help you?”
“I’d like to place a call to Madisonville, Kentucky.” She quickly rattled off the number she had for Angela, hoping it hadn’t changed.
There was a clink as her dime dropped into the coin return. The operator then told her to deposit $1.40 for the first three minutes.
She slid the coins into the slot one by one, and when the last dime dropped she heard the click, click, click of a dial spinning around. Moments later the phone began to ring.
A sleepy voice answered. “Why are you calling this early?”
“Um, sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Angela.”
“She’s not here.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“She’s not coming back. She got married and moved out.”
Vicki felt her heart speed up. “Got married? When?”
“Who is this?” the girl asked in a prickly voice. “What business have you got with Angela?”
“I’m her sister, Vicki. I was hoping—”
“Where the hell have you been? Angela tried to get in touch with you, but your dad said—”
“Yeah, well, he and I didn’t part on real good terms. You got a number for Angela?”
“Not anymore. Kenny got transferred, and they moved.”
“Kenny who?”
“McAlister. Angela’s husband. Before the wedding she was trying to get in touch with you so you could—”
“Where’d they move to?”
“Some small town west of Paducah. Fairfield, Fairwinds, something like that. I’ve got it here somewhere; you wanna hold on?”
“Yeah, okay. Try to make it fast; I’m calling from a pay phone.”
Near Paducah, huh?
As she waited Vicki thought back to the trip they’d taken togeth
er. They’d been close, the way sisters were supposed to be. It was possible Angela had the same good memories. Vicki was remembering how they’d gone into the dress shop and tried on a dozen different outfits, knowing they didn’t have enough money for even one, when the operator clicked on. “Please deposit forty cents if you wish to continue . . .”
She slid another four dimes into the slot and waited.
Finally, the girl came back. “Okay, here it is. Fairlawn. 288 Hillcrest Street. But there’s no phone number.”
“Crap,” Vicki said with a groan. “What’d you say Kenny’s last name was?”
“McAlister. M-C-A-L-I-S—”
“Okay, I got it,” Vicki said and hung up. She scribbled the address on the top corner of a page in the phone book hanging alongside the phone, then tore off that portion of the page and stuck it in her pocket.
Dropping another dime into the slot, she redialed the long-distance operator. “I need to find a phone number in Fairlawn, Kentucky.”
Her dime jingled back into the coin return, and she waited. After being shuttled over to the information operator, spelling out McAlister the way Angela’s roommate had and hanging on for what seemed a longer time than was necessary, she had the number. Pulling the scrap of paper from her pocket, she wrote the phone number alongside the address, then dialed long-distance and placed the call.
The phone rang eight times before a man answered.
“Is this Kenny?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Vicki, Angela’s sist—”
Before she could move on to what she had to say, he jumped in, telling how Angela was so disappointed about not having her as the maid of honor.
“She called everywhere trying to find you.”
“Yeah, I got a few of her earlier messages and intended to call back, but things got kind of crazy. When I moved to Bardstown, I lost touch with almost everyone.” Without mentioning how for months on end she’d remained bitter about Angela leaving her behind and tossed all those messages into the trash, she segued into asking if her sister was there.
Emily, Gone Page 9