Her notebook journal lay halfway under one rumpled pillow. I put my hand on the edge of it and held it there, not thinking about anything. I made my eyes go blind and pulled the notebook out, ran my thumb along the corner, found the last page she’d written on. Saw the date: yesterday. Blinking, blinking, still half blind, I absorbed the last sentence. “So anything above 75 on the final, which I could do with my eyes closed, and I still get a B for the year, not bad for a Francophobe.”
I toppled over, resting my head on the pillow. The ripe, sweet smell of Ruth’s hair calmed me. Oh, baby, where are you? If she would just come right now. Right now. Every time I heard a car in the street, I froze, listening like an animal. If the front door would just open right now. I started making promises to God. I wanted to read Ruth’s diary so badly, I got up and walked across the room. I should’ve put it back exactly where I’d found it, but I was afraid if I touched it again I’d open it.
I caught sight of my haggard face in the mirror over the bureau, or the small square in the center of the mirror that wasn’t covered with stuck-on photographs, ticket stubs, invitations, funny headlines, magazine cutouts. One of the photos was a close-up of Ruth, Jamie, and Caitlin, taken before Christmas by Jamie’s amateur photographer brother. Ruth, the tallest, stood in the middle, and they all had their arms draped across one another’s shoulders, smiling for the camera. Happy girls, their sweet friendship on display. But Jamie’s brother had also caught a look in Ruth’s eyes I knew very well, a half-hidden restlessness, a bafflement that didn’t match the cocky, wide-mouthed smile. A look that said, What am I doing here? I think I might rather be there .
Stephen had had that same thin-veiled impatience with the here and now. It hadn’t made him happy. An unfortunate legacy—but Ruth might outgrow it; already she had more resources than Stephen had ever had. Her inner life was quieter. She was sound—I felt that on a bone level, although the details of her inner life these days were beyond mysterious to me. Had we been as close as we were ever going to be? It was one of my terrors—that the paths of our lives had forked for the last time, and now we would begin to grow progressively wider apart, or at best no nearer, until the day I died.
But maybe not. Glimmers of a new kind of closeness with my mother showed through the murk from time to time. Just glimmers, no shining beacon. Our egos kept butting against each other; too many things couldn’t be said, too much was off-limits. Why wasn’t love enough? Why wasn’t it ever enough?
I wandered back downstairs. Outside, clouds were piling up around a puny moon behind the locust tree. Heat lightning flickered in the west; the air smelled damp and metallic. I left the door open so I could hear the phone, and sat down on the porch steps in the dark. I should’ve let Jess come over. No lights on at Modean’s house, no lights at the Kilkennys’ across the street, only one streetlight burning at the corner. Quiet. No dogs, no night birds, not even a cricket. I should’ve let Jess come. Or even Mama.
This is the pain I should’ve felt when Stephen died. No sin went unpunished indefinitely, and I had so many sins. Sleeping with Jess wasn’t the worst, it was only the one I was focused on tonight. Stephen always said I was too easy with Ruth, and here was the sickening proof that he was right. If I’d been a better mother, she would never have dreamed of running away. Modean had disagreed violently when I’d told her that tonight—in a weak moment. “You’re a terrific mother!” she’d insisted, adamant as a cheerleader. “You’re not too lax, what are you talking about? I’m too lax. This boy’s doomed.” She put her lips under Harry’s chin and blew, making him shriek. “Carrie, you’re not too soft on Ruth, I really don’t think.”
But I did. My excuse was always that I dreaded being like my own mother, so I backed off, time after time, from imposing my will on my daughter—because that would mean imposing my morals, too, my worldview, my principles, my likes, dislikes—everything Mama had smothered me with at Ruth’s age and ever after, and see what had come of that—resentment, distance, formality. Yearning for closeness and fearing it at the same time, because it came with the risk of being devoured. “For your own good” excused a multitude of little takeovers. It usurped the will of the one you loved, and caused her to make dreadful, long-lasting mistakes.
To save Ruth from that, I’d gone too far the other way and left her rudderless, maybe valueless. No, that wasn’t true—but—I was the most wishy-washy of mothers, a dishrag. Except when I caught myself and overcompensated with some unsuitable, out-of-character act of parental tyranny that accomplished nothing except to piss Ruth off.
My own thoughts antagonized me. All I want is what’s best for her, I only want her to be happy, to be what she wants to be, to live a full life—every word was true, and yet I knew how loaded each one was because my mother had said them all to me, and believed them just as fiercely. It was love’s fault again—love simply wasn’t enough. How could you find a balance? How could you let a child go and keep her safe? How could you kill your own ego? Unconditional love—was there any such thing except from a dog? I thought of Modean, bouncing Harry on her hip by the hour, laughing with him, listening intently to his gibberish, rocking him to sleep, worrying about him, doting on him—none of that guaranteed anything. He’d grow up and leave her no matter how well she loved him, and unless she was a saint she’d hate it. She’d spend the rest of her life getting over losing him.
I covered my head with my arms, grinding my eye sockets against the bones of my knees. Misery felt like being filled up with black water and drowning. I didn’t always believe in God, but I wished he would kill me if that’s what it would take, give him my life for Ruth’s. Where was she? Please, God, please, God, please. For the first time since he died, I missed Stephen, truly missed him. I’ve lost our baby, I confessed, smothering sobs against my thighs. Inside the house, the phone rang.
I ran. I said “Hello!” and Jess said, “Carrie?” in surprise.
“It’s me.” I didn’t sound like myself. My mouth was gluey, the words sticking to each other. “Did you find her?”
“No. I’ve been all over, everywhere I could think. I’m at a pay phone on Madison. I’ll keep trying.”
“Okay.” I could hear traffic in the background, like whirring static.
“How are you? Are you alone?”
“Jess?”
“Yes?”
“I wish I could do everything over again. I’m so sorry I ruined it for us. If I had a second chance, I’d change everything. I wouldn’t let you go.”
“Carrie. Let me come there, let me see you.”
“No, I’d rather you kept looking for her. Because no one else is doing anything. The police—”
“I’ll call them myself. Right now.”
“Okay, that’s good.”
“Call your mother, call a neighbor. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I might. Yeah, I might do that. I love you, Jess,” I said, and hung up.
A misty rain started to fall. I stood on the porch step with my face tilted up, letting the cold spray prick my skin. A gust of wind pushed me back on my heels. I turned around and leaned against the screen door; the wet mesh smelled like all the warm, rainy days of my childhood. I put out my tongue and tasted the bitter, salty metal, and a memory drifted back, of my mother holding me, both of us staring out through the screen at a greenish storm. I must’ve been three or four, small enough to pick up but old enough to remember. I could feel Mama’s arms tight around my middle, I could see the dogwood tree sway and bend in the front yard of our old house on Pioneer Avenue. I loved storms. Probably from that afternoon, when we’d watched through the screen together, Mama’s cheek on my ear.
Ruth loved storms, too. That was a comfort. I let it seep in, a small reassurance that, after all, I hadn’t done everything wrong.
Morning.
Two policemen came early, just after eight o’clock. They didn’t look smart, they were too young, one had a whitish stain on his lapel, one kept fingering a shaving cut on his j
aw. I didn’t like them. But I was excessively nice to them, so they would like me and work harder to find Ruth. All night I’d wanted the police to care, to start taking steps, to get worried and take action. Now that they had, I was petrified.
“I’ve already called all these people,” I said when Officer Fitz, the one with the stained lapel, asked for the names and addresses of Ruth’s friends. “But no, you talk to them again, that’s good,” I added in haste, afraid I might have offended him. After they left, I remembered that neither of them had told me not to worry.
I made a fresh pot of coffee, brought the newspaper in. I was tired enough to collapse in a chair at the kitchen table, but too tense to do anything but slurp coffee and stare around at the walls. About three o’clock last night I’d thought a drink might help. I’d poured a glass of white wine, and got down about half of it before tossing it in the sink. It worked too well, made me feel loose and drowsy, and I couldn’t have that. I had to stay vigilant. I could direct Ruth’s safety with my mind—I almost believed it. If I let down my guard by relaxing or, God forbid, falling asleep, chaos might win. No, the power of worry was my best, really my only weapon.
When the phone rang, I knew it was my mother.
“Hi. No, not yet. I know. Well, they were just here. They…yeah. They didn’t really say anything, but they’re starting to get serious. I know. About time. Well, you can, but—No, it’s just that there’s nothing for you to—Sure, I want you to. Okay. Okay. No, don’t bring anything, just—okay. ’Bye.”
“Fun’s over,” I said to my reflection in the oven window. No more wallowing alone in misery and desolation, no more holding back chaos single-handed. “Mama’s coming.”
But before she arrived, a carload of Fledergasts pulled up in front of the house. I was sitting at my usual post on the top porch step, alert to the sound of car engines long before they turned in to Leap Street. Intent on the sound of my own car, I didn’t hear Chris’s station wagon until it stopped and she got out on the passenger side. I had never seen her in a dress before, a blue and white seersucker shirtwaist, with white high heels that made her look like a giant. She saw me when she was halfway up the walk. Her frowning face cleared; she waved, smiled. She never dropped by like this. What if—
I jumped up.
“Hey. We’re on our way—”
I ran down the steps and dodged past her, trying to peer through the streaky car windows. Oz at the wheel, Andy and the little girl, Karen, in the backseat. No Ruth. Disappointment felt like a surprise slap in the face.
“What is it?” Chris said, staring at me. “You okay? You don’t look—”
“Ruth’s not with you?”
“Ruth?”
I sagged.
“What’s wrong? Where’s Ruth?”
“She’s missing. I just thought maybe she was with you.”
“Missing.”
“Since yesterday afternoon.” Chris gasped. I turned, but she grabbed me back and gave me a hard, long-armed hug. When it began to feel good, I pulled away. “So,” I said. “What’s up with you? You guys off to church?”
“Have you called the cops?”
“They’re looking, they say they’ll find her. She’s got the car.”
“Oh, my God. Well, she’s just out joyriding. We used to do that—didn’t you do that?”
“All night?”
She made a quick, frightened face. “She’ll come home, Carrie. Any minute, I bet.”
“Yeah.”
“Who’s with you? Shall I stay?”
“No, thanks, my mom’s on her way over.”
“Are you sure? We’re on our way to church, yeah, but they can go without me.” She gestured at the car. Oz was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, but stopped and waved when he saw me glance at him.
“No, you go on. Nothing going on here but waiting.”
She looked indecisive. “Well, okay, then, but I’ll call you later. Oh—the reason I came by. It seems stupid now, but I’ll just tell you. I quit.”
“You what? You quit?”
“Brian called me at home last night to tell me the news. He sounded so damn happy. He just hired your replacement. Guess who it is.”
I could hardly remember my job. “Who?”
“Lois Burkhart.”
“Lois—from the bank?”
“Lois from the bank! Can you believe it?”
“No. Well—she’s an accountant, isn’t she?”
“Brian has an accountant, Carrie, that’s not why he hired her.”
“Why—”
“They’re dating!”
“They are? But isn’t she married?”
Chris wriggled her eyebrows. “Oz saw them at the Ramada Inn last week, having breakfast.”
“Oh.”
“So I quit. I don’t need that. We talked about it all night. Oz didn’t want me to leave, not right away, but I just couldn’t keep it up, not with this on top of what he did to you. I’ve lost all respect for him, Carrie. I called this morning and told him.”
“Oh, Chris.”
“He didn’t even argue. Three years I’ve worked for that man. We started that school together. I’m not saying he couldn’t have done it without me. I’m—”
“Well, he couldn’t have!”
“No, but I just thought loyalty counted for more than this,” she said, blinking moist eyes. “I guess I’m naive. I guess I was stupid.”
“It’s Brian who’s stupid.”
She flapped her hand, taking a step back. “I just wanted to tell you. I don’t need cheering up, and anyway, you’ve got enough to worry about. I’ll call you later, when we get home from church. I just know Ruth is fine.”
“Chris, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
It felt as if it was, though. “Do you have any plans, any idea what you’ll do?”
“No!” She laughed, a little wildly. “Something will turn up, I’m not worried.” Obviously not true. “Andy says we should all pray for a miracle, so that’s what we’re going to do.” She combed nervous fingers through her spiky, dirty-blonde hair. “I don’t know where he gets that,” she leaned closer to say. “We don’t even go to church that often. I’m scared to death he’s going to be a priest.” She moved in for another hug. “Okay, gotta go, but I’ll call you. Try not to worry, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Andy’ll put Ruth on his prayer list.”
“Great.”
She walked away, stiff-legged in the clacking white heels. She had nice legs. Standing on the curb, she was twice as tall as her car. She bent over, folded herself into the passenger seat clumsily, knees pressed together. The whole family waved to me as they drove away.
* * *
“I can’t believe she’d go and do this of her own free will.” Mama plumped up a sofa cushion by pushing it against her stomach and pounding it with her fist. “She’s not like that, she would not deliberately cause this kind of worry. I just feel it.”
“I think she did, though.”
“No, I don’t believe it. The police are not approaching this right. That child did not run away. Something happened. I don’t know what,” she said, steering away from her worst imaginings again, remembering at the last second that she was supposed to be comforting me, not ratcheting my anxieties up higher. “I’m just saying, if they still think she’s out joyriding—for nineteen hours!—they’re seriously barking up the wrong tree. When did you talk to them last?”
“I told you, they came by this morning. They—”
“That’s the last time? Hell, I’ll call them. This is a runaround, pure and simple.”
I thought, Good, you call, because even that little bit of responsibility lifted—as futile as I was sure calling the police again would be—felt like a sack of rocks off my shoulders. And deep down, some childlike faith still lay under the irritation and fatigue and hopelessness that, as awful as everything was, Mama could fix it.
But she plopped
down on the couch and didn’t reach for the phone. She was vain about her appearance, wouldn’t dream of leaving the house without lipstick and mascara; even today she’d taken pains to match her eye shadow to her gray blouse. But I’d never seen her look so old. It wasn’t lines or wrinkles as much as the color of her skin, yellow from sleeplessness, and the sag of her flesh from worry and fatigue. Drawn by protectiveness, I started to sit beside her.
“I’m telling you, something’s wrong,” she roused herself to say, for at least the fourth time since she’d gotten here, and I veered away and sat down in a chair. “How would you know if anything’s missing from that room? It’s World War Three in there. This is what comes of letting a child have dominion over her own space.”
“What?” She must’ve heard that on a talk show. “Mama, what’s her room got to do with anything?”
“Someone could’ve come in here and stolen her things, her valuables, and you wouldn’t even know it.”
“She doesn’t have any valuables.”
“She has a stereo, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, but—”
“A camera?”
I shrugged.
“A bank? A telephone, a cashmere sweater, leather boots—”
“She doesn’t have a cashmere sweater. I don’t have a cashmere sweater. Anyway, what’s that got—”
“Someone could’ve robbed her. I’m just saying, I can’t see Ruth walking out of this house by herself. Something else happened.”
“Mama, nothing else happened.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“You don’t know.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Will you stop? She wasn’t kidnapped.”
“Don’t even say that word!”
“Well, isn’t that what you keep hinting at?”
“I’m not hinting at anything.”
“You are.” I stood up, vexed beyond caution. “You’re saying somebody came in the house, stole her four-year-old stereo—which is still there, by the way, I saw it—and stole Ruth too while they were at it.”
Circle of Three Page 33
