Chapter Twenty-Four

Dorothy knelt on the shop floor and swept up the shattered remains of a dropped plate. She was discombobulated, not herself at all. Since her trip to the mountain, she had slept poorly, her brain chattering like a demented monkey, and her utterly unsatisfactory meeting with Carl Whitford had not helped. She had no appetite. She found herself peeling her split nails, and scratching at mysteriously appearing bumps on her skin. Unaccustomed to indecision, her fretting, fussing and paralytic confusion soured her stomach and only increased her self-recrimination. This was the second thing she had broken while dusting, the first being a pretty hand-painted glass vase. The fact the broken plate had brought her to the verge of tears, only testified to her state of mind.

She emptied the broken china into the wastebasket. How she wished William was here. Who else had she ever talked to, ever trusted to provide sage advice? She went to the window and looked out, unconsciously scratching the back of her hand, watching to see if Ivy might be coming down the street. But the street was quiet, just a couple of teenage girls giggling as they walked past, a truck coming down the street. The truck. Familiar. Albert Erskine’s truck.

Dorothy’s heartbeat quickened, pushed up into the base of her throat. Should she try and flag him down? Talk to him? They had always had a civil relationship. If she told him what she’d seen, would he confide in her? Could they go together to the sheriff? The truck neared and she opened the door and stepped out. She was about to raise her hand when she saw he was not alone. Bobby Evans sat in the front seat, with something on his lap. A knapsack? They were engrossed in conversation and did not look at her as they passed. And then they were gone, leaving her there as witness on the sidewalk, but witness to what?

After spending a few hours pacing about the store, doing nothing useful, obsessing and rehashing, Dorothy closed shop, went home and didn’t hesitate to pour herself a decent-sized, medicinal shot of scotch whiskey. She put her nose into the glass and inhaled. It smelled nutty, of peat and wood smoke. She downed it in one throat-searing gulp. The amber warmth spread along her throat into her belly and out into her arms and legs. The most beautiful lilac and pewter sunset exploded behind the trees. She watched it until it faded, and tried to persuade herself all was right with the world. And all shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well. Julian of Norwich’s prayer. It didn’t work. She poured herself an unheard of second drink, with a little water this time, and then ran a bath in which she soaked for half an hour. When she got out, she lay down across the bed, intending to get her thoughts in order and make some decisions. Perhaps it was the whiskey on an empty stomach, or the several nights of sleeplessness, but she dozed without realizing it, dreaming unsettled, fleeting dreams, and when she awoke, it was nearly ten.

She rolled to the side of the bed and sat up, blinking. In the clarity that sometimes occurs when one drops one’s troubles into the arms of Morpheus, what she must do was now obvious—absurd she had not seen it before. In the bathroom, she quickly splashed cold water on her face, rinsing away the lingering whiskey-fugue. She pulled on some sweatpants and a sweatshirt and went down to the kitchen. She hesitated then, and stood looking at the phone. Since that night she’d so indiscreetly suggested that she “step in” Tom had been cool toward her, although as polite as ever. She wanted very much not to have to make the call, for it was a boulder pushed off a cliff. Once rolling, she wouldn’t be able to stop it. Nevertheless, she knew what she knew. She could not unknow it. With knowledge came responsibility, a responsibility she’d been shirking for a long time.

She picked up the phone and punched in the Evanses’ number.

“Hello?”

“Tom, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No, no. Just watching the boob tube. What can I do for you?”

“Well, this is probably just me being silly,” Dorothy realized her hands were actually perspiring. She wiped then on her trousers. “But, is Bobby there?”

“Bobby? Why do you want to know if Bobby’s here?”

“Is he there, Tom?”

“No. He’s not. He’s at a friend’s house. Spending the night.”

“I see.”

“Mrs. Carlisle, what’s this about, exactly? You’re worrying me.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. It’s my fault entirely. I should have said something earlier. And I’m probably wrong. Bobby is doubtless precisely where you think he is.”

“All right, what’s going on?” His voice rose. “Why do you think he isn’t at his friend’s?”

“Because I saw Bobby this afternoon in Albert Erskine’s truck. He seemed to have a backpack or something with him.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Bobby doesn’t even know Albert Erskine. I hardly know Albert Erskine! You’ve got it wrong.”

“Tom, I’m very sorry. But this is not the first time I’ve seen Bobby with Albert. I think they’ve been friends for some time, which in itself may not be a problem—”

He cut her off. “I’m going to call the number of this boy’s house, the house where he is. I’ll call you back. You and I are going to have a little talk, Mrs. C.”

With that, he hung up. She stood in the kitchen, her mouth open. She put the phone down and her fingertips flew to her mouth, one hand over the other.

She sat at the kitchen table and waited. He would phone back. Tell her that Bobby was safely at his friend’s house, that she was a meddlesome old woman, which she was.

Ten minutes passed. It was as though dozens of bats, a whole colony of them, swooped and flittered through her head, unable to settle, seeking only to avoid. Fifteen minutes passed. She stared at the phone. At twenty she could stand it no longer and was willing to call back, willing to be told what a bothersome fool she was and she would have called, but the doorbell rang, followed by a loud knocking.

Tom stood under the porch light. His huge frame filled up the space, his hair looked as though he’d combed it with a wrench. Ivy held onto his hand, her eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, wearing bedroom slippers and pyjamas with rabbits on them. Dorothy opened the door.

“It’s the number of a goddamn Chinese Restaurant! There’s no such person as this Ernie Gardner character. How could I have been such an idiot?” He swept past her into the house, Ivy tripping along behind him. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry, Tom. This is my fault entirely.”

“I’ll say it is!” He glared at her. “I’m going to get him. I need you to watch Ivy. Ivy, sit on the couch.”

The little girl did as she was told. Dorothy put her hand on Tom’s forearm as he made a move toward the door. The muscles rippled under his shirt, like a horse shaking off a fly. “Tom, there are some things you need to know before you go up there. Just hang on.”

“More things I need to know? Wonderful! Tell me, but be goddamn quick about it.”

“I’m sure Albert wouldn’t do anything to put Bobby in harm’s way. He’s really a rather nice young man. He tries very—”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Save it. You don’t even believe that or you wouldn’t have called me to begin with.”

It could not be denied. “Still, he’s not like his family, Tom. You must keep that in mind. And there is something else. Ivy, would you go into the kitchen and get yourself some cookies and milk, dear? The cookies are in the tin on the counter.” The little girl did not move and it was only then Dorothy realized how frightened Ivy was. She was frightened—imagine what a ten-year-old might be feeling. She sat down and gave her a quick hug.

“Is Bobby okay?”

“Of course he is, dear. He’s just on a silly adventure and your dad has to go get him because he’s worried, but that’s all. Now come on, off you go so I can have a chat with your father.”

“All right. Sure. Go on, Ivy,” Tom said, as though only just now remembering she was there. “It’s okay. I promise.”

When she’d gone, Dorothy stood and faced Tom. She felt light-headed and sat down again. “I’ll be as brief as I can.” She kept her voice low. Without going into too many details, she told him of her trips to the mountain, and of what she’d seen the last time she was there. “I’ve told Carl, of course, but he seems to think he needs to wait for something to happen before he takes steps. I don’t understand it.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Tom.

“You should call Carl. Have him go up with you. He’ll pay attention to you.”

“Oh, yeah. I really want everybody talking about how my son’s an Erskine now. How that’s what happens to Patty Evans’s kid and what do you expect. No way, I’ll handle this myself.” He pointed a finger at her. “And you are not to call him, either. Is that clear?”

“I don’t think that’s wise, Tom.”

“Is that clear?” His voice was barely controlled.

“It is, but you must be smart about this. We don’t know what you’re walking into.”

“I know my goddamn kid’s up there.” He stalked toward the kitchen, picked up Ivy, and held her for a moment, whispering something in her ear before putting her down. As he strode past Dorothy and out into the night he said, “Take care of my daughter.”

Ivy came and stood next to Dorothy. She trembled and Dorothy led her to the couch, where she spread a blanket over both of them.

“It’s all right, pet. Really it is. You have a wonderful father—you know that, don’t you? Everything’s fine.” She stroked the silent little girl’s hair and when she could think of nothing else to say that made any sense she, too, fell quiet, and prayed.