They Almost Always Come Home (6 page)

“Not if my highly intelligent best friend were standing an inch away miming, ‘No, no, no!’ ”

“My peripheral vision’s not great.”

“Uh-huh.”

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CYNTHIA RUCHTI

“I blacked out for a moment. Must be the heat.”

“It’s a cool seventy degrees in here.”

The phone’s fixed. A small but important victory in light of

the recent string of defeats.

“Look, I can guarantee this won’t be my last mistake.”

“And it wasn’t your first, either.”

“Excuse me?”

I watch the skin around Jen’s eyes and mouth soften from

accusation to sympathy. “I know, it was a knee-jerk reaction. And who could blame you?”

“Besides you and the entire Canadian police force?”

“Hon, we’re all on your side. We’ve got your best interests at

heart. You know that, don’t you?”

I put the phone on the table. Some would say I slammed

it down. “Why are we debating this? You either forgive me or you don’t. What’s important is that we do have a clue. The Jeep is not in Greg’s possession. Someone else has it. How did that slimeball get it?”

“Mr. Slime stole it?”

“Most likely.”

“And that could mean—”

“I don’t know.” I grab fistfuls of my hair as if preparing to

make tight pigtails. “Was Greg mugged in the parking lot? At a gas station? The authorities would have found evidence of a fight, wouldn’t they? Or a . . . a body.”

Jen reaches for a paper towel, wets it at the sink, then uses

it to wipe something frown-producing from her elbow and the table on which she’s been leaning.

“Maybe this guy you talked to swiped the Jeep while Greg

was out in the wilderness somewhere. It doesn’t necessarily mean Greg’s hurt.”

“If that’s the case, why wouldn’t Greg have made his way

from the put-in point back to civilization by now and called

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They Almost Always Come Home

home? He’d be fuming mad and maybe have worn out his walking shoes, but we would have heard from him.” “Ah.”

A new thought dawns on me. “Unless Greg
sold
the Jeep to him.”

“What?”

“We’re exploring every possibility,” I say, eyeing the call list I’m not eager to return to.

“It’s also possible, and a lot more likely, that it wasn’t Greg’s Jeep at all. If the clerk read the license plate incorrectly—” “It was a Wisconsin plate. He knew that much.”

“And how many Jeep-driving guys from Wisconsin chose Canada for their vacation destination this year? Hundreds? Thousands?”

She’s too smart for my own good. “Point well taken. But how many guys from Wisconsin sound like Peter Jennings used to and punctuate their sentences with ‘eh’?” “Point and counterpoint.”

When it’s all over, I should make an appointment to have this pain in my stomach checked out. When it’s all over. Where will I be when this is all over? Widowed? Divorced? Angry? Brokenhearted? Jilted? Relieved? Did I just say
relieved
?

God help me. Is it an unpardonable sin to wonder what life would be like without the man I vowed to love and cherish and blah, blah, blah?

********

It looks like soup. Smells like soup. Feels like medicine going down.

Jen offers me another ladleful. I refuse her and use my spoon to point to what’s left in my bowl—recalcitrant chunks

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CYNTHIA RUCHTI

of chicken floating in a cream-and-wild-rice sea with celery and mushroom flotsam. On an ordinary day, it would taste like a cooking contest entry. I’m not sure how long it will be before I see another ordinary day.

We’re drinking cranberry juice with our meal and using

Taco Doritos for crackers. Sooner or later, I’ll have to get some groceries. Which means I’ll have to leave the house. And see people. And answer questions. And pretend faith is enough. And that I have some.

Pastor asked if I’m planning to attend the prayer service at

church tonight. Can you imagine? He’s a good man, but he thinks like a male, no offense to the handful of sensitive men in the world who aren’t gay.

I’m probably blacklisted from any future answers to prayer

because I’m not attending the special prayer service
for my hus-
band
. I can’t do it.

All those naïve members of the congregation praying for

Greg’s return? Won’t they blush if it turns out he’s sharing a stateroom on a Mediterranean cruise with a woman he met on the Internet?

And that in order to bankroll his tryst he sold our Jeep to a

Canadian somehow distantly related to Peter Jennings?

That should make an interesting bulletin announcement

next Sunday.

Save your prayers for the funeral, folks. Either way, there’s

going to be a funeral.

49

A
nd evening and morning were the fourth day.

I know by the rhythm of the knocks that Frank is at my back door. No standard tap-tap-tap for him. Or even a lighthearted tap-tap-tuh-tap-tap . . . tap . . . tap. No, Frank announces his arrival with something that sounds like a cavalry bugle cry right before the word, “Charge!”

“Door’s open, Frank.” I don’t move from my place at the sink. Dishes and laundry aren’t honoring the fact that Greg’s gone. Why can’t they hold a moratorium on household chores out of respect for the man who paid for them? Every time I look out the window, the lawn tugs at my sleeve.
A little atten-
tion here?
How rude. Brent offered to mow it for me. Remind me again why I turned him down?

I sent Jen home to tuck her girls into bed last night. They need her. A little girl needs her mama. I’m living proof. Jen probably sang to them, read to them, brushed their hair and their My Little Ponies’ manes. She snuggled their warm bod- ies into hers and assured them of her love. She prayed with and for them and promised to protect them always. I should warn her not to make promises that might prove impossible to keep.

5

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CYNTHIA RUCHTI

Jen returned around ten after receiving Brent’s blessing to

stay as long as needed. Brent’s parents are coming to take over childcare for the duration so Brent can get back to work. To how many people will I be indebted when this is over?

Frank knows better than to ask if there’s any word. We

called him about the Jeep and talking to the imposter. I appre- ciate his silence on that subject. He nods to Jen, who’s reentered the kitchen from returning pre-sympathy phone calls in Greg’s office.

“What does Greg usually keep on that middle shelf above

his computer?” she asks after wiggling her fingers at Frank as a symbol of greeting and solidarity.

“Middle shelf? I don’t know.” What do I care if a book or

computer disk is out of place? What’s missing from my life right now is decidedly bigger. “Why?”

“Just curious. It’s dusty.”

“You know where I keep the furniture polish.” I don’t even

fake courtesy these days, which draws a frown and narrowed eyes from Frank.

Like a toddler forced to apologize to a sibling, I mutter,

“Sorry,” and return to the limp suds in the sink.

Jen rattles on. “The space is about eight inches wide, but

only the outer inch along each side is dusty. Something usually occupies that spot, but it’s gone.”

I mentally trek back to the office and scan my memory

for an image of how that room looks in its normal state. Greg’s meticulous about his workspace. Not regarding dust, but clutter. Says he can’t focus in chaos. Maybe that explains why our marriage isn’t working. The chaos of unmet needs over- whelms him, so he checks out. But the unmet needs are mine, not his.

For the most part.

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They Almost Always Come Home

The office is Greg’s personal space. I haven’t crossed that threshold except out of necessity in a long time. “Coffee, Frank?” I’m already pouring.

“Thanks. None of that flavored garbage, is it?”

“Mr. Holden, you’re no hazelnut fan?” Jenika probably knows the answer to that, but I’m grateful she’s shouldering the load of conversation.

“Me?” he asks, sniffing the brew I hand him. “Give me full octane, please. Nothing fancy.” He slurps a scalding mouthful, then smacks. “Ah. Now, this is the real thing.”

“It’s decaf.” Why did I insist on interjecting that unimport- ant piece of information? I know what his response will be. “Get me a bucket! I’m about to spew!” The family drama king strikes again. He doubles over and holds his hand over his puff-cheeked mouth. Corny can be endearing sometimes. I can see Jen struggling to suppress a laugh. She glances my way as if seeking permission to let it out, as if the circum- stances demand she obtain a warrant before smiling or enjoying a joke. I appreciate Jen’s thoughtfulness, but I am far from the boss of this situation.

“Libby, I’ve been thinking,” Frank begins, after growing up about fifty years.

“What’s that, Frank?”

“I’d like to take a look around the Quetico for myself.” I catch Jen’s facial expression. Is she surprised he suggested it or surprised all three of us considered the same insane chess move?

Frank shrugs. “Maybe I wouldn’t find anything that would make us any smarter than we already are about Greg’s disappearance.”

No smarter? We’re in the negative column at the moment.

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CYNTHIA RUCHTI

“Then again, maybe I’ll see something others overlooked.

Or find my boy.” He clears his throat. Sniffs. Sends his gaze and his private thoughts out the window.

Is his pain greater than mine? Is that possible? He lost some-

one he’s loved longer than I’ve known him. I lost someone I contemplated leaving.

Greg hasn’t always thought in sync with his dad, especially

not on faith issues. But Greg managed to respect him all these years. That’s impressive, now that I think about it.

My boy. Frank still calls him
my boy
. At his age.

Have you asked my boy if he’s going golfing with me on

Saturday?

Is my boy home?

I was thinking about taking my boy to the stock-car races this

weekend.

Greg almost always says yes. I wonder if he ever told Frank

how much he dislikes stock-car races.

********

Halfway down the hall to Greg’s office, I stop, lean against

the wall, and press a thumb and forefinger to either side of the bridge of my nose. Will this be the setting for my total collapse?

I’m lost. In some ways, more lost than Greg is at the

moment.

It’s not that I haven’t paid any attention all these years. Just

not enough. Is it ever enough?

I know Greg made lists, computerized printouts of his

menu ideas for wilderness living. Every time a new prod- uct appeared on the shelves at Greene’s, he analyzed it for wilderness-worthiness—ease of cooking, minmum of addi- tional ingredients required, not a lot of bulk to add to the

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They Almost Always Come Home

weight of his pack, and proper packaging. No glass or cans allowed in the Quetico region, according to Greg. So any dried, dehydrated, or envelope-packaged product became a candidate for the menu plan of a guy with a pioneer spirit toward both canoe and frying pan.

Entering Greg’s office feels like walking into a morgue to identify a body. The room is a lifeless shell lying on a metal gurney.
Is this him? Is this your husband?
the air asks.

It’s a bright day. Despite the natural light, I flip on the ceiling fixture and desk lamp, chasing out the morgue references. Where are Greg’s lists of equipment and other supplies? Didn’t he always carry around a clipboard and check off items in the weeks before his trips? Sleeping bag, camp stove, candle lantern, ground cloth, matches, iodine water tablets—which in recent years he exchanged for a filtration system—reading material for rain days, tent, extra stakes, toilet paper, paddles, life vests, tackle box, flashlight . . .

Knowing him, I imagine the list alphabetized. But I can’t imagine where he kept it.
Keeps
it.

We need that list. Yes, we. Frank lost the battle to insist Jen and I stay here. After explaining that Alex and Zack—the natural choices—will be out of reach for at least another week or more and that Brent’s job situation is too tenuous at the moment to risk leaving, we watched Frank’s resistance sud- denly give way, as if we were arm wrestling and he let us win at the last second, his arm and arguments slammed to the table. I swivel Greg’s high-backed office chair until it faces me and allows me to lower myself into it. It seems an act of intimacy I’m not prepared to process. I force myself to relax into the fabric as if lowering myself slowly into a Jacuzzi that promises comfort but requires a few moments of acclimation.

Frank’s at his house, informing my mother-in-law he’s about to haul two inexperienced, outdoors-challenged women miles

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away from civilization and indoor plumbing for the purpose of a north-of-the-border Canadian wild goose chase. She’ll flip. Then she’ll call me and demand I talk him out of it.
“You can’t let him do this, Libby.”

“Pauline, I obviously have no control over my own husband,

much less yours.”

“Yes, well, you don’t have to feed his harebrained ideas.”

“Greg is your son. Aren’t you as worried as we are? Don’t you

have half a mind to join us?”

She’ll pause a moment and say the words that will remind

me why we’ve never grown close. “
Stepson, Libby. He’s my
stepson.”

Right.

A stepson who’s been a part of your life since he was a tod-

dler. And you still can’t look at him as anything but a foreigner to you, a young man who belongs to your husband—
his boy
— but not to you.