“Nobody was out to hurt you, Grace. Nobody wanted to bring you any more pain, least of all me,” he said in a softer tone.
I looked up at him. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have understood all that.”
He came down the stairs and surprised me by hugging me and kissing my forehead and then stroking my hair lovingly. I looked into the smile that had once captured my female imagination entirely.
“That’s my girl,” he said, and brought his lips to mine. It felt like our first kiss. It was as if he truly had the power to send me sailing back through time to our early days together, when infatuation matured into love and a world of wonderful promise. “You will be restored,” he said. “My prayers will be answered.”
He hugged me again and then turned and headed back to the stairway, pausing midway.
“Dad’s really looking forward to tonight,” he said. “Let’s show him he doesn’t have to worry about us.” He flashed his smile again and hurried up to do his packing.
I stood there staring after him, stunned. What was really happening here? What had I done? Was it me? Had I been driving him away? Was I the one destroying this marriage? Was I turning on him as a way to avoid turning on myself, keeping my blame and my guilt over what had happened to Mary subdued, if not completely buried?
Would I have been happier if my husband had collapsed and become a blubbering idiot, unable to function? What was I blaming him for anyway—his strength, his reasonableness, his clear logic, and his clear vision of what was real and what was not?
I should have let Barb finish her sentence at lunch, I thought. She was right. It was something I thought about all the time but refused to credit John with doing. Was it only because of his faith that he did not turn on me, blame me for the loss of our daughter, or was his love for me that strong after all? Was I angry because he had the strength to forgive? It struck me that many hated Christ for the very same reason. They wanted to hate, to fight, and to get their revenge, and Christ stood in their way with his damned turning the other cheek and letting he who was without sin cast the first stone.
I felt so confused, so lost. I looked up the stairway after John. Once I had rushed to him whenever I had fears or doubts, and he was always there with his calmness, his clear thinking, and his careful logic. His religious devotion kept him centered, and although I refused to accept it as deeply as he did, I didn’t hesitate to draw comfort from him. Maybe I was a hypocrite. You go pray. You attend church, and you say the prayers at dinner, but I don’t mind enjoying God’s graces thanks to you. Was that who I was?
I started up the stairway, determined to do what John had asked, be solid and comforting for his father. I worked harder and with more interest on my hair and my makeup. I chose a bright pantsuit and put on earrings and the matching necklace John had bought me for my last birthday. He had finished packing for his Vegas trip, showered, and dressed and sat waiting for me in the living room.
“Wow,” he said when he saw me coming down the stairway. “Dad won’t have any trouble understanding why I fell in love with you.”
I started to respond with typical feminine humility and then stopped, smiled, and said, “You’re only saying that because it’s true.”
He laughed and gave me another hug and a kiss. Later, in the car on our way up to Sherman Oaks to pick up his dad, he asked me if Margaret had called or stopped by.
“To fill you in on the interview she had with the detective,” he said when I didn’t respond.
“No, I haven’t heard from her. You didn’t speak with her?”
He shook his head. “When would I speak with her?”
“I thought you might have called her from work.”
“No, I figured if she had anything to say, she would have said it to you.”
“Sometimes people are told not to say anything,” I offered.
He looked at me as if that idea had never occurred to him. Then he nodded. “Well, if there’s anything to tell us, they’ll tell us,” he concluded.
His father was so happy to see us looking brighter and wanting to enjoy ourselves that he didn’t mention or ask a thing about the investigation. We all skirted around any references to Mary, and even to John’s mother. Before we dropped him off after dinner, he did say, “I’m confident things are going to turn out all right for you.”
“For all of us,” John corrected.
“Yes, for all of us.”
He kissed me good night, then looked at John and said, “No doubt as to why you fell in love with this one.”
Both of us looked at each other and laughed.
“What?” his father asked.
“Like father, like son,” I said, and he nodded, understanding.
I realized it was a good laugh, a full laugh, the sort of laugh that makes you feel warm and hopeful. As we drove home, I looked to the stars, and for the first time in a long, long time, I prayed silently that God would look down upon Mary and comfort her wherever she was. I felt confident that He would.
Later, John made love differently from the way he had been making love. It wasn’t solely mechanical. He was more tender and did whisper his love for me. I fell asleep more easily than I had for some time and woke only when I heard him moving around the bedroom. He was already dressed.
“Oh, I’ll get up to make you breakfast,” I said, moving quickly.
“No, no. Rest, Grace. I’m having breakfast with some of my associates at the airport.” He glanced at his watch. “Perfect. Okay, I’ll call you tonight.”
“Have a good trip,” I said.
He kissed me good-bye and left. I did lie there for quite a while, thinking, analyzing everything John had done and I had done. Somehow I had constructed a wall between us, but not where I intended that wall to be. It was a wall closing out any expression of affection. How many times had John offered it before and I had refused to recognize or acknowledge it? Did he turn from me because I had turned from him? Was he afraid, tiptoeing around me with his love because he was afraid of rejection? I lay there thinking about all of this for so long that when I looked at the clock, I realized I would never be able to meet Sam at nine. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, but I reached for the phone and called.
“I think it’s better I don’t go,” I said when he answered. “You were right. I’m sorry if I held you up.”
“It’s okay. You okay?”
“Yes, I’m good.”
“You sound good. I’ll call you later.”
“Sam,” I said quickly before he could hang up.
“Yes?”
I hesitated. Did I want to risk losing his interest, which might sabotage his renewed determination to solve Mary’s abduction? And if I was holding on to him for solely that reason, wasn’t I using him just the way he thought he might be using me?
“Wherever you’re going today, does it have to do with Mary’s abduction?”
“Yes, it does,” he said. “I’m going to visit one of those mothers whose daughters were said to have done something miraculous.”
“What are you looking for?”
“A connection. A reason to believe there’s a well-organized plan to this madness.”
“Now I feel guilty about not going with you.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry. If there’s anything to come of it, I’ll find it.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Maybe we can meet tomorrow,” he suggested.
“Maybe,” I said.
After he hung up, I got out of bed and went down to get some breakfast. While I sipped my coffee, I thought about yesterday and picked up the phone to call Barb. I apologized for how I had behaved. Of course, she kept saying I needn’t, that both she and Netty understood. I had no doubt, however, that they had both told and retold the story about what had happened at lunch, pollinating the phone lines with their increasing
ly exaggerated descriptions of this unbalanced, close-to-a-nervous-breakdown friend they had tried to help. It would become a game of Telephone during which one listener would tell another, and that one would tell another, until the original story would be so expanded that the last one hearing it might expect to see me on the nightly news after being arrested for running wildly through a mall stabbing people with a pair of scissors or something.
We made a vague agreement to try it again in the near future, which sounded more like an oxymoron than ever. I told her to pass my apology on to Netty, who, if I had called her, would surely have told me the same things anyway. Still, I felt better about it.
The sound of the doorbell surprised me. It was Margaret. I had assumed that she would avoid me for a while, following Sam’s admonition. She looked upset when I opened the door.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you yesterday or call you after I had come home from the senior center,” she began.
“Come in,” I said, stepping back. “I was just finishing breakfast. Do you want a cup of coffee?”
“Yes.”
She followed me to the kitchen and sat at the kitchenette. The disturbed expression on her face at the door hadn’t left her. I glanced at her while I took out another cup and saucer.
“What is it, Margaret? Why are you so upset?”
“The detective did request that I not talk to anyone about his interview, but his questioning brought up something else I had neglected to tell you, and that bothers me. I can’t imagine why it would matter if I told you now. I was troubled about it all night. I knew you had gone to have dinner with your father-in-law.”
I poured her some coffee. “Yes, we did.”
“And I didn’t want to come over or call you late.”
“What is it, Margaret?” I asked, sitting across from her.
“I know you were angry about my not telling you about Laurie James’s boy.”
“It’s all right, Margaret. I’m over it.”
“No, there was more. You’re bound to hear about it eventually, I’m sure.”
“More? What more?”
“There was this woman who came to church one Sunday after what happened with the James boy. She wasn’t a member of our church. I guess John never told you about her, either?”
“No. Told me what?”
“The detective interviewed Laurie James before he came to interview me. She mentioned the woman to him. She was a friend of a friend sort of thing, don’tcha know. Anyway, I didn’t find out until later, really, but she was being treated for lung cancer. A smoker, I imagine.”
“She wanted to sit next to Mary, too?”
“No, all she wanted to do was meet her, touch her, hold her hand for a moment. It all happened so fast I barely knew it had occurred at all. In fact, I was in a conversation with Sarah Conklin, and you know how Sarah can be. She practically swallows you whole when she corners you.”
“What did you see?”
“Just John talking to her and then her talking to Mary and holding Mary’s hand. When she let her go, Mary reached up for her, and the woman brought her face to Mary’s hand. I stopped dead in my tracks to watch it. Mary held her hand on her cheek for a few seconds. The woman had her eyes closed and seemed . . .”
“What?”
“Brighter. Then she turned and left. She didn’t come into the church, you know.”
“What did John say about it?”
“He didn’t say anything much. I asked him who she was, and he said she was Laurie James’s friend. I asked him what that was about, and he just shrugged. Then we went inside and I didn’t think much more of it, until the detective asked yesterday, that is.” She sipped her coffee.
“What about the woman? Why even mention her now?”
“As I said, I had forgotten all about her, but Sheila Bracken . . . you know Sheila. She’s been over my house. Her husband died five years ago. She helps at the center?”
“Yes, yes, I know who she is. So?”
“Sheila told me she had met Laurie James, and Laurie told her that her friend had gone into a remarkable remission.”
“Because of Mary? She said because of Mary?” I asked, perhaps with a little too much animation. Margaret actually sat back.
“Well, she didn’t say for certain, but she mentioned her, and Sheila knows how close I am to you, Mary, and John, so she told me about it. Sheila told some other people at the center. But I never told anyone there stories about Mary to make her out to be something other than a normal but beautiful and intelligent little girl. It’s certainly not any of their business. Even so, I had the feeling from the way that detective was questioning me that either I or someone I spoke to had done something wrong. Is that why he came to see me?” she asked.
How would she know I knew any more than she did? Was she fishing?
“He’s a detective. He has to follow evidence, information. I have nothing more to tell you,” I said as casually as I could manage.
She studied me as if she was looking to see if I was telling the truth. “I’m just beside myself thinking about it, Grace. I couldn’t live with myself if I in any way—”
“Don’t think like that. Let’s wait to see what the detective makes of it. They work on theories, fantasy police work,” I said, parroting Sam. “It might very well end up being nothing.”
“Well, I do hope they come up with something, of course. I miss her very much.”
“I know you do, Margaret. Thank you.”
She finished her coffee. “I know John has gone to Las Vegas.”
“He told you to keep an eye on me?”
“Yes,” she confessed. “If you like, you could come with me to the center today. We’re making a little lunch party for them.”
“Does Sheila help out at the center, too?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe I will go along,” I said.
“Oh, how nice. I’ll pick you up in, say, an hour,” she said, rising. “We’ve got to make some salads, coleslaw, and potato salad, and Sheila makes this macaroni and cheese they love, just like kids.”
“What? Oh, yes. Should I bring anything?”
“Just yourself, dear,” she said. She smiled. “I feel so much better having told you all that. I hope I didn’t upset you.”
“Not in the least,” I said.
I smiled, but my insides felt like a ball of rubber bands, each beginning to snap. I cleaned up the breakfast dishes and went upstairs and changed to go with Margaret. Afterward, I checked my purse and saw that I had only a five-dollar bill. The hundred I had thrown on the table in the Ivy and the money I used to pay for parking had nearly cleaned me out. Even though the world revolved around credit cards these days, I hated going out with so little cash on me. I didn’t want to have to stop at the bank, so I went down to John’s office and workshop.
It wasn’t often that I went in there alone. I never cleaned it, and when we had a maid, John was adamant about her not going in there. He was the only one who would dust, vacuum, and wash the floors of his office. He was afraid for his remarkable collection of ships in bottles and whatever project he had on the worktable at the time. There was one there now; there was always one, it seemed.
I stood there for a moment, recalling how proud John could be of a completed project. Even before Mary could really appreciate what he was saying, he would give us a little lecture about the one he had just done. Some of the ships were based on paintings, and he would have pictures of the paintings along with the bottles. He knew the artists, and he knew when the paintings were done. Not only that, but he also prided himself on knowing the history either of the ship or of what was happening around that ship wherever it had been sailed. I realized that his hobby was really quite educational, and I imagined he expected that when Mary was older and in school, he would leap at the chance to show her his mode
l of one of the ships built and sailed during the period she might be studying in her history class.
He had two dozen shelves filled with ships in bottles. Fearful of what an earthquake might do since we lived in California, he was careful to use the tape patches that kept the bottles from being shaken off a shelf. The variety of ships impressed everyone he permitted to view them. I knew there were schooners and freighters, pirate ships, and individually famous ships such as the HMS Victory, which he explained was the most famous ship in the history of the Royal Navy, Horatio Nelson’s flagship at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805.
I had bought him the kits for some of the ships. There was a hobby shop on Melrose in West Hollywood run by an elderly Englishman who was probably as knowledgeable as John, if not more so. I always felt safe taking his suggestion for John’s birthday, Christmas, and even our anniversary.
Now that I stood in the workshop and looked around at the craftsmanship, I felt as if I had entered a cathedral. These were John’s icons. Judging by the way he respected them, the high esteem in which he held them, they did hold an almost religious significance for him. I moved as softly and devoutly to his desk as I would walk down the aisle in church. I didn’t want to disturb a thing, not nudge a chair or move a pencil.
We kept some cash in a metal box in the bottom left drawer of his desk. Usually, I would ask him for some money, and he would get it. It wasn’t locked, but we didn’t keep all that much in it. The only way John attempted to hide it from a burglar was to put it between some files in the drawer.
I knelt down and carefully opened the drawer. Then I parted the files and reached in for the metal box. It wasn’t very big, about twice the length of a dollar bill and twice the width. I plucked out four twenties and closed the box. When I went to put it back, I saw a slip of paper at the bottom of the drawer. The box had been lying over it. That surprised me, because when it came to any of his papers, whether they were receipts or letters, no one was more meticulous about organization and filing. John hated a messy desk or sloppy bookkeeping. Something must have fallen out of a folder, I thought. I’d just put it on his desk so that when he was there next time, he would find it and file it.
Capturing Angels Page 18
