Emily, Gone

by Bette Lee Crosby

  His voice suddenly became softer, and beneath the words Rachel caught a manifestation of her own sorrow.

  “I know you think I don’t understand, Rachel, but I do. I carry the same sorrow in my heart. But I keep it to myself, without words or tears, because I have you to care for. If you turn away from me, this burden that is already heavy enough to break a man will surely become too great for me to bear.”

  Rachel lifted her face and brought her lips to his. She kissed him softly, then whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no need for sorry.” He circled his arms around her and lifted her from the chair. “Just come to bed and lie beside me.”

  She stood, and, leaning on one another, they turned toward the bedroom.

  THE LONG DRIVE

  The drive to Culvert Creek was mostly highway. Once Wilson turned onto Route 82, there were few distractions, and he was left with his own thoughts. Luckily he’d left early, and the traffic moved at a good pace, so he’d be there in time to check the satellite post office. Although the Washington County sheriff had offered little assistance, he had at least provided the address for what served as the local mail drop.

  As he passed through Montgomery, Alabama, the traffic slowed, and Wilson pulled out the thermos of coffee and took a sip. It was just as he liked it, with plenty of sugar and cream.

  His first stop would be the satellite post office, and afterward he’d try the local church to ask if the clergyman recalled seeing a new baby in town. According to the county sheriff, less than a thousand people lived in Culvert Creek. Even if the baby were kept hidden, any suspicious activity such as suddenly buying diapers or baby food was sure to be noticed.

  Twice he pulled the letter from the envelope and eyed different passages, noting the significance of one word or another. He could tell the handwriting was that of a woman, and with the small, tight script he pictured her as being shy, an introvert possibly. A woman much like his aunt Marion. He thought back and remembered how she too wrote her Es narrow and close together just as these were. The stains apparently caused by droplets of water indicated the woman had been either crying or drinking when she penned the letter; in either case, a highly emotional state. Given the size of Culvert Creek, how many women would fit that description? Ten, maybe twelve. If necessary, he’d pay each and every one of them a visit.

  By the time he crossed over into Mississippi, he was feeling a lot better about this mission.

  At twenty minutes after five, Wilson pulled up in front of the Broadhurst Pharmacy, which, according to the lettering on the glass door, also offered postal services. Spotting an elderly man in the pharmacy area, he walked over.

  “I’m looking for the postmaster.”

  “That’d be me.” The old man reached across the counter. “Whitey Broadhurst.”

  As they shook hands, Wilson said he was looking for information on a letter that had been mailed from Culvert Creek.

  “Official business has to wait until tomorrow,” Whitey said. “The post office closes at five.”

  “But you said you’re the postmaster.”

  “I am, but I’m only supposed to conduct official business from—”

  “This isn’t really official business; I just have a few questions.” Wilson saw a flicker of hesitation, so he reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. “Recognize this handwriting or the notepaper?”

  Whitey reluctantly took the envelope, looked at it, then turned it over in his hand.

  “That’s sure enough our postmark,” he said. “But I can’t say I’m familiar with this piece.”

  He squinted at the writing on the envelope a second time, then handed it back to Wilson. “You might check with Wilma Dobbs; she helps out part-time.”

  “Any idea where I can find Miss Dobbs?”

  “It’s Mrs. Dobbs. Wilma’s married to the pastor. She and the pastor know most of the folks in town. Either of them might be able to help you.”

  Wilson’s next stop was Christ the Redeemer Church, two blocks down. On the front of the small, steepled white building was a sign that read PASTOR’S OFFICE; an arrow pointed to the side walkway. He circled around the building and knocked at the back door. He waited a minute, then knocked a second time. When it became obvious no one was there, he returned to the pharmacy.

  Whitey was stooped behind the counter, straightening the same shelf he’d been working on earlier.

  “It seems no one is at the church,” Wilson said. “Any idea where I can find Pastor Dobbs?”

  Without looking up, Whitey shook his head. “Not this late in the evening, but he’ll likely be there tomorrow.”

  As he stood there thinking of what to do next, Wilson sensed the optimistic feeling he’d had drifting away.

  “Any place around here where I can get a room and a bite to eat?”

  “Mabel’s is the only restaurant in town. The food’s good, but she closes at five thirty.”

  “What about a room?”

  “Nothing here; Greenville’s about the closest.” Whitey stood and waved a hand toward the street. “Follow Creekside to the end, then take Route 1 south.”

  After a blue-plate special that left him with indigestion and a sleepless night on a lumpy mattress, Wilson was anxious to get back to pursuing what he’d come for. At seven a.m. he was parked in the back lot of Christ the Redeemer Church, waiting for the pastor’s arrival. Thirty minutes into the wait, he got out of the car and began pacing back and forth across the parking lot. Culvert Creek seemed a town where time slowed to a crawl. Wilson was on the far side of the lot when an old Ford pulled in and parked alongside his truck.

  “Excuse me,” he called out. “Are you Pastor Dobbs?”

  “That I am,” the old man answered. “And you?”

  “Carl Wilson.” He offered his hand. “Sheriff, Hesterville, Georgia.”

  “Small world, isn’t it? My granny came from Dawson, so I’m familiar with Hesterville. What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

  “Official business, I’m afraid.” Wilson pulled the letter from his pocket. “Have you seen any women with a new baby? Not an infant but maybe six months old or so.”

  The pastor scratched at the side of his face and tried to think through the congregation. He recalled a few teenagers and two preschoolers but no baby.

  “Sorry,” he said. “The Dumont twins are our youngest parishioners, and they’re four—years not months.”

  “What about somebody who suddenly dropped out of sight? Maybe stopped coming to church?”

  Dobbs shook his head. “There’re plenty in this town who don’t bother coming to church, but none of the regulars have stopped.”

  Wilson pulled the envelope from his pocket. “I’m looking for the woman who wrote this. You recognize the notepaper or handwriting maybe?”

  Dobbs took the envelope, studied it, then handed it back. “Afraid I can’t be of any help here either.”

  He turned, started toward the door, then stopped and looked back. “You might try Belinda’s Beauty Shop; a lot of women who don’t come to church are regulars down there.”

  Wilson smiled, gave a wave of thanks, and climbed into the truck.

  Belinda was a big woman, as tall as Wilson and twice as wide. When he told her about the kidnapping and asked if there was a new baby in town, she laughed so hard her body quivered.

  “Most all my ladies is well past the baby-wantin’ stage,” she said. “They’s lookin’ to take life easy.”

  “What about your customers? Has one of them maybe mentioned a neighbor or friend having a new baby?”

  “I done told you—we ain’t had no baby talk in here for twenty-some years.”

  Getting more discouraged by the moment, Wilson pulled the envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. “You recognize this notepaper or handwriting?”

  She pursed her lips and squinted at the envelope. “It’s somethin’ like what Minnie Gray used to use, ’cept I think hers was pinker, more of that mauve
color.”

  Wilson’s face brightened. “What can you tell me about Minnie?”

  Belinda chuckled. “Minnie sure ain’t wantin’ no baby. She’s done passed seventy and ain’t all together.”

  “All together?”

  Belinda tapped a finger against her temple. “You know, her head. Minnie’s mind comes and goes.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “What with things the way they are, she’s not a regular. But she come in for a nice ’do just ’fore Labor Day. Said they was going t’ visit her sister in Ellijay.”

  “Ellijay, Georgia?”

  Belinda nodded.

  Wilson suddenly felt his optimism returning.

  FUTURE PLANS

  When Murphy returned from his trip to Bardstown, he found Vicki stretched out on the sofa, the baby asleep on her chest. The stroller had been folded and hidden under the bed.

  She looked up and smiled. “How was the trip?”

  “Good. I got the VA check, cashed it, and got our stuff from the apartment.” He bent and kissed her forehead. “I told Mrs. Bachinski we were getting married, and she was happy for us; she even gave me the deposit money back.”

  With a smile curling the corners of his mouth, he added, “She said to give you a hug and consider it a wedding present.”

  Vicki lifted Lara into her arms and stood. “That’s so like Mrs. Bachinski; she’s such a kindhearted soul.”

  Murphy thought back on the wiry little woman who had been his landlady for the past three years, and his mouth broadened into an affectionate grin. “Yes, she is. I’m going to miss her, that’s for sure.”

  “Maybe you can go back and—”

  Murphy shook his head. “Once you cross a bridge, it’s better not to look back. No matter how good or bad it was, yesterday’s gone. Tomorrow’s a new day, and whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”

  Vicki had no answer for that, so she nervously shifted Lara onto her hip, then closed the space between them. With her free arm, she embraced Murph and pressed her cheek to his.

  “Things may not always go the way we hope,” she whispered, “but I love you more than you can possibly imagine, and I will for as long as . . .”

  The remainder of what she had to say got caught in her throat.

  He pushed back, took hold of her shoulders, and grinned into her teary-eyed face.

  “Hey, this is no time for sadness! Things are gonna get better.”

  After Murphy carried in the bags of clothing he’d brought from the old apartment, he went out and came back with two roast beef sandwiches and a bottle of Chianti. They sat across from one another at the kitchen table, and he told her of all the things they would one day do: adopt a child, maybe two. Then they’d build a house with extra bedrooms and a wide front porch where on summer evenings they’d sit and look back on how it once was.

  Vicki delighted in the earnestness of such a dream, and she allowed herself to believe in it as she listened to the tales of how in time their hair would turn white and they’d be surrounded by any number of grandchildren.

  That night as they lay side by side in the bed, his breath warm against her ear, his fingers tenderly touching the places that gave rise to passion, their bodies became one in a union as loving as it had been in the early days of their courtship, before the marijuana and the tears that came without warning. Afterward they lay side by side, delighting in the simple pleasure of being together. They spoke of many things that night, but one thing was not mentioned: Lara. She was not part of the future Murphy had mapped out for them. In the big house with its wide porch and a spreading chestnut tree in the yard, there was no room for this baby.

  In the wee hours of the morning when they were drifting on the edge of sleep, Vicki reached across and touched Murphy’s chest.

  “Can’t you please let Lara be part of our plans?”

  She waited a few moments, uncertain as to whether he’d heard the question. Then he turned on his side with his back to her. There was no answer, and she knew it would be useless to ask again.

  Months later, she would remember that weekend as one of the best they’d ever had. She’d picture how his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and she’d ache for the feel of his hand pressed gently against her back. On nights when her heart felt as hollowed out as a jack-o’-lantern, she’d recall how he’d gone food shopping and surprised her with a bouquet of flowers: yellow roses with a fragrance so sweet it lingered like sugar on her tongue. When the memory of these things overwhelmed her, she’d turn her face to the pillow and let the tears come.

  Once you cross a bridge . . .

  On Monday morning, Murphy kissed Vicki goodbye and left the apartment a few minutes before nine. He was wearing the tweed jacket and gabardine pants he’d brought from the apartment with a tie knotted at his neck. After searching the “Help Wanted” section of the Tribune Courier, he’d come up with three good job possibilities plus an employment agency worth looking into.

  “Good luck,” Vicki said as she lifted her face to his and kissed his mouth.

  The kiss was quick, there and then gone.

  Once he was out the door, she stood at the window, watched him cross the parking lot, climb into the car, and drive away. When the car disappeared from view, she brushed the tears from her cheeks and turned toward the bedroom.

  First she gathered the handful of things they’d bought for Lara and placed them in the bottom of a brown paper bag from the grocery store. Then she stuck in a few things of her own: a pair of jeans, a sweater, three T-shirts, and some underwear. By the time she added a stack of disposable diapers, two baby bottles, and three jars of Gerber baby food, the bag was full. She folded the top over and set it aside.

  It was the time of year when the weather was changeable, chilly in the morning, sweltering in the afternoon sun. On this morning the sky was overcast with dark clouds and the menacing look of rain. Pulling the poncho she’d used at the music festival from the bottom of the closet, she folded it, placed it beside the bag, then opened the top drawer on Murphy’s side of the dresser. The money, $600, was beneath a stack of boxer shorts. She took the folded bills, tucked them into the pocket of her jeans, then thought better of it. This was all the money Murph had. It would be almost two months before he’d get another check. He’d have rent to pay, need money for gas . . . She pulled the folded bills from her pocket and counted off five ten-dollar bills, then returned the remainder to its original hiding place. She’d be living rent-free with Angela and would soon be getting a job. Fifty bucks was enough to carry her for a while.

  Keeping an eye on the clock, she fed Lara, dressed her in a warm sweater, then pulled the stroller from beneath the bed. At ten o’clock she sat Lara in the stroller, started for the door, then stopped and turned back. Using up five minutes of precious time, she rummaged through the kitchen drawer, found a piece of paper, and scrawled a note.

  I love you now, and I’ll love you always. I’m sorry it has to be this way. She signed it with the letter V and left the note lying on the kitchen counter. As she closed the door behind her, a swoosh of air crossed the room, and the note fluttered to the floor.

  At ten thirty, the rain began. It started as a light drizzle and grew heavier as the minutes ticked by. Vicki draped the plastic poncho over the front of the stroller and moved back to stand under the overhang of the Los Burritos restaurant. She glanced at the clock: ten forty.

  Angela should have been here by now.

  A short while later the wind picked up, and the rain came at a slant, splattering the legs of her jeans and the side of the stroller. Vicki inched her way over and stood in the recess of the doorway with the stroller behind her. Although she was getting soaked, Lara was still dry. Pressing her nose to the window, she could see workers moving about, but the tables appeared empty. Could she possibly wait inside? Before making a move, she peered out at the parking lot again. Two delivery trucks and a half dozen cars but no white Ford Fairlane. She
pulled open the restaurant door and ducked inside.

  “That rain is really coming down,” she told the girl at the register. “Okay if we wait in here?”

  The woman behind the counter nodded. “Sure.”

  Vicki stood watching the rain for what seemed a very long time, and with each passing second she felt edgier. When two customers pushed through the door, she stepped aside and mumbled a feeble apology for blocking their way.

  Lunchtime already? Where the hell is Angela?

  Suddenly remembering the note she’d left lying on the counter, a sense of panic rose in Vicki’s chest. She either had to get out of town or go back to the apartment. If Murph got home early and saw that note, there’d be no second chances. On the verge of tears, she turned to the woman at the register.

  “I need to make a phone call; can you keep an eye on my baby for a minute?”

  “The lunch crowd will be coming in soon, so make it quick.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Despite the rain, Vicki darted out the door. She was halfway to the phone when a white Ford Fairlane pulled up alongside her and blasted the horn.

  SISTERS

  When Angela caught sight of Lara, she squealed with delight.

  “She looks exactly like you!” she said and lifted the baby into her arms.

  “Yeah, she does.” Still feeling apprehensive, Vicki didn’t waste time catching up. As she took Lara from her sister, she glanced around the parking lot, saw no sign of Murphy’s car, and said, “Let’s get going.”

  The poncho had kept Lara dry, but Vicki’s shirt was soaked through. Angela noticed the way she’d begun to shiver.