Shepherd's Crook

by Sheila Webster Boneham

  sixty-nine

  Shopping for Goldie’s dress turned out to be more fun than I’ve had clothes shopping since I tromped around the Southtown Mall with my junior-high pals. Goldie picked out a long, tiered Gypsy-print skirt and vibrant pink peasant blouse in the second store we tried. Best of all, I didn’t have to try anything on, and I found a funky pair of dangly earrings on the clearance table for four bucks.

  We stopped by Blackford’s Farm and Garden again on the way home, hoping to find Joe as close to safe and sound as he ever was. We parked alongside the building and walked down the alley. As we neared Joe’s alcove, I called his name. There was no response, but I could tell he had been there since our last visit. The blanket that made his door was folded back over the top of the carton, and the sandwich bag and coffee I had left just inside were gone.

  We stopped in the store and looked for Ralph Blackford, but he wasn’t there. One of the clerks—Alan, according to the nametag pinned to his madras shirt—was stocking shelves, and I figured he had probably made one or two trips to the alley with empty boxes. I asked if he had seen Joe out there, and had to explain who I meant. Alan hadn’t seen him lately.

  By the time we got home, I felt ready to sort things out with Tom, if he was willing. I took Jay out back for a tennis game, played feather-on-a-stick with the cats, and checked the time. Tom had office hours scheduled until two-thirty, and I planned to catch him there. We could walk along the river that runs by the campus and have a talk on neutral ground.

  Tom’s office door was closed when I got there at two-twenty, so I wandered down the hall to read the bulletin board. Flyers and brochures for archeology field schools and intensive language courses and graduate programs festooned the three-by-five-foot surface and made me want to grab my camera and buy a ticket to some exotic place. When the door was still closed forty minutes later, I raised my hand to knock, but decided that any meeting that went twenty minutes past the end of office hours must be important. I backtracked to the office. A young man I didn’t know, probably a work-study helper, was slipping bright yellow flyers into faculty mailboxes.

  “Do you happen to know if Dr. Saunders is with a student?”

  He answered without looking at me. “He left about an hour ago.”

  “But he has office hours on Thursday.”

  “Not today.”

  “Was he okay?”

  “Far as I know.”

  All sorts of panicky thoughts pranced around my mind. I’d never known Tom to cancel a class or office hours. Was he sick? Was something wrong with Winnie? Had she been hurt in the previous night’s events? What about Drake? Then I thought about the things I had said after Winnie the Ripper’s adventures in paper art, and a ball of lead dropped into my stomach. Had Tom decided not to move in with me? Wasn’t that what I wanted, what I had told him, more or less? Okay, more. When I got to my van, I tilted the seat back as far as it would go and laid my arm across my eyes and stayed there, just trying to breathe, for a few minutes. Then I called Tom’s cell. No answer, not even his voice mail.

  I had promised my mother I would stop by Shadetree Retirement Home, and I forced myself to follow through. Jade Templeton, the manager, saw me walking toward the solarium and called, “Janet!

  I believe your mother went back to her room with your brother.” I thanked her, wondering what Bill was doing there in the middle of the day, and she added, “We’re all so excited about Saturday’s nuptials!”

  It was brother-in-law Norm, not Bill, in my mother’s room with her. Mom was giddy and glowing, and he was almost as excited as she was.

  “Oh, Janet!” Mom said, grabbing me in a smothering hug. Love had been good for her, I thought, and realized with a pang that it had been good for me, too, over the previous year. I had to find Tom as soon as possible.

  Mom finally released me and scurried to her bureau. She picked up a plastic bag and handed it to me with a giggle. “For that handsome boy of yours.” Calling Tom a boy struck me odd, but I opened the bag and pulled out a black bow tie with silver dots all over it. That seemed even odder until I saw it was attached to a matching dog collar. Mom said, “It’s Jay’s tux for the wedding!”

  Norm grinned at me, and I smiled and looked at Mom. “You want Jay at the wedding?”

  “Of course! And I got one for Drake, too!” She picked up another bag and held it out. “Give it to Tom for me.” She lowered her voice and said, “I think the puppy is a little young. I hope Tom’s feelings won’t be hurt.”

  I’ve already seen to that, I thought.

  Tony Marconi, the happy bridegroom, appeared in the doorway, and greetings quickly turned to last-minute logistics. Norm confirmed that I planned to be there in the morning to help decorate the solarium and that yes, I had an appointment to “do something about” my hair. I claimed to have a photo shoot and left Norm with the lovebirds. As I hurried down the hall, he called after me. “Family dinner tomorrow evening at our house. See you at six!”

  Tom still didn’t answer his phone, so I left a message. When he still hadn’t called back by four-thirty, I had cycled through several stages of phone grief. First was shock that he hadn’t called back all afternoon. Then anger, its target evenly distributed between the two of us. Bargaining came next—if he calls, I’ll do my best to have a rational discussion about my fears and our future. Really. If I remembered correctly, the final stage should have been acceptance, but one afternoon just wasn’t enough time for that. Besides, I was worried. I called again, but got a recording saying his voice mail box was full. It just wasn’t like Tom not to return my calls, or check his voice mail, and he must know I was trying to apologize. At least I hoped he knew that.

  Another thought came unbidden as I puttered around the house. What if something had happened to him? What if he was sick? That would explain why he cancelled his office hours. But what if it was serious? My own dad had died of a heart attack in the middle of a Montana trout stream two decades earlier. He was only fifty-six. The thought that something might have happened to Tom almost gave me a cardiac event of my own, and I grabbed my jacket and keys and ran to the door. Jay was right there, eager to go, but I told him no, not this trip, and took off.

  Several cars were parked in driveways and on the street. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how many gray sedans are running around. I could see five of them in my own block, and that vision conjured another. What if Mick Fallon’s buddy, the fat goon, had done something to Tom? Why would he? It was my inner voice of reason. To get at you, said my other voice, the panicky one. To get the photos they think you have. I slammed the van into reverse, and may have laid rubber in front of my driveway when I peeled out. By that time, my imagination was in full gallop. What if those wackos from the night before went after Tom? I tried to convince myself that they had no reason to target him specifically, and even if they did, they wouldn’t know where to find him.

  Tom didn’t answer the doorbell, and the blinds were down on the garage window so I couldn’t tell whether his van was in there. Drake stood wagging at me through the glass panel by the front door. I rang again, waited, and then went around to the back of the house and peered in through the sliding door. All was quiet in the family room. I went back to the front, and stood on the porch for a moment. Finally, I pulled out my keys and let myself in.

  “Tom?” I walked through the house, my heart in my mouth, but he wasn’t there. Winnie whined and banged around in her crate, and I figured she needed to go out. I took my time with the dogs, hoping Tom would catch us, but no luck. I put Winnie back in her crate with a third of a carrot, gave the rest to Drake, wrote a note, and left it on the counter.

  His voice mail was accepting messages again, meaning he had checked in, but he still hadn’t called by the time I fell asleep. It was after two a.m.

  seventy

  Late nights make for sleepy mornings, and I was already running late before I woke u
p Friday morning. My shower could wait, I decided, until the decorating was done. I fed Jay and the cats, cleaned up after them, pulled on jeans and a sweater, and called Norm to let him know I was on my way.

  “No sweat,” he said. “I figured you’d be late. We have it under control.”

  We? Bill had said he couldn’t be there to decorate, and I hoped Norm wasn’t allowing Mom to help. Her bossy side, the one I’d been accused of inheriting, tended to kick in whenever she tried to work with other people.

  I stopped at the Firefly for coffee and a breakfast sandwich and continued south on Anthony. Traffic was light and my sandwich was still hot when I unwrapped it in the Shadetree parking lot. Norm’s VW wasn’t in the lot, and I realized he must have parked near the back entrance to simplify unloading. I washed my sandwich down with the last of my coffee and pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. One message. I retrieved it, hoping to hear Tom’s cheery morning voice, but it was the printer. “Julie passed me your message, Janet. Bummer. Bet that puppy is in the doghouse.” Laughter. “Anyway, I’ll start reprinting those orders. Looks like a light weekend, so I should have them for you Monday or Tuesday. Oh, this is Eric at … Never mind, you know. Okay, have a good one.” At least my livelihood was likely to survive the weekend, if not my love life. I started to call Tom, but ended the call before it went through. The three messages I’d already left were plenty.

  The festooning was, as Norm had said, under control, and the transformation of the solarium would have been magical had I been in a more romantic mood. Tiny white lights highlighted a garlanded arbor flanked by an eclectic mix of my mother’s favorite flowers—African violets, zinnias, orchids, birds-of-paradise, daisies, and more—all live and growing in cobalt-blue pots.

  Norm was arranging folding chairs in a semi-circle in front of the arbor, leaving a path down the center. He rushed to hug me. “Janet, I’m so excited, you’d think it was my own wedding! I wouldn’t let Mom in here, told her it was bad luck, which it might be in her case, but Tony popped in a while ago and … oh, dear, I am blathering, aren’t I?”

  “Blather away, Norm.” My shoulders relaxed and a weight dropped off me as Norm’s mood caught and lifted me.

  “How many more do we need?”

  The voice came from behind me, and I turned. “Hi, Tom.” My legs went a little shaky as I watched him unfold four more chairs.

  “Morning!” Tom kept his voice pitched toward friendly, but he made no move toward our usual hug-and-kiss greeting.

  I could feel Norm watching us, and then he said, “Okay then. Janet, could you do the tablecloths? We’ll set the cake up there,” he pointed at a table near the wall opposite the arbor, “and the rest of the food there, and although Mom and Tony said no gifts, of course there will be gifts. We’ll put them on that last table. Maybe move it farther away from the food.”

  “It’s okay, Norm,” I said, turning toward him and keeping my voice low. “Don’t make such an effort. We’ll be fine.” I hope.

  But we weren’t fine the rest of the morning. We didn’t exactly ignore each other, but we spoke in short, task-oriented sentences until I finally looked at my phone and announced, “Oh, my, I have to get going. I’ll just barely make my hair appointment.” I didn’t add that if I left right then, I would have three hours to drive the two or so miles to the hair salon.

  “Thank God.” Norm lifted a lock of my hair as if assessing the mess, then burst out laughing. I hugged him and thanked him for all he had done to make Mom’s wedding day special. When I let go, Tom was right behind me.

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  Neither of us said anything else until we reached the front door. He stepped outside with me, pulled an envelope from his jacket, and said, “I’m sorry about Winnie’s little adventure. If this doesn’t cover it, let me know and I’ll make up the balance.”

  “This is way too much,” I said, peering at the check in the envelope and offering it back. “Let me get the invoice and—”

  “Nah, take it. If it’s too much, you can take us out for a fancy dinner.” He smiled, and as I looked into his warm brown eyes I felt tears rise in my own. Tom wrapped his arms around me and said, “You worry too much.” We stood like that for a moment, and then he whispered, “Now go get your hair done before Norm has a breakdown.”

  “But we need to talk.”

  He took my hands in his and said, “We do. But let’s get through tonight and tomorrow first.”

  It wasn’t until later that I thought those words might be a warning.

  seventy-one

  Goldie caught me leaving the house for my hair appointment and sent me back in. “Put on a nice top and some makeup so they take you seriously. For heaven’s sake.”

  “This from a woman who hasn’t cut her hair since nineteen sixty-seven?”

  When I walked into Chez Charles, though, I was glad she had made me dress for the occasion, although I wondered briefly whether I might not need a space suit. The place, all chrome and white plastic, looked like it might take off, and a few of the patrons could have been aliens, judging by their multi-hued sticky-out hair. I half expected Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith to show up as Men in Black.

  Chas—Charles of Chez Charles—sat me down and stood behind me, assessing my reflection in the mirror with his lips pouched into an O that made me think of Pixel. My three requirements were that the cut be pretty much wash-and-wear, that it not require a lot of goop to hold it in place, and that it not be too short. Beyond that, I decided to take Norm’s advice to heart and just relax and let Chas work his magic. I had him turn me away from the mirror so I couldn’t be tempted to stop him.

  When he finally spun me back to my reflection forty minutes later, I thought the mirror had been removed and I was staring at one of the aliens. But if I was, Chas had a twin who was also staring back at us, and he and the Chas behind me were gushing, “I love it!”

  What was left of my hair stuck out in all directions and multiple lengths. I clamped my teeth together and slowly reached up to touch it. The clumps were stiff and sticky to the touch, and barely moved when my fingers pressed against them.

  “Oh my God,” I said when I could get my jaws apart far enough.

  “I knew you’d love it!”

  “I don’t love it,” I said, my voice coming back and getting louder with every word. “I’ve seen better looking roadkill!”

  “Now, Jan, just—”

  “It’s Janet, and just nothing.” Patrons and stylists were turning my way, and I looked at the woman on my left and said, “Does this look like something anyone would do intentionally?” She shook her head. I pulled the smock off with a zzzzzppp of Velcro letting go, and pushed myself out of the chair.

  “But it looks so rad.”

  “It looks like revenge!” My voice broke as my anger gave way to horror. “I would have been better off going to a dog groomer.” I grabbed my tote bag and glared at Chas. “If you think I’m paying for this, you’re nuttier than I look.” I tried to pat some of the spikes down with my palm, but no luck. “This crap better wash out.”

  I stormed out the door and down the sidewalk, blinded by a stew of emotions, and missed the curb. My left ankle turned and I swear I heard something tear just before my hands and knees hit the asphalt with a joint-jarring thud. The rough black surface took several layers of skin from my palms, and my right knee seemed to balloon on contact. I rolled onto my behind and just sat there a moment, wondering why falling down hurts so much more than it did twenty years ago.

  “Are you okay?” It was a young woman in a suit, heels, and a normal haircut, and she was leaning toward me. “Do you need help? Are you hurt?” She was staring at me, and I could tell that her concern wasn’t entirely due to my tumble.

  “Just my pride,” I said, knowing it was a stretch. “I’m just furious about this ridiculous haircut.” She nodded. I thanked her for he
lping me up, picked up my bag, and jumped into my van, afraid someone I knew might see me. I fished around in my tote bag until I came up with a baby wipe and Jay’s pin brush. The wipe stung, but showed that the scrapes were superficial. Then I grabbed the brush. If anything could fight its way through the mess that had been my curly hair, those metal pins could.

  But they couldn’t. The shellac Chas had dumped into my hair trapped the brush and I had to fight to get it back. I swore as I pulled a clump of hair out of my scalp and stared at the mirror. My mascara had run, giving me an electrocuted Goth look. Perfect.

  Goldie was gathering a bouquet of tulips from the border between her front yard and mine when I pulled into the driveway, so slinking into my house unseen was out of the question, and when I stepped out of the van, she froze in place as if she had met Medusa. I took a step and almost fell as a bolt of pain shot through my left ankle and leapt to my right knee as I overcorrected.

  “What happened to you?” Goldie had dropped the flowers and run to support me. “Were you assaulted? Should I call the police?”

  Pain, anger, and bad-hair blues had brought me to the brink of tears, but the idea of calling the police on Chas started me giggling. I leaned back against the car, wrapped Goldie up in a one-armed hug, and laughed until I was crying.

  “Janet, calm down.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, swiping my sleeve over one eye, then the other. “Not fine, actually, but not hysterical.”

  “If you say so.”

  I tried to walk, but my ankle wasn’t having it, and Goldie pulled my slacks up for a look. The joint was twice its normal size and turning an ominous shade of ruddy mauve. “Aw, crap,” I said.