The Abduction of Mary Rose

by Joan Hall Hovey

  "You must miss your husband terribly," she said, turning the conversation away from herself to Lisa."

  She nodded slowly. "We were supposed to grow old together. The year before his heart attack we bought a yard swing and joked about spending our golden years sitting in it, talking and looking at the stars. For a long time I didn't think I could go on. But you do. Somehow you do. You don't have much choice."

  Naomi sat quietly. She could see a part of the swing through the kitchen window. Wooden, old-fashioned, the kind that invited you to sit a spell and contemplate the stars.

  "Sometimes I sit out there alone and imagine him beside me. I even talk to him. Do you think I'm crazy?"

  "No, of course not. I'm sure he hears every word."

  "Your mother's secret must have weighed heavily on her all those years. She clearly loved you very much, to want to protect you."

  "Maybe she was protecting herself."

  "Oh, I don't think so, honey. She would have been considered some kind of hero if folks around here knew she took in that poor girl's baby to raise as her own."

  Naomi let the words sink in. They made sense. Made her feel a little better, too. "I can see why Mary Rose was drawn to you, Lisa. You're really something."

  She just smiled a sad little smile that Naomi couldn't quite read. "It's nice of you to say that."

  "It's only the truth. Can you tell me about her, Lisa? I know it was a long time ago, but…."

  "Not so long that I don't remember like it was yesterday. I remember her very well. I can see her face so clearly in my mind. Hear her laugh. And that night still haunts me, and will for the rest of my life. I can still smell the nail polish we painted our nails with, hear the music on the record player. What haunts me most is that her killers are still out there, free for years now to come and go as they damn well please while Mary Rose lays in the ground … I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. I feel the same way. What was she like?" Naomi prodded gently, wanting to know Mary Rose better, wanting to make a deeper connection through this woman who knew her. Who danced and laughed with her when they were both girls.

  Lisa looked thoughtfully at her, but Naomi sensed she was looking inward, at old memories. Eyes soft, a tender smile on her lips, she said, "She was quiet and kind of shy. She had a great laugh, though. Infectious. Made you laugh too. Although admittedly there wasn't much for her to laugh about at school. Kids can be pretty mean. I don't think it's so bad now the bigotry. Anyway, she handled it. She was very close to her grandfather, and I think that helped. He called her 'Little Bird'. Let me see. She liked to draw and write poetry. And she had a lovely singing voice, too, like an angel. Once, I tried to talk her into auditioning for the school variety show, but you'd have thought I suggested she jump from a plane minus a parachute." She laughed softly, remembering. "Imagine, here I am sitting across from her daughter who would grow up to be an audio book narrator. How cool is that?"

  "It is kind of, isn't it?" Naomi grinned, feeling a self-conscious pride in her achievements, modest as they were. "I'm very lucky to be doing work I love."

  "Yes. You are. That's not to say you didn't work for it. But I think knowing how to be grateful is a gift too."

  Her words caught Naomi off-guard. A kind of back-handed compliment that came off oddly as advice. It also made her think of Eric Grant; he wasn't all that off base in his comment about her being lucky. She'd just been particularly touchy in that moment that was all. "I'm really glad you called," she said again. "You're a special person, Lisa."

  The sadness in the woman's eyes deepened. "Not so special. I went to visit her for a while after … but it was too hard seeing her like that. Unable to speak, even open her eyes. All those tubes snaking out of her … machines beeping." After a beat, she said, "I never knew she was pregnant."

  "Don't be so hard on yourself. You were just a kid."

  "I know. But I still feel guilty. Oh, I have something for you. I'll just be a minute, it's in the bedroom."

  Moments later, she returned with a folded sheet of paper in her hand and passed it to Naomi. "It's one of her poems. I kept it in an old chocolate box all these years. I want you to have it."

  Naomi's immediate impulse was to snatch the paper from Lisa's hand and clutch it to her heart, but of course she didn't, just forced her hands to lie limply in her lap. "I couldn't. It belongs to you."

  "No, not anymore. I guess I was keeping it for you anyway. I just didn't know it." Naomi took the paper. As she started to unfold it, Lisa put a hand on hers. "Don't read it now. Wait until you're alone."

  "You don't know what this means to me."

  "Oh, I think I do," Lisa smiled. The smile gave way to concern as she said, "You be careful, Naomi. Be very careful."

  The warning sent an involuntary chill through Naomi. "I will. But I don't think there's too much to worry about. I haven't heard anything significant since the article came out in the paper."

  "You will though. I have a very strong feeling about that. You will."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Naomi had barely gotten in the house and taken off her jacket when the phone rang, but by the time she snatched up the receiver and said hello, the caller had already hung up. She contemplated the silent phone for a few seconds, then replaced the receiver with a sigh of frustration. Was Lisa right? Could that have been the call that would change everything? Surely they would call back then, if that was the case. If it was part of the plan.

  Lisa was sensitive, and open, and it was this that had given Naomi the courage to tell her about her dream of the eagle. She was the first and only person she'd ever told about the dream. Not surprising to Naomi, she didn't laugh or look skeptical as many would have, but in fact was matter-of-fact in her assertion that Mary Rose had reached out to her from the spirit world. Her words affirmed Naomi's own belief that we exist on different planes, and that all things are possible. Spoken aloud, it might sound like so much fantasy and wishful thinking, but Naomi felt in her heart that there was more to life than six feet of ground at the end. Otherwise, it was all some kind of cosmic joke, and that seemed far less likely. That made no sense at all.

  It had been an afternoon of revelations. Lisa surprised her by telling her that Eric Grant wrote a book called "Freakhead". Lisa had noted his byline on her story, and said she was a fan. "It's a memoir. About being raised in an orphanage, Greyland's Home for Boys, aptly named, I might add. The place had a reputation and they finally tore it down. He got the title for his book from some kid who called him Freakhead all the time."

  Not as bad as Devil's Spawn, she thought. Then felt ashamed of herself for even daring to compare her own childhood with someone who was raised in an orphanage. It explained totally his comment about her being lucky to be adopted. Which, of course, was true.

  Lisa offered to lend her the book but for some reason that she couldn't explain, even to herself, Naomi declined, saying she had all she could do to keep up with the books her publisher sent. She didn't miss the oddly puzzled look Lisa gave her, and wondered at her own resistance to reading his memoir. "Why was he in Greyland's?" she asked. "Were his parents dead?"

  "Divorced. Mother remarried, and the new husband didn't want to be saddled with a kid. She made a choice. Four year old Eric went to live with his father. A year later his father died of a heart attack, and Eric ended up in that hellhole. You oughta read the book."

  * * *

  Driving home, Naomi recalled reading that Eric Grant's articles on the Middle East had been short-listed for some prestigious award a couple of years back. She hadn't made the connection with his name at first. She should try to stay current. Pretty impressive for a kid raised in an orphanage. As she thought about Eric Grant, and her perhaps skewed first impression of him, she continued to listen for the phone, willing it to ring.

  Being in Lisa's tidy house had given Naomi a shot of domesticity. She tidied the living room, fed Molly, pushed sheets into the washing machine, in the laundry room, which had once been a pant
ry. As she added detergent, she continued to listen for the ring of the phone. She'd just let the clothes soak awhile, she told herself, in case she didn't hear the ring over the sound of the motor. She didn't want to miss it again if it did ring.

  They'll call back, she told herself again, casting a watchful eye on the phone. The clothes soaked and the house stayed silent.

  * * *

  An hour later Norman Banks drained the beer in his glass, wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand and once again left the barstool to make his way unsteadily to the phone out in the dingy, urine-smelling hallway of the bar where he'd been for the past few hours. It had been a very long time since Norman had hung out in bars, but reading that article had gotten to him, made him anxious and nervous, affected his sleep, and he'd needed to dull the edges.

  Looking at the girl's photo, learning who she was, had brought back the memory of another girl all those years ago. Another lifetime. This girl's resemblance to her mother was slight, but it was there. He was just a kid himself when it happened, barely twenty, but he'd never forget the fear in her face, or her terrible cries for help that had often wakened him in the night. That he'd done nothing to stop the attack was something he could never forgive himself for. He didn't have the guts back then to help her. If he had it to do again, he'd take his chances and slam something across that bastard's head. But life didn't allow for do-overs.

  In the next room, two old guys were playing billiards, balls clacking sharply over Willie Nelson's "To All The Girls I Loved Before", giving him a headache. As Willie sang on, Norman rubbed sweaty hands down the sides of his olive green workpants, glancing over his shoulder a couple of times to be sure no one was spying on him. Satisfied that he went unobserved, he managed to steady his shaking hand sufficiently to dig out the folded square of newspaper, now wrinkled and smudged from being in his pants' pocket. Unfolding the paper, he held it up to the greasy light by the black wall-phone although he'd already memorized her number and tapped the number out, almost gingerly. But again, before anyone could answer, he hung up. Forget it, he told himself. Let it go. Let the past stay buried. If it was just him, he wouldn't hesitate. He might even go to the cops. But what about Deb and the kids? Thinking of how they would look at him: the shock, the disappointment and finally, disgust when they found out was too much to take. I can't, he thought. I can't do it. He went back to his barstool and ordered another beer.

  His face in the mirror behind the bar was pale and haunted, and accusing. You still ain't got no guts, Banks. You're just as much a coward as you ever were. He didn't like to think of the nickname 'Weasel' some of the kids at school gave him, but now he thought fit just fine.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Naomi lowered herself onto the kitchen chair, poem in hand. She felt a sense of wonder knowing she was about to get a deeper look into a young girl's heart through her own words. The words of Mary Rose Francis, who had given her life.

  The sheet of lined paper rattled as she opened it, and she realized her hands were trembling. The smell of years locked in darkness floated up from the paper. It was like opening a treasure chest, long buried in the earth. The writing was neat and cursive, in blue ink.

  She let out a soft breath and began to read.

  GRANDFATHER

  Grandfather's mahogany face is like an old map

  very wrinkled tracing back through time and time

  to the teepee and circle fires and laughter,

  and later the peace-pipes and white men that lied to his father

  and grandfather before him.

  Crystal waters rush over pink and grey stones,

  sparkling like golden coins.

  A speckled trout gives himself up for our supper.

  Grandfather's eyes remember other times

  and he is sad. But the sadness does not stay.

  When he sees me his eyes crinkle and he laughs.

  Sitting on the stoop, carving the deer bone into treasures

  for the tourists.

  I have the best one.

  I wear the white moon around my neck

  and am never in darkness.

  by Mary Rose Francis - Age 16.

  The last line had brought tears to Naomi's eyes, because the white moon that she held dear had betrayed her in the end, proved impotent against the darker force of evil. It was merely a thing of decoration: lovely, but without powers.

  Mary Rose wrote this poem on a day when the blood ran like sap through her young veins and the world held sweet promise, despite whatever challenges she faced on a daily basis. Naomi was no expert on poetry, but she thought this was a good poem, an honest one. Who knows what she might have accomplished in her lifetime.

  Lisa said she had had a nice singing voice. She might have written songs for others to sing even if she'd been too shy to perform them herself. And who's to say she wouldn't have gotten over her shyness, or just learned to rise above it in the way of many, if not most, performers.

  But someone had ended those possibilities, silenced her song forever. Her tears were also for the man who inspired the poem: Mary Rose's grandfather, Naomi's great-grandfather. She felt as if she knew him a little now.

  She would find a special frame for the poem. In the meantime, she slid the sheet of paper between the pages of a coffee table book to smooth out the fold marks. As she closed the book, she glared at the silent phone. Ring, she commanded it. When it obeyed, she literally jumped.

  She snapped up the receiver and pressed it to her ear. Country music was playing in the background, nothing she could identify, but a familiar tune.

  "Hello."

  There was a long pause, in which she could hear only the music, coupled with his breathing over the line. Then, "Is this that girl whose picture was in the paper … Naomi...?" The caller's voice was whispery, frightened, as if he were worried about being overheard.

  Her entire body hummed with anticipation, even while a cold dark wind swirled round her heart. This was it. "Yes, this is Naomi Waters."

  * * *

  Three beers after he made the call to the girl's daughter, whose name the paper said was Naomi Waters, Norman was heading home from the bar. Knowing he was well over the legal limit, he drove slowly, with caution. The last thing he needed was to get stopped by the cops. He wasn't supposed to be drinking at all, what with the diabetes. Deb would be really mad at him for going against doctor's orders, but reading that story in the paper had really freaked him out. What if the cops could get a voice print, or trace the number? Had someone been watching him when he made the call? He'd been careful to look around him, but you never knew.

  His hands were sweaty on the wheel and his stomach was twisted like the pretzels he'd eaten; the beer he'd consumed burned like acid in his gut. He needed to talk to someone. Ordinarily that someone would be Deb, but not this time.

  There was only one person he could talk to about this. The one whose awful secret he'd kept all these years. The one he'd been with that night. The night they took a girl's life.

  Spotting the McDonald's sign at the next corner, he slowed and pulled into the parking lot. Spotting an empty slot between a pickup and a green Volvo, he eased the car into it, turned off the ignition and sat for a few minutes. Then he got out of the car.

  In the restaurant's alcove, he looked up the number in the battered phone book, and was almost surprised to see it there. As if in reality, the man existed only in some nightmarish place in his mind. On some terrifying alternate planet. But his existence was only too real. He was a part of Norman's past. A past he had tried to forget, but could not. The newspaper article had made it fresh again.

  The phone rang and rang. Norman was about to hang up, getting a happy reprieve, when he heard the pick-up, and his heart slipped down into his stomach as he heard the words, "Your nickel."

  Same thing he always said when he answered the phone. Same thing he said more than two decades ago when Norman called him. The acid in his stomach was burning its way through t
he lining. He had a mother of all headaches pounding away in his skull. The smell of frying grease didn't help.

  Ordinarily he would have been craving a cheeseburger, but now he wondered if he'd ever eat again. As it was he hadn't eaten anything but those pretzels all day. Not good for his health. Neither was this. He was swept back in time, to a cold, ugly place. It wasn't a good feeling.

  Maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all. But it was too late now. He had no doubt his old cohort would have caller ID. This is a public phone, for Christ's sakes. Maybe the number wouldn't come up. But he wasn't sure. Anyway, he'd already identified himself, already said hello.

  * * *

  The man who picked up the phone lived on River City's west side on the second floor apartment of a faded red-brick building, close to his work. He'd just stepped out of the shower and had a towel draped about his waist, a smaller towel in his hand. He admired his reflection in the long mirror in the hallway. He was a big man, trim and muscular at fifty-three, owing to many hours spent at the local gym pumping iron. The hair-transplant he was leisurely drying with a second towel was a good one. Undetectable to the average eye. Should be, it cost him enough.

  As he clutched the phone, the blue and gold owl's eye tattooed on his left upper arm, winked at him in the mirror.

  "Hey, Weaz, long time no see," he said in his good ole boy fashion. "What's up?" But he knew what was up. He'd read the paper. He knew why the Weaz was calling.