As Good As Gone (9781616206000) (21 page)

When Ann finally reaches the road, her relief is so great she stops for a moment to catch her breath. But with her first hard sigh, she suddenly feels lightheaded, and she bends over, just as her father taught her when Ann felt faint during the rehearsals for her seventh grade Christmas program. Lowering her head, however, is not enough. Her vision dims as if the darkness at the bottom of the ravine has followed her up the hill and is now wrapping itself around her. She sits down on the shoulder of the road, the gravel rough but warm under her.

In another moment, she sees the headlights of a car in the distance, and though she knows she should get back on her feet and flee back down the ravine—or at least to go far enough so she isn't visible from the road—she can't make herself stand up. She hears the steady roar of the car's engine grow louder and then feels its vibration through the heel of her bare foot where it touches the asphalt, but she stays put. The rumble of the car's muffler—that could be the sound of Monte's Ford—but still Ann stays where she is. The driver obviously sees her, slows, then stops right in the road alongside Ann. The passenger door opens, but Ann does not alter her position, seated cross-­legged in the dirt and cradling her bent arm like one of the dolls she stopped playing with half a decade ago.

TWENTY-­FIVE

Beverly is in bed reading, only two chapters left in her Erle Stanley Gardner mystery, when the doorbell rings again and again. Her first thought is of Adam—he's gone out for the evening and forgotten his keys. Which only shows how absorbed she is in the novel. Adam is home. Of course. She doesn't even have to listen very carefully before she hears the sporadic clacking of his typewriter in the basement, a sound that even after all these weeks that her son has been home still reminds her of the furnace and its ductwork clicking and ticking with heat.

She puts her book down, grabs her robe, and runs toward the front door.

She flips on the porch light, and when it illuminates Calvin Sidey's form, she sighs with relief, believing that the same need she struggled with earlier has finally gotten the better of him too.

But he does not pull open the screen door and try to get under her nightgown's thin cotton. Instead, he speaks, and with the same urgency with which he has been leaning on her doorbell.

“My granddaughter's in the hospital, and I've got to get over there right away. Can you come over so if Will wakes up it won't be to an empty house?”

“Ann? Ann's in the hospital? My God, Cal, what happened?” She steps back and Calvin follows her into the house.

“I'm not sure. I've got this second or third hand. Apparently she fell somewhere. She was being chased . . . ? I don't know.”

“How bad?”

He rubs his jaw with the backs of his fingers the way men do to check if they need to shave. Beverly recognizes the gesture for what it truly is—the action of a man trying to hold down his panic.

“They told me her life's not in danger, but she's banged up.”

She hears the urgency in his voice. “I'll throw on some clothes and be right with you.”

Back in the bedroom she tosses her robe on the bed, pulls her nightgown over her head and lets it fall to the floor, and from the closet grabs the sundress she took off only an hour or so earlier. She's buttoning herself up and hurrying back to the living room when Calvin's words catch up to her. Chasing her—someone was
chasing
Ann?

Calvin is standing at the door, staring out at the night and eager to be on his way. Beverly puts a restraining hand on his shoulder and leans tenderly against him.

“I should go with you,” she says. “If someone's after Ann, that's something she might feel more comfortable talking to a woman about.”

“Will—”

She cuts off his concern. “Adam's here. I'll ask him to stay with your grandson.”

“Fine. Maybe we can take your car then. My truck's low on gas.”

“I'll get Adam.”

She hasn't been able to shake free of the image of Calvin striding across the street toward Brenda Cady's house with a tire iron in his hand. If he armed himself for a confrontation with a man who only made a threat, what is Calvin likely to do to someone who has actually brought harm to a member of his family? And what if the years-­old gossip is true—that Calvin once caved in a man's skull for a rumored insult to his wife? No, Beverly better stay close to Calvin. If for no other reason than to try to prevent him from doing something that will land him in Deer Lodge State Prison for the rest of his days.

BILL AND MARJORIE HONEYMOONED
down at the Chico Hot Springs Resort, and when they returned to Gladstone, Bill did not carry her across the threshold of his—
their
—house on Fourth Street. He held the door open for her, bowed low, and said, “Enter, Mrs. Sidey.” It was, of course, not the first time she had been in the house; Bill had lived there all his life, except for his years in the service, and during the time they dated, Bill and Marjorie were more likely to spend an evening at his home rather than at her tiny apartment above Woolworth's. But she had never been inside as “Mrs. Sidey,” and that slight difference was enough to discomfort her and to trouble her sleep for nights to come.

She was, first of all, not entirely certain how she felt about being a Sidey. In Gladstone it had always been a name to be reckoned with, tied up as it was with the town's history, its prosperity and property. But not long after Bill's mother's death—the previous Mrs. Sidey—the family's reputation changed. When grief and drink and a possible murder drove Calvin Sidey out of his mind and out of his home, suddenly the Sidey name was one people whispered about and muttered over, a name associated with tragedy, scandal, and strangeness. Marjorie knew Gladstone had been talking behind her back ever since she began keeping company with Tully Heckaman, but she could live with that. To be a Sidey, however, was another matter.

Marjorie also worried that she wouldn't be able to adjust to her new name, that something in her would so resist being a Sidey that she would fail to acknowledge any “Mrs. Sidey” directed at her. And she certainly didn't want Bill to believe she was ashamed of taking his name. So she practiced. She wrote the name over and over, filling sheets of paper with “Mrs. Bill Sidey,” and “Marjorie Sidey.” All the while she did this, she could not shake the worry that somewhere was a notebook that might turn up also filled with her handwriting, but with the name Heckaman rather than Sidey. She had whiled away many classroom hours practicing
that
name as well.

Yet in spite of the rehearsals, the Sidey name seldom seemed a part of who she was. And there were times when she didn't
want
to answer to the name, when, for example, men with whom she'd had some history called her “Mrs. Sidey,” and they used a tone—how did they manage it, those men who were usually so inexpressive and inarticulate?—that had a leer tucked inside it. Perhaps worst of all were the nightmares: She would be someplace where she was in danger, but the danger was invisible to her. She might be in a building, for example, that was on fire, but she was in a room where the flames had not yet reached. People outside tried to warn her by calling her name,
Mrs. Sidey, Mrs. Sidey, Mrs. Sidey
, but inside her dream Marjorie could not comprehend that they were calling her.

Or as in this dream. She is in a hospital, and a name is being called,
Mrs. Sidey! Mrs. Sidey!
Gradually, it dawns on her that the hospital authorities are looking for someone to come forward because there's a baby in the nursery whom no parent has claimed.
Mrs. Sidey!
Can that possibly be Marjorie? She's a mother, she knows that, even if she's uncertain about any of her other roles. No, she can't take a chance, not if a child is in distress. She struggles toward waking, a destination that suddenly recedes exactly at the instant that Marjorie decides to make for it.
Mrs. Sidey! Mrs. Sidey!

But make it she does, and she opens her eyes to a lantern-­jawed elderly nun who smiles down at Marjorie as if she's the child who has been missing a mother.

BEVERLY CLOSES HER EYES,
leans back in her chair, and rests her head on the waiting room's cinder-­block wall. She hasn't seen Ann yet, and the only injury for certain is a broken arm. She hopes it's not a compound fracture. Beverly shudders at the thought not only because of the pain it would cause Ann but also because of the grotesque image of bone tearing through skin, through that lovely skin. Beverly opens her eyes to banish that picture.

Adam, bless him, for once did not disappoint her. When she went down to the basement to tell him what happened to Ann and to ask him if he would go over to the Sidey home, Adam immediately picked up his typewriter and a stack of paper and hurried up the stairs.

Beverly's fond thoughts of her son are interrupted by the sound of a woman clearing her throat. When Beverly looks up, she sees Mrs. Teed cautiously approaching. It was Mrs. Teed who brought Ann to the hospital.

“I'm sorry,” Mrs. Teed says, “I didn't mean to startle you.”

“No, no, not at all. But I thought you went home.”

“I couldn't. Not until I know I how she's doing.”

Beverly shrugs helplessly, and at that Mrs. Teed sits down in the green chair next to Beverly. The vinyl squeaks and the cushion sighs under Mrs. Teed's weight. She's a stout woman, but attractive nonetheless. She has a quick, bright smile, high cheekbones, and long-­lashed dark eyes that any woman would envy. Like Beverly, Mrs. Teed is a widow, and to much of Gladstone that means the women should automatically be as close as sisters, but Beverly can't remember an occasion when they've done anything more than exchange a word or two about the weather. Beverly is also aware that Gloria Teed has a reputation as a gossip, and this knowledge makes Beverly wary.

“To tell you the truth,” Mrs. Teed says, “I wondered if I made a mistake, just bringing her to the hospital.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I wondered if I should have called the police or the sheriff. I mean, if someone was after her, my God, I can't believe that could happen here. Not in Gladstone.”

“If he thinks the authorities should be notified, I'm sure Mr. Sidey will take care of that.”

“So that's her grandfather? Calvin Sidey is her grandfather?”

Beverly nods.

Mrs. Teed makes a low hissing sound as she draws air past her teeth. “I heard he was dead.”

“No, alive and well.”

“I used to hear Jim and my folks talk about him. But I guess I never put it all together—Bill and Marjorie, their kids. So that's Calvin Sidey . . . my goodness!”

Even without knowing what Mrs. Teed has heard about Calvin, Beverly feels she has to defend him. “He's been doing ranch work for years, but he came back to Gladstone to watch the kids while their parents are out of town.” Beverly cringes inwardly. Since they're in a hospital where one of the children lies injured, this isn't much of a defense, so she quickly tries to undo the damage with a lie. “He's devoted to those grandkids.”

She can't tell whether Mrs. Teed's head nod signifies skepticism or acceptance.

“So,” Mrs. Teed says tentatively, “you came here with him?”

“I live right next door to the Sideys,” Beverly adds quickly. “I've known those kids since they were toddlers.”

Mrs. Teed nods as if, though she accepts everything Beverly says, she's still curious about something. Finally, after a long moment during which both women stare at the speckled floor tiles, Mrs. Teed leans close to Beverly and whispers, “What I remember hearing is that after his wife died he went to France and killed the driver who ran over his wife. And then he had to go into hiding so he couldn't be found and extradited.”

“Oh, no, no! Nothing like that ever happened. As I said, he's been working on a ranch for years. He's just one of those men who's not well suited for town living.”

Although Beverly doesn't think her correction of Mrs. Teed has been forceful enough to give offense, the woman stands abruptly. “I'd better get going,” Mrs. Teed says. “I'd sure appreciate if you give me a call and let me know how she's doing.” She smiles politely down at Beverly. “Tomorrow's early enough.”

Of course it's possible, Beverly thinks, that Mrs. Teed enjoyed believing that story about Calvin Sidey and didn't much care whether it was true or false. And then Beverly Lodge has to come along and puncture one of Mrs. Teed's cherished beliefs. Oh, well. Beverly can't be responsible for preserving every cockamamie myth that people want to subscribe to.

A nurse appears at the nurse's station. Beverly rises and approaches the desk.

“Ann Sidey?” Beverly says. “Can you tell me anything about her condition?”

“In regards to Miss Sidey—you're related to her how?”

“I'm not a relative,” Beverly confesses. “I'm Ann's next-­door neighbor.”

The nurse, a young woman with lacquered straw-­blond hair, subjects Beverly to a long, impassive stare, a look that probably causes most people to mutter an apology and step back. Then the nurse quite deliberately looks down at the forms on the desk. “Dr. McKee will be out shortly.”

Beverly knows Leo McKee. He's the doctor who delivered the news to Beverly that Burt was dead. She can't remember a word the doctor said on that occasion, but she can still recall that he had a mustard stain at the corner of his mouth, a faint smear of yellow for which Beverly was grateful. It provided her with a way to gain a little distance from shock and grief—what had the doctor been eating—potato salad? a frankfurter?—but perhaps that thinking was wrong. Perhaps only someone who has already taken a step back from grief can notice such a detail.

“I'm just trying,” Beverly says with a smile, “to get some word on how she's doing.”

The nurse doesn't look up. “Doctor prefers to speak to family members. Only family members.”

Beverly is about to deliver one of her standard stern lectures on the importance of good manners and respect when Calvin comes around the corner. He could not have looked more drained if he had just donated half of his blood.

Beverly rushes to his side. “How is she?”

“Not bad. They're taking her up to an operating room to set her arm. The doctor wanted to check her over for other injuries before sending her on.” He takes a deep breath, then exhales. “Let's step outside,” Calvin says. “I want to breathe something other than hospital air.”

To the nurse Calvin says, “You'll come for me if I'm needed?”

“Of course,” she replies.

Calvin and Beverly stand under the portico where the ambulance usually parks to unload.

“So it was just her arm?” she asks Calvin.

“She's got a helluva bump on her head and some scraped skin, but the arm's the thing the doctor said was most serious.”

“A compound fracture?”

Calvin shakes his head and digs a flattened pack of Camels from the front pocket of his jeans. “The doctor said it looked like a fairly clean break. Both bones, though, so he's not sure how well it will set.”