Shotgun Wedding: Unfinished Stories With Not Much in Common

by Kevin Tilley

  Chapter 5

  It is early afternoon, and you have time on your hands. The next blackout will not be for many hours. So you decide to visit the residence of the last person who has gone missing, just as you have done for many days now. Again, you carefully retrieve your scrapbook and write down the name of the person in a small notebook, along with other details. Again, you carefully secure the notebook in its resting place. You then consult the local phone book to obtain the address. You know that this behavior is highly suspect but that does not stop you. You search for the strength within yourself to not go through with these actions but can not locate it. You are driven.

  You walk many blocks before finding the bus stop that will take you where you are going. You do not own a car and generally have no need for one. There are times when you would enjoy the convenience but you also enjoy the fact that you do not have to worry about parking or paying for insurance or dealing with people breaking into your car, all of which are substantial concerns. Along the way to the bus stop, you dispose of the nearly dried ball of paper -- making sure to drop it in a trash receptacle you have not used before. You are meticulous in your actions. You pride yourself on this.

  The bus arrives after a brief wait. You climb aboard and take a seat near the front so that you can keep an eye on the street names as you near them. You're traveling to an unfamiliar section of town and you are concerned that you might get lost. You are afraid of the unknown, especially when it comes to locations -- and you do not want to get caught in a strange place when the sun begins to descend. If all goes well, you should be returning home no later than five o'clock -- leaving you plenty of time to eat dinner, take a little rest during blackout and prepare for your attendance at the carnival.

  An old woman boards the bus a few stops into your trip and takes a seat beside you. You watch as she struggles to climb the steps and as she steadies herself to fish around in her handbag for the proper fare. The bus driver impatiently instructs the old woman to step behind the yellow line. He then closes the bus door and pulls away from the curb into traffic. The motion nearly causes the old woman to fall. Everybody in the front of the bus is watching the old woman as she exerts all of her energy to remain upright and pay the bus fare. Nobody comes to her assistance. After many minutes and many near falls she manages to drop the necessary change into the receptacle and get herself seated.

  The old woman realizes that she has forgot to pick up a transfer ticket from the bus driver, which will allow her to board another bus without paying additional fare. She is clearly distraught. A young woman notices the old woman's oversight and asks the driver for the transfer ticket, explaining that 'it's for the elderly woman who just boarded.' The bus driver tears off the ticket abruptly and hands it to the young woman, who then hands it to the old woman. A smile of unrivaled appreciation and genuine happiness graces the old woman's face. She then begins to fan herself with a bus schedule and you wonder if she might faint. She is so sweet and helpless, living at the mercy of time and the heat and a world that has no place for her. Her family is far away and her husband is long gone. And she does not understand how she will make it through another day.

  You don't know these things. You do not say one word to her during the entire time she sits beside you. But you do not take your mind off her. Tears form in your eyes as you look out the window at the passing scenery, and imagine...

  You imagine a rainy late afternoon. The dark clouds through the window muting all the hard edges. The mantel is filled with old photographs -- young and hopeful eyes full of dreams that never seemed to quite work out. How would they greet you now, if they had the opportunity? A bicycle lies rusting in the

  back yard. Another memory left out in the rain.

  Summertimes are long gone. And you're tired. The echoes in the hallway remind you of all the people that aren't in the other room. But the skeletons in the closet always seem to keep you company. But you've managed to make peace with them for the most part. Like a pain in your back you've had for years...at some point it becomes a source of comfort.

  The sound of thunder can be heard in the distance and you understand that time does have cracks that we can slip into. Finding yourself holding the hand of a childhood friend. Walking a path through an open field, hopping fences and resting beside a creek. Neither of you says a word. But you both seem to instinctively know why you're here. Going with the current, on a make-shift raft, towards an endless horizon.

  The streets continue to pass. You're not paying attention. The bus stops again to pick up a number of people and you look from the window to watch them board. You still have a few stops before you reach your destination. As the new passengers pass by your seat they all look at you. And you recognize them as the same people who were gathered around your table earlier...the same people who have been written about in the papers the past twelve days. And you wonder where these missing people might be going. Are they headed home? Have they found their way back? The last of the new passengers passes and you want to say that you will be visiting their home soon -- and that you could perhaps convey a message to their family. But you can not speak. You allow the parade of missing persons to move by without a word -- finding seats at the back of the bus. You look in the driver's mirror to locate them but the angle is no good. And you don't want to turn around.

  The old woman beside you has stopped fanning herself. She just sits and stares ahead, her eyes fixed on some point dead ahead, focusing on nothing.

 

  Chapter 6

  The bus drops you off a block away from your destination but you walk in the wrong direction and it takes you some time to realize your error and double back. You then stop at a cafe to gather your wits and get a cold drink. You need to sit down for a bit and compose yourself. The heat is horrible this time of day it is pushing your mind to the edge.

  From your seat at the cafe, you have a good view of the street. You notice a number of posters stapled to telephone polls and on the sides of buildings. There must be dozen within range of your sight. The posters are all the same. The words "Missing Person" are printed on top in large block letters. A picture of the latest person reported missing rests beneath the headline and takes up about two-thirds of the entire area of the poster. And beneath the picture are words that you can not quite make out due to the small print -- probably a phone number one should contact if they have seen the person, that type of thing. You finish your drink and get up to leave. On your way to exit, you see two more posters inside the cafe -- one near the register and one on the wall outside the restrooms. You alter your course through the randomly disbursed tables and approach the poster beside the register. The words that were before illegible now become clear. "Help us stop the plague of disappearances. If you have any information contact the police today!"

  You look at these words selectively and process the message: "Stop the disappearances. Today!"

  You arrive at the address and look at your watch. It is nearly 2:45. A young girl is playing hopscotch in front of the building. You watch for a few moments as she tosses a pebble and skips between the colored lines. This helps to soothe your nerves. She looks at you and asks if you're lost. You smile and ask her if she

  lives in the building. She says that she does. She asks if you are here about the missing woman. You tell her that you are.

  "She lived across the hall from my family. Up the stairs. Door on the right."

  "Thank you. That's very nice of you. Perhaps I will see you on my way out."

  You enter the building and the young girl continues her game.

  A middle-aged man answers the door. He is tired. He has not slept since he heard the news. He looks at you in a kind manner and waits for you to state your business. You tell the man that you are here as an agent of The Department of Human Records and that you need to obtain some information regarding the person at this address
who has gone missing. You present a sealed document, explaining that it represents your credentials.

  "But the police have already been here and we've answered all their questions."

  "You must accept my apologies. I understand that this is a hard time for you and your family -- and that my appearance at your door and my inquiries may seem an unnecessary burden. And I assure you that the agency for which I work is sympathetic to the feelings of you and your family. Unfortunately, these are matters which must be dealt with and your cooperation will be greatly appreciated...and duly noted."

  At this last statement, the man's face surrenders and he invites you inside. The power of the government is insidious and you take whatever advantage of it you can. You know that it is not nice to prey on people's fear, especially during a time of grief, but you must follow through with your visit. And perhaps you might be able to offer a note of solace during your stay. You do not mean any harm. In fact, you would gladly do whatever you could to help the situation. But you are unsure what that could be. So you are here. If only for the sake of being here.

  The man invites you to take a seat in the living room. The chair is extremely comfortable and you are grateful for his hospitality. The man leaves you alone, saying that he needs to confer with his wife and that he will return briefly. He asks if you would like a drink and you tell him that a glass of water would do nicely.

  As you wait, you notice a girl peaking around the doorway which you assume leads to the sleeping rooms. Once she realizes that you have spotted her, she darts her head back and out of sight. You smile and continue waiting.

  After about five minutes, the man returns to the room accompanied by a woman who is introduced to you as the man's wife. She is extremely distraught and, upon looking into her grieving eyes, you feel an overwhelming wave of remorse flow through your body. And you regret that you have visited their home. What makes you go through with this morbid ritual?

  The man hands you a glass of water and the couple sits down together opposite you on a large couch covered in a floral design. With a nod of his head, the man prompts you to get on with your business.

  "As I explained to your husband, I work for The Department of Human Records and I need to ask you a few simple questions regarding the person who, according to our records, lives at this address and who has been officially categorized as missing by the police."

  "Her name is Sally", the woman interjects in a vehement tone. "She is my little girl."

  "Yes, I know. And you must accept the apologies of both myself and my office for this interruption in your day. This will not take long."

  "What are the duties of an office that would bring an agent such as yourself to our home at a time like this?"

  "I work for the Census Division and it is our job to provide various government departments with the official number of citizens living within this city's borders. At one time or another, I'm sure you've noticed one of the signs stating the population of the city that can be found beside a number of roadways on the outskirts of town. These sings are one of the many fruits of our labor. Of course the population is always fluctuating and the signs are only updated every few months. Therefore, the number on the signs represents a good approximation. But the exact number must be reported by my department on a daily basis."

  "And what does that have to do with our Sally?", the man takes over -- wrapping his arm around his wife in a gesture of shelter.

  "I'll explain as simply and as straightforward as possible and trust your judgment to understand my presence in your home. You see, when someone is alive and living within the city then we can add them to our list. We note their date of birth and schooling and occupation and so on. When someone (lowering your voice) passes on...then we remove them from our list, noting their date of death and burial information, etc. But when someone is officially categorized as 'missing', then our duty is, by definition, much more difficult. The person can not be correctly placed in either category. And so it becomes impossible to derive an exact number and we are forced to send in a report which is considered an embarrassment by all who work in my department. The report consists of two words. "Population: Unknown."

  You pause to let this information be processed and you take a long drink of water. Nobody says a word. You can hear to ticking of a hallway clock. In the silence you imagine the missing woman sitting in this room, walking into the kitchen, going off to bed -- just as she must have done many times. She was here, living her life with her family. And now she is out there somewhere, unable to find her way back home.

  Again, you catch the girl peaking around the corner.

  "That must be your other daughter."

  The mother looks startled at this statement and swivels her head to look in the direction of your eyes. She stands up.

  "Yes, that's Anna. Please excuse me a moment."

  The woman retrieves Anna and leads her to the kitchen. The girl looks coyly at you from the folds of her mother's dress.

  You turn your attention to the father.

  "As I was explaining, I need to gather some data for our records. Just routine." And you proceed to ask a number of questions about the missing woman -- the answers to which you already know.

  She is twenty years old. She attends a local college and works part-time at a convenience store. She has had no prior run-ins with the law and she has never traveled outside of the city.

  "We just need to confirm that she has not left the city. Did she ever indicate an interest in going abroad?"

  "No. She wanted to finish her schooling and take up work in the area. She did not leave the city...not of her own free will."

  The mother and daughter return to the room. The girl is holding a tray of cookies and asks you very politely if you would like one. She is wearing a dress made of purple velvet with white trimming, which matches her stockings. Her shoes are black and they have buckles on them. Your heart breaks.

  "Yes. I would love a cookie. Thank you very much."

  You take the cookie and the girl smiles. She then starts to giggle and runs back into the kitchen.

  You smile at the parents -- they are again seated together.

  "Your husband has been so kind to answer most of my questions. I have only one further inquiry." You lean forward, munching your cookie. "Is there anything you would like to tell me about your daughter? Anything at all."

  The mother answers immediately.

  "She is my angel."

  You sit back and let these words move through the air.

  "Thank you very much for your time." You hastily finish the cookie and take one more gulp of water. "I wish you and your family all the best." You shake the man's hand and look into the eyes of the mother. "If there's anything that I or my office can do for you please do not hesitate..."

  "I'm sorry, but we never got your name", the man interjects.

  You retrieve your wallet and take out a card, handing it to him. "Anything at all."

  You leave the building and your heart is racing. You feel like a person who has just fled the scene of a crime and realizes he left behind a tell-tale piece of evidence. You want to run but can not. The young girl who was playing hopscotch has left, but the smeared chalk outline remains. You descend the steps and stand at the foot of the game. The sky has gone black and the

  streets are deserted. All is quiet, giving off the feeling of a western ghost town.

  An ice-cream truck is finding its way through the neighborhood streets with a sweet, beckoning tune that seems sinister in these days of absence -- resonating along empty sidewalks...creeping outside the edges of bolted windows. Circling the blocks like a vulture. Its eerie presence bolstered by the mindful words printed on the back door, "Watch Out For Our Children."

  Above the words is a frosted window. And through it you can make out the chilled face of the woman whose home you just visited. The mis
sing are everywhere. Around every corner. Beneath every tree. Inside everything. She is looking at you as the truck rolls by. She wants to open the door and run through these streets again, like she did as a child. She wants to hurry home for supper. But she can't. Looking at her face, you are reminded of the poster you saw earlier. You wonder if her fellow missing are in there with her. Freezing.

  The truck continues its rounds...a rolling billboard for the lost. You hum along to the tune in your dizzy stupor...finding a meaning in the melody -- something to ease the pain of survival. Turning all that you have surrounded yourself with into a glass-encased wind-up box...twirling into oblivion -- into a world where the sun never rises and the moon is always in the same place. Tears falling like rain, dropping with an inevitable honesty no words could ever help being understood. Crashing into silence.

  You lean down and pick up a rock. Feeling its smoothness and rubbing its edges before giving it a toss. And you jump...

  Knowing the direction.