Finding Mary Blaine

by Jodi Thomas

  Mark thought it was cherry flavoring, but after one taste decided it had to be cherry vodka.

  “Like red wine with beef and white with fish, this goes perfect with a sandwich,” she announced.

  Lilly took a long drink. “When you going back to work?”

  “Monday,” he answered in a flat tone. “I need to work. If I take any more time off, my brain will turn to mush. I hired a firm to search for Blaine, but they didn’t seem to think they could do any more than the police.”

  Lilly raised an eyebrow in question.

  “She’s just vanished. It’s like she fell off the earth. The P.I. said most women clear the bank account, or pack. He said if she’d left with another man, she’d have taken everything she could. Blaine just disappeared. It’s like she didn’t go anywhere. She just left me.”

  The park was quiet. A few joggers circled but no one glanced in their direction.

  She studied him closely. “You got lots worrying your mind, but there’s something more than Blaine missing. I’ve had enough husbands to recognize when something’s gnawing at a man, and you look plum nibbled to death.”

  “The police are doing all they can.”

  “I know.” Lilly added, “They called on me earlier this morning.”

  Mark stared out toward the trees. “I’ve got to find her,” he whispered more to himself than her. “I have to know.”

  Lilly nodded.

  Mark dug his fingers through his hair. “If something happened, she got hit in the head and doesn’t know who she is, I’d never stop searching. I’m all she has.”

  He raised his head and let the wind cool his face. “But it’s more than that.” He looked back at Lilly. “If she just left me, I have to know why.”

  Seventeen

  Blaine developed a routine over the next few days. There would come a time when someone at the gym noticed her within the arriving crowds. She had to be prepared to vanish once more.

  So far, her luck had held, but still, Blaine planned for the unexpected. She could feel herself changing, molding into someone stronger. Somehow the fear and panic hardened her.

  She walked out of the gym each morning in time to eat breakfast, then stayed in crowded places until noon. Heeding Miller’s advice, she ate lunch at the food line on Neches Street. The meal was hardy, so she usually managed to save back an apple and half a sandwich.

  She took the food to the cemetery at closing time, leaving it near the headstone where she’d seen the little boy hiding. Blaine wondered if he lived in the homes bordering the cemetery and somehow played a game within the fence. Surely he wasn’t on his own at such a young age.

  One afternoon, she’d been a few minutes later than usual and barely made it through the gate. She turned in time to see the child dart from one stone to the other, pick up the food she left and hurry away.

  Wherever he lived, she would bet that he wasn’t eating regularly.

  The next day, she placed the food a few stones closer to the fence. Again the child grabbed the food as soon as the guard was gone and disappeared among the headstones.

  Blaine understood hunger. Constant hunger stayed with her. Each night the thought crossed her mind to rob the power-bar stand again, but she knew the staff would eventually notice the vanishing inventory. It went against the grain for her to steal anything. Her only other choice was to become more resourceful.

  All her life Blaine had not been able to eat when she was nervous. Maybe it was something about being homeless and not knowing where the next meal would come from, but now she couldn’t get enough food. The place that served lunch also gave away bread, fine-quality, day-old bread from the local bakeries. One afternoon she took a small loaf and, combined with the jelly she’d collected in small packets from breakfast, she had a feast for dinner atop her nest above the lockers.

  She also learned that if she walked the halls of the Omni or Driskill Hotel just after nine, most of the breakfast trays sat outside doors. Carefully, she picked a different hotel, a different hall each morning. Surprised at all the things she could collect. Tea bags, small jars of jelly, untouched fruit, cereal boxes and sometimes muffins and butter wrapped inside cloth napkins. The napkins were a great luxury she allowed herself, then carefully returned them to the hotel when she made another round down their hallways.

  Day by day, she began to feed the child in the cemetery more, each time leaving the food a little closer to the iron fence. Finally, she saw his frightened little face close up and he could not have been older than nine. His eyes were wild, but he nodded once in a thank-you.

  That night, as she ate her bread long after lights-out, she laughed at herself. She and the child were somehow alike, both surviving. Reason told her she should call the authorities and turn him in so he could be put in a home or taken back to his parents or guardians, but deep down she knew he had no parents, and if he’d been in a home, it must have been bad if he preferred the cemetery.

  She also knew he had no one but her. Maybe his parents both worked long hours, Blaine tried to reason. Surely if he’d been at the cemetery long enough someone besides her had seen him. They’d turn him in.

  Blaine smiled. Mark would be proud of her. When this was over, she’d tell him all about feeding the boy. Mark was always fighting for the underdog, making a stand for a better world. That was one reason he wanted to run for office, to clean up some of the unfair practices.

  She might still be a mouse in this world of lions, but mice survive. She was not only surviving, she was helping another.

  She’d risked staying out after dark twice to try to catch Mark leaving his office. Both times all she’d seen was Winslow locking up…and both times the driver in the car that picked him up could have been the man who bombed the clinic. One night, Blaine thought she heard Winslow call him Jimmy again.

  She studied the papers for any sign of the bomber being caught and several times tried to call Mark, but she only got machines. Each day, she became more desperate.

  Eight days after the bombing, Blaine filled her plate at the shelter line and walked toward Miller without speaking to anyone. The Annas didn’t seem to know her since she’d changed her look. The different clothes and short brown hair helped, but the glasses Blaine wore changed the look of her face. Vanilla Anna called her Mary once, but Blaine knew the old woman called everyone Mary. Several even called Vanilla Anna momma because she mothered them in her crazy way. When it rained she’d stand at the door of the shelter and warn everyone to stay dry or they’d catch their death of cold.

  The cook, Chipper, had stared at Blaine a few times, but never said a word. When Chipper wasn’t too far into the bottle, she watched people, always seeming to look for the evil that might be inside them. From the frown she usually wore, she’d found what she was searching for in most folks.

  Chipper looked ill as Blaine passed her near the end of the serving line. But Blaine didn’t want to ask questions for fear Chipper would remember her. The cook’s eyes were bloodshot and she had given up on personal hygiene. It seemed it was all she could do to keep the food line stocked.

  When Blaine set her tray across from Miller he looked up at her, worry wrinkling his forehead.

  “You’ve found out something?”

  Miller ate another bite before answering. “Not about the man in the cap. He must have fell off the earth. I’ve had Shakespeare watching for him. If he’s still around, Shakespeare will see him. Problem is, I’ve got to get to the professor while he’s still sober enough to keep the facts straight.”

  “If we have no clues, what’s worrying you?” Blaine had the feeling Miller was wasting time, talking more than usual to avoid questions.

  He hesitated for so long Blaine decided he wasn’t going to answer.

  “What?” She feared the worst.

  Miller shook his head. “There’s a cop asking questions about someone who disappeared after the bombing of that clinic last week, that’s all. Persistent bastard.”

  “Is h
e looking for me?”

  Miller corrected. “He keeps asking if anyone has seen a blond, thin woman with scratches on her face. The description is too close not to be you. You need to get away.”

  Blaine shoved her glasses up on her nose.

  “I can’t leave town.”

  She had never wanted to be standing next to Mark so much in her life. He’d always been the constant in her world. She needed him to hold her and tell her everything was going to be all right. Every time she awoke in the darkness above the lockers, she tried to imagine Mark holding her while she slept even though in truth he rarely did. She needed to be near him now.

  But if she went to Mark, she would put his life in danger, she reminded herself for the hundredth time. As long as she was missing, there was a chance Winslow would still think she was dead.

  “If the cops are looking and you run, you’ll be out in the open. My guess is they’re watching the bus station and the interstates.”

  “I don’t know how much longer I can stay where I am at night.”

  “The gym?”

  She wasn’t surprised he knew.

  “I watched you go in a few times just to make sure you’re not being followed. Thought I saw a shadow trailing you, but it turned out to be just a kid playing in the alley.”

  Blaine wanted to cry. She’d been crazy to start this. Now if she went back to Mark, he’d probably have her committed. She’d thought she was protecting him as well as herself, but everything was a mess. She based all her fears on a conversation she’d heard the morning after the bombing when she’d been half out of her mind with pain.

  But, she reminded herself, there were other clues. Somehow Winslow had cut her off from Mark. Maybe he’d sent the thin man out on the streets to find her. Maybe he was afraid to do anything until he knew she was really dead.

  “Thanks for helping me,” she said to Miller. The man never asked why. He helped her even knowing the police were looking for her.

  Miller finished his breakfast and stood as if he hadn’t heard her. He’d helped her once, but she wasn’t sure he would again. He treated her as if she were as welcome at his table as fire ants.

  Watching the crowd, Blaine tried not to catch anyone’s eye. The Annas were sitting side by side, not talking, as always. Everyone else in the room seemed more occupied with the meal than with the people around them. Even the preacher had forgone his usual greeting and wandered off, showing a small group of women around.

  She had to give the scarecrow credit. He managed to talk enough groups out of money to keep this place going. If he stopped, people would starve or resort to stealing. She might not like him, or his cold manner, but Blaine surprised herself by realizing she respected the man.

  The young thugs had finished eating and, in the preacher’s absence, were trying to carve something on one of the tables. The coarseness of their words blended easily with the scraping sound as they worked on the table.

  Blaine leaned back in her chair and noticed Chipper slumped over the small table in the kitchen, her TV blaring the news. Chipper hadn’t bothered clearing away the remains on the line today and Blaine wondered how long she would have this nothing job if she didn’t stay on her feet.

  The bottle was winning with Chipper, leaving the wreckage of a lonely woman behind. She was too young to be a bag lady, too old to work the streets as a prostitute. This place seemed her last stand.

  Blaine had watched the hookers work one morning from the parking lot of a liquor store that faced Interstate 35. From what she could tell, the older ones took the scraps of the business, accepting offers none of the other girls wanted. The younger women stepped out when a newer car drove up. The older ones leaned against the old broken-down pickups that pulled in beside the store. They seemed willing to get in if the driver bought a six-pack.

  Blaine knew she should take her tray to the trash and leave, but she couldn’t ignore Chipper. It might have been in a small way, but Chipper had been kind the morning after the bombing. Blaine owed her.

  Waiting for all the others to leave the dining room, Blaine kept her head down. Vanilla Anna was the last, collecting plastic forks on her way out.

  Slipping into the kitchen, Blaine touched Chipper’s shoulder. “Hello,” she whispered. “Want some help with the cleanup?”

  Chipper glanced around the room with bloodshot eyes as though she couldn’t pinpoint where the question came from. “I could offer you a shower but it ain’t worth the time.” Her words were slurred.

  “Don’t worry about it. You rest, I’ll clean up.”

  An hour later, Chipper slept with her head on the table while the small TV over the refrigerator blared. Blaine finished up, mopping the floor as she listened to the news. The floor didn’t look as if it had been touched by broom or mop in days. It felt good to work, even at this mindless labor.

  After one final wipe of the tables, Blaine set the last cup of coffee in front of Chipper and tapped her on the shoulder. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” In a small way she felt like a genie granting someone’s wish.

  Chipper rubbed her eyes like a waking child. She twisted around to look at Blaine.

  Blaine kept her head down.

  “You kind of look like the woman I told the cops about, but her hair was blond and her clothes ragged.”

  “You told the police about a woman?”

  For a moment, Chipper looked as if she didn’t want to talk, but the need to complain won over caution.

  “Yeah. Lieutenant Randell said he ain’t goin’ to give me no more to drink if I don’t see her again. You sure you don’t know her? Tall and skinnier than you. Her face was all cut up. Her blond hair touches her shoulders. I gotta find her or things are goin’ ta go bad for me.”

  Blaine touched her waist. All the pancakes and sandwiches seemed to have gone to her middle. She knew she had gained a few pounds, and thanks to the swims, all the scratches on her face were now faint blotches of pink.

  “I think I may have seen that woman.” Blaine chose her words carefully, trying to imitate the voices of those on the street. “She said she was taking the first bus out of town. Heading for Abilene, I think.”

  “Figures,” Chipper snorted. “She’s got so many people looking for her. I could make a little by spotting her.”

  “Who else is lookin’ for her?” Blaine’s body suddenly felt cold.

  “You ain’t planning on beating my time and passing on your bit about the bus alone, are you?”

  Blaine shook her head. When Chipper didn’t appear convinced, she added, “I got my reasons for staying away from cops even though they ain’t been looking for me since I was fourteen and ran away from home.” She smiled, loving the lie as she made it up. “My stepdad was a cop, used to beat me ever’ payday for the hell of it.”

  Chipper nodded as if she understood the place Blaine came from. Same neighborhood as hers.

  “I just like to know who is out there asking questions so I can avoid them.” Blaine shrugged. “I gave up on keeping answers a long time ago.” She leaned toward Chipper. “So, if you’ll tell me who to avoid, I’d appreciate it.”

  Nodding, Chipper took the invisible hand of friendship. “Just the cop named Randell. Don’t even know if he has any other name. Not that it matters. Maybe they issue them, one gun, one name. He’s worked the downtown area for a few years, thinks he knows everyone on the streets.”

  She laughed at her own joke. “Oh, yeah, and some tall man came by a few days later asking the same questions. He didn’t offer me a drink, so I didn’t tell him nothing. My skill ain’t for free, you know. I remember what I see and that is worth something around this place.”

  “What did the other man look like? The one who offered nothing.” Blaine forced herself to sit down and act as if she was just passing time. “If you remember? Was he wearing a hat?”

  “Of course I remember. Him, no, not any hat.” Chipper closed her eyes. “He was nice-looking. Early thirties. Tall. Hair black, or
maybe a real dark brown. Kind of the color of my coffee.” Chipper took a long drink. “He had a beard, cut short. I remember thinking he could have be one of those models. There weren’t a scar or tattoo on him that I could see.”

  Chipper smiled. She’d proven her gift.

  Except for the beard, Chipper had described Mark. But Mark would never grow a beard. He would never come to a place like this. “You are good.” Blaine guessed that a man without scars or tattoos would be the exception to the rule.

  The cook straightened in her chair. “You bet I am. If you don’t mind, I’ll pass along your information about the girl taking a bus to the cops. I work for them part-time, you know. Undercover. They tell me things they don’t tell anyone else. They let me know when to be curious.”

  Blaine took a chance. “I heard something the other day that they might find interesting.” She was about to take a big step, trust a person who didn’t look as if she would be worth trusting. But Blaine had to do something. Her best chance at getting off the streets was to get the bomber arrested.

  “What?” Chipper leaned forward, seeing her chance for one more bottle.

  “The man who blew up that clinic,” Blaine began, silently praying she was doing the right thing. “I heard someone say he had on a blue cap and had greasy fingers. The kind a man gets from working on an engine.”

  Chipper licked her lips, already tasting the whiskey. “Anything else?”

  “I think I heard he had gray eyes. Cold gray eyes. The color of headstones.”

  Chipper leaned back and rubbed her face as though trying to wake all the parts up. “Was this someone sure? I’ve seen lots of true-detective profiles, no one ever remembers the eye color. Maybe this someone is just making up this man. Or maybe she’s describing her boyfriend or pimp, hoping to get him into trouble. I’ve seen cases where someone does that. The police always figure it out, but the boyfriend is still locked up for a while.”

  Blaine had the uneasy feeling she’d already said too much. She had to tell Chipper enough to make Randell believe the information, but if she said too much the cop might start asking too many questions about where Chipper picked up the story.