That same afternoon she called Kimberly’s office and asked if tomorrow Lara could stay at school and participate in the afternoon activities program. “There’s something I need to take care of, and I probably won’t be back until about five.”
“No problem,” Kimberly replied, “and if you’re longer, don’t worry. She can come home with me.”
The next morning Angela dropped Lara off at the school, then, armed with Murphy’s onetime address, headed for Wynne Bluffs. Three hours later she pulled up in front of the townhouse apartment complex—twelve duplex buildings all painted the same slate gray. She got out of the car and started toward the building, where there was a sign indicating no vacancies. She rang the doorbell, waited, then rang the bell again.
After several minutes the door swung open and a squat woman who appeared to have been napping glared at her. “What?”
“I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you,” Angela said apologetically. “I’d like to inquire—”
With an obvious look of annoyance, the woman pointed to the sign in her front yard. “See that? No vacancies means no vacancies!”
“Oh, I’m not looking for an apartment. My sister used to live here, and I’m just trying to find out . . .” Noticing the look of irritation stuck to the woman’s face, she quickly offered, “I’d be happy to pay for your time, if you wouldn’t mind answering a couple of questions.”
The pinched-up face softened. “I suppose I could spare a few minutes.” She pushed the door back and gestured for Angela to come in. “Lou Palmeyer,” she said. “Me and Elroy manage the apartments.”
“Angela McAlister.” She followed the woman into the living room and sat across from her. “My sister was Vicki Robart; I believe she lived here with her boyfriend, Russ Murphy . . .”
“Can’t say as I remember the name. How long ago was it?”
“Let’s see, Lara is nine now, so it would have been about eight years ago.”
Lou Palmeyer’s face brightened. “Yeah, yeah, I remember now. That baby was a pretty little thing, blonde curls, cute smile . . . We don’t get many babies in here.”
“Well, I’m Vicki’s sister, and—”
“Oh, so you’re the one with the baby? If I’m remembering right, you weren’t doing so good then; how you feeling now?”
“Um, I’m fine, but did you know Vicki passed away?”
“Lord God, no!” Mrs. Palmeyer gave a gasp and collapsed back into the cushions of the sofa. “What’s this world coming to? A young woman like her dying . . . She wasn’t sick a day when they was living here.”
“I know. It happened suddenly, before she had a chance to tell us anything about Russ Murphy. That’s why—”
Cutting in, Lou Palmeyer asked, “What caused it?”
“Heart attack. Now, about Russ Murphy—”
“Heart attack, huh? You’d never expect it from somebody so young.”
“Normally you wouldn’t, but Vicki had a weak heart.” Angela was anxious to move on. “So do you have any idea where Russ Murphy went when he left here?”
Lou Palmeyer shook her head. “People in short-term rentals like this, they come and go. They seldom say where they’ve been or where they’re headed. To the best of my recollection he only stayed a few months after your sister left.”
“Did they have any friends nearby? Women Vicki might have spent time with or guys he knew from work?”
Again she shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of. Your sister was only here a week or so, and her boyfriend was around for four, maybe five months.”
Angela asked several more questions, and before long it became obvious that this woman knew very little about Vicki or Russ Murphy. With a feeling of disappointment pushing against her chest, Angela stood, thanked Lou for her time, then handed her a twenty and left.
She was halfway down the walkway when the door popped open again and Lou hollered, “Wait up—I’ve got something for you.”
Angela turned and hurried back.
A few minutes later, a balding man came out carrying a cardboard box.
By way of introduction, Lou said, “This here’s Elroy,” then she moved on to saying Murphy had left the box for Vicki, should she come back. “It’s been in my basement all this time, and I plumb forgot it till two seconds ago.”
On the drive home, Angela couldn’t stop thinking about the box in the trunk of her car. She was certain it held the answers she’d been searching for. Inside she’d probably find Lara’s birth certificate, her baby bracelet, some pictures, possibly even one of the mysterious Russ Murphy, and who knew what else.
She waited until after Lara was in bed before telling Kenny about what she’d done that day. “The box is still in the trunk of my car,” she said excitedly. “I wanted to wait so we could open it together.”
Kenny carried the box in, wiped the dust off, then set it on the kitchen table. The top wasn’t taped, just folded over with one flap tucked under the other. He pulled it open, and Angela reached in. On top was a red halter with some kind of stain on the front, and below that three sundresses. One by one Angela removed the layers of clothing, anxiously looking for something of greater significance—a birth certificate, a hospital photo, or something that would point to where Lara was born. Beneath the clothes she found a hairbrush, a ponytail clip, and a wristband from the Hesterville Music Festival in August 1971.
That was it. No pictures. No birth certificate. Nothing to bear witness to the early months of Lara’s infancy, not even a tiny bonnet or receiving blanket.
Angela lifted her eyes and looked up at Kenny. “I don’t understand it. Where’re Lara’s baby clothes and her birth certificate?”
He wrinkled his nose and eyed the contents of the box with a look of chagrin. “I hate to say this, Angela, but it appears your sister and Murphy were not very good parents. Maybe they ran into hard times, then after Vicki split he took off and left her stuff behind. Since there’s nothing here for Lara, I’m thinking she might have been a surprise baby. One they’d not anticipated and didn’t really want. It seems obvious they weren’t prepared.”
Gathering the pile of clothes on the table, Kenny stuffed them back into the box.
“But you saw how Vicki was with Lara. You could see how much she loved her.”
“I guess there’re a lot of things we don’t know about your sister. I think we’d be better off leaving the past in the past. Vicki’s gone, and I doubt that any good can come from us pursuing this Murphy character.” Kenny picked up the box of clothes, carried it out to the curb, and left it for the garbageman.
Although Angela thought him wrong about Vicki loving Lara, they never again spoke of the box she’d brought back from Wynne Bluffs.
In the years that followed, the McAlister house was seldom without the sound of girlish laughter. Lara had more friends than Angela could count, and it was with good reason: she had a gentle manner and an easy-to-like personality. The pocketful of resentment Vicki had carried around with her was missing in Lara. There were times when Angela questioned that mother and daughter could be so different, but in the end she always attributed it to growing up in a more loving household.
MURPHY’S MUSIC
Murphy thought when he left Wynne Bluffs Vicki would be a thing of the past, but it turned out he was wrong. Small, seemingly innocent things were unwanted reminders—a woman with a child held to her shoulder, the carefree laughter of a girl in cutoff shorts, a song he could picture her singing. Things that would have once gone unnoticed now triggered painful memories.
He’d come to Nashville thinking it was a fresh start, but he’d brought his troubles along and realized this place was no better than Wynne Bluffs or Bardstown.
Having no real friends and even less ambition, he bounced around for almost three years, off and on clerking in a music store, bartending, working the register in a diner, tiring of one place, then moving on to another.
He was tending bar in the Long Neck Giraffe when a man with a gray beard
and pulled-back ponytail came in and plopped down on a stool.
“I’m celebrating,” he said. “Give me a double of the best bourbon you’ve got.”
“Blanton’s okay?” Murph asked.
He nodded. “Bring two glasses, and join me.”
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Murphy set the two glasses on the bar, dropped in a few ice cubes, and poured generously. “Whatcha celebrating?”
“Freedom. After today I never have to see Claudia’s lying face again.”
“Claudia’s your wife?”
“Ex-wife,” he corrected. “I should’ve never married her in the first place. You married?”
Murphy shook his head. “I was planning on it, but she up and left. No word of where she was going or if she was coming back.”
“She might’ve done you a favor. If a woman ain’t right for you, it’s better to know it up front. Backtracking a road that you should never have traveled can be mighty painful.”
“You sound like the voice of experience.”
“I am. Claudia was my third mistake.” He edged forward and stuck out his hand. “Buddy Copeland, three-time loser.”
Murphy laughed and shook Buddy’s hand. “Russell Murphy. Call me Murph.”
Buddy Copeland remained at the bar for most of the evening; after four bourbons he switched to beer, and they continued talking. Once they’d exhausted the topic of ex-wives and runaway girlfriends, they moved on to talking about music. Buddy claimed he’d worked on Music Row since the early days. “I was with the Bradleys before they started recording in the Quonset Hut.”
“Where are you at now?” Murph asked.
“Grand Ole Opry. They tapped me for the sound studio while they were still over at Ryman. When they finished building the new place, I came with them.”
“Oh man, that’s the job to have. That’s like not even working.”
“You want a tour? Come by tomorrow; I’ll show you around, introduce you to some of the guys.”
Murphy went, and two weeks later he was working as an assistant sound technician for the afternoon shows. Apparently his earlier experience as an electrician, along with Buddy Copeland’s recommendation, was qualification enough for him to get the position.
For the first time since he returned from Vietnam, Murphy was doing something that made him deep-down happy. It wasn’t the same kind of happiness he’d known with Vicki; this was more soul-satisfying and peaceful. He felt good about himself, about the job he was doing and the future he could now see. After a while he discovered that he no longer missed Vicki; he no longer saw the blue of her eyes in the sky or caught the fragrance of her skin in a passing breeze. She had over time become like the missing arm, a ghost pain that flickered across his mind and disappeared almost as quickly as it had come.
Two years after he started working at the Opry, he met Loretta. She had a soft smile and flyaway curls that were often dangling on her forehead or kissing her cheek. The first time he saw her she’d come to the sound booth to ask for an approval of the parts invoice they’d received in accounting, but after that day Murphy found a dozen different reasons to visit or stroll by the accounting office. After two weeks of conjuring up excuses for stopping by her office, he quit trying and asked if she might like to have dinner with him.
“It doesn’t have to be t-tonight,” he stammered. “I mean, it could be tonight, or it could be tomorrow, sometime next week, or . . .”
She looked up with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes and smiled. “I was wondering when you were going to ask.”
That date led to several more, and two years later they were married.
Murphy had all but forgotten about Vicki until one night a few months after their first child came along. Loretta was down with the flu, so he warmed a bottle for the late-night feeding. After he’d fed and diapered the baby, he was standing alongside the crib watching her tiny eyelids flicker shut when the thought came to mind. It was like a quick stab to his heart.
He’d always seen the wrong of what Vicki had done, but he had never fully comprehended the heartache it would cause. Now, as he stood there looking down at his infant daughter, he understood.
He thought of the baby, the one she’d called Lara. The child would be about eight years old now; was it possible Vicki still had her? He sat there for several minutes remembering the first newspaper article he’d read and picturing the agonized look on the mother’s face as she pleaded for the return of her child. He was trying to recall the name of the family when he remembered the reward ad he’d torn from the local newspaper and folded into a small square. That ad had telephone numbers where you could call in with an anonymous tip. He’d stuck it beneath the hidden flap of his wallet—not the wallet he carried now but the old one, the one he’d gotten rid of years ago.
He dropped down in the rocking chair across from the crib and sat there wondering if he’d actually put that wallet in the trash bin or tossed it into the catchall drawer of the nightstand. He couldn’t say positively one way or the other, and even if he did have the wallet, what could he do? It wasn’t as if he knew where Vicki was; he couldn’t find her back then, so it was less likely he’d be able to find her now. And even if he did, then what?
He remembered how he’d come home that night and found her gone. No word of where she was headed, just a note saying she was sorry. What exactly was she sorry for, he wondered. Because she’d stolen another woman’s baby? Because she’d walked out with not a word of goodbye? He could feel the old anger rising up in his chest.
It was not right for Vicki to get away with what she did. Not only did she kidnap that family’s baby, but she’d used him as an accessory. He’d never wanted any part of what she’d done, but she pulled him in. Made him believe that as soon as he got a job she was going to give the baby back. She knew all along that she never intended to, but he was too blind to see. He hadn’t done anything about it back then, but maybe it wasn’t too late to do something now.
He couldn’t find Vicki, but maybe the police could. He considered writing an anonymous letter but questioned how much good it would do. Vicki was no dummy; the likelihood was she’d changed her name or moved to a place where they’d never find her. If they didn’t find her, they might trace the letter back to him, and then he’d be the one charged with the kidnapping. If it were only himself he had to think about, he’d chance it, but now he had Loretta and the baby. Was he willing to risk bringing that kind of heartache down on them?
When the first trace of a rose-colored dawn became visible on the horizon, Murphy was still sitting in the rocker. By then he’d decided to start looking for that damn wallet. The probability was he’d thrown it away, but if perchance he found it, then he’d figure out what to do.
CHANGING TIMES
Hesterville, 1980
The children’s first day of school was a day Rachel had been dreading for years. It meant the twins would be on their own, without Mama Dixon’s watchful eye or Bruno. Before her feet hit the floor that morning, a strange fluttering settled in her chest, but she was determined not to let it show. Hope was already apprehensive about school, and seeing her mama overly concerned would only make it worse.
Rachel had breakfast ready when the twins came down. Henry bolted into the kitchen with a grin on his face; he had been talking about school for a week and was anxious to get going. Hope followed along, her footsteps slow and her chin dropped down on her chest.
“Why can’t Henry go and me stay here with Grandma?” she asked.
Rachel pulled her into a quick hug. “School is fun. Suzie will be there. You like playing with Suzie, don’t you?”
Without looking up, Hope shook her head. “Un-uh. I like staying with Grandma.”
“Well, Grandma’s busy. She’s got things to do, and you have to go to school.”
“Why?”
Rachel placed a bowl of sugar-sprinkled oatmeal in front of each of the twins, then sat next to Hope. “Because the law says little girls
have to go to school. But I’ll make a deal with you. If you go every day this week and still don’t like it, I’ll reconsider letting you stay home with Grandma.”
“Really?”
Rachel gave Hope an affectionate hug and nodded. “Really.”
On their walk to school, Henry ran ahead, and Hope plodded along with Bruno at her side. The Hesterville Elementary School was a two-story redbrick building. Ms. Abernathy’s kindergarten class was in room 1D, first floor center, according to the registrar. The courtyard hummed with activity, the older girls chattering with last year’s classmates, boys playfully shoving one another, everyone hurrying toward the building.
As Rachel hooked the dog’s leash to the bicycle rack, Hope looked up with tears in her eyes.
“Please, Mama,” she begged, “don’t leave me.”
Rachel thought her heart would break as she squatted and looked into the tearful brown eyes. She brushed back a wisp of hair that had fallen forward and traced her finger along the trail of a teardrop.
“School’s fun; there’s nothing to be afraid of. Look how happy your brother and all these other kids are.”
Hope kept her head ducked down and said nothing, but the tears continued.
Rachel slid her hand beneath the quivering chin and lifted Hope’s face to hers. “Would it help if I come in with you and stay for a few minutes?”
Hope hesitated a moment, then asked if the dog could come. “Bruno’s supposed to watch over me.” She sniffled.
“Sweetheart, dogs aren’t allowed in school.”
The tears started up again. “But nobody will watch over me.”
For a second Rachel’s heart stopped beating; it was the same thought she’d lived with for the past week. She hesitated, knowing this was a moment of choice—she could pass along the fear she carried in her heart or give Hope the confidence she needed. She chose the latter. “That’s not true, sweetheart.” Folding Hope into her arms, she wiped away the tears. “I’ll always be watching over you.”
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