Rosie parked her car in the spot reserved for visitors in the Brent Police Station parking lot. Sergeant Michaelson, the officer who had handled the break-in, sat behind his desk. In front of him were two computer screens: one showed current police activity; the other was for Michaelson’s own research. When Rosie walked in, he stood up and shook her hand.
“Sorry for the mess,” he offered, clearing a few files from a chair so Rosie could sit.
Michaelson reviewed his notes: the break-in, the destruction, the shooting. Jacob’s version of the events made sense, but Michaelson was concerned that Jacob couldn’t verify his own identity. He had no driver’s license, no credit cards, and no passport, and he was unable or unwilling to supply a last name. Fortunately, Mo had spoken highly of Jacob’s character.
“The case is pretty cut and dried. Those two have extensive records, and we have plenty of evidence against them,” the sergeant added.
Rosie wanted to use Michaelson as her confessor. She wanted to hang her head and admit that she’d slept with a man whose full name she did not know. Rosie, who wasn’t a risk taker, had allowed her neediness to override her reason. But she didn’t say anything revealing. Instead, she asked, “How do I find out who Jacob is? He says he can’t remember how he got here. Or why.”
Michaelson sighed. “Do you know how many people go missing each year? Tens of thousands. Some are foul play, but most are folks who got sick of their lives and walked out. Maybe he doesn’t want to get found.”
“Someone must be looking for him. Isn’t there a list of some kind?”
“Mrs. Yarber, I wish I could help you. This is a huge country, and we’re a small-town police force. You’re better off checking with the FBI. They keep a database.” He jotted down a website address on a Post-it and handed it to her. “Public information. Look for yourself.”
As she got in her car, she again considered the possibility that Jacob had run away from something. Kala said he could be bullshitting, but he didn’t seem like a fugitive. He was helpful and brave, risking his neck to stop the skinheads. Clearly his problems were beyond her ability to comprehend. She should stop rummaging in Jacob’s mess of a life and try to move forward with her own. He had to leave. She needed to patch him up and help him find his way home. It would be best for everyone.
Later that night, after the dinner dishes were put away and the lesson plans reviewed, Rosie opened her laptop. She tried the FBI website that Sergeant Michaelson had suggested and began to scroll through the thousands of faces—every age and every race—that made up the database. Even after she narrowed her search to white males between thirty and forty, there were still thousands of faces. At first, she read the short blurb on each missing person; then, growing weary, she scrolled through the pictures. The sheer volume of people frustrated her.
Langston came in the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
“What are you looking for?” Rosie asked.
“I don’t know. Somethin’ good.” Langston flopped in a chair. “I’m bored.”
Here she was occupied with all these missing sons and daughters while her own son was right there under her roof, asking for company. She was always so busy—with lessons and essays, cooking and cleaning. Not tonight.
“Me too,” Rosie agreed. She shut down the computer. “How about a game of Crazy Eights?”
Langston’s face lit up. He loved games of all kinds, but cards were a favorite.
Rosie hugged her son and rocked him side to side, “Have I told you that you are one terrific kid?”
Langston groaned. “You tell me every day.”
“Close your eyes.” He complied. Rosie kissed his lids. “Do you know what that means?”
Langston shook his head, wiping the kiss away.
“It means that I love you. Only people who love you will kiss you on the eyes.” She released him and grabbed the playing cards from the kitchen junk drawer. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll let you win.”
As the rain fell steadily outside, Jacob worked to erase any traces of the damage at First Baptist. He fixated on the immediate gratification of smoothing the grain and restoring the woodwork. He was pleased that the new pews looked nearly identical to the old ones.
He reconstructed the other night in his head as he meticulously fitted pieces of mahogany onto the beat-up pews. He remembered the noise in the church as the vandals broke the windows. He saw their angry, drunken expressions and felt their blows to his head and stomach. He saw himself pointing the gun at the tatted intruder.
His thoughts turned to Rosie—the taste of her mouth, her raw energy and need—and his own fierce passion. That had been real, so real that he couldn’t stop thinking about it. His thoughts—of the vandals, of his own desire for death, of his need for human contact—tumbled over one another, vying for dominance.
Jacob was startled from his reverie when Mo came in. “I hope this’ll be my last trip for supplies,” Mo said as he shook the rain from his hair and clothes. He inspected Jacob’s completed work. “Nice job.”
Rosie came in right behind Mo.
“Hey Rosie,” Mo said.
Jacob’s greeting was awkward. “Hello.”
Rosie kept an upbeat tone. “How’s it goin’?”
“Should have most of this place back in order by Sunday,” Mo said proudly.
An uncomfortable silence followed. Rosie studied her feet while Jacob ran his hands over a rough patch of wood.
Mo made a self-conscious excuse. “Well, I gotta check on…something.”
He hastily left the chapel. Rosie moved closer to Jacob and admired his work. “You can’t tell the difference.”
“Can you hand me that schlissel?” he asked.
“The what?”
“I meant the wrench.” Jacob looked down at the pew, busying his hands while his mind raced. He’d slipped and used a Yiddish word.
“Why did you call it a schlissel?” Rosie tried to make her mouth say the strange-sounding word.
He deflected the question, “That’s the first thing that popped into my head.”
She rummaged around the toolbox and took a deep breath. The words came haltingly. “I need to talk to you about the other night.”
Jacob looked at her. He remembered the hollows in her neck that he had kissed, the nutty smell of her sweat.
Rosie filled the silence. “I don’t know what got into me. That was crazy. I don’t do things like that. You don’t know anything about me. And I don’t know anything about you.”
Jacob nodded in agreement. They had no business being together.
As she handed him the wrench, their hands touched.
Her body language was rigid and unyielding. “I made a mistake. That…can’t happen again.”
Jacob nodded.
Rosie turned away. “I have to go.”
As he watched her cross the street, he felt an aching in his chest. He desired Rosie, but he longed for Julia. Thinking about his beautiful young wife threw him into a cauldron of self-loathing. He’d been intimate with another woman. He felt the powerful weight of guilt and the regret that his life could go on when his family was gone.
The house was quiet. Langston was in his room doing homework. Mo was watching football in his bedroom. Rosie poured herself a glass of chardonay from a bottle that she kept in the back of the refrigerator. After so many months of keeping her emotions in check, she wasn’t ready for this tempest. She waited for the warmth that usually came after a few sips of wine.
Rosie had always liked puzzles. She was good at them. The prepackaged jigsaws with pictures of the Grand Canyon challenged her. Making sense out of a mess of random pieces could keep her occupied for hours. The more she learned about Jacob, the more he reminded her of one of those jigsaws. She could see there was a whole human being in front of her, but she didn’t know how to put him together.
She took out her legal pad with the notes about Jacob. She added “carpenter” and “German? Amish?” to the list of his attributes.