A Rose by the Door

by Deborah Bedford

  On the shelf along one wall stood an entire fleet of rusty Tonka trunks, wheels and gears still embedded with sand from someone’s sandbox. Beside those, a pile of three frayed, faded baseball caps, one atop the other, tilted to one side like a sod house. Gemma lifted one ball cap and flipped it over. “Bartling,” scribbled in Nathan’s familiar bold script. “117 Pattison Drive. 436-8576.”

  For a long, long while, Gemma savored the familiar shape of the cap in her hands, the seams stretched, the sweat-stained brim curled at Nathan’s favorite jaunty angle. She held the ball cap and she saw him, she touched him, stroked his head the way she always had, thinking what a miracle she had, that someone loved her. Oh, Nathan. Oh, Nathan.

  Gemma plopped it on her own head and examined herself in the mirror. “A. H. All-Stars,” the hat said.

  A garbage truck stopped down the street, began its slow, mechanical rumbling. Trashcans banged together. Gemma froze and listened.

  The truck moved on to the next street. Gemma waited. And listened more. She heard her heartbeat in her ears. No footsteps. No sounds of Paisley. No one coming to find her out.

  She set about looking again.

  With the cap still on her head, Gemma picked up a small ceramic fisherman, his pole and fishing line dipped in the water, the hook coming beneath his legs and snagged squarely on the seat of his pants.

  “The One That Got Away,” the little pedestal read.

  On the shelf Gemma found more things: a Rubik’s Cube that was nowhere close to solved, a coiled dog collar with a rabies tag from 1988, a black AM-FM radio, a book entitled Amazing Otters, an extensive rock collection. On the dresser was a pack of BBs, a pocketknife, something that looked like a goose call, a comb, and some pennies.

  Not until she opened the closet did Gemma find the first true evidence of a mother deserted.

  The door slid open in silence and she stared into nothingness. Only one pair of dress shoes, shining and Sunday best, sitting heel to heel on the floor. Nothing hung on the hooks. Empty hangers dangled. With the exception of an old John Elway football jersey and a letter jacket with track pins that looked like it had barely been worn, there were no personal items in this closet at all.

  Gemma didn’t know what to think. She fought the urge to sit on the floor and cry. The emptiness here seemed to swallow her. It negated every dear, intimate detail of Nathan’s room.

  It had been a long, long time since the man she’d married had lived in this place.

  Nathan, why?

  She hadn’t anyway to know how long she stood there, staring in, alone. She hugged her arms around her chest and swayed back and forth, like a rocking toy, understanding for the first time this awful, total barrenness—the enormity of a son who would walk away from his mother.

  She had no way to know how long she stood there before something made her lean back and glance at the top shelf, and she saw the ancient tackle box.

  She noticed it now. It waited high overhead, partially hidden behind several dusty track trophies, shoved completely toward the back, with only one corner visible. Gemma craned her neck. She stood on tiptoe and tried to see.

  I wonder what’s up there.

  She saw a battered tin supply box, rusted around both of its buckles, dented and dirty from what must have been a hundred fishing trips to Lake McConaughy. She could make out only thin lines of color among the scratches. Once upon a time, it must have been blue.

  Gemma hadn’t any idea why she felt such a sudden, immediate, compelling need to examine this box. Perhaps because Nathan had always told her he’d bring her home one day and take her camping. Perhaps because he’d described his favorite morning to her at least a dozen times, crawling out of his sleeping bag and sinking a line before anybody else woke up, as the mist came rising in curls off the water and dawn reflected soft and radiant from the glassy lake.

  Whatever prompted her, Gemma could not turn away from the strange beckoning in her spirit. Even if she’d wanted to, Gemma could not dismiss whatever might be inside this mysterious box.

  She stretched as tall as she could possibly manage, stretched clear through the ends of her fingertips, and managed only to topple one of the trophies. She caught it with both hands, thankfully, and, still shaking with the thought of it falling, set it on the shelf beside the ball caps.

  In desperation, Gemma surveyed the room. She spied a wooden chair beside Nathan’s old desk in the corner. When she tested the chair, she found the legs a little wobbly. It would have to do. Gemma dragged the chair over and climbed up. She grabbed hold of the tackle box handle, hauled it forward, lugged it down.

  Gemma hadn’t thought what she’d find when she opened the lid. Fishing tackle, she supposed.

  She set it on the bed and, at first, that’s exactly what it seemed she’d discovered—fishing supplies, neatly arranged in three levels of accordioned trays and tiny compartments. Red-and-white fishing floats. Split shot and swivels. A spool of invisible leader. Eagle Claw snelled hooks embedded according to size on a strip of cardboard.

  Gemma raised the second level of trays and peered beneath. Strange. Here, the collection of fishing paraphernalia played out.

  Various sets of white papers lay in each cubicle, torn from a tiny tablet and organized according to size. And, upon first look, every one of the pages appeared blank.

  What could this be?

  Gemma lifted two pages and held them in her hand. She pored over them, wondering why anyone in his right mind would store away empty pieces of paper. She held them up, peering at them, closer to her nose. Closer.

  She’d found something. Faint indentations. Orderly scribbles.

  Each page had been carefully marked. Only there wasn’t anyway to read them. These markings were invisible.

  Working faster now, Gemma lifted another tray and thought she’d found another layer of fishing lures. But instead, beside a handful of fake worms that looked like

  Gummi candy and a round wheel holding every size of weights, she discovered a very interesting item. A pen the likes of which she hadn’t seen in years.

  An invisible-ink pen.

  Gemma recognized it immediately. She’d owned one just like it, from a cereal box.

  She tried to recall how to make messages appear. Did she carry the papers out into the sunlight? Did she run them under water from the faucet?

  The worst thing she could do would be to handle these wrong and cause them damage.

  Like a gift, at that moment, Gemma remembered the answer. A picture of herself lying in her little room, scarcely larger than the bed that held her. “I wrote you a secret message, Daddy. You want to read it?”

  “Of course I do. I love reading anything you’ve written.”

  “Hold it up to the lightbulb, Daddy. Then the ink appears.”

  Gemma turned on the lamp beside Nathan’s bed and held the first strip of paper next to it. For long moments, nothing happened. But then, like a stain spreading, as quickly as that, lettering materialized. The entire page. Legible and dark.

  Oh, Nathan. What is this? Is it something you would have wanted me to see?

  Gemma stared at the papers in their little compartments for a moment more, knowing she ought to close the lid and stash it away, knowing she had no right to be here, no right to handle these little-boy notes.

  She’d never asked Nathan about his childhood friends. He’d never volunteered any stories. Another groundswell of sorrow swept over her. Here was one of those off-handed questions she should have asked him while they ambled along in the park, holding hands.

  Who did you play with when you were little, Nathan? What did you like to do?

  Gemma picked up the box again and held it, still open, with the trays raised. At the bottom of the box an entire jumble of fish stringer slid away to one side. Gemma peered down, and made another discovery. Someone had hidden an array of postcards beneath the stringer. Beautiful picture postcards of Lake McConaughy at sunset. Dramatic sunlight angles on ruts carved into san
dstone by wagon wheels along the Oregon Trail. The three-story gingerbread house, Scouts Rest Ranch, where Buffalo Bill had lived and rehearsed his famous Wild West Show.

  Each of the postcards had been addressed meticulously in Nathan’s bold handwriting. Each of them had been postmarked with the date, with proper postage affixed.

  These did not have to be deciphered. They could be read just as they were, all in a heap.

  The same postal imprint had been stamped, intractable and unyielding, over the handwritten address on each one. An inked hand with a finger pointed backwards. “Return to Sender. Addressee Unknown.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Feb. 8, 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  I’m writing this because I dont know where you are. Three mornings ago, Mom came in my room and woke me up for school and told me you would be gone today so I shouldn’t be looking for you in the sophomore hall. I asked her where you’d gone and she said she couldn’t say. I thought maybe you would have gone to Crawford’s because you’re late working on your geometry project and you spent the night there but she said no, that your project was something I shouldn’t worry about. Mr. Abrams stopped me in the hall and said if you were sick he would give me your homework and I could bring it to you. Mom gave me the address at county social services and said I could write you here and you would get it.

  I miss you

  Nathan

  Feb. 13, 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  Supper times worse then quiet without you to talk to. The whole time, your chair sits there staring at us, empty, and I keep thinking how you used to sit there leaning back on two legs and Dad would say, “Jacob Gary, if you don’t sit straight in that chair youre going to fall over and break open your head.” Mom wants to take me on a trip to Potter to see her aunts. She said we needed to get out of town. But I said, “How can we get out of town anywhere without Jacob? What if he tries to come home and we aren’t here?” She said she didnt think you would be home anytime soon.

  Your brother

  Nathan

  Feb. 16, 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  Went driving by the social services over in Oshkosh because that’s the address Mom gave me but nobody knew anything and said if I wanted to find you I had to talk to some lady named Mary who wasn’t there. I’m coming back to find you when I can . . .

  From

  Nathan

  22 Feb. 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  Christi Owens came up today at school and asked how you are. She said her dad heard that the police came to our house the night you went away. She said he knew about it because he was driving by that Sunday night late when you left and saw the lights flashing. What happened? They’ve quit trying to send your homework home with me. I have just one question. Dont you want to live with us anymore? WRITE ME!!!

  Your brother

  Nathan

  Feb. 24, 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  Frank Lubing wants to move you up and get you to play on the Legion team with me even though youre still young enough to play Babe Ruth. When he called, Mom gripped the phone tighter than a baseball bat herself and told Frank it didn’t matter about you being drafted because you weren’t here and you weren’t coming back.

  I miss you

  Nathan

  March 1, 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  Im sending this to a new address. I used Mom’s car and drove over to see you yesterday afternoon. I went to the county services office, that was the address Mom gave me. They told me you’d been there but not anymore. They said you didn’t live at this address, either, but I could write and it would get to you. They said for a long time you hadn’t even been in Garden County anymore. I never told you but that day I got so mad because you kept following my friends in the hall, it happened because Sam said you hit the ball better than me at the Wheatland tournament.

  From

  Nathan

  March 13, 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  I want you to understand and know I’m trying as best I can for a seventeen-year-old senior who lives in Nebraska to find you so keep up your spirits if that’s the way youre feeling.

  Your brother

  Nathan

  March 21, 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  I asked Susan Wickstrom to senior prom yesterday. Josh King started saying how Susan wanted to go with me and before I knew it I was asking her just like that.

  Don’t know what I’m suppose to wear to this Mom says a tuxedo for the prom but all dressed up I’ll feel stupid. Then theres the flower problem. Got to find out what color dress she’s wearing then go buy her something to match and pin it on her and that scares me. I know youre younger then me and you don’t have experience with a prom but it always helped so much just having somebody to talk to about these things. If the roses were blooming I’d go to the cemetery and put one of Mom’s roses on that grave you showed me because it didn’t look like you had a chance whereever you are to go over and do it.

  From

  Nathan

  2 April 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  Its youre birthday today, isn’t it? Happy Birthday. If you were willing to come home we could go camping at Lake Mac by ourselves and catch all those fish we were talking about. Another few weeks and it’ll be warm enough . . .

  I miss you

  Nathan

  April 10, 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  Susan said everybody wears tuxedos to prom and I can’t believe it but its Susan Wickstrom’s fault I’ll be wearing a suit.

  From

  Nathan

  April 16, 1996

  Dear Mr. Bartling,

  We have returned several postcards to you via the U.S. Postal Service, including this last one dated April 10 because of unfortunate circumstances. Jacob stayed for a few weeks here in our home, but we have several young children and we decided because of the episodes in your brother’s life that he might be better placed somewhere else. Unfortunately, by the time we started getting your cards, he was already gone. I do not know where he is now but I trust that the child services system has worked well and they have found a place where Jacob can be properly cared for. I’m sorry to not have a forwarding address to send you. Since we are in Lincoln County you might try the social services office there at: 457 So. Main Street, Lincoln NE.

  All best,

  Richard Lovett

  April 19, 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  I got a letter from that Richard Lovett saying how youd lived with them but that you are somewhere else now. Finally got fed up and discusted and tired of getting these letters getting returned in the mail. I drove to social services today and told them I wanted to drive to see you. YOU ARE MY NEW BROTHER AND I DON’T WANT TO LOSE YOU!!! I told them they had to say where you are or else Id have Mom come there and report them. They said that was fine since Mom had already been there and that she’d signed you over to a foster home. Signed you over? What does this mean?

  Nathan

  April 20, 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  I asked Mom last night to tell me what she meant by “signing you over” to a foster home. She said it meant you’d be living with a different family. Somebody who lives somewhere else. I yelled and took the car keys out of her purse and drove around Ash Hollow a long time. Almost got hit because I ran the stop sign on the corner of Avenue O but the other car stopped in time. I asked Mom, “How can you just sign him over?” She said she didn’t know how she could do it.

  I miss you

  Nathan

  April 22, 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  I keep thinking about you in a foster home. Youre fifteen. What do you need a foster home for? I keep thinking whether you wanted to go or whether Mom made you do it because she was tired of you being around. She sure won’t say, every time I ask her. Hope you got clothes and a good bed with covers since its warmed up enough to go fishing but not much warmer than that. I was wondering if y
ou got a room by yourself or if you share it with somebody like it was here. I was wondering if maybe you went to a place that had a rat since you got so sad about the rat dying here.

  Your brother

  Nathan

  April 23, 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  I heard Mr. Abrams whisper to another teacher that they were supposed to take you off the list at school. I walked right up to him in the hall and told him he was wrong. I must’ve done it in a bad tone of voice because he grabbed my shoulders and said, “Youre coming with me, Mr. Bartling.” I had to sit in Dr. Mabry’s office for all of third period, and then they let me go. They told me they were going to call Mom but I said it wouldn’t matter if they did. Dr. Mabry said I better watch myself if I dont want to get into severe trouble. I told him I was going to find you. I told him I was going to bring you home.

  Your brother

  Nathan

  April 24, 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  I get madder than anything when I’m waiting for a letter from you in the mail and all that comes is just the postcards I sent you coming back. I got suspended and now they say I cant start the season on the ball team because of it. Worse than that, I cant run track so there goes the chance to make a new record for the 440 Relay my senior year. Somebody at school (Im not going to write who) came up and said you were a loser like your dad and that’s why you got sent away. I hit him good and he got seven stitches over his eye. That didn’t sit too good with Dr. Mabry.

  Love

  Nathan

  April 25, 1996

  Dear Jacob,

  How could Mom decide she didn’t want you around like that? I wish she was the one that left, instead of you. I’ve heard about it plenty. Moms desert their families and runaway sometimes. Well, it seems to me she’s deserted us, but she’s staying right here. When Mom got mad about me being suspended, I just told her, “Whats wrong with that? Why don’t you sign me away to a foster home, too? Why don’t you give up on me and give me away the same way you gave up Jacob?” And she says “That’s different” and I say, “I don’t think so.” She got so mad at me for saying it, her face turned gray. I said, “you get rid of one son, you might as well get rid of the other son, too.” Then I told her it was probably her who made Dad leave, in the first place. I told her I didn’t think she wanted any of us.