The Ecuador Codicil
Elmyrae painted one painting at a time. She would take her one painting, carefully wrapped in a canvas bag, to the pullover by Highway 83 and Main where folks from out of state and town would stop for apples, knickknacks, directions and the like. Her easel was held with two sandbags for the wind and the canvas bag served as a cover during a quickly passing rain. She had sold a painting or two or three in the rain and sometimes gotten a meal as well.
The paintings were mostly of Nature as she saw it. Once in a while they were abstract. The New Yorkers usually bought those. Why don’t you have a show? Easy answer. I only paint one at a time.
Town folk had let her be. No sense in trying to be nosy. So after twenty, what was it, twenty-three, years she was simply Elmyrae the Painter. Only the Post Office gal, Shelley Price, knew about her monthly check. It was from Pearsons & Smith, Florida address. Shelley could just barely make out the Eight-Hundred and something through the envelope. The money was enough, Shelley thought, to keep Elmyrae’s rent paid at old Ms. Morris’ one-room, the heat on and her paint supplies coming in every so often in a brown package from Newberry Art Supplies in Connecticut.
To Shelley Price, Elmyrae’s life seemed regular and predictable in direct contrast to her own life which always seemed to be on the verge of something catastrophic, unpredictable and uncomfortable.
Like her 14 year old daughter’s pregnancy. Or her husband going to work one night on the Highway and getting hit while he was on the cone truck by a drunk driver.
Shelley often thought that highway workers went out to war, not work, so many of them died over the years, at least in New England. That was why she felt comfort in the one room US Post Office Building with its noisy heater and noisier air conditioner. She could hang a small sign on the door-Back in 10/20 Minutes- while she went home to eat something or use her own bathroom. Or fall apart. She controlled that. And she controlled the Post Office. And she could be nice or not to folks who came to buy stamps or fetch their mail from the post boxes. She had also learned to read their faces - good news or bad. They couldn’t hide it. It seemed somehow balancing to see their bad news faces, particularly when they tried to hide it.
On a spring day Elmyrae walked out to Main Street with her canvas bag. She had brought out this particular painting for the last 7 weeks. It wasn’t her best, she knew that. It was earthly and warm toned but when people squinted at it she knew what they thought- Was it a bear or an abstract shape? She would smile and shrug. Art was what spoke to you, but this painting had not yet found its happy listener.
She had been there most of the afternoon. She had finished her apple and biscuits with peanut butter hours ago. The light began to fade. Elmyrae thought about packing up. She was a bit hungry. And worried. She wanted to check one more time at the Post Office. It had never been late before.
A car appeared moving toward the pullover. A Lincoln Towncar. It slowed as it went by her. A woman driver glanced over in her direction. The woman parked the car at the fruit stand and got out and stretched. She was slight but even at a distance seemed elegant, graceful to Elmyrae. She bought a few things, put them in her car and walked towards Elmyrae. The sun was behind her so Elmyrae put her hand up to her eyes when she came up to her. The woman looked at her painting and smiled. Her face seemed dark or was it brown?-hard for Elmyrae to see. She had her arms wrapped around her slender frame in the slight late afternoon chill.
“How much?”
“It is my only Spring Work. Six-fifty.” Elmyrae started to get up expecting the woman to walk away.
“I’ll take it. It reminds me of …she smiled. I think it reminds me of someone’s home who lost it but maybe they weren’t sure they had it. I don’t know.” She made a noise, like chhh to herself. Elmyrae didn’t really care what the painting spoke. She waited to see if the sale was real.
The woman walked back to her car, leaned inside and came back with a roll of bills.
“You are in luck. I had good luck in New Jersey! You know what, though, I will probably need this. Let me write you a check. Is that okay?”
“Oh. Sure. Good for you. I never win at any of those things .”
“Can I have the canvas bag as well? I can pay you for it. It wasn’t gambling. It was. Oh, well, never mind.”
Elmyrae could not think of what to say. This was, after all, her special bag, not particularly beautiful but quite useful and it had such a nice feel and smell. It had a little bit of each of her paintings, smudges of paint, sweat maybe, blood? A little bit of herself on it, in it. But, she handed it to the woman, to the slight, foreign-seeming woman with a beautiful smile.
“Do you have a card?”
“No, just Elmyrae the Painter, address to town and postal code. Here, I can help you put it in the car.”
Elmyrae helped her put it in the front seat, the woman got in the car and as she pulled away, still smiling, Elmyrae saw her own reflection in the window. She was shocked. I am getting old.
Elmyrae packed up the easel. She started to walk toward town, paused and decided to go tomorrow, Saturday, to the Post Office. It was getting late. She needed some tea and a bath. And some leftover tuna fish casserole.
She walked down Highway 83 towards the lane where she rented Ms. Morris cabin. It wasn’t too far. She had done it hundreds of times. Ms. Morris was in assisted living in Augusta but sent a gentleman friend every month to collect Elmyrae’s rent check and see if she needed anything- a door hinge oiled or a leak fixed or some such.
About halfway to her turn off Elmyrae glanced over and there was a clearing in the woods which to her recollection had not been there before, ever. Curious, she stopped and peered into the clearing. The air was still, there were no cars, no sounds, no children biking back home for dinner.
She placed her easel down well off the road and looking behind her toward the highway walked into the clearing.
She saw parallel tracks that swerved like two giant snakes. There were twisted and parted branches where something large had ripped through. There was a burnt metallic smell. She paused.
Below her was a steep incline and a valley covered with shadows. Elmyrae could not recall seeing this valley before. She did not remember there being such a place and yet here it was. She continued carefully.
In the bottom of the valley she could see a smoldering car. A Lincoln Towncar, just its top visible. She hesitated. She was already halfway there. She walked through where the car had plunged. She approached the car. Its front was somewhat dug into the dirt. Steam was coming from under the crumpled hood. A woman was lying over the steering wheel. Nearly half of her was crumpled onto the dash.
Elmyrae paused and listened. There was no sound other than the hissing. No motion from the woman. She eased up to look at the woman. The way her head was positioned – no one could survive like that. Elmyrae was just about to start walking back when she spotted her painting in the bag under the arm of the woman, tucked under with the arm at a strange angle. Elmyrae turned back and tugged at the passenger side door of the towncar. It fell open suddenly and Elmyrae sprawled backwards into the brush. She stood up brushing herself off and then climbed into the seat. She touched her bag and then felt the woman’s arm. It was like a stick, a broken, delicate stick. She felt her fingers. They were cool but with a hint of some recent warmth, at bone depth. She tried lifting the woman’s arm off the bag. Something was wedging her arm tightly against the bag. She tried yanking. It made the woman’s head move oddly back and forth on the dash and her open eye appearing suddently making Elmyrae shout out-Yaaa!.
Elmyrae felt herself getting sick. She sat back, composed herself and then took another look. She saw that the painting itself was stuck under the dash, that it was partially broken and stuck under the dashboard. In a few minute she had it loosened. Then the bag and the painting came easily away when she uncurled the woman’s fingers from it and lifted the woman’s arm, despite creating a sound like a pop from a bone.
With a sigh she placed the painting carefully on the ground and eased herself out of the car. She was just about to close the door when she noticed the roll of bills on the floor of the passenger side. Elmyrae reached down and grabbed the bills. The winnings from wherever.
Elmyrae heard herself say softly, gently- You won’t be needing those either.
Shelley Price sat on the stool ready for the usual traffic. Seemed like most folks would check their boxes Saturday AM and some would socialize out front or chat with her. She would close up at noon on the dot. Everyone knew that. Locked the door and then did some tidying up. Monday would come soon enough.
This Saturday, 10:43 am by the Post Clock, the town twins came in, Irvin and Mel Shapiro. They both checked their boxes, threw the junk mail in the cardboard box labeled for that purpose. Today neither asked her how to get off mailing lists-as if she could do anything about it. Mel said Good-morning and Irvin tipped his cap. They walked down to Barneys for their morning coffee.
Maple Jenson came in, way too cheerfully as usual. She was built like a giant pear, beautiful skin, though, except for one island of red on her cheek. Shelley dodged to the back of the building to smoke before Maple walked up to assault her with her trivial news, silly tidbits and the latest story about her tabby, Best Boy. Shelley could still hear her as she stood behind the building. Talking to the walls!
When Elmyrae came in at 11:03 am Shelley was counting exactly 38 stamps for Fred Majors. Baseball players and WW II Commemorative, please. She noticed that Elmyrae was wearing two different sneakers, not too unusual for her, Shelley thought. Shelley could see her approach her box, stand in front of it, walk up and then step back and freeze. Shelley put the stamps in a wax paper envelope and gave them to Fred.
“Need anything today Elmyrae?”
“Oh, no. Yes, I need to mail this to my. I need to mail a letter.”
“You got it with you?”
“Let me see. Oops, no. I must have left it at home.” Elmyrae looked over to her box again.
“Okay. I will be here Monday.”
“Us too.. No mail today?”
Elmyrae’s face was blank. It appeared she hadn’t even heard the question.
She watched Elmyrae leave. She was an odd duck, but weren’t all artists? She’d read that somewhere. Or seen it on that Dr. So-and-So Show.
I don’t like her art. The only art I liked was my daughter’s pictures from Elementary. With the big heart. And dogs. I could see the dogs. Why can’t they stay that way?
Elmyrae walked away from the Post Office. Her heart was pounding so she held her arm over her breast.
She walked back to her house and stood there. The air was still and stifling. I will put her check in the out-going mail box Sunday. That settled she sat in her chair. Then she got up suddenly and stood on her tiptoes and pulled down a cookie jar. Cash from the woamn. She opened the lid and looked inside. Satisfied, she replaced the jar. She went back to the easy chair in front of the fireplace. Above it was the painting. She stared at it and felt its warmth. She fell asleep, her chin resting on her chest.
Three Sundays later Elmyrae was in her kitchen. There was a bowl of batter next to the sink. A small pile of pancakes was on a plate. She scraped the last bit of Crisco from a can and poured the remaining batter.
A knock on the door startled Elmyrae. She turned off the gas, walked toward the door expecting to see Ms. Morris’ gentleman friend, Grant. She had prepared her story-check is late, etc.- and as she opened the door ready to begin, she noticed she was wearing only one slipper, a tiger slipper and her plum purple terry bathrobe. She tightened her robe.
A man stood at the door, the morning sun behind him so he appeared to glow. But she made out a handsome brown face, a bright warm smile, a very tall man. He was wearing a shimmering grey-metallic suit, no tie and, she noticed as he came in, orange flip-flops. The kind kids and moms get at Tanners Everyday Market. He took her hand in his. The hand was large and warm. Because she made no motion, he helped her move into the one room and had her sit in her easy chair. Smiling, he sat down.
“There now. I have interrupted your breakfast. It smells wonderful! “ His smile disarmed her but at the same time she was speechless. His voice was deep and filled the whole one-room. She became very conscious of her one slipper which dangled now off her foot. She couldn’t think of a single manner, or statement for that matter, that was appropriate for this situation.
“Well, now. I will start.’ He said confidently. “ The party I am working for has, had a dear concern who had an unfortunate accident here, not far from here actually, off Route 83 by the apple orchard. No doubt you heard about it? Well, she had written a check for something to a woman from the town here the same day she died.”
Elmyrae felt her hands go cold and then clammy. She tried to slowly put them in her bathrobe pockets but could not find the openings. She strove to keep the tiger slipper from falling. I shouldn’t have sent the check to the bank.
“That woman was you!” he said cheerfully, as though the matter was settled.
Elmyrae jolted as though struck. He smiled brightly as though he discovered something wonderfully precious and harmless.
Elmyrae nodded and smiled tightly.
“What did she purchase?”
“What? Oh, it was just a painting.”
“Ah! That explains it. You are a painter. In fact, that was what I was told.”
“Yes, well, I was a painter.”
“You have hung up your brushes!” He laughed loudly at his own joke and the room fills with the deep sunshine of his voice.
“Too soon, too soon. Oh, yes. My client’s concern must have enjoyed that painting very much. Very much. Hum. Do you have some lemonade?”
“What? Lemon. Oh, well, yes. I, I think I do have some frozen. It will take a minute to get it.”
Elmyrae got up and went to the kitchen side of the room. Using a three-pronged barbeque fork she extracted a can of frozen lemonade which was deeply buried in ice in the freezer. She ran water over it. Stirred it in the pitcher. It seemed to take forever but he waited patiently smiling. She took a tray with two glasses and the pitcher and started to set it down on the coffee table. The glasses rattled slightly. He assisted her, gently helping her lower the tray to the surface of the table. She sat frozen.
“Oh, do join me. “
“Oh, yes.” She picked up her glass and waited, feeling like a child while he poured for them both. He took a deep drink and then stood up right in front of the painting above the fireplace. She placed her glass down a bit too hard and he turned.
“Ah! Nothing quenches the thirst like lemonade. And for some reason it tastes even better out here.”
Elmyrae noticed the back of his heels were calloused and grey, not like the smooth flowing brown of his face and hands. He continued to study the painting.
“This must be your last?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your last painting.”
“Why is that? How can you tell?”
“I can smell the wonderful oil paint! Ha ha!”
“Oh, yes. It was, it is in fact my last painting. “Elmyrae could feel sweat soaking into the armpits of her bathrobe.
“T-T-Tut. Too bad, Too too bad. "He turned suddenly to face her, again the brilliant, warm smile enveloping her. I have to relax, she thinks to herself. She smiles.
“You have talent. You have the talent. And this one, unframed-he peers closer-And unsigned! And yet hanging here in a place of modest prominence. Very nice. Very nice!”
The man sat back down on the loveseat. He crossed his legs and balanced the glass of lemonade perfectly on his knee. Elmyrae sat very still.
“When I was very young back home I wanted to be a painter very badly. Although I did not yet know the word for it! And I could only afford the paints the earth made. Literally the pigments gotten from the earth and mixed with plants. As for canvasses, well, any pieces of wood the earth provided, those were my canvasses. Cast off pieces of nature’s flotsam and jetsam. I collected the wood, painted them with my homemade mud. With the colors I created from the earth! Each one I painted I thought it was my best! So you can imagine my enthusiasm, my naive pride. I stacked them on my side of the hut we lived in.
“One day I came home and they were gone! I ran to my mother and asked her what had happened to my paintings. She told me-You did very well, very well. They were all bought! I was so happy. I had never felt so happy! I ran around our neighborhood. I ran and ran told everyone who would hear me.
“Suddenly I realized I had not asked my mother who had bought all my paintings. Who had bought them? I had been too, too excited. I ran home but my mother was not there. My sister asked me-Why are you running and running so? And so so happy? My sister had a club foot and could not run or even play very much. She was without friends. I joyously told her that I had sold all my paintings, every one! My sister then told me-Yes, yes you have my Brother, to the Junk Man. He is using the wood you collected to build things and fix barrels and boxes with your paintings. And probably plug up holes. What is the matter, why is your face like that?
“I ran again away from her and our hut and my mother but this time without joy. I ran and ran to the village of my uncle and stayed with him. By the time I reached his village some days later and came to his hut I felt I was no longer a boy but had become a man. I did not see it but I am sure my face was much older.”
He paused. Somehow the delicate pieces of lemonade in his glass were moving, swirling in his glass. Elmyrae stared at the glass. He had not moved and yet it swirled.
“Was she beautiful?” Elmyrae asked, still staring at the swirling lemonade.
He stared at her, then the glass.
And then gently but very directly-“Yes. Yes. She was very beautiful. But very, very lonely.”
They both stared this time at the pitcher. A fly landed on its lip but neither moved to shoo it.
“Well, I am here at my client’s request to see, to trace actually the last days, hours, exact minutes if possible of said concern. Let’s see.”
He sat forward and put his glass firmly but without a sound on the tray.
“She must have purchased your painting very near, geographically very near the accident site. Forgive me. I have done a bit of research after having gotten a copy of the check she wrote on that day. I inquired about you and having established what you did, inquired in town as to where you typically place your work, 83rd and Main, away from the stands but visible to all who pull in. Some artists do not know how to market. He nodded at her, approvingly. You occasionally have some competition or at least company from Sam Peters who sells some of his wood crafts in the same spot, but only once every 4-6 weeks.”
“Shall I return the money?” Elmyrae burst out.
“Oh! No, no, no no!” He patted her hand. “That is not what this is about. No, she must have been very happy to pay you. Very, very happy. What is done is done. My client is not concerned about the return of any money rightfully disbursed. Again, it is the last days, hours, minutes and seconds if possible that are, that it is my duty to re-assemble. To review. And report to my client, of course.”
He leaned forward touching her hand, looking right at her.
He stood suddenly and gracefully. I must go! He walked to the door. He turned.
“Thank you. Thank you for your wonderful lemonade. And hospitality. “
By now Elmyrae was at the door, her remaining slipper off. He walked away a few steps and then turned again and came back before she could close the door.
“How did she look?” He asked.
“Excuse me?”
“I am sorry.” He smiles again, warm, soothing. “How did she look?”
“Oh, she looked at peace, very…well..delicate…”
“I would guess she smiled when she saw your painting?”
“Oh! Yes, yes! She did. Oh, when she bought the painting, when she first saw it she smiled. Yes, she did.”
“A beautiful smile?”
“Well, I think so , yes. The sun…”
“If anyone can judge, it is you, the painter.” He bowed and walked away. Elmyrae looked past him briefly to see if there was a car. There was none.
She shut the door. She went to the kitchen and stared at the cold pancakes. She went to the couch where he had been sitting. It was still warm. She put her hands over her head. It was odd, she thought that he did not mention there was no painting found at the scene of the accident. Perhaps, it has been overlooked or deemed unimportant.
Elmyrae started a bath. She carefully tested the water. Once it was right, not scalding but very hot, she brought the bath tray to the tub with a pot of steeping herbal tea and a small cup. She pulled the screen around her. She got in the tub, slide the tray up with just enough room to place her hands above her breasts. She took a deep breath fully expecting the soothing water, the aroma of the tea to work its magic. She placed a warm soaking towel over her face. Instead, she saw the woman in the car.
She saw herself, almost as another character, in the front seat of the Lincoln. She saw the woman’s right eyelid flutter slightly. She saw herself pry the painting away from a slightly warm hand.
The woman had been holding onto the painting, holding as though it was the last good feeling she would have, or last possession. What had she said about home?
She did not look like Sam Peter’s father at his viewing—an empty, falsely painted and ashen and cold, lifeless face. She was alive! Beautiful golden skin! Elmyrae felt the tea spill into the tub’s water, a slippery, painful painting over her stomach and thighs. She shuddered.
Those were the fragile woman in the Towncar’s last minutes. Her last seconds.
On a warm day, Little League mid-season kind of weather, Shelley heard Sam in the back pounding a nail to build out the Mail Sorting Room for the Nursery. Somehow it had gotten approved.
My daughter got to go her first prom, I became a grandmother and mother again and I got to take care of my, daughter’s baby at work despite every USPS rule against it. Perhaps there is grace in the world. Everything goes completely wrong and then it goes absolutely right and great. Maybe it is just the optimistic New England ancestors in me. No, they looked awfully sour and unoptimistic in the few photos I have seen. Maybe it is me, willing to see the bad turn to good.
Even Maple didn’t’ bother her anymore.
“Morning Maple.”
“Morning Shelley. Looks like Sam is doing a good job back there.” How would she know?
“Yes, he sure is. He knows his nails. It is really coming along. We all hope you and your grand-daughter have a lovely time.”
“I am sure we will.”
“And that she will be quite safe there as well.”
Shelley didn’t respond to that.
“By the way, Shelley...”Maple leaned over the counter causing Shelley to pull back. “Elmyrae is out of sorts. Seems she lost her monthly whatever-it-was and so we are bringing her food. Anything you can spare would be appreciated. She is not doing well. Stopped painting. Seems we all need something to keep us going.”
Shelley wondered if gossiping and do-gooding was what kept Maple going.
“Grant is not sure how long Ms. Morris will let her stay. Probably not very long as she needs that bit of income to keep her in the nice assisted living up there in Augusta. House of cards sometimes, doesn’t it seem like it, Shelley? Sometimes life is like a house cards.”
Shelley looked at her and realized she didn’t really know Maple. Even though she had known her for years. That all this time she just didn’t want to know her and didn’t want to have any real conversation with her. But now, maybe since the baby, and maybe at this exact weird point in time she got her interest back. Or realized it was back.
She looked at Maple. Maple noticed something in Shelley’s eyes or did she lean forward? And turned away, a bit embarrassed. She turned away her red island side.
“Oh, well. I’m talking too much as usual. And Shelley you are really awfully great to take care of the baby and your daughter after all that has happened to you.”
“Thank you, Maple. I really feel that if there is a God (am I really saying this!) which I definitely do not know, but if there is One he would intend to have us be ready for things to turn right after they have gone bad. “
Shelley was amazed she was having these words with Maple. Words she couldn’t remember ever saying before. Maybe it was something she’d seen on TV—no I don’t watch those shows.
Maple stared at her. Speechless.
“Oh, gosh, I forgot. I need some stamps. Oh, and I need to check Elmyrae’s box. She said there was something coming to her, maybe in one of those large brown envelopes. Something about a will. From someplace overseas I think she said or was it south, southern, somewhere- Gosh. Ecuador? Is that a place? Not sure Elmyrae has all her… Nothing there again. Well, I will try to cheer her up. I hope she will be alright. Sometimes small things can shock the system terribly.”
Maple left. Shelley went back to where Sam was working. She could picture the baby playing under the watchful gaze of the Post Master General.
Elmyrae sat on the loveseat. Maple had just left. She could feel blood in her ears, actual blood from all the listening she had to do. They both had eaten something, bland and buttery and had tea but all she could think about was that it hadn’t come.
He had promised her. On his second visit. He sat here as usual. His suit was the same but looked a bit like he had slept in it. He had listened to her talk. It took a while. He hadn’t smiled but he was not angry. He had gotten up, looked again at the painting, smiled when he saw she had signed it, full name even, small but firmly in the bottom right corner. And then he had taken the painting. Tucked it under his arm. He walked out again and turned again in the doorway.
“There will be a codicil. Expect a copy of the codicil.”
“From where? she asked. Where will it come from?”
“You know from where.” He smiled this time.
And she did know. There was only one place that those paints could be made from the earth. Ecuador. That tied it all together.
But the waiting was hard. And her embarrassment was hard and Maple’s sympathy was hard. The bags and bags of un-expired canned goods. Mostly the waiting.
Shelley was in the new nursery with the baby. The baby just got changed and was smiling. Shelley put a bottle on a folded blanket and turned the baby into it. She heard the bell ring a few times.
“Well, I’ll be right back. Don’t you go anywhere.” The back door to the nursery/supply room was open as usual and a nice slight breeze come through. The baby had a pink shirt with a green, smiling elephant on it.
Shelley helped a woman from out of town send a rush package to Berkeley, California. Always in a hurry you Californians! The woman didn’t smile. Then she helped Emily Marston fill out a Proof of Receipt slip for the item she bought from the HSN which she was returning for full refund. Again.
She sat for a minute on her stool at the counter and then-Damn, I did it again. I forgot about you. Shelley went to the nursery and looked in the crib. No baby. No matter, sometimes her daughter came with a friend to play with her in the back. Or Sam took her to the back and lets her have a little sun.
Nothing. Nobody. Shelley raced to the office and called her daughter. No answer. She remembered she was at Summer Girls Softball practice. She called the Sheriff.
“Don’t worry, Shelley, I’ll be right over. I’m sure there is a simple explanation. “
Despite earlier rejections by Shelley, the Sheriff felt he could be gentleman enough to help when help was needed, even though it was probably something silly. He put on his hat, took his Investigation Pad and went to the cruiser. He put on the flashers and siren.
Maybe it is my choice of professions that keeps me single, the Sheriff thought to himself.
Shelley put up the Back in 10/20 sign and started to weep. Then she ran back to the nursery and lifted every blanket and scrap of clothing and toy. And went to the back and then outside and looked.
Tears streamed her face and the sun was blurry. She wished she hadn’t quit smoking. She heard the siren.
Sheriff Rankin sat at his desk tapping a pencil on the John Deere calendar. The FBI had chosen the Marriott – two adjoining rooms with living room in the middle as the Command Center-over the Suticap City Police Department cinder block building. The Marriott had Room Service. All he had to offer was the Folgers he made himself.
He felt his face redden again with the memory of Shelley screaming at him and ripping away his Investigation Fliptop Notepad in which he was writing notes-I already checked the closet and the backyard!
When she had stopped, he stared at her and maybe, he thought, for the first time he had seen someone in real pain, that wasn’t physical. He had seen plenty of that kind, the physical kind, before. Then, he had taken her arm gently and said- We, I will find your Angel.
But it had been two days and nothing had turned up. His resolution was still strong. Even if she had refused several of his attempts to go to the Shore for the day, I will help her. She deserves that.
While the FBI performed a thorough search and study with their kits of the kidnap site and interviewed almost the whole town and specifically the baby’s father who had been playing baseball out of town, Sheriff Rankin carried out his normal duties, which he felt, made him look foolish and unimportant. But when those were done, he sat at his desk and went through the day the kidnapping had happened, trying to reimagine everything he saw. Each exact minute and second, including non-related events-Waking up, brushing his teeth, eating breakfast. Everything was important. It was so important to remember every detail of that day. Everything goes backwards - to the Event. It was in all the manuals. It was also just common sense.
Doing, just that, eyes closed for better concentration, he heard a car pull up in the PD lot. It sounded like Maple’s old Cadillac. At least it always started in winter. He waited while she got out of her car, opened the front door and walked the short hall to his office. She knocked on the outside of his office. He opened his eyes.
“Come in Maple.”
She stood in front of him, quiet for once, he thought.
“Maple, I don’t have any news.”
“I know Sheriff.” She looked at his office the way a woman sometimes does when they are about to size it for changes and improvements.
“Sheriff, I don’t want to sound strange or accusatory, or worse gossipy, particularly regarding a member of our town, which as you know is particularly tight knit. But, yesterday I went to Elmyrae’s to bring her some canned goods that I have collected from other folks and Dons Groceries, none past expiry, of course. Oh, and a pot of homemade stew. Well, she wouldn’t let me in. She actually blocked my passage and I was holding several bags of goods that were quite heavy! I left them on her porch. Which is not like her, particularly in her circumstances. “
Sheriff Rankin had already stood up and put his hat on and his gun belt.
That was the exact detail! He had seen Elmyrae the morning of the kidnapping coming up the street towards the Post Office. Just like she normally would. Invisible in her normality and sameness.
And she was one of the few folks the FBI had not talked to. Why bother? It was what he read in their faces.
Repetition, sameness—that wasn’t in the Manuals but it should be.
“Let’s go. We’ll take my car.”
Maple was startled by his sudden seriousness and the gun.
“No, Sheriff. I think it would be better if we didn’t alarm her. She has been on edge for weeks.”
They got in Maple’s car and drove slowly, way too slowly for the Sheriff. After a few minutes they pulled in to her turn with the cedar post that had long ago lost its mailbox, way before the mailmen who did routes had vanished. Maple stopped the car about 50 feet from the front door of Ms. Morris’s one-room. Neither got out of the car.
“I called the FBI,” Maple said.” I just thought they should know. They said everything was important.”
“Okay, you didn’t have to but, well, that’s okay. May turn out to be nothing. Let’s go check on her and hope…”
They both got out of Maple’s Cadillac and neither shut their door.
Their steps on the driveway to Elmyrae’ s one-room crunched the gravel way too loudly in the otherwise complete silence.
No birds, thought, Sheriff Rankin. Then they heard other cars pulling fast off the road and onto her turn.
Car doors opened. A few voices and then Elmyrae appeared at the door looking, as Maple would relate in her many re-tellings of the story-Simply awful, like no one had been bringing her any food for weeks or even occasionally brushing her hair!
Elmyrae stood on the tiny porch holding forward her canvas paint bag. It had a bulge. She held it forward for everyone to see. No one moved. There were unopened cans of food strewn around the porch spilling in front of the one-room.
Elmyrae lowered the canvas bag to the porch where it slowly flopped over. Something pink showed from within the bag. Still, no one moved. Sheriff Rankin thought he heard the slow cocking of a gun. He walked forward with his left hand out.
“There, there, Elmyrae. It’s alright.”
Like a blast of air in the stillness, Elmyrae’s voice came from her bedraggled body-
“Was this bad enough? Was this bad enough?”
Sheriff Rankin heard and saw two separate flashes which were Shelley and Shelley’s daughter, the mother, running to the bag, both carefully lifting it together and running back behind him.
Then, another and another and still another dark-suited FBI man swarmed down on Elmyrae who repeated, but more quietly-
“Was this bad enough?” Until her head fell forward and she went limp.
After the FBI checked her and the one-room for weapons, they let Maple take her into the FBI vehicle, un-handcuffed. Sheriff Rankin noticed one of the FBI shrug and even yawn. He even thought he heard a baseball game broadcast coming from one of the FBI cars.
Maple sat with Elmyrae and tried to straighten her up. Patted her hand.
Shelley came up to Sheriff Rankin and touched his arm. He realized he still had his gun drawn in his right hand and put it away.
He heard a baby cry and a young woman cry. He heard an ambulance way in the distance. Shelley smiled at him and walked back to her Angel who was in the arms of the young mother, her daughter.
Sheriff Rankin walked back toward the Cadillac and glanced down. There were two very old orange-brown flip flops neatly placed by the road. He picked them up. A light rain started and the road turned a beautiful glistening brown. He wondered if they belonged to the poor gal who had had the accident. But then how would they have ended up here. Maybe Elmyrae found them in her walkings.
The Sheriff before had delivered him one piece of learning after passing the mantel to him at the informal ceremony.
“You never really know about people until they do something crazy and then you know even less.”
But the heart or soul or whatever sometimes gets too full, he thought to himself. He could see himself passing that heavy line down to the next Sheriff!
When he got in the Cadillac, he started up the engine. So Quiet. The flip-flops were next to him.
I can ask her out now, again.
In between beauty, life and death.
There is always a chance she will say yes.
Comments