Missing
By Heidi Daub
On a chilly March morning in Maine, Harold sits in the cab of his pickup, waiting for his wife Susan. Rubbing his grey stubbled face, he tips back his "Life Is Good" baseball cap that she got him last Christmas. He’d intentionally parked in the sun at this discount store, but now, after having let the engine idle with the heat on high, the cab feels stuffy. He cuts the motor and cracks the window. Removing his hat, he ruffs his silvery coarse hair, still thick and full for a seventy-five-year-old man, and leans back against the headrest.
Since his retirement from the papermill ten years ago, he and Susan go on day outings; usually Wednesdays and Saturdays. They come to this bargain place, or run errands at the lumber yard, searching for some missing part needed for repair projects that Susan puts him up to. When they purchase groceries, Harold pushes the cart while Susan looks closely at the labels, squeezes the fruit.
Before he retired, she did all the shopping, the cleaning and cooking too for that matter, and cheered their son Randy at his games. Now Randy, forty-three and living in Vegas, is a dealer at one of the casinos. He hasn't come back to Maine, not since he left for college in Southern California. He hasn't married yet either. When Randy took up residence in Vegas, Susan decided to join a book club. That was years ago now.
Harold mostly stays around home except on these errand days. Their house sets high on a hill directly off the old two-lane state highway. The driveway’s long slow incline winds through the fields Harold still has hayed, the land leveling at the shingled dwelling and small barn. It's quiet up there; the intermittent traffic below, small and distant.
After lunch Harold usually works on his baskets, a skill he learned from his aunt when he was a young boy. He didn't stay with it during his forty years at the mill, but now that he's retired, he’s walled off a corner of the barn and run a heater out there. His 'basket shed' he calls it. Once he gets into a rhythm of working he becomes lost in the weaving. In a good way. Often Susan surprises him, appearing at the doorway in her muck boots and big grey work coat and tells him to come in for supper.
The sudden cool air in the cab of the truck wakes him; sun gone under a thick cumulus cloud. They planned on a sandwich at Mary's Diner after their shopping, and then he'd take her to her dentist appointment, where he liked to look at the magazines. He feels his breast pocket under his coat to remind himself he's remembered his reading glasses.
Re-starting the truck, he rolls up his window, blows on his hands, glances at the time. 12:20. He's forgotten when her dentist appointment is. Hadn't she said 1:00?
His stomach makes noises and he mumbles, "Jesus Susan, what are you doin' in there?" He knew he'd have to go in and get her out of the store.
Other shopping trips he'd find her in the shoe department sitting on one of those little benches they have at the end of the isle, with boxes of spilled contents scattered around her feet.
He'd say "Susan, what are you doing?"
Without looking at him, she'd reply, "Oh Harold, there you are!" as if she had been the one waiting for him.
Often, she'd put a box or two in the cart and he'd see those very same boxes a few weeks later in the bag of things they'd drop off at Goodwill. Sometimes he just didn't understand Susan.
Another day he found her in the sewing department. He'd caught sight of her from down the aisle, standing at the big cutting tables. Five bundles of material were stacked atop each other, the clerk unraveling a cheery cotton print with tiny cherries. Harold counted six yards as the bolt thumped with each turn. Susan had an array of neatly folded flowery fabric in her cart already. He knew not to ask her about it. She never made the curtains or quilts she talked about. Some folks collected books, well, his Susan collected fabric. She organized the parcels on a bookshelf in the spare room; a rainbow of colors and patterns. If it made her happy, why not? There was no more room on that shelf, the accumulated piles kept tidy on the wood floor. No harm in that.
After all, she'd had a few rough years just before he retired; one of the reasons he retired when he did. He’d come home and realized everything was the way he’d left it before his shift. The wood cookstove hadn't been started, dishes were his from that morning, unwashed by the sink. The cats meowed around his ankles.
First time it scared the bejesus out of him and he'd walked slowly through the house, jumpy, then opened the door to their bedroom (they were still sleeping together then) and there she was, lying on top of their bed, her back to the door. He had the fleeting thought that she might be dead. A fear swam through his gut, and he nervously reached to jostle her shoulder. Then he knew. She was fine.
"Mmm?" she asked lazily.
"Just checkin' on you hon. Feelin' ok?"
"Yeah, just tired," she said in a small voice.
Somedays it was like this, but other times she'd have late afternoon supper laid out when he walked in from work. After Randy left for college, Susan must have missed him terribly, because there was that stretch when she stayed in her bathrobe, curled on the couch in front of the TV, box of crackers on the side table. When she looked at Harold, even in the dimness of the late afternoon, he could tell she'd been crying; tissue box beside her, bathroom trash basket within arm's reach. She told him it was the soap operas on the TV; they were sad. He finally convinced her to go to Doc Harmon who prescribed pills and suggested a psychotherapist. On their way home, they had both agreed that they didn't want to get mixed up in anything like that.
Harold shuts the motor off and snugs his cap back on. Gets out of the truck, locks it with his remote and hitches up his pants. He's been sitting too long and his hips are stiff. Zipping his dark green windbreaker up around his neck, he gets his stride in sync by the time he's to the front of the store. As he inadvertently starts walking into the exit, he almost collides with two young boys who catapult through the open door, their mother yelling "Watch out there boys! Slow down!”
Inside, the florescent lights always bother him. He pulls his cap down further to protect his eyes. He walks through the shoe department and then over to the fabrics. Finds the ladies clothing department but he can see it all in a glance; she's not there. By the changing rooms he stands and waits to see if Susan comes out. Looks at his watch.
After ten minutes he wanders over to the customer service desk, adjacent to the restrooms, and asks the clerk if she would mind checking to see if his wife is in there. He describes Susan and feels a lump in his throat.
"About 5'2", grey short hair, kinda curly. Permed,” he remembers.
She asks what she's wearing—her dark brown wool pea coat and her new white leather sneakers. "She's petite," he adds. That was one thing he loved about her. Though her hands had become frail and she kept her wedding ring on a little red velvet pillow on her bureau because she said she was afraid she'd lose it.
The clerk comes out of the bathroom. "Sorry hon. No one's in there at the moment." Harold's eyes go blurry and he rubs them. "Do you want me to page her?" At first he doesn’t know what she means, then he does.
"Yes, yes thank you." Grateful, he unzips his jacket, removes his cap and settles into the chair off to the side.
"What's her name?"
"What?"
"Her name. Your wife?"
"Oh. Susan. Susan Crowley."
Harold watches as she picks up the receiver behind the desk, punches a few buttons and begins to speak, announcing over the loudspeakers, "Attention shoppers. Can Susan Crowley please come to the customer service desk? Susan Crowley to customer service please."
The clerk gives Harold a quick smile and focuses her attention on a shopper returning a crock pot. Harold looks at his watch again. It's 1:30. His stomach's growling and he's thirsty. He knows he needs to eat soon or he might have one of his dizzy spells. His blood sugar.
Rising slowly, he finds his balance and takes a drink from the nearby fountain. 'Come on Susan, where are you?' he thinks impatiently, and starts scuffling back and forth by the desk. The clerk, finished with her customer, offers to page Susan again.
Replacing his cap, Harold walks over to stand near the checkout lines. Straining his neck in all directions he tries to spot Susan coming, oblivious to shoppers maneuvering their carts around him.
As he deliberates making another round through the store, or staying right where he is, a large man in an official looking uniform extends his hand introducing himself as Tom Higgins, security. Tom's brow is lined with sweat and he tries unsuccessfully to tuck his shirt around his bulging midsection. He smiles at Harold and remarks, "Shelley at customer service says you're looking for your wife?"
"Yes. Yes I am, thank you."
"When did she go missing?"
"Well, I'm not sure. I mean I don't think she's missing, she's just not here." Harold pushes his cap back and scratches his forehead. "I mean to say, she's just not where she's supposed to be."
"I see," says Tom.
Harold offers, "We came around 10:30 or so. Can that be right? I waited in the truck like I usually do and then she was supposed to get to the dentist and hadn't come out. So, I came in here lookin' for her."
"Ok, so you two came here together, right?"
"Right," says Harold. "Like we always do."
"And she didn't have her own vehicle?"
"No, she doesn't drive anymore, hasn't in years."
Distracted, Tom gives a nod toward a woman he seems to know, then turns back to Harold. "And have you checked with the dentist?"
Harold exclaims in disbelief, "She wouldn't have walked over there. That office is clear across town!”
"Ok, ok. How about we go back to customer service and see if we can't sort this thing out."
As Harold follows Tom's broad form he suddenly feels faint. He reaches for the officer's damp, ample shoulder.
"I need to get something to eat,” Harold says. “We were supposed to eat like two hours ago. I don't know where Susan is. I don't know what's going on."
Tom puts his arm around Harold and leads him to the seat by customer service. Once Harold is sitting, he asks kindly, "Can I get you a burger? You know the fast food place across the way? A burger ok?"
"Yes, yes thank you," says Harold, flustered.
Everything feels wrong. Where is Susan? They would be on their way home right now, home to feed the cats and Susan would put on her apron with the yellow flowers and he'd wander off to the basket shed, come back a couple hours later, turn on the TV, watch the news and weather and then she'd call from the kitchen, 'Supper’s done hon!'
Feeling the urge to yell her name, he stands, head swirling, and asks Shelley if she can page Susan again. Shelley looks at him a moment longer than is necessary and then her voice drifts through the store one more time.
Harold sits again and closes his eyes. A draft of air brushes like soft fingertips across his face, and he looks to see Tom walking through the sliding doors.
Handing the warm bag to Harold, Tom says, "Here you go."
Thanking him, Harold pulls out the steaming burger, a small bag of fries too. He eats it all quickly.
Tom says, "I suggest you go home and wait for a call. Possibly she got a ride back to your house, who knows?"
"Who knows! I know!" Harold says his voice rising. "We came here together this morning. Had a whole day planned. She can't have just disappeared! That’s, that's, just not right!"
"Ok, alright, I see what you're saying." Tom looks at Shelley, and then back to Harold. "Let's call the dentist, and your home phone. Let's make sure she's not in one of those places, right?"
Harold is frustrated. He can't remember the dentist's name, he's a new one. Harold just knows how to drive there. Giving Tom his home phone number, Shelley dials it. While Harold waits in the chair, Tom walks off with another clerk and they loop through the store, check the bathrooms and changing rooms. When Tom gets back he asks Harold if Susan ever wandered?
"What do you mean wandered?"
"I mean does she ever forget where she is? Lose track of time, wander?"
"Well, I suppose, maybe. Sometimes she loses track." Harold adjusts the rim of his hat. "Don't we all sometimes?"
"Right. I think we should contact the police department. They'll know what to do."
"The police?" Harold's mouth goes dry, a weakness surging through his chest and belly; the burger too salty, heavy in his stomach.
Tom says, "Come with me. We'll go to my office; we can call from back there."
As he helps Harold rise from the chair, Harold feels like he's lost all the strength in his legs. They walk slowly down the wide main aisles of the store, through the furniture and flooring department into a stuffy windowless office.
"Excuse the mess," says Tom. He shuffles some folders and papers off to one side and gestures for Harold to sit while he initiates the call to the police on speaker phone. After Harold says everything he can think of, what their plans were for that day, where he lives, his phone number, and describes his Susan, he's hot and uncomfortable. Claustrophobic in the tiny office, the lights are giving him a headache. The police ask after any other family and he says no, not in the area, just his son in Vegas, Randell Crowley, but he can't remember Randy's number. He's never memorized it. It's always been right there on the phone set, the third button down that says Randy, written in Susan's neat, tight cursive. The police ask if there is someone who can stay with him and he says, "No. I'll be fine."
But he doesn't feel fine, and when Tom hangs up, the silence in the room closes in on Harold.
Tom looks at him, the bulk of his body sorry, and shakes his head. "Maybe she got picked up by one of her girlfriends. Or is out for a walk at home. It's often what happens."
Harold remembers, just one time, when he came home from his shift and he couldn't find her; she wasn't in the house. He'd gone out to the shed and barn, but she wasn’t there either. It was autumn, some years ago now, and he recollects the way the sun was hitting the oaks and maples that bordered the fields, warm and beautiful as he stood and looked further up the hill past the apples still loaded with fruit.
"Susan!" he had called weakly through cupped hands. Then stronger, "Susan!"
He walked the rutted road toward the back of the property and he saw her then at the edge of the woods, her brilliant orange cap and tiny frame dwarfed by her bulky coat; at this distance she looked like a child. "Susan!" he called again and she stopped, looked toward him briefly, then kept walking.
He watched and decided to just let her be. 'Getting some fresh air,' he thought. It wasn't until he'd been back at the house awhile and had to turn the kitchen lights on that he began to worry. He went out again and saw, in the settling dusk, the bob of her bright cap up by the apples. She was picking the fruit from the low branches, and some off the ground, stuffing the pockets of the oversize grey work coat that had been Randy's. When she came into the kitchen she had a look that reminded him of someone lost, her eyes glazy, maybe she'd been crying? Cheeks flushed with the cold. When she took her hat off her hair stood up at odd angles.
"Gettin' some apples?" he ventured.
"Thought I might make a pie," she said, averting her eyes.
She laid the bruised and worm-eaten fruit on the table. But she left her coat on the top rail of the wooden chair and climbed the stairs to the bathroom where he heard her running the water in the tub. In the living room he watched TV but then got hungry. He went up to check on her and saw, in their darkened bedroom, her small form under the grey wool blanket. He didn't want to wake her, so that night he slept in Randy's room.
Next morning, she didn't rise before he left for the mill, but that afternoon when he came home she had dinner waiting for him. The apples had been put in a bowl on the end of the counter, and that’s where they stayed until they became soft and fruit flies swarmed, and one day when he walked in from work, the bowl was empty.
Tom clears his throat, "Can I walk you to your vehicle?"
Harold squints to focus. "No, I'll be fine."
Before they leave the small office Tom hands him his card with the number of the police department scrawled on the back. He escorts Harold through the brightly lit store and as they near the exit, Harold can see daylight dimming through the glass doors. Once outside, he walks with resolve to the truck but feels like he might fall down.
Climbing stiffly into the driver's seat, he sits and removes his cap. The towering lights of the parking lot create an unnatural hue and the sky is changing pastel colors. He puts his head on the steering wheel. "Susan, where are you?"
Harold imagines her leaving the store with a bag by her side, her short terse steps springy since she'd been wearing the new sneakers. She had no trouble climbing into the seat of the truck even though it was a big step up for a small seventy-six-year-old woman. But she was 'spritely.' He'd forgotten to say that to Shelley, or the police for that matter. "She's spritely," he whispers to himself.
As he enters the house, he feels along the wall for the light switch. The two cats circle around his legs clamoring for food. He never feeds them—Susan does that. Filling their bowls with dry kibbles, he's not sure if he's given them too much. The house is still, vacant. He's empty without his Susan. He calls Randy, but Randy doesn't pick up. Harold leaves a message and looks at his watch. Opening the refrigerator, he can't make sense of any of the containers, has no use for them. Turning on the TV, he settles on the couch but his heart is beating faster than it should, and he can't concentrate.
The phone wakes him. He's disoriented, the sound of the TV louder than he thought it had been. Turning it off, he stumbles to answer the call. It's Randy. Harold tells him the story the best he can, fumbles the card out of his pocket after which he asks Randy to hold on while he finds his glasses, then proceeds to give his son the contact numbers for the store and the police.
"Don't worry, Dad," Randy had said, "she's probably off with that book group she likes so much. Give me a call if she comes in. Don't worry, it's all going to be ok."
Harold can't sleep and then does. Wakes hungry at three a.m., a habit from forty years on the line. Finding some dry cereal and milk, he eats standing in the middle of the kitchen. Checking the answer machine, he picks up the phone, listening for a dial tone and thinks she should have called by now—the phone must be out of order even though he hears the loud monotonous buzz.
He wanders out to the shed and flicks on the overhead. The bare bulb illuminates his work bench, a mix of ash strips, tools, curls of shavings. He's got a few finished baskets, small decorative ones with fancy tops, and a couple backpacks. The latter somehow remind him of Susan, the way they gently curve, light over his shoulders and snug against his body, like Susan felt when she nestled behind him in the warmth of their bed.
He wipes his mouth, and glances down at the same clothes he was wearing yesterday. The sun is dawning, a barely perceptible definition to the new day, and as he walks back toward the house, he keeps to the driveway that heads down the hill, the morning stars fading in a violet sky.
He doesn't know why, he's just walking. As he stands at the foot of the drive, he takes in the silent road, misty and shadowed at the distant corner before the big pines open up to the field. He imagines waiting there long enough, a taxi emerging from that bend of darkness, slowing to a gentle stop beside him. Opening the door for his Susan, she'd fall into his arms, fluttery like she used to be. Lifting her up, he'd go easy and twirl -- they were young in the world and nothing was missing.
THE END