They Almost Always Come Home

by Cynthia Ruchti

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  They Almost Always Come Home

  I should have sent Frank to file the report. He’d know. Greg probably rambled on to me about some of those things on his way out the door seventeen days ago. My brain saw no need to retain any of it. It interested him, not me.

  Kentworth leans toward me, exhales tuna breath—which seems especially unique at this hour of the morning—and asks, “How’ve things been at home between the two of you?” I know the answer to this question. Instead I say, “Fine. What’s that got to do with—?”

  “Had to ask, Mrs. Holden.” He reaches across his desk and pats my hand. Rather, he patronizes my hand. “Many times, in these cases—”

  Oh, just say it!

  “—an unhappy husband takes advantage of an opportunity to walk away.”

  His smile ends at the border of his eyes. I resist the urge to smack him. I don’t want to join the perps waiting to be processed. I want to go home and plow through Greg’s office, searching for answers I should have known. Greg? Walk away?

  Not only is he too annoyingly faithful for that, but if anyone has a right to walk away, it’s me.

  ********

  I thought it would be a relief to get home again after the ordeal at the police station, which included a bizarre three-way conversation with the Canadian authorities asking me to tell them things I don’t know. We won’t even mention the trauma of the question, “And Mrs. Holden, just for the record, can you account for your own whereabouts since your husband left?” Home? A relief? The answering machine light blinks like an ambulance. Mostly messages from neighbors, wondering if

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  I’ve heard anything. A few friends and extended family—word is spreading—wondering if I’ve heard anything. Our pastor, wondering if I’ve heard anything.

  I head for the bedroom to change clothes. The cotton

  sweater I wore to the station smells like tuna and handcuffs. Or is that my imagination?

  Quick census. How many cells of my body don’t ache?

  You’d think I’d find this king-sized bed and down comforter impossible to resist. But it’s another symbol that something’s missing. Something’s wrong and has been for a long time. Moving from our old queen-sized mattress to this king repre- sented distance rather than comfort. For me, anyway. I needed a few more inches between us. A few feet. I guess I got my wish.

  I throw the sweater in the wicker hamper, which ironically

  does not reek of Greg’s athletic socks today. On the way from the hamper to the closet, I clunk my shin on the corner of the bed frame. The bed takes up more of the room than it should. Old houses. Contractors in the 1950s couldn’t envision cou- ples in love needing that much elbow room. My shin throbs as it decides whether it wants to bruise. That corner’s caught me more than once. I ought to know better. About a lot of things.

  I pull open the bifold closet doors. Picking out something to

  wear shouldn’t be this hard. But Greg’s things are in here.

  If he were planning to leave me, couldn’t he have had the

  decency to tidy up after himself and clear out the closet? For the ever-popular “closure”? How long do I wait before packing up his suits and dress shirts?

  One of his suit jackets is facing the wrong way on the hanger.

  Everyone knows buttons face left in the closet. Correcting it is life-or-death important to me at the moment. There. Order. As it should be. I smooth the collar of the jacket and stir up the

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  They Almost Always Come Home

  scent of Aspen for Men. The boa constrictor around my throat flexes its muscles.

  With its arms spread wide, the overstuffed chair in the cor- ner mocks me. I bought it without clearing the expenditure with Greg. Mortal sin, right? He didn’t holler. The man doesn’t holler. He sighs and signs up for more overtime.

  Maybe I’ll find comfort in the kitchen. This bedroom creeps me out.

  ********

  Greg has thrown us into an incident of international intrigue. Melodramatic wording, but true. We’re dealing with the local authorities plus the Canadian police.

  Staring out the kitchen window at the summer-rich back- yard proves fruitless. It holds no answers for me. I’m alone in this. Almost.

  Frank’s my personal liaison with the Canadians—border patrol, Quetico Park rangers, and Ontario Provincial Police, the latter of which is blessed with an unfortunate acronym— OPP. Looks a lot like “Oops” on paper. I can’t help but envision that adorable character from Due North, the Mountie trans- planted into the heart and bowels of New York City. Sweetly naive as he was, he always got his man. Will these get mine? Frank will be much better at pestering them for answers. My mother-in-law would be better still. Pestering. Pauline’s gifted that way.

  I’m no help. Big surprise. When I spoke with the north-of- the-border authorities, I either tripped over every word and expressed my regrets for bothering them or shouted into the phone, “Why aren’t you doing something?”

  They are, of course. They’re trying. Analyzing tire tracks. Interviewing canoeists exiting the park. Looking for signs of

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  a struggle. The search plane they promised is a nice touch. Under Frank’s direction, they’ll scan Greg’s expected route to check for mayhem.

  While I wait for yet another pot of coffee to brew, I brush

  toast crumbs—some forgotten breakfast—off the butcher shop counter into my hand. Now what? I can’t think what to do with them.

  The phone rings.

  It’s Greg’s district manager again. He’s the pasty-faced,

  chopstick-thin undertaker hovering just offstage in a lame Western movie.

  No, no word from Greg yet. Yes, I’ll let you know as soon as I

  hear something. Yes, I understand what a difficult position this has put you in, Mr. Sensitive, I mean, Mr. Stenner. Can we request a temporary leave of absence for Greg or . . . ? Of course, I under- stand. Not fair to the company, sure. Only have so much patience, uh huh. God bless you too.

  Right.

  Oh, and thanks for caring that my life is falling apart and my

  husband is either muerto or just fine but not with me and either way he’s a dead man.

  I slam the phone into its base station, then apologize to it.

  The sweat in my palm reconstituted the bread crumbs dur-

  ing the call. Wastebasket. That’s what one does with crumbs.

  How long will it take me to figure out what to do with the

  crumbs of my life?

  And where will I find a basket large enough for the pieces?

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  Today’s the day I call Dr. Palmer and ask for something to help me sleep. The over-the-counter varieties might work for pre-colonoscopy jitters or speeding-ticket insomnia or even the-mortgage-is-due-tomorrow woes. But they’re no match for the knowledge that Greg found the escape hatch before I did. I open the bedroom blinds to another sun-drenched day. Perfect for gardening or taking the bike path through the park or maybe an impromptu picnic. Antiquing. Another good choice.

  No, I think I’ll spend the day wringing my hands over my AWOL husband.

  Did he even dip his canoe paddle into his beloved Canadian waters? The park rangers say he checked in or logged in or whatever wilderness adventurers do. He didn’t log out. That’s not required, apparently. Maybe someone should rethink that detail.

  The view from our bedroom window is of a normal world. It stings my eyes. The neighborhood, green and flourishing, sounds noisy already with lawn mowers and kids on skate- boards. I clamp one hand over my mouth to suppress my rant against normal.

  2

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  Greg’s Cherokee is gone from the remote lot near the

  Beaverhouse put-in point, according to reports. What does that mean?

  Can’t be a good sign.

  I think it
would be smart to make people check back in

  with the ranger station just to say, “Great trip. Caught lots of fish. Nasty portage on Half Mile Point, isn’t it? Say, if the wife calls, tell her I’m on my way home.”

  I can’t be the first woman to wonder.

  If signing out were a requirement, would Greg have stopped

  to do so? Or would he have been in such a hurry he’d forget? What or who would make him neglect a thing like that?

  Who? I should wash out my mouth with soap for voicing

  such slander. Greg Holden and another woman? Ridiculous. Not on his radar screen. He’s the poster boy for faithfulness. Why is that not enough for me?

  I wander from bedroom to kitchen to family room, then

  open the sliding doors and slip out to the only place where I can breathe these days—the screen porch. Don’t ask me why. Maybe I think this little slice of suburban nature anchors me closer to answers. Maybe I’m drawing some kind of warped comfort from the fact that if Greg’s still alive but lost, he’s look- ing into the same stratosphere. He’s breathing this same mix of oxygen and carbon dioxide and whatever.

  I drop into one of the swivel-rocker patio chairs and lean

  back as though I’m about to undergo a root canal. If he’s still alive. Somebody stop me from thinking that line again.

  It’s not that I haven’t prayed. I’m one of the prayer chain

  coordinators at church, for Pete’s sake. I believe in the power of prayer. Well, you know what I mean. I believe God is powerful and moves mountains when we pray.

  But this is different.

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  I can’t put two sentences together that sound at all prayer- like. For three days now, all I’ve managed is Oh, Lord God! or Jesus, Jesus, Jesus! or What am I going to do? What am I going to do? repeated ad nauseam.

  Mylanta helps the nauseam part. I’m smart enough to know that buckets of coffee on an empty stomach form an invitation for trouble. I don’t want to know my blood pressure readings. The pounding at my temples and the ache in the back of my skull tell me the numbers aren’t pretty.

  A bird sings from one of the trees in the backyard. I want to shoot it from its sassy perch.

  How does one go about inducing a therapeutic coma? Is it so wrong to want to sleep through this? I’ll deal with it eventu- ally, whatever the outcome. But could I skip this middle part? The not knowing. The wait-torture. The imagination that is so wildly fertile right now, Miracle-Gro has nothing on me. I’m halfway out of my skin before I realize the apparition standing in the doorway from the family room to the screen porch is Jenika.

  “Thought I might find you here,” she says. I can’t even find me here. How can she?

  She drops into the companion chair to mine, the one Greg prefers. “Any word?”

  If she weren’t more sister than friend, I’d shove those words back down her throat. She must read my nonanswer as a clear response. She’s good at that. Without waiting for me to elabo- rate, Jenika slips out of her chair and kneels at my feet. Taking my worthless hands in hers, she rubs the back of them with her thumbs. Does she know some secret pressure point lodged under the skin? Will this ease the cramping in my belly that has nothing to do with coffee? Will it relieve the pain digging its claws into the mangled flesh of my heart?

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  A pressure point? Of sorts. It’s the trigger for the tears that

  haven’t fallen until now.

  Jen could teach Greg a thing or two about friendship. I

  wanted him to be a friend. All he knew how to be was a lov- ing, tenacious husband. And father. A prince of a guy . . . in everyone else’s eyes.

  Long ago I learned to hide my tears from Greg. They made

  his frustration meter peak. He wanted to fix the tears, or me.

  “I’m crying for you, you big, dumb jerk!”

  Jen looks up. “For me?”

  The first words I produce in Jen’s presence are harsh and

  ugly and not even directed to her. “Sorry.” “You okay, Libby?”

  “Never . . . better.” I hiccup the words.

  She collects the tear-soaked tissues from my lap—now that’s

  a true friend—deposits them on the pine TV tray disguised as a lamp table, and hands me a bottle of water. Where’d she get that? And where’d the tissues come from?

  I take a sip of the icy water, surprised I remember how to

  swallow, then hold the bottle against my forehead between my eyes. Jen waits.

  I’m a wounded toddler, my normal breathing interrupted

  by sporadic sniff-sniffs. I may have ruined my sinuses forever. My eyes are hot hockey pucks stuck to the front of my face. Still, Jen waits.

  “Sorry about the waterworks.”

  “Are you kidding?” She scoots closer in the chair she’s

  reclaimed. Our knees almost touch. “You needed to do that. It was an honor to be present when it happened.”

  I hold a degree from Self-Pity U. She’s working on her mas-

  ter’s from, well, the Master.

  “Can I get you something to eat?” she asks. “I brought

  chicken salad in cream puff shells. Nothing too heavy.” She

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  digs into the soft-sided cooler she must have carried in with her. “And melon cubes.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “And my chocolate pudding cake.”

  “Okay.” The speed with which I deliver that single word makes us both giggle. Just a little. Nothing dishonoring to the crisis.

  Enough to take some pressure off the aneurysm forming in my brain.

  “Jen?”

  “What, hon?”

  “Did Greg . . . did he say anything to you . . . or to Brent . . . about . . . about leaving me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I mean, it’s possible that he—”

  “Are you out of your mind?” That’s my Jen. Warm-hearted comforter one minute. Truth-teller the next. “I told the cops the same thing. It’s a ridiculous notion from the pit of—” “Wait a minute. You talked to the police?”

  She stops uncovering plastic containers of food. “You didn’t know that? Standard procedure, I suppose, to take statements from friends and neighbors.”

  “My neighbors?”

  “That bothers you? Aren’t you grateful the police arework- ing on this?”

  Since when does chocolate smell like handcuffs? “Jen, they questioned you?”

  “Well, not questioned as in interrogated.” She’s back to plating food as if her news is of no more consequence than the results of the local spelling bee.

  I lick a smear of fudge frosting from the edge of the offered paper plate before I remember I’m not hungry and may never be hungry again. “What, then?”

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  “Libby, it’s no big deal. They’re trying to get all the details

  they can and follow up on any leads.”

  “What leads?”

  “They don’t have any. That’s what’s so frustrating for

  everybody.”

  Grinding between my back teeth are the words you-and-

  the-whole-blessed-rest-of-the-world-have-no-idea-what-it- means-to-be-frustrated. I swallow that sour sentence and ask, “What kind of questions?”

  “They asked, ‘Did you notice anything unusual with Greg’s

  demeanor before he left for his trip? How long have you known the two of them as a couple?’ ”

  “How have they been getting along?” I offer.

  “That too.”

  “What did you say?”

  She sighs and turns from tending the food to face me. “I

  told the officer it wouldn’t be fair to paint you as the perfect couple.”

  “That’s a bit of an understatement.”

  Jen hands me a fo
rk, as if I’ll use it. “But I also told him that

  your troubles were survivable. Nothing serious.”

  Am I grateful or disturbed by that answer? Can a person

  be both? I wouldn’t call our differences nothing serious. I’m having a hard time liking the man I’m supposed to love. I’m angry that he left me when I was about to leave him. That’s not serious?

  “So, I’m no longer a suspect?”

  “ ‘Person of interest’ is what they call it now.”

  When I drop my chin and throw my shoulders back, she

  adds, “Kidding, Libby! I’m just kidding. Sorry if that was tasteless.”

  “I’m not amused.”

  “I see that.”

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  Neither of us speaks for a while. She takes a bite of chicken salad. I worry my cake into a puddle of moist crumbs. “Are Zack and Alex coming home, Lib?” “They just started their remote trek.”

  “Oh, no.” She drops her hands into her lap, jostling the plate resting there.

  “My sons couldn’t have gotten summer jobs at the local Dairy Queen and Wal-Mart. Not my boys. The remote mountains of Chile. ‘Great opportunity, Mom. Imagine how impressive this gig will look on our résumés. You can’t beat an international experience, Mom.’ And their dad and I said yes. What were we thinking?”

  “You were thinking of affording your children opportuni- ties of a lifetime.”

  I put down the cake plate. What’s the point? “Now they’re a trillion miles from home. And for the next week, they’ll be so deep in the Chilean outback—”

  “That’s Australia.”

  “Whatever. They’re beyond contact of any kind.” “Even for an emergency?”

  “That was part of the allure. ‘Cool, Mom. Research assis- tants so far from civilization, we have to cut our own trails. Ultimate adventure and college credit too. Sweet!’ ”

  “Can we ask to have someone sent out to get them? Or at least get word to them?”

  “What word? That their dad figured out a way to leave me and still save face? That Greg took a permanent detour on his way home? We don’t know anything to tell them except that we don’t know anything.”

  “Won’t they want to come home?”