by Ann Tatlock
I can’t believe this is happening. Digger’s been gone for forty-eight hours. Mom’s been in bed for the last twenty-four. She’s sick with grief. No matter where I go in the house, I can hear her crying. Dad is wandering around like he’s in shock. I feel so sick myself, I can’t eat.
Dad let me stay home from school today. I didn’t think I could go and face everyone, since the story hit the papers this morning and now everybody knows about it. “Black Mountain Boy Missing.” So now the phone’s been ringing all day, practically nonstop. That old preacher down at the church called and talked to Dad for a long time. Gail called and asked if I wanted company, and though I thanked her, I said no, I needed to be alone. Vernita Ponder called wanting to talk to Mom, but when Dad said she was unavailable, she asked to talk to me. Dad put his hand over the mouthpiece and asked if I wanted to take it. I almost said no, but then I did. The old lady spent about fifteen minutes talking about the write-up in the paper and telling me how sorry she was that Digger was missing, and then she finally said, “You’ve got to remember, though, that that house is a good place, and whatever’s happening there is a gift,” and I ended up slamming the phone down—though not before telling her that if we’d never come to this stupid house, Digger wouldn’t be gone.
I always acted like I hated Digger, but the fact is, I love my brother. And if he’s dead or something, and I never see him again, I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Dad wouldn’t let me help search for him. I begged him to let me, but he said no. He said he’s not going to lose me too, and he wants to know where I am at all times.
He was crying when he said it—not weeping or anything—but his eyes were glassy with tears, and he turned away pretty quick and pretended to be busy with something else. I almost wanted to hug him and tell him he wasn’t going to lose me, but I didn’t. I didn’t, maybe because I’m even more mad at him for bringing us down here and now something this awful has happened. If we were still in Abington, Digger wouldn’t be missing.
Uncle Steve and Aunt Donna are here tonight. Again. Just like last night. Aunt Donna’s upstairs trying to comfort Mom. Dad and Uncle Steve are in the living room talking with the sheriff again. From where I’m standing in the kitchen, I can hear their voices, but they’re talking so low, I can’t make out what they’re saying. I’m not sure I want to know.
Uncle Steve has left his pack of cigarettes on the kitchen table. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I have to have something to calm my nerves. Man, I can’t believe how my fingers are shaking as I take one from the pack. I find a book of matches in a kitchen drawer and run out the back door.
I go just beyond the edge of the woods and sit behind a tree. My hands are shaking so bad I can hardly light up. I’ll tell you what, if Digger ran away on purpose, I’m going to kill him with my own two hands if we ever find him. But I can’t believe that. Digger wouldn’t run away. It just isn’t like him to do something like that.
I take a long deep pull on the cigarette. As the smoke enters my lungs, I shut my eyes and savor the feel of it. Man, I’ve needed a cig so bad for so long. I can get them at school, but not here at home. I haven’t had a smoke since Digger disappeared.
So I’m thinking, if Digger didn’t run away, what happened to him? Did he really just wander into the woods and get lost? It’s possible I guess, the stupid kid. He talked about looking for gold in the mountains, but good grief, who’d thought he’d ever do it? I mean, he wouldn’t just run off looking for gold, would he? Well, if he did, and if he’s lost, then he’s probably still alive. He’s probably trying to find his way back. But then, with the search parties that went out, how come they didn’t find anything? They would have found something, wouldn’t they? If Digger was just out there looking for gold?
So, what, maybe a bear came and dragged him out of the yard? Yeah, but even so, if a bear ate him, wouldn’t they find something? A sneaker or some bones or something? Does a bear eat a whole person lock, stock, and barrel? I’m thinking probably not. I mean, even with a bear there’s got to be something left over.
I take another long drag and let the smoke out slowly. My forehead drops to my knees. I don’t want to think about what I really think happened, and I sure don’t want to say it out loud because then it might be true. But the only thing that really could have happened was that Digger was kidnapped. And I’m thinking it wasn’t just a kidnapper, but it’s the person who killed those people over in Asheville and who hasn’t been caught yet. I think that murderer kidnapped Digger, and he took him somewhere, and now he’s going to kill him too.
I crush out the cigarette in the dirt because it’s too hard to smoke it when you’re crying.
Oh Digger, if you’ll just come home, I promise I’ll never say anything mean to you again. Please, Digger, please try to come home.
43
Sheldon
Monday, September 9, 1968
I SAY GOODNIGHT to Steve and Donna, fully aware of the irony of it. Goodnight? How can the night be good for them or for me, with Digger missing? How can any night—or any day, for that matter—ever be good again, without my son?
Sheriff Fields left an hour ago, taking the largest portion of my hope with him. He said he’d felt certain that Digger would wander home on his own. Or else he’d call from somewhere in town and ask to be picked up. What the sheriff didn’t say, though I saw it written on his face, was that now that two days have passed, the situation has taken on a whole new dimension. Upped from code yellow to code red. He’s put out APBs to all the surrounding towns. He’s organized teams that will begin searching tomorrow at dawn. He understands that the men of Black Mountain have already done their own search with no success. The lawmen and volunteer firefighters will be covering ground that has already been covered. But he will keep us posted at regular intervals. We should remain optimistic, he said, while understanding that our chances go down with every hour that goes by. Our chances of finding Digger alive. Or at all.
Do some children who go missing just never show up again, I asked? Oh yes. Not that it happens much around here but across the country—yes, it’s a far too common scenario. One minute they’re there, and the next they’re gone, and that’s it.
The end of a life. The end of everybody’s life as they once knew it.
I watch the taillights of Steve and Donna’s Chevy disappear down the mountain before I finally shut the front door. Digger is out there somewhere, in the dark, maybe alone. He’s out there somewhere, and I don’t know where he is or how to find him, and I’ve never felt so helpless in my life.
Wandering aimlessly, I circle through the downstairs rooms and out the back door. Where can I go that the fear doesn’t follow me?
Donna said she left Meg in a fitful sleep. They were talking quietly, and Meg was crying but was so exhausted she drifted off in the midst of her tears.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep, for the third night in a row.
Digger. Where are you, son?
“Dad?”
I’m startled by the voice that comes out of the darkness. But it isn’t Digger. Of course it isn’t Digger. Linda is walking toward me across the yard.
“What are you doing out here, honey?”
“I don’t know. I just had to get out of the house.”
I nod my understanding.
She asks, “Did Uncle Steve and Aunt Donna leave?”
“Yeah, they’ve gone home.”
“What are the police going to do now?”
“Start looking.”
“Do they think there’s still a chance of finding Digger?”
“Of course.”
She looks at me a long time, like she’s trying to decide whether I’m lying. Finally, she says, “Where do you think he is, Dad?”
“Honey, if I knew I’d be there and not here.”
She frowns and her eyes grow small, like she’s thinking. She seems to want to say something else, but she doesn’t say it. We all have fears that refuse
to be put into words.
She turns her head and looks up, and when she does I catch the faint scent of cigarette smoke. She thinks I don’t know she smokes. She thinks I think she quit after we grounded her that time when we were still up in Abington. But I know she still lights up. Occasionally. When she can find a cigarette. At the moment, it seems a small thing, so small as to be insignificant. She is here, and I will cherish my daughter always, no matter what she does.
“Dad?”
“Yes, Linda?”
“Did you notice that weird star up there?”
I look toward where she’s pointing in the sky. The star is so large I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before.
She asks, “What do you think it is?”
I shake my head. “I’m no astronomer, but sometimes stars and planets cross each other’s paths, I guess. When they get close enough to each other, it probably looks like they’re one big star when they really aren’t.”
“So, maybe that’s a planet like Venus that’s lined up with some big star or something?”
“I guess so.”
“The really weird thing is, this is the third night it’s been out.”
“It is?”
“Yeah. The first night was the night Digger disappeared. Mom and I both saw it. You didn’t see it?”
I shake my head again.
She says, “Well, maybe you couldn’t see it because you were in the woods.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But last night when I was out with the search party, we were in some open stretches of land with a full view of the sky, and I didn’t see it last night either.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
We’re both quiet a moment. “Well,” she says, “I guess you just didn’t notice.”
“Kind of hard not to notice something like that.”
“Maybe you just didn’t look up at the sky.”
“Oh, I did.” Every time I prayed, every five minutes, I looked up at the sky.
“Well, anyway.” She shrugs slightly. “Maybe they’ll write something about it in the paper. Maybe some reporter will explain what it is.”
“Yes. Maybe.”
She takes a few steps toward the house, like she’s ready to go inside. But suddenly she stops and says, “Dad, this may sound really weird …”
“What is it, Linda?”
Her head is tilted upward, and I can see the light of the star reflected in her eyes. “I just now got this feeling that Digger—wherever he is—he’s looking at the star too and wondering what it is. So, you know, he’s looking at it, and we’re looking at it, and it’s kind of holding us all together.”
I can’t speak for the lump of emotion that’s lodged itself in my throat. Linda seems to understand. I hear her draw in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.
“Well, goodnight, Dad,” she says.
“Goodnight, Linda,” I manage to whisper, and then I go on gazing at the star.
44
Meg
Thursday, September 12, 1968
DIGGER IS GONE. But I am a mother, and if Digger were dead my heart would tell me. I don’t believe he’s dead. I don’t know where he is, but he is somewhere, and he is alive. That’s what my heart tells me. I will hold on to hope for as long as I can.
Life in the town goes on as always. I sit here on this bench watching cars pass, people walking by. I’ve come into town to run some errands, but after the simple act of driving down the mountain, I am too weak to move. I must rest first, then see if I have the strength to walk into the bakery to buy some fresh bread.
For five days, I’ve barely eaten. For five nights, I’ve barely slept. I have lain in bed, consumed by fear. I remember people coming in and out of the room—Donna, Steve, Sheldon, Linda. Did we speak? What did we say? I don’t know. I can’t remember. My mind was circling down to a place of no sound and no light. Nothing.
But I couldn’t stay there. I had to get up and try to go on living. So this morning, I did. I got up, showered, had some coffee, and came into town where I am now, sitting on this bench. An indifferent sun shines overhead and no one notices me when they pass by. For that, I am thankful. How could I speak to anyone as though I am whole? I’m fragmented now, broken apart by the disappearance of my son.
Digger, where are you? I know you are somewhere. Will you come home? Can you come home?
Last night I walked by Sheldon’s room and, through the half-open door, saw him on his knees by the side of his bed. Beseeching God for Digger’s safe return, no doubt. Prayer was always Sheldon’s refuge. I quietly envied him that place of comfort.
Is there any hope for me? Oh God, do you have any words of comfort left over for me?
But then, I’ve never known where to find you. Or whether you might even be found. My eyes can’t see the unseen, and my ears don’t hear voices that don’t speak.
A police car driving by send waves of fear over me. The officer inside is probably one who searched for Digger. He probably was among those who climbed these mountains calling for my son without getting an answer.
How will I live without you, Digger?
I reach into my pocketbook and pull out a tissue, already crumpled and stained with tears.
Unseen God, can you see these tears?
I wipe my eyes, blow my nose. I take a deep breath to steady myself. I must get up from this bench and make my way to the bakery. I must go on living somehow.
But I don’t rise, and in the next moment a little girl appears and sits down on the bench beside me. She is licking a vanilla ice cream cone, a two-scooper. Of course, the ice cream parlor is right behind me. She has gotten her treat and stepped outside to enjoy it.
Is she alone? She can’t be any older than five. She wears a short-sleeve plaid dress and scuffed patent-leather shoes; she swings her feet as she licks the cone. Her stiff dark hair is tied up in numerous braids and held together with colorful clips. She has managed to give herself a creamy white mustache that highlights the rich chocolate color of her skin.
She stops licking and turns her face to me. Our eyes meet. Hers are startlingly clear; luscious brown drops on a white platter.
She smiles. And when she does, I can’t help it. My eyes fill up with tears again. With that, her smile vanishes, her brow furrows and her bottom lip sticks out. “Oh, ma’am,” she says, “don’t cry. Here.” She holds up her cone. Little rivers of ice cream drip over the ridges of her fingers. “Would you like some? It’ll make you feel better.”
“Oh, I—”
“Celeste!”
The little girl turns and looks over her shoulder. “I’m here, Mama!”
“I thought I told you to wait for me inside!” A woman comes out of the ice cream parlor with a double dip of chocolate on a cone and a scowl between her eyes.
“I couldn’t help it, Mama,” the little girl exclaims. “The sun was calling me!”
“The sun must be as naughty as you are then, asking you to come outside when I told you not to. And here you are bothering this nice lady.” She turns to me. “Is she bothering you, ma’am?”
“Oh no, not at all. I—”
“I just wanted to let her have some ice cream, Mama. I was trying to be nice.”
The woman laughs. “Well, I’m sure she’s not going to want to be eating after some little ole colored girl. Come on, Celeste honey, let’s be getting home.”
The woman holds out her free hand. The little girl looks back to me. “I’m sorry,” she says, “but I have to go.”
“That’s all right,” I say. And then I add, “Celeste.” The name is wrapped up in a measure of wonder. But of course, the child Celeste would be here in Black Mountain on a September day in 1968.
She smiles at me. I smile in return.
“I’ll see you later,” I tell her.
She hops off the bench and walks off hand-in-hand with her mother. I am strong enough now to get up and walk into my day.
45
Linda
MY BROTHER IS missing and probably dead, and I’m sitting here watching Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In. Mom and Dad are both upstairs—no doubt in their separate rooms—and I’m down here watching Dan and Dick present the Flying Fickle Finger of Fate Award while what I really want to do is get up and scream and punch the walls or something. These have been the worst ten days of my life, and I don’t believe there’s ever going to be an end to them because I’m starting to think we’re never going to see Digger again. At first I thought he might find his way home if he somehow just wandered off in the woods and got lost. I even imagined him escaping a kidnapper if that’s what happened to him. You know, he manages to cut the ropes around his wrists with a piece of broken glass or something and runs away while the kidnapper’s asleep. I pictured him showing up on the front porch all out of breath from running about a hundred miles from wherever he was taken, and him knocking on the door and me opening it and hollering, “Mom, Dad, Digger’s home!” And then we’d all hug him at once with everybody crying and laughing and everything.
Your mind can come up with all kinds of stuff if you want something bad enough.
At least I know Digger wasn’t killed by the ax murderer that killed those people over in Asheville. There was a big write-up in the paper yesterday about how the guy was found hiding over in the Tennessee mountains. Yeah, his cousin, some bottom-of-the-barrel lowlife living in a dirt-floor cabin over there, was playing host to the ax murderer. The two of them were drop-dead drunk on moonshine when the cops pulled the raid that nabbed them. Figures. Two of the south’s finest, now behind bars. The killer’s name is Lloyd Drucker, and his cousin is Ernest Drucker. The thing is, Ernest claims Lloyd has been with him for more than two weeks, and he had no idea ole Lloyd had gone around killing anybody. Said he’d have turned Lloyd in himself if he had known, though he’s probably just trying to make himself look like he wasn’t harboring a fugitive. Who knows, but that’s not what I care about anyway. The thing is if Ernest is telling the truth, then Lloyd was in Tennessee when Digger disappeared. So there goes that theory of Digger being taken by the ax murderer, and I’m glad to be rid of it.
