The doorman buzzes Ophelia’s apartment, but there is no answer.
“I think she’s in the card room,” he says. “You can go on back if you’d like.”
Annie shakes her head. “It’s nothing important. I’ll catch her next time.”
The truth is that it is nothing important. It’s simply that she can’t shake this premonition hanging over her head. She knows if kept secret inside your heart, a worry can feed on itself and grow to unimaginable proportions. Once shared, it is usually exposed for the meaningless thing it is.
The only problem is right now she can’t find anyone with whom to share it.
~ ~ ~
Annie spends the afternoon in the apothecary. Three customers come in, chat for a while then leave. Still the day stretches on.
Each minute seems like an hour, and the hours weigh upon her as if they are weeks or even months. Now that the house is finished and the garden readied for winter, there is little to do.
She mulls and mixes the last of the dried leaves, rearranges the tiny jars on the shelves and mixes a new potpourri. This one has the musky smell of Oliver’s aftershave.
When she can find nothing more to do, Annie snaps off the light in the apothecary and goes back to the kitchen. It is already seven, a time when she’d ordinarily have dinner on the stove, but she waits. Oliver has said he will call when he is on his way home. It is a forty-minute drive, so she’ll have time enough for cooking dinner.
Annie fixes herself a cup of dandelion tea then takes To Kill a Mockingbird from the shelf and starts to read. She has read the book countless times, yet it is still a pleasure. She adores Scout and hopes she and Oliver will one day have a daughter who is just like her—bright, fearless and inquisitive.
~ ~ ~
It is almost eight when Oliver leaves the courthouse. He has much on his mind, but Ella Mae Grimley is at the forefront of those thoughts. He cannot dismiss the thought of how the children clung to her. The boy, five years old and still sucking his thumb. The girl, only four and so shy she speaks in barely a whisper. Ella Mae pleading to keep her children. Margaret Grimly, an angry mother-in-law, arguing Ella Mae is unfit.
“No income,” Margaret’s lawyer argued. “No job, no permanent residence.”
All of this is true, but still the kids cling to Ella Mae and cry not to be taken away.
Ella Mae’s only proponent is a public defender who until this morning never laid eyes on her. He argues that Margaret’s son dying of a drug overdose does not make Ella Mae an unfit mother.
Oliver knows there are probably a thousand other things the lawyer could have said in the girl’s defense, but the truth is he hasn’t taken the time to find them.
The knife-edged facts point one way, but beyond those facts is the truth. That truth is what Oliver struggles to find.
He is halfway home when he remembers to call Annie.
~ ~ ~
Danny Larson is a man who likes to drink, but he doesn’t consider himself a drunk. All right, tonight he’s had too many whiskeys, but it’s understandable. Given his circumstances, any man would do the same. It’s the only thing you can do when you come home in the middle of the afternoon and find your wife with another man.
“I’m sorry,” Anita had said. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”
Had she pleaded for his forgiveness, Danny would have given it. Begrudgingly perhaps, but still, he would have given it to save their marriage.
The thing was she didn’t even ask for forgiveness. She didn’t try to say it was just a fling, something that meant nothing to her. She shamelessly turned away and said it was inevitable he’d find out sooner or later.
There was nothing else Danny could do. He scraped up the tiny bit of pride he had left and stormed out the door.
“Be gone when I get back!” he’d yelled.
He climbed back into his truck and roared off. With tears blurring his vision and a crack splitting his heart wide open, he’d gone directly to McGivney’s and drank whiskey after whiskey. It didn’t change anything, but it dulled the pain of knowing.
After he’s lost count of the number of whiskeys he’s downed, he lays his head on the bar and sobs like a baby. That’s when McGivney cuts him off.
“You’ve had enough,” McGivney says. “Go home. Get some rest. Tomorrow you’ll see things in a different light.”
“Home?” Danny slobbers. “I ain’t ever going home!”
“Well, you’re not staying here,” McGivney replies. He comes around the bar, pulls Danny off the stool and walks him to the door.
“Want me to call you a cab?” McGivney asks.
“Hell no,” Danny says and staggers down the street.
The truck is parked around the corner, half a block down, but before Danny gets to it he stops at the Liquor Depot and buys a quart bottle of Jack Daniels. He opens the bottle as soon as he steps outside the store.
As Danny Larson pulls away from the curb, he pictures Anita’s head under his right foot and stomps down hard on the gas pedal. He thumps over the curb at the corner of Butler Street, sideswipes a Honda, then turns down Wanamaker. As he roars through the intersection at Carlson, he has the bottle tipped to his mouth and doesn’t see the light change from yellow to red. The likelihood is even if he had seen it, he wouldn’t have given a damn.
~ ~ ~
Oliver pulls the cell phone from his pocket. For a second, perhaps less than a second, his eyes are lowered. He pushes the speed dial button, and at that moment he feels the impact.
The phone flies from his hand as the side of his car caves in.
There is the rending screech of metal against metal. A scream shatters the air.
Oliver feels the airbag slam into his face, the steering wheel against his chest. His car spins and slides across the road. When it slams into the curb, it rolls over and comes to rest on the grassy lot at the far corner of Wanamaker and Carlson. Pieces of metal ripped from his car are scattered across the intersection.
“Oh shit,” Danny moans and staggers down from the cab of his truck. His thought is to get the hell out of here as quick as possible. Before he reaches the sidewalk, he collapses into a heap.
Annie
I can’t imagine why I do this, let some silly little thought get stuck in my head and then worry myself to pieces over it.
So Oliver forgot his briefcase. It’s not the end of the world. If he really needed it, I’m sure he would have called or sent someone to pick it up. Anyway, I took it to his office and that should be the end of that. But somehow I feel it’s not.
I’ve looked all over the house and can’t find a single thing that’s broken or even out of place. Yet I still have the feeling that I’m missing something. Something I should do, or somebody I’m supposed to call.
Before I came to Memory House I used to feel edgy like this more often than not, but back then I had reason. Now I have no reason. Life is as good as it gets. So why am I worrying?
Maybe it’s just a leftover bad habit.
I’m hoping that’s all it is.
In Dorchester
Annie is only six pages into her book when she drifts away. Five times she rereads the same sentence. She sets the book aside, rinses her teacup in the sink, then goes to the front window and peers out at the emptiness of the street.
She hopes to see Oliver’s car coming down the block, but there is nothing. It is after eight. He’s never been this late. She tells herself it’s understandable. He has Judge Cooper’s caseload added to his own.
Every quarter hour the clock chimes, it is a reminder that another fifteen minutes have passed and still there is no word from Oliver. He has warned her that he is going to be late this evening, so there should be no cause for worry. Right?
Although logic argues there is nothing out of the ordinary, nothing worthy of her concern, she cannot dismiss the feeling of uneasiness that has settled in her chest.
At eight-thirty she calls the Wyattsville courthouse. A recording a
nswers. It tells her the courthouse is open from 8AM until 6PM, but if she knows her party’s extension she can enter it now. Annie pushes 318, Oliver’s extension number. Another recording answers. This one says there is no one available to take her call, please leave a message.
“It’s late,” Annie says. “I’m worried about you, call me back.”
She sits in the chair alongside the telephone and waits.
~ ~ ~
Karen Busby lives in the yellow house next to the empty lot on Carlson Street. It’s a fairly quiet neighborhood, and that’s how she wants it to remain. After eight hours of waiting on harried customers at the Seven-Eleven, she looks forward to uneventful evenings of watching television.
On this particular night she is settling into the recliner when she hears something that sounds like an explosion outside the house.
“What now?” she groans.
When Karen opens the front door to investigate, she finds a black fender lying at the foot of her stoop.
“What the…”
She looks at the vacant lot, sees Oliver’s car turned on its side and gasps.
“Holy crap!”
She ducks back inside and dials 9-1-1.
The accident happened in Dorchester, a town midway between Wyattsville and Burnsville. No one saw it happen, so there is no one to explain the course of events. There is only Karen’s recounting of the sound of it.
“Both the truck and car are smashed,” she tells the 9-1-1 operator.
“Is anyone hurt?” the operator asks.
“I would guess so,” Karen says. “It’s pretty bad out there.” She volunteers to go look.
“Hold on.”
By the time Karen returns to the phone, the operator already has a call in for both the police and fire rescue.
“One guy is lying in the road, and one’s still in his car,” Karen reports.
“An ambulance is on the way,” the dispatcher replies.
Before Karen hangs up the telephone, she hears the scream of sirens.
A patrol car is first on the scene. The senior officer kneels beside Danny and feels for a pulse.
“Check the other car!” he yells to his partner.
Keith Ramsey has been on the job for one week, and the sight of this wreck is making his stomach roll. He pushes back the queasiness he feels and raps on the window of Oliver’s car.
“You okay, buddy?” he asks.
Oliver’s eyes are open. He blinks but can’t move. He can barely breathe. The dashboard is pushed in and the steering wheel pressed against his chest with the weight of an elephant.
“Don’t try to move,” Keith says. He tries to remember the things he’s learned in those weeks of training. Keep talking to the victim, keep them calm, reassure them help is on the way, get their name, make a personal connection.
“The EMTs are on their way,” Keith says. “Don’t worry, we’re gonna get you out right away.”
Oliver blinks again.
“What’s your name?” Keith asks. He works to remember the protocol and doesn’t leave time for an answer. “You got somebody you want me to call?”
“Annie…” Oliver says in a hoarse whisper. Her name is still on his lips when his eyes close.
Before the fire department rescue truck comes to a full stop, Keith stands and waves them over. “We need to get this guy out.”
Three volunteer firemen jump from the truck and dart over.
“The door’s jammed,” Keith says and steps back.
Pete, the oldest of the three and a regular on the crew, eyes the car then calls for Bull to bring the Halligan bar and spreader.
“We need to pop this door,” he says.
Bull is a dark-haired lad with a neck as thick as a thigh. He comes with the Halligan bar and rams it into the space between the door and the jam. Bull pounds his weight against the bar, and within ten seconds the door is open. Not all the way, but enough for Pete to reach in and feel for Oliver’s pulse.
“He’s alive,” Pete says. The sound of relief is in his words, but it doesn’t slow his actions. “Let me get a collar on him, then let’s get him out of here.”
Although Oliver appears to be unconscious, Pete continues talking to him.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “You’re gonna be okay once we get you outta here. All right now, you’re gonna feel me putting a collar on your neck, but it’s nothing to be concerned about. This is just to stabilize your head until we can get you to the hospital. Easy now…okay, easy…easy…”
As soon as the collar is on, Pete sees Oliver cannot be moved. His legs are pinned beneath the dashboard. Pete says nothing about this. Instead he shoots off another order and speaks of the positive effort underway.
“Almost there,” he says. “Almost there. Another few minutes…”
There is no reply to any of Pete’s words. Oliver’s eyes are closed.
The first ambulance has already taken Danny Larsen off to the hospital. A second ambulance stands by waiting for Oliver.
Once the collar is in place, Pete tells Bull to use the spreader and get the passenger door open.
“Then get in there and let’s roll that dash back,” he says.
Within fifteen minutes, the rescue team has both doors off of Oliver’s car and they’ve removed the top with a hydraulic cutter.
Now they can lift Oliver from the wreck. Moving gingerly, they lift him onto a backboard and into the waiting ambulance.
As soon as he is secure, the siren is turned on and the ambulance races toward Mercy Hospital.
Pete looks worn. Cases like this are tough on him. Not because of the work, but because he remembers the faces. They return at night and haunt his dreams. He prays that this one will live. Tomorrow he will drop by the hospital and ask about him. In some cases it’s better not to know, but Pete can’t help himself.
Each time he prays this one will make it. Some do. Some don’t.
He turns to Keith. “You got the guy’s name and address?”
Keith nods. “I’ll let the family know.”
The sorry truth is that Keith doesn’t even know if there is family. He knows nothing but the name the victim spoke. Annie. The car is registered to Oliver Doyle. The address on the registration is in Wyattsville.
At twenty minutes of nine, Keith and his senior officer stand at the door of Oliver’s now empty townhouse.
It is only by a quirk of fate that Francine Jackson happens to look out the window and catch sight of the patrol car parked in Oliver’s driveway.
Not one to ignore something of such interest, Francine pulls on her bathrobe and trots over. “What’s going on?”
“We’re looking for someone in the Doyle family,” the officer says. “Is there an Annie Doyle?”
“Yes,” Francine answers. “But you won’t find her here. The Doyles moved.”
“Where to?”
Francine is a friend, and she prides herself in being a loyal friend. “What’s this all about?” she asks tentatively. If it’s anything that means trouble—an overdue parking fine, an expired license, or anything of the sort—Francine is prepared to lie. She’ll say to the best of her knowledge they’ve moved to Kentucky.
“There’s been an automobile accident,” Keith says solemnly. “We’re looking for Mister Doyle’s next of kin.”
Francine gasps and her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh dear God…”
Once the officers have the Burnsville address, they turn the car around and head in that direction.
Francine doesn’t know if she should call Annie and tell her, or if something like this is better left to the police. The truth is she knows only that there has been an accident. She knows nothing of what happened.
When she can come to no other decision, Francine calls Max.
“I think you’d better get over there,” she says. “I’ve got a feeling Annie is going to need you.”
“I’m on it,” Max replies.
Five minutes later Max is driving to Burnsville.
/>
Mercy Hospital
When the clock strikes nine, Annie gives way to the fear bubbling in her stomach. Her first call is to Max, but there is no answer.
Annie doesn’t actually expect Max to know where Oliver is. She’s simply looking for someone to tell her the fear that’s settled in her heart is foolish. Max is sensible and realistic, but Max isn’t available.
The next call is to Ophelia.
“Have you heard from Oliver?” she asks.
“Me?” Ophelia says. “Why would I be hearing from Oliver?”
Annie explains the situation.
“Hmm. It could be that he’s just busy. Every so often Edward would do that, get busy doing paperwork and not bother to answer the telephone.”
She hesitates, remembering how the telephone rang and rang when she called Edward from her mama’s house. That time he didn’t answer because he was either dead or dying.
“Maybe you should call the police,” she tells Annie. “They have access to the courthouse, and they’ll go check on him.”
The seriousness of Ophelia’s tone makes Annie think her fear might be justified. As soon as she hangs up the telephone, she gets out the directory and looks up the number for the Burnsville Police Department. As she is dialing the number, the brass knocker clanks against the front door.
Fear doesn’t take logic into consideration. Instead of questioning why Oliver would knock rather than use his key, she says, “Thank God,” and runs to the door.
When she flings it open, two officers from the Dorchester police department stand there.
“Annie Doyle?” the older one asks.
A wave of nausea rolls up from her stomach, and she knows this is not good. “Yes?”
“There’s been an automobile accident,” he says. “Your husband…”
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