The Mourning Hours

by Paula Treick DeBoard

  Suddenly I was aware that I’d blundered yet again into a private moment, something I wasn’t supposed to see or know. I ducked down in the seat, not sure what I’d seen, not wanting to be seen myself. I could feel Kevin watching me all the way down our driveway. Mr. Coulie, if he had noticed, said nothing.

  My face felt hot, as if I’d been called on to read out loud but had lost the passage and even the page number.

  When Mr. Coulie shifted his truck into Park, I was out the door instantly, slamming it behind me. Kennel came running around the side of the house, and I grabbed him by his collar. “Thanks. Bye!” I called over my shoulder, not meeting Kevin’s eyes. I released Kennel at the back door and stepped inside, surprised to find that I was almost out of breath.

  I replayed the scene in my mind, the way they stood, bodies tense, angry even, I saw now. Johnny at his breaking point, Stacy at her most intense. I tried to make her push into something playful, some kind of inside joke or rough sign of affection, but I couldn’t. Maybe she had told him, finally, that she was pregnant. And he had said he couldn’t be tied down right now.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Emilie said, coming down the stairs. I was still in my coat and scarf, snow melting off my boots, my backpack hanging from one shoulder.

  “Nothing,” I said. But I wasn’t sure.

  When Johnny came in about ten minutes later, I was still lurking in the kitchen, pretending to dig for something in my backpack. I needed to see him, to read anger or hurt or betrayal across his face. Maybe he would even make some kind of announcement, like he was done with Stacy or she was done with him or they were done with each other. I was poised to ask him something—anything—but when he opened the door, my mouth went dry.

  Johnny’s face was completely blank, as if he was numb. He didn’t look up at me or Emilie, just kicked off his boots, dumped his jacket on the floor, and went upstairs. His bedroom door clicked shut, and I trailed after him, putting an ear to the door. I wanted to say something, to let him know that whatever it was, it would all be okay.

  But then I remembered Stacy’s hands on his shoulders, her chin thrust forward—and I knew it wasn’t okay.

  thirteen

  On Wednesday night, Mom came home from Holy Cross with a stack of T-shirts that read Johnny H. is our man! State Wrestling Champ 1995. “From the other nurses,” she gushed, passing them around the table. There was one for me, too, large enough to sleep in. “Isn’t that thoughtful? We all have to wear them to Madison.”

  “Cool,” Emilie said. She had stopped making comments about how wrestling was stupid. Maybe she felt, like I did, that it was pretty great to have a star for a brother.

  Johnny shook his head, refusing to touch the shirt Mom was handing him. “What are you trying to do, jinx me?” he demanded. “It’s a bit early for this.”

  “Oh, come on,” Mom said, beaming. “We’re just so excited. Everyone’s so proud of you.”

  I watched Johnny over spoonfuls of baked potato that I’d smothered with sour cream. He had a plain potato in front of him, and rather than eating, he was concentrating hard on separating the skin from the rest of the potato. Since yesterday, since the push, I had been watching him closely, trying to figure it out. He hadn’t called Stacy yesterday night after dinner for the nightly phone call that had been a staple of their relationship. Instead he’d spent the evening in his bedroom, grunting a tally of push-ups, collapsing every now and then for a breather and then starting back up.

  But if something was wrong, I was apparently the only one who noticed.

  I cleared my throat. “Is Stacy coming with us to Madison next week?”

  Mom looked quickly at Dad, who was looking down. Maybe he was remembering the way he’d charged down the bleachers, looking for Johnny, or how Stacy’s face had been flushed, a loose barrette dangling in her hair.

  Mom said, “We’ll see about that,” at the same time Johnny asked, “Why wouldn’t she?”

  They stared at each other, and Dad repeated, “We’ll see.”

  Johnny grunted and went back to picking at his potato.

  “Just wondering,” I mumbled.

  Mom leaned over and tousled my hair affectionately. “What’s wrong?” she asked, and I shook my head, not knowing how to tell her.

  That weekend, with the break between regionals and state, Johnny had his first free Saturday in months. “I’m taking Stacy out later,” he announced that morning while Mom and I were in the kitchen, putting away groceries.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Movie and then dinner in Sheboygan.”

  “And you’ll be home...?”

  “I don’t know. Eight. Eight-thirty.”

  “It might snow tonight,” Mom said. “You make sure you drive careful, okay?”

  “All right,” Johnny said, rolling his eyes. He gave me a grin that I tried to return, not convincingly enough. “What’s wrong?”

  Mom was looking at me, too.

  I didn’t say, Be careful, Johnny. I didn’t ask if he’d pushed her right back, once Kevin’s dad had rounded the corner and we were out of sight. Instead, I only shrugged.

  When Johnny left that afternoon, he looked the same as always. I watched out the window as he walked to his truck, tossing his keys into the air and catching them with a little flourish. It had started to snow, but only barely, not enough to cover some of the ragged melted patches on the lawn. He circled the truck with an ice scraper, his breath coming out in puffs as thick as summer clouds.

  It was a normal evening. If I’d had the sense that our lives were about to change, that God was about to topple our little world like we were indeed bugs in a Mason jar, I would have paid closer attention to every little thing. Instead, it was the most normal evening in the world. We watched Wheel of Fortune with the TV muted while Dad talked on the phone with Coach Zajac. Iowa—he said, as if the whole state had been reduced to a single school. I listened while I lay upside down on the couch, with my head where my feet should be and my feet waving in the air, letting the blood pool in my head until it must have weighed a thousand pounds. When Mom finished working in the kitchen, she quizzed me on my spelling list: Dexterous, immaculate, oscilloscope, millennium. Words I’d barely heard before and couldn’t define. Upstairs, Emilie ran through “Stars and Stripes Forever” until Dad hollered, “Enough, already,” and she joined us in front of the TV to paint her toenails.

  “Time to get ready for bed,” Mom said at eight, and I slumped upstairs for my evening routine—measuring my height against the mark on the door frame, brushing my teeth, selling an imaginary audience in the mirror a tube of Crest, and finally settling under the covers with a flashlight. I was halfway into The Clue of the Dancing Puppet when Emilie came in. Through the open door I could hear Dad and Mom’s voices, arguing. Emilie shut the door and plopped on my bed.

  I sat up. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s almost ten and Johnny’s not back yet. He said they’d be home by eight-thirty. Mom called the Lemkes and they’re not there.” She pulled up her knees to her chest and hugged her legs.

  “They’re probably on their way back right now,” I said, but my heart thumped in my chest. Something was wrong.

  Emilie bit her lip. “It’s snowing really hard, though.”

  I climbed out of bed and went to the window. She was right—the snow that had been a few friendly flakes in the afternoon was now coming down sideways, like millions of little polka dots against the night sky. “Let’s keep the door open,” I said, quietly twisting the knob.

  Emilie stayed on my bed, knees tucked under her chin.

  There were a few minutes of silence, and then, straining, we heard Mom say, “I think you should go look for them.”

  Dad said, “Let’s give it another ten minutes.”

  “Aren’t you worried
?”

  “Johnny can handle himself in a little bit of snow.”

  Ten-fifteen came and went. Then ten-thirty. Upstairs, I clutched on to the sleeve of Emilie’s sweater, and she didn’t push my hand away.

  The Lemkes called, and we heard Mom’s side of the conversation, “No, we haven’t heard... Right. Well, we’ll call you if we hear anything.” And then to Dad: “Bill Lemke’s been to Sheboygan and back and didn’t see them, John. You have to go out there.”

  I could hear Dad grumbling under his breath, but he put on his coat and reached for his keys. His old truck grumbled to life, and I watched his headlights sweep across our house, across Grandpa’s dark house, and then out of sight.

  “He’ll find them,” I whispered, more confident than I felt. They’d been gone for hours. They could be anywhere. I pictured them driving through the night, the Green Machine navigating the country roads through Watankee, Manitowoc, Green Bay, up north, farther and farther away, with Stacy in the middle of the bench seat, urging Johnny forward. Let’s not go back, she might be saying right at that moment.

  “Yeah,” Emilie said, but she stayed on my bed, chewing on her lower lip.

  We waited.

  Dad hadn’t been gone five minutes when we heard footsteps on the front porch, and the door banged open. It was Johnny.

  “The truck slid off the road,” he was saying, by the time Emilie and I had raced downstairs to see him. His face was red with cold and his hat and coat were covered with snow. He tried to kick off his boots and ended up working his feet back and forth until he was free of them. “It’s freezing outside.”

  Mom started to peel off his wet coat and saw us. “Put the kettle on,” she barked to Emilie, who scuttled into action.

  “Where’s Stacy?” I asked.

  “She’s home,” Johnny said. “We weren’t far from her house when it happened, so she walked the rest of the way.”

  “She wasn’t home ten minutes ago,” Mom said.

  “Really? She should be home by now,” Johnny said. I would try to remember later how he said this, whether he was worried or certain, guilty or innocent, but everything happened so fast. She should be home by now, he’d said, and I’d let out my breath. Mom tugged on his sleeves and Johnny’s coat came off. At the same time we saw the cut on the back of his hand, three inches long and gaping wide.

  “Oh, my God,” Mom said. “Let me see that.”

  “From the truck—I was trying to push it out of the ditch, but I just couldn’t get it to move,” he said. “Dad’s gonna be mad—”

  “He’s out looking for you now,” Mom said, examining Johnny’s hand. “This might need stitches. Kirsten, get me the first-aid kit.”

  I jumped into action, running to the hall closet and back. When I came back, Johnny was saying, “I’m so sorry about the truck.”

  “Forget about the truck. I’m just glad you’re safe.” Mom ripped open a packet and began swabbing Johnny’s hand. He winced, shutting his eyes against the pain.

  On the stove, the kettle began to steam and whistle, a thin cry that escalated to a shriek by the time Emilie reached it. “What about the Lemkes?” Emilie asked. “Shouldn’t we call them?”

  “Yes,” Mom said and reached for the phone. But before she dialed, we heard Dad’s truck pulling in. He left it, lights blazing and engine running, and was up the steps in only seconds. Mom replaced the receiver.

  “I found Johnny’s truck— Oh, thank God,” Dad said, spotting Johnny. His chest was heaving, and he knelt over to catch his breath. I felt out of breath, too, even though I’d done nothing more than watch Johnny’s cut be cleaned. Now we’re all here, I thought. We’re safe.

  “What happened?” Dad demanded.

  And then Johnny said what I would hear over and over, repeated to my parents, Stacy’s parents, the police, the newspaper, the district attorney: they were almost home when the truck fishtailed. “I must have hit a patch of ice or something,” he said, “and we ended up in the ditch.” Johnny said he tried to push them out while Stacy steered, and when that didn’t work they waited to see if anyone came. “It was snowing harder and we were so cold. I thought we should keep waiting, but Stacy said she would walk to her house and get her dad. I guess—I mean—she was pretty mad at me. And then she didn’t come back after a bit, so I just started walking home.”

  “Oh, my God. She might still be out there,” Mom said, reaching for the phone. She punched in the numbers for the Lemkes. “Bill? It’s Alicia. Is Stacy back yet?”

  There was a silence that stretched just a second too long, and in that moment, all the relief I’d felt seeped out of me. As the five of us held our breath, waiting, it was as if we already knew. I choked that breath down my throat, as if I sensed that it might have to last me for the rest of my life.

  Mom shook her head at us. With her index finger she depressed the switch hook and dialed again, this time to the police.

  fourteen

  While Mom talked to the dispatcher, Dad and Johnny went out in Dad’s truck. From the kitchen we could see his high beams sweeping across the night, illuminating a gathering of fat snowflakes.

  I bit my lip, staring into the night. “It’s really coming down now.”

  Mom replaced the receiver and looked up at us.

  “What did they say?” Emilie demanded.

  “We’re supposed to sit tight. They’re sending an officer.” Mom pressed her palms flat on the table, then curled her hands into fists, then latched them behind her head, her neck bent forward. There was nothing she could do that would make this better.

  The phone rang a minute later, and Mom snatched it up. “John and Johnny are out there, too, and the police are on their way,” she promised. “We’ll call you the minute we hear anything.”

  She hung up, stared at us again. “An officer is already with the Lemkes, taking a statement.”

  “What does that mean, a statement?” Emilie asked.

  Mom didn’t say anything. She leaned forward so that her forehead fell into the palms of her hands. “Oh, Johnny,” she moaned. “What did you do?”

  Thoughts were swirling in my head. The fight, the push, Johnny standing in the kitchen that afternoon, telling us about his plans for the evening.

  Suddenly a truck came speeding down our driveway. Feet tramped across the yard while we sat, stunned, and then Aunt Julia slammed through the back door, wild-eyed. “Paul just heard on the scanner—” she began, and Mom filled her in on the details.

  “Oh, my God.” Aunt Julia sank back against the door frame. “It’s been what, now? An hour?”

  I tried to imagine an hour in that cold, the wind swirling, whipping through my coat.

  The phone rang and Mom grabbed for it.

  Aunt Julia rushed back outside, and I followed her onto the porch, the wind slapping against me like an open palm. The storm that had been only a mild blip on the morning weather report had gained intensity. Snow eddied around us, instantly wetting my pajamas.

  Uncle Paul was coming up the walk, but Aunt Julia met him at the foot of the stairs and sent him back. “Go out there, go help them,” she said, the wind carrying her words across the yard. Uncle Paul hesitated, then ran down the walk, threw open the driver’s door and started his truck.

  “Come on, now, you can’t be out in this,” Aunt Julia scolded, shooing me inside. “You don’t even have shoes on.”

  I stared out the window as his truck made the turn. A dusting of flakes, wind-blown, had already covered their footprints.

  Our phone had never rung so many times before in a single night. Mom snatched it on the first ring, greedily, while we waited, filling in the blanks in her conversation.

  A shape passed in front of our window, and we all jumped to our feet. Grandpa pulled open the door, his eyes scanning the room. “What
the hell is going on?”

  “Stacy’s missing,” I said at the same time Mom told him, “There was an accident—”

  Grandpa’s neck swiveled from Mom to me and back. “What do you mean, an accident?”

  Mom’s look shushed me. “Johnny slid off the road. And then Stacy tried to walk home—”

  “In this?” Grandpa demanded. “By herself? Why the hell—”

  “Papa,” Aunt Julia said, taking him by the arm. “John and Paul and Johnny are out there. It’s going to be okay.”

  “Half the county is out there now, looking,” Mom reported. I imagined the chain reaction of lights in windows as the people of Watankee woke up, the men pulling on their boots and heading out to garages to warm up their trucks. I shivered, thinking of the trucks driving along the country roads, their headlights cutting through the night, on the lookout for Stacy’s green coat, the strands of red hair that had escaped her hat. Stacy’s coat. Stacy’s hair. They were looking for Stacy.

  “What kind of damn fool lets a girl—” Grandpa barked.

  “Papa, please,” Aunt Julia said. “That’s not helping.”

  Suddenly my body felt hot and cold at once. “I feel sick. It’s my stomach.”

  “Oh, baby.” Mom reached for my forehead. “You’re warm. Were you feeling sick earlier?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” I remembered: Stacy had put her hands on Johnny’s chest, as if she was going to pull him in for a kiss. But she hadn’t kissed him, she’d pushed him, and he had fallen backward.

  “You look kind of pale. Why don’t you go on up to bed?”

  “I want to stay here,” I said. It was such a strange feeling to be up this late, with the members of my family scattered around the county. Dad and Johnny and Uncle Paul out in the snow, and Stacy unaccounted for. “I’m staying here,” I repeated.

  Mom stared at me across the table, and then once again headlights flashed across our house as a car pulled into the driveway.

  “They’re back,” I said, hopeful. “Maybe they found her already.”