Shadowmaker

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “This girl didn’t run away,” I insisted.

  “Okay. She didn’t run away. We’ll let her mother tell us that.”

  “If you just talk to Travis Wyman—”

  “I told you, I’m not doing anything until after her mother talks to us.”

  “We have to do something.”

  “The best thing you can do is get off the phone. If her mother wants to call us, she will.”

  I hung up, totally discouraged, and told Mom the dispatcher’s reaction.

  She leaned her elbows on her desk and rested her head in her hands. “I did research two years ago for the article on runaways. He’s right about most missing teenagers being runaways,” she said.

  “But Lana Jean didn’t run away!” I insisted. “She was excited about just talking to Travis and almost goofy about going out with him.” I thought for a moment and said, “Mom, it doesn’t make sense. Travis dates a number of really knockout girls. Why would he ask Lana Jean for a date?”

  “Maybe he didn’t. Maybe the date was part of Lana Jean’s dream.” Mom stood up and stretched, then came over to where I was standing and hugged my shoulders. “In the morning you’ll find that Lana Jean has turned up safe and sound, and the only thing missing was your sleep. Come on, honey. We’d better get back to bed.”

  Mom was wrong, because Lana Jean didn’t show up the next day. As soon as the school bus dropped me at my stop, I decided to walk over to Lana Jean’s house.

  Her mother, a pale, thin-boned woman with dyed hair and orangy makeup, opened the door. I introduced myself, and she tried a smile that fluttered off her lips as soon as she began to speak.

  “Oh! You’re Lana Jean’s friend, Katie,” she said. “You were so nice … the way you fixed her up so pretty and the clothes you gave her. I was goin’ to get around to thankin’ you.”

  “You don’t need to thank me, Mrs. Willis,” I said.

  “Lana Jean didn’t come home last night.” Mrs. Willis’s fingers hovered around her mouth, and I thought she was going to burst into tears at any minute.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I mumbled.

  She blinked as though she suddenly realized we were still standing in the doorway. “Come inside,” she said. “Please. We can talk. Maybe you can help me figure out where Lana Jean went off to.”

  “Have you called the sheriff to report her missing?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s here right now.” She led me into a small living room crowded with large, overstuffed furniture and decorated with a collection of countless tiny china dogs that seemed to cover dozens of whatnot shelves as well as the coffee and end tables.

  Sheriff Granger, who was causing the sofa to sag in the middle, looked up at me. “I was told you telephoned the office last night.”

  “That’s right,” I said, “but your dispatcher wouldn’t wake you up.”

  “Whatever you’ve got to say, you can say now.”

  “Lana Jean called me from Kennedy’s Grill. She had been talking to Travis Wyman and …” I stopped, unwilling to tell either the sheriff or Mrs. Willis that Lana Jean had been spying on Travis and had actually told him what she’d been doing. It was too embarrassing for her.

  “And what?” Sheriff Granger asked.

  I took a deep breath and went on. “And he asked her out.”

  The sheriff looked at me the way he probably would if I told him I’d caught a shark bare-handed. “This Travis Wyman you’re talkin’ about—I grew up with his mama and daddy and know Travis pretty well. Right from the day he was born Bert and Lucy tended to spoil him a mite, to my way of thinkin’, but Travis is a nice enough kid, polite as they come, and real popular with all the pretty girls.”

  I felt my face grow hot. We both knew what he’d left unsaid.

  Luckily, it all went over Mrs. Willis’s head. She twisted her fingers together as she leaned toward me. “When did she say they were going to go out? When?”

  Straining to remember the exact words, I said, “Lana Jean told me, ‘He’s going to take me out as soon as—’ ”

  I stopped, and Mrs. Willis and Sheriff Granger stared at me. Mrs. Willis asked, “As soon as what? What’s the rest of it?”

  “That’s it. Someone—I think it was Lana Jean’s boss—interrupted her. She said they weren’t supposed to use the kitchen phone for private calls, and hung up.” When neither of them spoke, I said, “Later, I wondered if she was going to say, ‘as soon as I get off work tonight.’ ”

  The sheriff scowled. “Are you tryin’ to tell us that Travis Wyman knows what happened to Lana Jean?”

  “He might.”

  “You’re basin’ this suspicion on nothin’ more than what coulda been said—if anythin’ was said at all.”

  I blushed again. “I know it seems that way, but it’s still something that ought to be checked out.”

  He grumbled, “Which would probably amount to nothin’ more than a waste of my time.”

  Mrs. Willis came to my defense. “Maybe the boy doesn’t know anythin’, Sheriff, but it could be he does. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

  “I’ll talk to Travis,” the sheriff answered, “but it won’t do any good. Knowin’ Travis as well as I do, I suspect the conversation between him and your daughter didn’t take place, but even if it did, maybe this young lady got it wrong.”

  “I didn’t make anything up and Lana Jean wouldn’t lie,” I said indignantly. “I did get it all straight! That’s why I’m here telling you about it!”

  He sort of cocked his head and mumbled, “ ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’ ”

  “Macbeth!” I snapped, and probably looked as nastily smug as I felt.

  “No, Hamlet,” he said calmly.

  Hamlet. Sheriff Granger was right. I probably shouldn’t have blamed him for his skepticism, because at first I couldn’t figure out, either, why Travis would ask Lana Jean for a date. But I was angry, maybe even a little bit at myself. The anger beat against my temples, so I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to keep from saying something I shouldn’t, and got to my feet.

  Ignoring the sheriff, I took Mrs. Willis’s hand and said, “I’m sorry that Lana Jean is missing, but she’ll come back. I’m sure of it.”

  Mrs. Willis stood, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes and said, “She did before.”

  My eyes opened wide and the sheriff sat up. “Before? You mean your daughter’s run off afore this?”

  “Two years ago. We had a bad argument, and she hitchhiked with a girlfriend down to Corpus. She was gone for near a week.” Mrs. Willis turned pink and stared down at her feet. “I know, I didn’t report it, and I suppose I should’ve, but it turned out all right.”

  The sheriff sighed impatiently as he got to his feet. “Then that’s all we’re lookin’ at here. A runaway. How’d she happen to come home the last time?”

  “She ran out of money.”

  “Did she have much with her yesterday?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then you should be hearin’ from her soon.”

  “Sheriff,” Mrs. Willis said shyly. “This time me and Lana Jean didn’t have any disagreements.”

  “Makes no difference,” he said. “Kids get riled about things and don’t always tell their parents.”

  “You think that’s all it is? That she’s just run off?”

  “I do.”

  Mrs. Willis’s face sagged in relief, and this time a smile came to her face.

  Sheriff Granger walked to the door and we followed, Mrs. Willis murmuring shy thank-yous, the sheriff grunting in response.

  He drove off in his official car, and I walked home. It was easy for him and comforting for Mrs. Willis to think of Lana Jean as a runaway who’d soon be returning home, but I could still hear the excitement in Lana Jean’s voice, her almost delirious happiness at the promise of a date with Travis Wyman, and I couldn’t believe for a minute that she’d run away from that.

  The next morning on
the school bus Tammy wanted to talk about Lana Jean’s disappearance, but I didn’t.

  “It makes me feel awful,” I said, “like I should know where she went or what happened to her, but I don’t.”

  “Two years ago Lana Jean ran away and was gone a week. My father said she probably ran away again.”

  I nodded. “Mom said most teenagers who disappear are runaways. Even the police think so.”

  “But you don’t, do you? Your face shows what you’re thinking.”

  I couldn’t tell Tammy or anyone else about Lana Jean’s telephone conversation. It was between Lana Jean and me, and if I were to blab it to everyone, think how embarrassed she’d be when she found out. “Let’s talk about something else,” I mumbled.

  “Okay,” Tammy said. “Have you heard about Mrs. Walgren’s interpretations?”

  “What interpretations?”

  She smiled. “That answers my question. She’s big on symbolism and drama, and every year she makes everybody in her English lit classes choose a classic and work out an interpretation around it.”

  “You mean act out a scene?”

  “Some of them do that, but if you want a really good grade you’ll think of something else.”

  “What else is there?”

  “Last year, when my cousin Debbie was in her class, Tom Curtis got an A because he built what was supposed to be a mountain out of boxes and paper bags, all sprayed brown and green and white. At the top was a gold paper star. Debbie said that Tom got three of the kids in the class to lie at the foot of the mountain, looking miserable—as though they were lost, you know, in despair—and he pretended to climb the mountain, reaching out for the star.”

  The bus bounced over a rut in the road and I grabbed the seat in front of me to catch my balance as I asked, “What in the world book was that?”

  “Don Quixote.”

  “There wasn’t any mountain climbing in Don Quixote. There were windmills, horses, and stuff.”

  Tammy looked smug. “See what I mean? It was all symbolism. Tom was struggling to reach the unreachable star, and the kids lying around the foot of the mountain were people who’d given up. He used the song from the play Man of La Mancha, which was based on the book.”

  “He must be creative.”

  “You’re supposed to come up with something that will make people think about the real meaning of the story, but some of the interpretations are too easy and pretty awful, and others are so weird that nobody can guess what they mean.”

  “Where’d Mrs. Walgren come up with such an unusual idea?”

  “From Sheriff Granger. She’s been in his Classical Reading Society ever since he started it.”

  I grimaced as I thought about Sheriff Granger. “Then I guess we’d better start thinking ahead. Did you say she lets us use any book?”

  “Any classic. You can ask other people in the class to help you out, and you can use anything you want out of Mrs. Walgren’s prop closet.”

  “What’s in her prop closet?”

  “All sorts of hats, fake jewels and a gold-painted jewel box, some swords and daggers, a set of black hoods, pictures, maps, a red velvet cloak … You name it, she’s got it.”

  “How about you?” I asked. “Have you got something planned?”

  “Julie and I have this idea for A Tale of Two Cities. I know we’ll get A’s.”

  With a couple of bumps and a lurch, the bus arrived at the junior high, and most of the kids scrambled out. “Thanks for the warning,” I said, a little disappointed that I wasn’t included. “I’ll start trying to think up an idea.”

  “You’ll come up with something good,” Tammy said.

  Half an hour later I wished Mrs. Walgren had told us about the interpretation assignment. Instead, she read selections from a couple of the journals, then said to me, “Katie, did you work with Lana Jean on her journal last week?”

  “Yes,” I said. “On Sunday.”

  She nodded. “I can see improvement in her work—primarily in the subject matter—but something puzzles me. There’s only the one entry. What happened to the rest of her semester’s work? The pages seem to have been torn out.”

  Everyone in the class turned to look at me. I was particularly conscious of B.J.’s curious stare.

  I attempted to explain. “She wanted to make a fresh start. She was really eager to get a good grade.”

  “Her intentions were good. However, it’s unfortunate that she didn’t remember the rules. I like my students to be aware of their progress through the semester. The last assignment is to write a critique comparing their first and last journal entry. I covered the rules of journal writing during the first week of class. You, being a new student, probably weren’t aware of this particular rule, and—if so—Lana Jean should have explained it to you.”

  For more reasons than one I wished that Lana Jean was there to speak for herself. I wasn’t going to lay the blame on her, so I just mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

  Mrs. Walgren didn’t turn loose. “Since the pages were destroyed—”

  “I’m not sure if she destroyed them. Maybe she can put them back into the journal,” I blurted out, then wished I’d had enough sense to keep quiet. What Lana Jean had written on those pages was nobody’s business but her own.

  CHAPTER NINE

  When I walked into the cafeteria at lunchtime, Tammy motioned to me to join her table. There were some other kids I’d seen, but didn’t know, and Tammy introduced us. No one mentioned Lana Jean. I was grateful. They talked about the school musical, in which two of them had won parts, and the upcoming Future Farmers of America dance, which seemed to be one of the big events of the year. All I wanted to think about was the end of school, the end of summer, the end of Mom’s novel, and our return to Houston. I’d been practicing warm-ups, exercises, and positions with a vengeance, but it was obvious to me that without the stimulation of the class and the guidance of my teacher I was going downhill fast.

  When the bell rang I dumped my lunch trash and walked into the hall.

  “Hi,” Travis Wyman said. “I was waiting for you.”

  “For me?” I sounded like a nerd and tried to cover up by adding, “Why?”

  “I just want a chance to talk to you. I think you have the wrong idea about me, and I’d like to make things right.”

  I swallowed a groan and tried to pretend that my cheeks weren’t hot with embarrassment. Obviously the sheriff had told Travis what I’d reported about his conversation with Lana Jean. I certainly hadn’t expected Travis to confront me, and I saw no need to apologize. “You don’t owe me any explanations,” I said.

  “Yes, I do,” he said, “but not here and now.” He surprised me by smiling. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll come by your house this afternoon, after school.”

  As I hesitated, he said, “Please, Katie.”

  I stopped thinking rationally as he spoke my name with a voice that was deep and strong and soft, all at the same time. Somewhere inside my mind came the notes of a warning bell, but I ignored it. “Okay,” I told him. “I get home around four.”

  “I know where you live. See you at four,” he said, then turned and strode off toward his next class.

  I barely made it to mine.

  Throughout my afternoon classes I forced myself to concentrate on my work. It was the only way I could keep from thinking about Lana Jean and agonizing over the awful feeling that somehow I should know where she was. I really had to do something to find her. But what, I didn’t know.

  Late that afternoon, as I came through the kitchen, Mom got up from her desk to greet me, but her eyes were glassy, and she blinked a lot, looking as if she was trying to remember where she was and what I was doing there.

  “Sorry I interrupted you,” I said, and tossed my books and handbag on the coffee table. “You’re right in the middle of a scene, aren’t you?”

  “Does it show?” she asked, and we both laughed.

  “Go back to work,” I said, “but first, there’s so
mething I need to tell you. Travis Wyman—Lana Jean’s Travis—is coming here this afternoon.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I guess the sheriff must have talked to him about what I told him. Travis said I have the wrong idea and he wants to explain.”

  “What time will he be here? Do we have Cokes in the refrigerator? Cookies?”

  I gave an exaggerated sigh. “Any minute, but Mom, this is not a date. I will introduce Travis to you, then I’ll take him down to the beach. You can go back to work on your novel.”

  “This is your house too,” Mom said apologetically. “If you’d rather talk to Travis in the living room, I’ll close down the computer.”

  “Keep writing,” I said. “The sooner you finish your novel, the better.”

  I heard the sound of a car approaching, along with the complaints of the rottweiler, and looked out the window to see Travis climbing out of a shiny black pickup. “Here he is,” I announced.

  Mom snatched up the morning paper, two dirty coffee mugs, and tried to straighten up as I stood by the door, waiting until Travis knocked. He followed me through the kitchen into the living room, where Mom greeted him pleasantly.

  “You’ve been doing a lot of research on the Hawkins brothers,” Travis told Mom as he stared with surprise at the stack of printed sheets next to Mom’s computer.

  “That printout has nothing to do with the Hawkins brothers,” Mom explained in a rather annoyed voice. “I’m writing a novel.”

  He didn’t answer, and I had no idea whether he believed her or not. Obviously, most of the people in town didn’t.

  Before Mom had a chance to offer him something to eat or drink, I said, “Mom has to get back to work on her novel, so why don’t we walk down to the beach?” Smiling, as though it was just what he would have suggested, Travis walked to the porch door and held it open for me.

  The breeze was still warmed by the sun, and the sea, which smacked the drizzling foam close to our feet, had an invigorating sour-salt fragrance. The walk would have been pleasant if I hadn’t been so nervous about why Travis had come to see me.