PEOPLE BEGAN TO COME to the house in the middle of the morning, to offer sympathy and gifts of food, and Berta May came over again to help. Mary and Lorraine had dressed in good clothes by now and they met the people at the door and brought a few in for a brief visit.
It rained that morning again, around ten o’clock, another of the short hard summer rains that blew through, then the sky cleared again.
Later that morning Richard arrived from Denver in a new car and came up to the house. Lorraine hugged him and he was unusually quiet and Mary allowed him to take her in his arms. I’m sorry for your loss, he said. It makes me sad to hear of it. He sat out on the porch for a while and about noon he left and went over to Highway 34 and rented a motel room for the night and stopped to eat lunch at one of the highway cafés.
At one o’clock Willa and Alene Johnson came to the house and relieved Berta May. Before leaving, Berta May made sure everything was in order, and Mary said, Would you mind doing one more thing for us? Would you take these notices around to the stores? If it’s not too much to ask. I know you’ve done so much already. It was the one thing Dad said he wanted.
So that afternoon Berta May and Alice distributed the little stiff white cards with black borders, bearing the news of Dad’s death and announcing the memorial services to be held at the house and the Holt cemetery. The notices had been printed that morning in the back room of the Holt Mercury newspaper.
They drove over to Main Street and Berta May stopped the car. Now you understand what to do. Take one of these into each store and hand it to the person at the counter, whoever is there.
What should I say?
You just say this is a funeral notice for our neighbor Dad Lewis. And be slow when you do this. Don’t do nothing in a hurry. Remember what you’re doing here. This is a solemn occasion.
Alice got out and Berta May moved the car down to the corner of Fourth and Main. Alice went into all of the stores on the east side and crossed the street and entered the ones on the west side. When she was done, Berta May drove farther down Main Street and parked in the next block and watched as her granddaughter went in and out of those shops. She was wearing a blue dress. She looked like a nice girl. At the hardware store there was a Closed sign hung at the door and in the display window was a large piece of wrapping paper with writing in black. Our friend Dad Lewis died this morning. We’re closed until further notice.
In the last block of businesses Alice came back to the car before she had finished. That woman wanted to know if the preacher at the Community Church was doing the service.
What woman?
That woman in there.
What did you tell her?
I didn’t tell her anything. I didn’t know what to say.
That’s exactly right. Anybody who asks you, you don’t know. And you’ll be telling the truth. It’s none of their business. People like her make me real tired.
When they returned home Berta May said, Now I’m going to go back and lay down a while. You take off your dress and put your shorts and T-shirt on.
Can I ride my bike?
Yes, but don’t you make no noise. I don’t want you bothering them next door.
What are they doing?
Those people are grieving. They’ve had a hard thing today. Other people are wanting to come and visit them and talk. They don’t need no noise outside. Do you understand?
Yes.
Not a sound.
Yes, Grandma.
Okay, go on and get out of that dress and hang it up. I don’t mean to sound unkind, honey. I’m just tired. You did a good job downtown just now. I’m proud of you.
Next door Alene and Willa were doing what they could to help. Alene washed the coffee cups and saucers in the kitchen sink and put them to dry. There was a dishwasher that Dad had brought home a long time ago but they didn’t want its disruption in the house now.
Lorraine and Mary had gone upstairs to lie down in the two bedrooms. When the phone rang Willa answered it at once and took down the caller’s name. The memorial will be held here at the house, she said, day after tomorrow. Yes, that’s right. Here at the house in the side yard, with a service at the cemetery afterward. Thank you, I’ll tell them.
Later that afternoon Richard came back with a handful of flowers and Alene met him at the front door. I’m Richard, he said. Maybe Lorraine mentioned me.
Yes. We’ve heard of you.
Is she available?
She’s sleeping, but you can come in and wait.
Well. I don’t want to be in the way. I’m happy to wait for her. She’ll probably get up pretty soon. She never sleeps very well.
Is that right? Alene said and led him into the living room.
He’d bought the flowers at the grocery store on the highway and he was carrying them in front of himself in their thin green tissue paper like a kind of ceremonial element.
This is my mother, Willa Johnson, Alene said. This is Lorraine’s friend from Denver.
Lorraine’s asleep, Willa said. And can’t be disturbed.
I’ll just sit and wait for her.
The women looked at each other and Alene took the flowers to the kitchen and returned with them in a vase and set the vase on the coffee table.
You don’t have to pay me any attention, he said.
The phone rang and Willa picked it up. This is the Lewis house. Willa Johnson speaking. She explained again about the services, and hung up.
And after a while Mary came downstairs and Richard stood up to meet her. I thought I had better come back, he said.
Yes, she said.
And then Lorraine came downstairs and he stood up again. I came back to see if I can help.
Did you.
I’d like to, if I can.
There’s nothing to do right now. Thank you for asking.
I brought you those flowers.
I see that. Thank you. They’re beautiful.
The women went out to the kitchen and he sat again on the couch, looking around the room, looking at the flowers. He picked up a magazine.
Toward the end of the afternoon Rudy and Bob came to the house. They were greeted at the door and brought into the living room and were introduced to Richard. Rudy and Bob had on their good wintertime suits and were sweating and red faced in the heat. They sat down on the couch.
You’ll have to excuse us now, Mary said. You’re welcome to stay.
She and Lorraine and Alene and Willa went back to the kitchen and closed the door.
Mary said, I can’t be sitting out there with them or anybody. I just can’t do it.
Mom, you don’t have to.
You do what you want, Alene said. You don’t need to think about anyone else today.
There will be other times later, Willa said, but today now you just go ahead and do what you feel you need to.
I don’t want to be rude. But I can’t sit out there. I think I need some air.
Do you want company?
She shook her head and went out to the backyard. They watched her through the window. She walked slowly into the shade under the tree and they watched her bend far over and touch the ground and lower herself onto her knees, wrapping herself in her arms, and now they could see she was crying, the top of her white head on the grass.
Oh I should go out to her, Lorraine said. Look at her, the poor thing.
No, I don’t think you should, Willa said. She has to do this. This is only the beginning. This is the first day.
In the living room the men sat glancing sideways at each other and looked around the room and peered out the windows.
We kept the store closed today, Rudy said. He cleared his throat. We had to do that.
It was the right thing, Bob said. Out of respect.
I don’t know if it was ever closed before on a weekday. Except for Christmas.
Or New Year’s, Bob said. One of the holidays.
I brought these flowers, Richard said.
They stared at him.
On the table here.
After a while Richard stood up and went back to the kitchen and tapped on the door. Lorraine came out and went with him to the front porch.
I think I’ll go, he said. There’s no point in me being here right now.
I thank you again for coming.
So I’ll see you tonight, he said.
No. I won’t be going anywhere. I can’t leave.
I got a motel room, he said. I thought you’d come join me.
I can’t leave my mother. What were you thinking?
I thought you could for a while. It’d be good for you. You need a break.
No.
Well, he said. When’s the funeral? Two days from now. I might as well go on back to Denver, if you won’t see me.
You have to do what you want. But I can’t leave, you know that.
I didn’t, he said. He leaned to kiss her and she turned her cheek. I see, he said. You won’t even kiss me.
Not now. I don’t feel like that.
He looked out toward his new car. There are just all kinds of things happening today and not happening today, he said. Isn’t that right.
You can understand why.
I’ll see you, Lorraine.
She waited on the porch watching him walk around to the far side of the car. He got in and looked at her for a moment. He didn’t wave. Then he put the car in gear and sped off throwing gravel up behind just as a gray cat darted out in the street ahead of him. Oh! she cried. Don’t hit it! The car swerved in time and the cat ran out with its tail straight up and ran into the neighbor’s yard. She watched the car go on up to the highway and turn west toward Denver.
In the house, when she went back inside, Rudy and Bob were standing in the living room, talking to her mother. She could see Willa and Alene out in the kitchen.
I guess we better be getting on too, Rudy said. He looked at Lorraine. If there’s anything we can do, you’ll let us know?
Yes, of course, she said. We appreciate all you do for us.
We wanted to be here, Bob said. You know what we thought of Dad.
Yes, we know, Mary said. You’ve both been very kind. You’re good friends.
One thing we wanted to ask you, Rudy said.
Yes?
We wondered what you was thinking about tomorrow.
Tomorrow? Lorraine said.
Because we figured you will want to close the store for the funeral the next day.
Of course.
But the question is. Tomorrow.
What do you think, Mom?
I think Dad would want it to be open. Keep it closed today and again for the memorial, but open the doors tomorrow like always.
That’s what we was thinking, Rudy said. He was looking at Lorraine again. But we thought we should ask.
That would be the appropriate thing, she said. If you will open tomorrow, please.
Well, we better get going, then. We’re sure sorry about Dad. We sure are. His eyes filled with tears. That’s one thing for certain. We’re going to miss him every day. It’s not going to be the same without him down there.
They started to shake hands with Lorraine but she stepped forward and kissed each man on his clean-shaven cheek, red and streaming with sweat and uncomfortableness, and then they both hugged Mary in their warm good suits, their eyes full of tears, and went out the door and climbed into Rudy’s car and drove away.
Then at dusk Rob Lyle came once more to the house. Mary and Lorraine and the Johnson women were out in the kitchen dishing up food and they asked him to join them.
No, thank you, he said. I only came by to see if you were all right.
You can just please stay here and join us, Mary said. We ask you to. You can see all this food. People have been so kind. You’ll be doing us a favor.
Lorraine handed him a plate.
All of these gifts of food are a tribute to your father, aren’t they. And to you and your mother.
People thought so much of him. All over this county, Lorraine said. Help yourself and come into the dining room with us.
They made another place at the big dining table and the women and Lyle sat down and he said a prayer of grace and they began to eat. But after a short while Mary put down her fork.
Mom? What’s wrong?
I can’t eat.
You need to eat something.
I’m not hungry. I don’t feel like it.
You’ll feel more like it tomorrow, Willa said.
Maybe I will. I don’t know that.
Then suddenly the front door burst open and Berta May came rushing in. Alice! she cried. Is Alice here?
They all stood up from the table and gathered around her.
I don’t know where my girl is. I told her she had to be quiet. I told her you was grieving over here so she couldn’t make no noise. So I let her ride her bike. But, oh I’m afraid she took me too serious. She must of went someplace. Oh, I’m just afraid she’s got hurt or somebody’s done something wrong to her.
Has she been out late like this before? Lyle said.
Never. She never does this. Oh, what if something happened to my little girl. Berta May began to cry. Her chin quivered and she covered her face. Mary and Lorraine put their arms close around her.
What about her friends? Lyle said.
The old woman looked at him and dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. I called, she said, but they don’t know no more than I do. She don’t really have friends here anyway. We was waiting for school to start.
What about the police? Willa said.
I don’t want to call the police. This isn’t a police matter.
I could search around town, Lyle said. If you’d like me to do that.
If you could, maybe you’d see her somewhere. She might be playing with somebody that I don’t know about.
Is there a part of town she liked to ride in especially?
That’s it—I don’t know. I never paid enough attention. She always come back in the house to check in.
I’ll look, Lyle said. You don’t think she went out past the highway or rode over on the other side of Main Street.
I don’t think so. But I don’t know now. Oh where’s my girl? She began to cry again.
I’ll start looking, Lyle said.
I’m coming with you, Lorraine said.
The two of them hurried out to Lyle’s car and he drove along the quiet twilight street past the cars parked in front of the houses and onto the highway and back in the next street, and then up and down the alley, looking in the backyards. The light was fading out of the sky and at the street corners the streetlights were coming on.
I’m starting to get sick at heart about this, Lorraine said. What if something has happened? Oh God, I hope it hasn’t.
We can’t think that, Lyle said.
But what if it has? It brings up all the old feelings for me. My daughter died in a car accident. Did you know that?
Your mother told me.
I’ve never gotten over it. I never will. You never get over a child’s death. She turned away. Lyle reached across the seat and took her hand. Now it’s Alice, she said, this little girl. I’ve let myself care too much for her. I know I shouldn’t have; it’s just starting things over again. That’s the awful truth. That’s how I feel about it. But I’d take her in, in a minute, if she didn’t have her grandma. Oh, what if something’s happened to her too.
She stared out the window. Lyle held on to her hand. They crossed Main Street to the streets on the east side.
The boy that was driving the car, Lorraine said, that boy is thirty-three years old now. He’s become a grown man and my daughter’s life ended at sixteen. Now if something like that has happened here …
They drove across town and went bumping and rattling over the train tracks at the crossing and on to the north side, looking between the small houses and the turquoise trailer houses and the cars rusting in the weeds and the backyards.
My son is in trouble too, Lyle said. I won’t tell you all of it. I won’t say what he wouldn’t want me to say, but he’s in serious trouble. I’m really worried about him. He’s gone to Denver to live with his mother.
Will he be better there?
I doubt it. What’s wrong with him isn’t about geography.
Is this trouble he’s having, about you and him?
Some of it is.
They came back across the tracks. More cars were out in the evening now. High school kids driving up and down Main Street, honking at one another under the bright lights. Lyle and Lorraine turned off Main and drove along the railroad tracks to the town park. At the Holt swimming pool they stopped the car and hurried into the entrance. They could hear kids screaming and splashing. At the front counter there were two high school girls selling tickets, with the wire baskets of clothes stacked in ranks behind them.
They quickly explained to the girls who they were looking for.
No, we haven’t seen her, one of the girls said.
No, we’ve been here since four, the other girl said.
Just send her home, Lorraine said, if she shows up. You know her, don’t you?
Yes.
They went back to the car. Let’s go back, Lorraine said. She might have come back.
When they drove into the street at the edge of town, they saw that all the lights in Berta May’s house were turned on. All the windows were filled up with light.
The four women were standing out in front of the house. Lyle and Lorraine got out and came over to them.
You never found her, Berta May said.
No, Lyle said. But we haven’t given up. We’ll keep looking.
Oh, where is she? I got all the lights on so she can see the house and come home.
We should call the police now, Willa said.
No. I can’t do that. Not yet.
But they could look for her in ways we can’t.
I don’t want them. I will pretty soon if I have to.… I will pretty soon.
She looked around. They were watching her.
I should go back inside. I’m not doing no good out here.
Don’t go, Mary said. Stay here with us.
I’m going all to pieces. You can see I am.
We all feel that way, dear.
Wait! Alene said. She was looking up the street. Someone’s coming.
Somebody was out in the gravel street, coming toward them three or four blocks away. A small figure.
I can’t see, Berta May said. Is it her?
Yes. It must be.
I don’t see no bicycle.
Lorraine began to run, and Lyle ran after her. The women hurried after them. Lorraine was first and grabbed her up in her arms and lifted her up and swung her around and held her tight. She set her down. The girl was dirty and scared. Oh, are you all right? She looked closely into her face.
Yes.
You are, aren’t you?
I got lost. I went out on a country road and it got dark and then I went the wrong way. A pickup came by and I went down in the ditch. I cut my tire on a bottle.
Did the ones in the pickup bother you?
No.
No. I crawled under the fence and ran out in the field. But I left my bike there.
Never mind, Lyle said. We’ll get it tomorrow.
Oh God! I’m so glad you’re all right. Here’s your grandmother.
The women had all hurried up. The girl went to Berta May and the old woman wrapped her in her arms.
Oh my oh my oh my. Don’t you ever—
The girl burst into tears.
Don’t you ever do that again. Do you hear me?
I’m sorry, Grandma. I’m sorry. Don’t be mad.
I’m not mad. You’re home now.
I got lost.
I know. But you’re here now. It’s all right.
I saw the streetlights. That’s how I knew where to go. My bike’s still out there, Grandma.
Oh I don’t care. I don’t care about nothing else. You came home by yourself, didn’t you. I turned the lights on. But you didn’t see them, did you.
I saw the streetlights out in the country.
The women stayed close around and they each hugged the girl in turn and cried over her and petted her dirty sunburned face.
We better get you in the house, Berta May said. We got to get you cleaned up. Look at you. Lord, what a mess. I expect you can eat something too.
You want me to bring over a plate of food from the house? Mary said.
No, I had our supper cooked two hours ago.
They walked back in the street to the house that was still lit up in the night and Berta May and the girl went inside. The others stood out on the sidewalk and watched, the lights were turned off one by one and the old house went dark again except at the back.
We should go home too, Willa said. It’s time.
Yes. Good night, Alene said.
Lyle said good night and Lorraine put her arms around him and he got in his car and drove off and the Johnson women drove off toward the sandhills.
Lorraine laced her arm through her mother’s arm and they went inside and turned on the lamp at Dad’s chair by the window so the light shone out into the side yard and then they went back to the kitchen and sat together at the table and drank coffee and talked a little very quietly.
That was on a night in August. Dad Lewis died early that morning and the young girl Alice from next door got lost in the evening and then found her way home in the dark by the streetlights of town and so returned to the people who loved her.
And in the fall the days turned cold and the leaves dropped off the trees and in the winter the wind blew from the mountains and out on the high plains of Holt County there were overnight storms and three-day blizzards.