Tell Anna She's Safe

by Brenda Missen

  “Were you outside?”

  “I just got out of the shower,” I lied. “Just finished a run.”

  Silence. Then: “Your sciatica must be better.”

  “Yes.”

  Another pause. “I’m sorry I haven’t called before now.”

  “It was my turn. I got your message. I—I appreciated it.”

  “It’s okay. We probably both needed a break. How is everything?”

  “Fine. Oh, they haven’t found Lucy yet, but—”

  “The reason I’m calling is my contract is finishing up here in a few weeks.”

  “Weeks? I thought it was supposed to go ’til the end of the summer?”

  “The client changed his mind about a few things. That’s a polite way of saying he ran out of money. So it looks like I will be home in the middle of July.”

  Home. July. When are you going to get your own life, Ellen? Sooner than I thought. “I guess I’d better start looking for a place to live then.”

  “Yes,” said Marc. “But there’s no rush. I mean I know it’s short notice. If you don’t find anything for July first, you don’t have to worry. I won’t boot you out.”

  “Thanks.” The laugh got choked in my throat. I was not going to cry. “I’ve been thinking it’s time to find my own place anyway. And now I know when you’re coming back.”

  The words hung between us. They hung in the air long after we’d hung up the phone.

  The thought of moving so soon overwhelmed me. July was only two weeks away. I wasn’t sure I could find a place that quickly. But the thought of staying with Marc even for a couple of weeks was worse. He would be back to trying to tell me what to do—and not do. No, it was time to get my own life.

  My new thoughts about moving calmed me down about Quinn.

  I had my car keys in hand, hollering for the dogs, when the phone rang again. This time it was a Private Caller. I picked up the receiver.

  “Ellen, glad I caught you. I hate to do this to you, but something’s come up. I’m going to have to cancel our dinner plans. And I’m sorry I can’t talk right now either. I’ll call you Monday.”

  I barely had time to make polite reassurances before he hung up.

  I took myself out to the deck to sit and absorb my disappointment. And to wonder: had they found Lucy?

  *

  SHE WAITED UNTIL SHE HUNG up the phone to vent her frustration. Why did all her plans have to get screwed up on her? Now what was she going to do tomorrow for New Year’s Eve? There was no way she was going to go skating on the canal by herself. Damn Kevin, anyway. It wasn’t as if she had called him. It had been his idea. It had been so long since she’d heard from him—from any of her friends—she hadn’t even minded the short notice of the invitation. She’d been elated that he’d reached out to her. That she was going to have some company on the last night of the year. She’d taken her skates over to Bank Street to get them sharpened. Even walked over to Queen Elizabeth Drive afterwards to check out the ice conditions in the daylight. She didn’t want to be tripping over cracks and holes in the dark. But the ice was freshly flooded, smooth. It would be fine.

  It would have been fine.

  She continued to grip the receiver. At least she hadn’t lit into Kevin. It wasn’t his fault his father had taken ill. She was proud of herself; she’d found a calm voice to extend her sympathy, and her concern for the long drive he was going to have to make to get to his father. Kevin had sounded grateful. Relieved. And no wonder. He knew all too well what she was like when plans had to be cancelled at the last minute.

  She let go of the receiver and let out a yell of frustration into the empty room. Why couldn’t anything go the way she wanted? Why was Tim’s parole constantly denied? Why was she spending yet another winter alone? Was there some karmic lesson she was supposed to learn from this? Yes, of course there was. She was supposed to learn to go with the flow. To let go. Not hold on so tight. Her anger turned to slow tears of self-pity. And then she chided herself. Love was a choice. She had chosen Tim. She couldn’t—clearly!—change the circumstances. But she could change her mind. The Buddhists and Taoists had it right. Even if she didn’t like it, she could accept what existed: winter, her fatigue, her aloneness. If she accepted it, things would start to change. She felt the truth of it, like a small spark of excitement inside her.

  And she could make her own plans.

  When Tim called early the next evening to wish her a happy new year, she returned a whole-hearted wish for his release in the new year.

  Half an hour short of midnight, she bundled up and carried her skates out to her car, and drove to a street near the canal. She laced up her skates in one of the change huts. The temperature was holding at a miraculous minus eight and there was only a light breeze. She took a hesitant step out into the darkness, felt the sharpened blade of her skate take to the smooth unseen surface.

  She glided out to the middle of the canal, avoiding the other bulky faceless skaters. The waning moon came out from behind a cloud. Its light turned the black ice a dull glistening dark grey. After a few minutes of hard going, she turned her back to the wind. At the moment of her pivoting, the moon disappeared behind a cloud. But she didn’t need the light. She spread her arms and let the gusting wind propel her into the unknown new year.

  *

  THERE WAS NOTHING IN THE morning news, or in the Sunday Citizen. So that wasn’t why Quinn had cancelled.

  I picked up the previous week’s edition of the Low Down at the depanneur along with the Citizen. I turned to the classifieds in the back.

  The last time I had done this had been for Lucy, two months before. The similarities were not lost on me. We were both trying to leave relationships. We were both looking for a place on the river. I felt a sudden pang. A wish that we could be talking, sharing our pain and disappointment. Although mine was nothing compared to what hers likely had been. She had risked everything to be with Tim. Had he really been conning her from the start? He’d proposed before he’d got out. It could have been a ploy to entrap her, but there had been no quick prison chapel wedding. He’s giving me two years to decide. Like Lucy had given him two years. That sounded like someone who was appreciative of what she had done, not someone simply after her money. It sounded genuine. On the other hand, she’d made him her beneficiary anyway. So maybe it didn’t matter. But then why propose at all? Unless it was for real.

  There wasn’t much in the local paper in the way of permanent rentals. They were mostly cottages. There were lots for Lucy. Lucy no longer needed a cottage on the river. The whole river was hers.

  *

  SHE DIDN’T MENTION TO TIM that it was their anniversary. Two years since they’d met at the Supreme Court. She was going to save that for the appropriate moment—the post-climax denouement. She had it all planned in her mind. For two days, in fact, and for the duration of the two-hour drive, she thought of nothing else. God, two years ago who would have thought she’d be ecstatically fantasizing about having sex with a convict in the corner of a prison visiting room.

  She was going to arrive in her longest, fullest skirt, and nothing underneath. She was going to sit on Tim’s lap and watch his eyes light up when he realized there was nothing between his hardness and her wetness. She was going to take him deep, deep, deep, and ride him slow (there had to be some discretion!), and he would go crazy. And his cock would slide over her clitoris in just the right way, in a slow hard way, and she would go crazy too. And then they would come, together, with a yell rising in each that they would have to mask by kissing each other hard.

  She was wet for two days thinking about it. It was all she could do to keep from satisfying herself. On the trip down she got herself so wound up, she decided to check in to the motel first; she didn’t want to arrive at Pittsburgh looking like a sex-crazed female.

  As soon as she
got into the motel room she knew it had been a mistake to come here first. In the stale dank room, reality raised its ugly fear-filled head. She felt herself go dry. She tried to fantasize herself back to wetness but fear had done its work.

  She was even more dismayed half an hour later when she walked into the visiting room. It was crowded, noisy. She hadn’t imagined actual faces and personalities in the room. Obviously no one wanted to be outside on a damp cold afternoon in early March. But weekdays weren’t usually so busy. Was everyone having an anniversary? The only silver lining was that, when Tim arrived a few minutes later, it was easy to creep into a corner unnoticed.

  She could barely meet Tim’s eye. He seemed equally ill at ease. He sat down against the wall and pulled her onto his lap. She was grateful to be facing away from the room. She felt Tim fumbling under her skirt, unzipping himself, trying to press himself into her. She was still dry; he was soft. She wrapped her arms around him, lifted herself slightly so he could find his way inside, ignored the pain of being so dry. Achieving semi-hardness, he pumped hard. He seemed caught between the need and the shame, where she now felt only the shame.

  She had forgotten the mess of sex. She hadn’t thought to bring any tissues. A condom would have taken care of it, but to avoid awkward fumbling around she had opted to go without. Now the possibility of pregnancy sent panic through her veins. She could barely wait for Tim to zip himself back up so she could get to the bathroom and get his cum out. This was not the right time to get pregnant.

  Cleaning herself up, she was filled with self-loathing. Here was an abject lesson in the futility of desire; things never turned out the way you envisioned them. She hadn’t even come close to coming. And of course she’d entirely forgotten to whisper “happy anniversary” in Tim’s ear. What had possessed her to believe for a minute she could enjoy such a private act in such a public place?

  She cut the visit short. She’d forgotten to bring underwear to put on afterwards, and she felt naked and exposed, even with the long full skirt on. She had to promise Tim she’d be back at six. He seemed unusually anxious about her return, which further irritated her. Did he think she was going to turn around and go home at this time of day?

  Outside, the frigid dampness hit with full force and she pulled her coat tight around her and walked quickly down the drive to the parking lot. To her right loomed Joyceville, its high electric fence and small-windowed cell blocks looking even more ominous in the encroaching dusk. Although it was a medium-security institution like Warkworth, it made Warkworth look like a country resort. The thought of voluntarily incarcerating herself behind that fence for a weekend gave her the creeps. Her groin, already sore and now chilled, felt suddenly colder. Violated. The whole property—Pittsburgh so open, Joyceville so closed—suddenly had the feel of a dark, malevolent force. What the hell was she doing here?

  It took all her willpower and a double layer of underwear to get herself back to Pittsburgh. She parked as close as she could to the door, and arrived at the Visitor Control Point out of breath from running. She signed the registry and pulled open the double doors to the visiting room. Tonight, it was silent and almost empty. If only they had waited until the evening. But she knew the room would have seemed too empty, their actions too noticeable.

  She picked out a couch on the other side of the room from the only other couple and waited for Tim to arrive. When he did, minutes later, it was obvious he was hiding something behind his back. He was also looking, for some reason, even more nervous than in the afternoon.

  She stood up, and then took a sudden step back when a long-stem red rose was thrust under her nose. She was shocked. “Where did you get this?”

  Tim smiled a secret smile. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart,” he said and bent and kissed her.

  She pulled back in astonishment. “You remembered!”

  “How could I forget?” The words were spoken with such devastating simplicity she sat back down on the couch. She buried her nose in the rose to hide her emotion. She felt Tim sit down beside her. Felt his arm come around her. He spoke in her ear. “You didn’t think I’d forget? Two years ago today, you changed my life.”

  The softness in his voice seemed to match the delicateness of the rose.

  She heard him clear his throat. “Lucy?”

  She looked up, wiped tears off her cheeks.

  Tim was looking around, as if to make sure no one was listening. He turned back to her, took both of her hands in his. His hands, usually dry and warm, were cold and clammy. Was he sick? She looked at him anxiously.

  He took in a deep breath. “Lucy, will you marry me?”

  She stared at him. Something rose up, caught in her throat. Not words. A feeling. Could one gag on joy? Gag for joy?

  Her eyes filled with tears again. She wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to stifle the choking sounds in his shoulder.

  Tim’s arms came around her. She could feel tension and fear through the tenderness and love.

  Someone loved her. Someone had asked her to marry him. Someone was terrified she was going to say no. She was overwhelmed.

  “Don’t answer me now,” Tim said, finally.

  She sat back and met his eyes.

  “I mean it,” he said. “You don’t have to give me an answer now. Take the time you need. Take two years. Any time between now and then you want to tell me is okay, but I figure you’ve given me two years of your life—I can wait two years.”

  Before she could speak, he brought an envelope out of his pocket. “I wrote you a letter. That’s how much I love you; I’m willing to risk the grammar police hammering on my door, arresting me for double negatives and criminal spelling.”

  She was relieved to laugh. “Should I read it now?”

  “If you want.” His voice was suddenly shy.

  She opened the envelope, unfolded the lined foolscap paper. By the time she got to the end, the words were a blur.

  Back in the motel room, she reread the letter by the inadequate forty-watt bulb in the bedside lamp. This time it made her cringe. Not just the grammar mistakes and clichés, but the impracticality of Tim’s dreams and promises in the face of their (her) current financial reality. He was promising to build her a house in the country on a private lake and said she could stop working for the government and do her own writing. Did he really think they could afford all this on what little money he would be able to bring in?

  She was angry with herself; he’d even said he was willing to risk her criticism. That was how much he loved her. She made herself look past the surface to the sentiment, the deep feeling, underneath. He was giving her two years. That meant more than the proposal itself. No one had ever said they would wait. Decisions were supposed to be quick and irrevocable. And, always, on the other’s terms.

  She would not tell him she thought he was idealizing her—she had not “saved” him. She would not tell him his dreams for their future were unrealistic. She would not tell him she was no longer sure they even had a future. They had a “now.” And from the “now,” she had a marriage proposal. A letter of commitment. A red rose. A full heart. And two years. What more could she desire from the “now?”

  She slid between the crisp clean sheets she’d brought for the bed and shut off the light.

  14.

  ON MONDAY MORNING I DROVE to the office. I tried not to think about Quinn calling. This time he’d said he’d call. But it didn’t look like he was going to come out on the river with me. I would make other plans.

  I phoned some friends to put out the word that I was looking for a place to live. I made calls for business. I stayed on the phone so I would not be waiting for it to ring. I told myself, again, that if he called it would be in the evening. At home. And I wasn’t planning to be at home in the evening. At six o’clock I drove up the highway, took the turn-off for the village, and knocked on Mary Frances’
s door.

  “What are you doing tonight? I want you to come with me out on the river. I’ve arranged to borrow the neighbours’ motorboat.”

  “Ellen McGinn, in a boat.”

  “These are strange times.” I smiled.

  “Why do I sense there is a macabre reason behind this excursion.”

  “Because there is.” I smiled again.

  Mary Frances regarded me with pursed lips. “I’ll go with you. But we are not going to find anything.” She spoke accusingly.

  “Maybe not,” I said. “But I can’t promise.”

  “Well, God help us if we do.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  But I felt a gap between us. I had crossed a line. There was no turning back now. In fact, every day I was more and more certain I was going to find Lucy. With the motorboat we could cover more ground in less time. And with someone with me, the sight of Lucy wouldn’t be such a shock. I hoped. And if Steve Quinn wasn’t going to cooperate….

  Mary Frances arrived an hour later.

  We putted our way down to the dam in the ten-horsepower boat. It was a beautiful evening. Mild. The trees glowed in the evening sunlight. We hugged the shore.

  In the bow, Mary Frances smoked cigarette after cigarette. It was a lazy-looking gesture that betrayed the tension I knew she was holding inside. She was skeptical but she wasn’t immune to the possibilities.

  We entered every bay. We strained our eyes. We followed the length of the huge boom that stretched across the river just above the dam. We traced the perimeter of the Hydro-Québec island. And then we returned home on the opposite shore in the still-warm twilight.

  “Well, my dear, that was a most pleasant evening,” said Mary Frances, kissing the air near my cheeks when we got back to her car. “I feel I know every inch of the Gatineau now.”

  “Every resident should,” I said. “By the way, keep your eyes peeled.”

  “For a body? Me? I think not.”