Payne & Misery

by Catherine Leggitt

  Stomachs satisfied, we spent most of the next hour in thoughtful discussion of Molly’s disappearance and Lila’s unfortunate plight. Leaning on Jesse’s strength and methodical problem-solving skills gave me hope. Although he couldn’t immediately solve this particular puzzle with all its abnormal pieces, his attempts to organize it reassured me.

  After we’d exhausted all angles we could think of, silence engulfed us. The fire crackled and popped. Jesse stared into the flames, holding a steaming cup of hot chocolate with both hands. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

  I wished he’d gazed into my eyes when he said that. “I guess you do. You’re still here.”

  The fire commanded his attention. “I do. I’m sorry about this morning.”

  “What about this morning?”

  “Yelling at you, calling you names, not helping you, accusing you of imagining. You know. All that stuff. That was selfish. I didn’t mean it.”

  “You meant it. You were mad at me.”

  “I should’ve been more supportive, though.”

  I would’ve liked a wordier apology—at least fifteen minutes of groveling and pleading for forgiveness. But I’d gotten more than I expected. Jesse didn’t apologize easily. Besides, I had to concede that I might have been a bit foolhardy in breaking into the Paynes’ house. It must have frightened him. I moved closer and pried the mug from his fingers. Then I pulled him back onto the sectional where I burrowed into his strong shoulder and sniffed his familiar scent. “I’m sorry for scaring you.” I reached up to touch his face. “I love you, Jesse.”

  The remainder of the evening blended into a hazy, contented blur, following the natural order of romantic interludes. Long-overdue lovemaking was tender and sweet. Afterward we lay in our bed, listening to the steady rainfall on the roof. Jesse drew me toward him to rest my head on his chest. His arm enfolded me securely. I snuggled. We lay without speaking, drifting to sleep, which for Jesse took only a few seconds, as usual.

  Many moons passed since I last felt this close to my husband. I didn’t want the evening to end. To keep myself from falling asleep, I replayed the entire interval in my mind and marveled at the easy way we’d conversed. So often, when I wanted to talk, Jesse did not, or vice versa. Whoever instigated the conversation ended up hurt and added another brick to the wall that separated us. More and more, we spiraled into parallel isolation, reinforcing my imagined inability to communicate.

  With all my heart, I ached for healing in our relationship. Not merely a respite, like we’d just experienced, but a genuine cure. Clueless how to find it, I needed someone with power great enough to change us. Zora Jane always pointed me to God when I mentioned a problem. Maybe he had that kind of power. I would give him another try.

  I slipped out of bed and padded barefoot to my office. Kneeling beside the ottoman, I prayed. God, are you listening? I need help. How did this wall between Jesse and me get so immense and impregnable? Where did our friendship go?

  During the busy years of parenting and career building, the bond between us seemed strong, sustained by common goals. We shared interests and priorities for many years—more, it seemed, than most couples we knew. Before we retired, we always had someone or something else to focus on. Perhaps we allowed our relationship to become stunted by our busy lives. However it happened, at some point we ceased to encourage intimacy and the wall between us grew.

  I stood to gaze through my office window. The roof jutted out, preventing a clear view of the Paynes’ house. The Paynes— they were dysfunctional with a capital D. What caused the misery at that house?

  Little hurts multiplied over time. Unattended, they could never heal.

  A quiet voice in my head repeated the thought I had earlier— men are such poor communicators.

  No, another soft voice argued. I must claim my fault too. I withheld communication for many reasons. Mostly stubborn resentment. Our relationship never matured enough to make resolution of hurts natural. A tower of unresolved injuries stacked up until it became so tall I could no longer see Jesse over the top.

  I tiptoed back to our bedroom and peeked inside. Jesse lay on his back, snoring rhythmically. Did he have a stack of injuries on his side of the wall that kept him from actually seeing me?

  Watching him, I remembered times it appeared that he tried to tear down barriers between us. Usually, I’d take the opportunity of his attention to attack him. Why did I do that? Was that a control issue? Regardless of the reason, instead of leaning toward him, I always bent toward my own inner despair.

  I grabbed my heavy chenille robe from the closet, wrapped it close, and then wandered downstairs to the kitchen window.

  Like most women my age, I bought the romantic notion that only one special someone would make me truly happy—my own perfect Prince Charming. I needed a man to make me complete.

  Lights flickered in the windows at the Payne house. Did Lila think she wouldn’t be complete without a man too? I couldn’t explain what would have attracted her to Will otherwise.

  In return for the sacrifices of dutiful wifehood, the perfect man would cherish and adore me no matter what, ’til death do us part.

  Sitcoms of my era always ended happily after half an hour, proving a quick solution existed for every problem. In TV Land, instantaneous intimacy occurred immediately after “I do.”

  The reality of marriage had long ago shattered such romantic notions. Not counting occasional thoughtful gestures such as remembering birthdays and anniversaries, Jesse refused to fit the “Prince Charming” mold.

  Along with that thought, Jesse’s attempts to please me rose in my mind as if pleading their own case—stacking higher and higher over the years—plainly Jesse did possess a romantic side, albeit not exactly what I expected. With sudden clarity, I saw how I’d concluded that Jesse must have caused our marital problems. I plopped onto a kitchen chair with a thud as my own words rained on me from the darkness.

  Jesse doesn’t understand me.

  Jesse criticizes everything I do.

  He is never satisfied.

  I can never please him.

  He never notices my needs.

  Complain, complain, complain. No matter what he did or didn’t do, my expectations couldn’t be satisfied. My own lack of acceptance had sabotaged hopes for intimacy.

  I bowed my head into my hands. “God, if you’re there, help me let go of this baggage I’ve packed my hurts in over the years. I want to accept Jesse just as he is, warts and all. I don’t know how to get there, but I want to stop complaining and be thankful instead. Make us love each other like we did at the beginning.”

  Did God have power to transform me in that way? Marriage self-help books I’d read flooded to mind. I had tried to put various methods into practice. Not one had worked. I must be getting desperate to think God could change us. Yet, with my prayer, an unfamiliar peace descended, giving me a small glimmer of hope.

  When I snuggled back into bed, thoughts of Lila still floated above my head like troublesome sugarplums. That same inability to make the puzzle pieces connect diffused my musing like a washing of watercolor paint.

  I rolled to one side and shifted attention to Will, the perpetrator of the evil in that house. Okay, so I lacked concrete evidence. I knew what I knew.

  Before I drifted to sleep, one errant thought rattled my brain with such force that my eyes flew open and I bolted upright in bed. “Jesse!” I shook him gently. “The gate. It wasn’t latched when you opened it … when we came from the Paynes’ today. You pulled the gate open instead of unlatching it. That must be how he got Molly out!”

  14

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I opened my eyes and indulged in one of my favorite perks of the retirement lifestyle: lagging in bed a few extra minutes before hurrying to begin my day. I kicked off the covers and then lay still to appreciate every minuscule thing in my world, from my bedhead hair to my pearl-pink painted toenails. A childhood hymn of gratitude surprised me when it floated from mind
to lips. I hadn’t remembered it for years. While I realized anew how truly blessed I’d been, I sang, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow.”

  The buttery yellow bedroom walls glowed in morning light. Last night’s rain cleaned the fall air so it smelled like spring. Outside the window, a freshly laundered world awaited. Colors appeared brighter, bird songs sounded sweeter.

  Soon, Jesse’s singing echoed as he scrubbed in the shower.

  Oh, I love a rainy night. Such a beautiful sight.

  I love to feel the rain on my face.

  Monday, Monday, so good to me.

  Monday, Monday was all I hoped it would be.

  I say, Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy on me.

  You know I’m crazy ‘bout my baby.

  Lord, please send her back home to me.

  I giggled. Where did he pick up that combination? Sometimes I accused him of making lyrics up to fill in his tune. Everything seemed right until my eyes settled on Molly’s empty box at the corner of our room. Then sadness trickled in again.

  Jesse exited the house singing, probably to continue all the way to the barn. I rolled out of bed and tied on my chenille robe. In the kitchen, I peered out the window at my favorite view. I saw Jesse’s white Dodge dualie parked beside the barn. He didn’t come right home after feeding the horses. That might mean he found an interesting neighbor to talk to, or more likely, that he decided on an early morning trail ride. He always said bouncing on a horse sifted out the extraneous details of a problem, making the solution easier to recognize.

  The rich aroma of french vanilla wafted through the kitchen. Jesse had thoughtfully brewed coffee before he left. I poured a cup and turned to soak in the Grandma Moses landscape.

  The Japanese maple beside the pond miraculously recolored to a spectacular coral red since I last noticed it. A flock of birds screeched by, hurried by the slight mist blowing from the left. My eyes followed their flight away from the haziness and then returned to the mist. It didn’t exactly look like mist. Too dark. I cocked my head.

  That wasn’t mist. It was smoke!

  I hurried to the deck to investigate. Tall tongues of fire snapped and popped above the hillside.

  The Paynes’ mountain of cardboard boxes full of household items and cast-off clothing burned under jagged orange flames and plumes of black soot. Tiny cinders swirled through the air above, while heat waves radiated toward our house.

  Tractor chugging announced Will Payne seconds before his appearance from the front of the house. He rounded the corner bearing another large box in the bucket. This he dumped onto the pyre before heading back to the house. While I stood frozen by fear, he made four more trips to add boxes to the blaze.

  Red-hot flames erupted like a volcano as he deposited each box into the debris. Flashes of light exploded in the blackened pile. Fueled by new supplies of whatever combustible material filled the boxes, the bonfire became a raging inferno. A hazy cloud floated above the neighborhood as a periodic breeze attacked and retreated. Thick clouds of black smoke billowed toward my kitchen.

  Will climbed off the tractor and disappeared into the house.

  I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

  The ringing phone demanded attention. I managed to reach inside and pull it to my ear without taking my eyes off the fire.

  Ed Callahan’s voice boomed. “What’s he burning?”

  A familiar voice! How comforting. “He made a huge pile of boxes. They’re full of house stuff. I can’t imagine where he’s getting all of it. Do you think I should call the fire department?”

  “Well, the rain last night broke our dry spell, so maybe the fire department won’t consider this a potential fire hazard. Burn days start as soon as the first rain, I think.”

  Some morbid fascination with the fire kept my eyes glued to the sight. I almost forgot about Ed until I heard his voice again. “That fire’s been burning for hours. I got up for dawn patrol and saw it then.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Before six thirty.”

  Boxes in the middle of the fire imploded with a crash.

  “That smoke is blacker than a hustler’s heart,” Ed said.

  “It’s a lot bigger than last year’s fire.”

  “But last year, I think he just burned branches and brush.”

  The black plume puffed higher into the sky.

  I remembered what we found in the boxes. “Why do you think he’s burning clothes? Why not give them away if you don’t want them?”

  He chuckled. “Clothes? He’s got clothes in there? He really is off-center.” In the pause that followed, I imagined Ed studying the flames. “Listen, the reason I called—remember the Coopers? They live on the other side of the Paynes’ off Mustang Hill Road.”

  “Sure. We met them at your house.”

  “Right. Well, they were here for dinner last night and mentioned the Paynes.”

  For a moment I’d felt hope, expecting him to say they’d seen Molly, but no such luck. “Oh.”

  “They were heading home about dusk Saturday. A vehicle spun out of the Paynes’ driveway and almost hit them. Brown or some dark color. Older model sedan like a Buick LeSabre or about that size. Probably from the ’80s. He called it a ‘lead sled.’ The way it jerked all over the road, starting and stopping, Mike thought the driver must be tipsy.”

  “Dusk? That’s when he took Molly.” Ed didn’t respond, so I added, “I don’t remember seeing a car like that at the Paynes’.”

  “Can’t say I do either. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I thought I should tell you anyway. Did I mention the woman at the wheel?”

  “The woman?”

  “Yeah, he said, ‘The crazy woman almost hit me.”’

  Why would Lila leave in a brown car? “Did he see anyone else in the car?”

  “Said they didn’t notice anyone else, but it all happened in seconds. Had to hit his brakes to keep from crashing into her. Then the car whipped by.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Longish hair pulled back at the neck. Didn’t see much more. She took off toward town.” He paused as if waiting for comment, but I didn’t know what else to say. After a short silence, he said, “Well, hope your dog heads home soon.”

  I stared at the blazing fire. Was Molly in the brown car with Lila? Why would she take Molly? The puddle of blood in the downstairs room surfaced in my memory. Maybe I should give the Coopers a call.

  However, the small matter of groceries required my attention first. Bare spots in our pantry cried for filling, and I’d run out of creative ways to recycle leftovers. Although not my favorite chore, people have to eat—even broken-hearted people with missing dogs.

  I checked on the fire again when I finished showering and dressing. Monstrous blazing ribbons continued to dance in fiendish delight over the charred embers. Maybe Will added those boxes I saw in the basement storage rooms.

  Sights, sounds, and smells from long term memory swirled through my mind—being awakened in the middle of our kitchen fire, my father’s frightened shouts, the smoke, hurriedly gathering my few most prized possessions—heightened my terror about the possibility of this fire spreading. Nothing but a pasture lay between our house and the burning pile. If that fire blazed out of control, we could lose everything.

  If the fire stayed put, it wouldn’t invade the adjoining trees or bushes. With the clearing around it, not enough combustible material lay between the boxes and our property. Only a slight breeze blew, and everything should be soaked from the rain. Besides, last year’s fire at the Paynes’ flamed for days without advancing to our property.

  I repeated those comforting facts several times until I felt convinced enough to abandon my fire-monitoring post.

  Jesse hadn’t returned by the time I tore myself away, although his Dodge pickup still rested next to the barn. I wrote him a note about my whereabouts and stuck it to the refrigerator with a shell magnet. On my way out, I stopped at the barn to look for him, but didn�
�t find either Jesse or Ranger.

  While I headed toward town, I pleaded with God. “If you care about little things in our lives, please protect our house today.”

  If only he would send some small assurance that he was listening. If only he would show me where to find Molly.

  15

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I switched on the radio as I drove along the winding road into town, channel surfing for a news report just in case someone had reported finding Molly wandering miles from home.

  Instead, I caught this: “Authorities still search for information concerning the tragic hit-and-run accident, which occurred Saturday night in Nevada City, claiming the life of a four-year-old boy. The victim has been identified as Marcus Whitney, who lived in the vicinity of the accident.”

  When we bought a house in this beautiful location, we thought we were moving to heaven on earth. What kind of community had we chosen? Abused women, stolen dogs, fires. Now this. Children should be safe to grow to adulthood. I shook my head, wishing for the world of my childhood—back when we left our doors unlocked at night. Why can’t the world be like that today? I reached for the button to change stations. I’d have to make myself think about something else.

  I cast through my mental files as I drove across the overpass toward the grocery store. With only two large markets in Grass Valley, chances of bumping into someone familiar were greater than in larger cities. Maybe I’d see someone I knew today. I checked my lipstick in the rearview mirror.

  As I passed Kmart, a quick glimpse of a green Explorer entering the parking lot made me slam on the brakes to read the license plate. The McCarthys—who drove a green Explorer—displayed their primary priority on a distinctive personalized license. Lila mentioned visiting the McCarthys before they sold us their house so they could build a new one on the other side of town beside a tranquil lake. Maybe they would remember something significant about the Paynes.