Possessions (3 page)

“He must have called,” Todd said. “And Mom's waiting for him here instead of upstairs in bed.”

Jennifer bit her knuckle. “She said she'd wake us up if he called. She's down here because she doesn't like to sleep alone. Parents don't like to be in bed by themselves.”

“I'll bet he called and he's on his way home with my balsa model.”

“Who cares about your balsa model? I just want Daddy!”

We all want him, Katherine thought, her eyes still closed. And he hasn't called. Sunday morning and Craig hasn't called. She opened her eyes and stood up, aching as if she had not slept at all. “We all want him,” she repeated aloud. “And it's hard for us, not knowing where he is. I think when he gets home we should ask him to be more considerate next time he goes away.”

Todd scowled. “Maybe a truck hit him. Or a train. Or a meteor.”

“Meteors don't hit Toronto,” Jennifer scoffed.

“They do too. They hit everywhere. Even Vancouver. One of them could smash into our house and wipe us all out.”

“Cheerful thought.” Katherine smiled. For a brief moment everything seemed normal: Todd and Jennifer, the morning sun slanting into their bright living room, a beautiful ordinary June day. Soon Craig would walk in, just as Carl had predicted, apologizing because he got so busy he forgot to call, explaining his change in hotels, telling her she should know better than to worry; he could take care of himself just as he took care of his family. “I think we would have heard if a meteor had smashed into Toronto,” she said. “Now, look: I'm going to take a shower and I think you'd better do the same. Isn't this the day for that picnic on Grouse Mountain? What time are you being picked up?”

“We're not going,” Jennifer declared. “We're going to stay home and wait for Daddy.”

“You are going,” said Katherine firmly. “If he gets home before you, we'll come up and find you. Come on, now, let's get moving. Todd? Jennifer?
Please.”

But after all it was not an ordinary day and as soon as they were gone, Katherine rushed to the telephone to call the Toronto police again. It rang as she reached it.

“Yes!” she cried. “Craig?”

“No, Mrs. Fraser,” the Toronto officer said. “I'm sorry. And I'm sorry we took so long getting back to you; we wanted to be sure—”

“What? Of what?”

“That there's no trace of your husband. He's not in any hospital in the area; he's not in jail; he's not in the morgue. He didn't register at any hotel other than the Boynton. He didn't charge any meals or rent a car. Mrs. Fraser—” The officer cleared his throat. “He probably wasn't even there. We checked with the airlines. Mr. Fraser didn't fly to Toronto last Tuesday.”

“That's impossible.” Katherine's throat was tight.

“No, they have no record of—”

“Of course he flew to Toronto.” Her voice rose. “I saw him leave for the airport on Tuesday.”

“Mrs. Fraser, don't you understand?
He never used his ticket.
Either something happened to him in Vancouver, before he got to the airport, or he never intended to take that flight.”

“How dare you—! How dare you accuse my husband of lying to me! Who do you think you are—” She put down the telephone, trying to draw a breath. She heard the officer repeatedly calling her name, but his voice in the receiver was so tiny and distant she knew it had nothing to do with her. She hung up on it.

But in a minute, with frantic urgency, she dialed the Vancouver police. Craig never lied to her. Something terrible had happened to him, and if the Toronto people were telling the truth, it had happened in Vancouver. Right here, and all week she had had no idea of it. She'd been happy and busy, planning the party, and the only time she'd thought of Craig was when she felt annoyed with him for not being there to help her. And all that time he was ill, or injured, or dead. I should have known, she thought. When he didn't call.

“My husband is missing,” she said when a policeman answered, squeezing the words once more through her locked throat, and then nervously paced her living room, waiting for someone to arrive.

Two young officers came, carrying clipboards and printed forms, and they checked off categories and carefully wrote Craig's description as Katherine recited it for the second time that day. They asked for a recent picture and Katherine gave them one and then, synchronized and efficient, they took turns asking questions and writing answers. As she told them what the Toronto police had said about the airlines, Katherine caught a look between them. “What is it?” she asked. “If there is something you haven't told me—”

“No, ma'am,” one of them said. “We were wondering what you haven't told
us.”

Katherine shook her head. “Nothing.” A wave of exhaustion from two sleepless nights engulfed her and she closed her eyes. If she could just sink into bed and turn away, shut out everything . . . But the officers were rustling impatiently and she forced her eyes open. “Nothing. What else could there be?”

“Ah . . . your husband's lady friends?” the officer suggested. “Any you know of, that is. Lots of wives don't, so
you shouldn't feel ashamed if . . .” His voice trailed away at Katherine's look.

“What we mean,” the other one put in helpfully, “is that people don't just vanish without a reason. Husbands have
reasons
for disappearing. It wouldn't necessarily be a lady friend. You understand”—he was so earnest, Katherine thought, and so clumsy; why were boys sent to do this job?—“we're not suggesting anything in particular. Maybe the two of you were having problems? Or your husband piled up gambling IOUs? Maybe he's been despondent lately. Have you looked for a suicide note? They have
reasons,
Mrs. Fraser, that's all; we're certainly not here to criticize you or your husband—that's the way things
happen.”

“Not to us.” Katherine's lips were stiff and she was too tired even to be indignant, as she had been with the Toronto officer. “My husband and I have been married for ten years and I know he wouldn't stay away if he could help it. You don't know anything about him; you don't know what happened to him.”

“No ma'am; that's true. But
did
he like the ladies?”

The telephone rang and Katherine raced to the kitchen, her heart pounding. “My dear,” said Sarah Murphy, her voice rippling with curiosity. “Is everything all right? I just glanced out my window and saw the police car.”

Katherine's shoulders slumped. “Sarah, I can't talk now.”

“It's not a heart attack, is it? Craig, I mean? Katherine? Is Craig all right?”

“Craig isn't home. Sarah, I have to go—”

“But he did get back. Didn't he?”

“Sarah, I'll talk to you later—”

“Yes, you don't want to keep the police waiting. But Katherine, I'm here, you know, if you need me.”

“Yes—”

“I'm always here, always available.”

“I know. I'll call you later, Sarah.”

The police officers were at the front door. “We'll send out a bulletin on your husband, Mrs. Fraser, and we'll let you know if we hear anything. But you really ought to look around for clues; that's probably the only way we'll find him.”

Don't they understand that my husband may be dead?
Katherine watched them walk past her flower gardens and disappear
beyond the hedge. Then, without planning it, she found herself sitting at Craig's desk. Not looking for clues, she thought; that was ridiculous. But perhaps he'd left a schedule of appointments; places she could call. That was all she was looking for.

She felt like a trespasser. It was Craig's desk; she never used it. Superstitiously, she thought she might be making it more likely that he was dead. “Oh, don't be stupid,” she said aloud, and quickly pulled open all the drawers.

Gradually, she stopped feeling guilty as her puzzlement grew. Going through drawers and pigeonholes, lifting and putting back neat folders and packets of papers, she found Craig's notes on buildings Vancouver Construction had built, sketches for the wood carvings he made in his spare time, copies of expense forms he had submitted for business trips, including frequent trips to Calgary (he'd never told her he had a longterm job in Calgary), past-due membership notices from his private club, a batch of unpaid department store bills, and lined pads of paper covered with scribbled numbers—added, subtracted, multiplied, crossed out with angry X's, then repeated in different combinations.

Katherine pondered the numbers. Craig always paid the bills; he'd never even hinted about debts. We'll have to talk about it, she thought, as soon as he gets home . . . Then, behind a box of business cards in the bottom drawer, she found a small picture, torn raggedly from a larger one. Disquieted, she gazed at the lovely girl laughing into the camera; someone she had never met.
I didn't know Craig kept a picture of an early love. Something else he never told me.

“Mom!” Todd cried, throwing open the front door. “Mrs. Murphy says the police were here. What happened to Daddy? He isn't dead, is he?”

Jennifer jabbed him with her elbow. “Don't
say
it.” She looked at Katherine. “What did they want?”

“I asked them to find out if Daddy's been in an accident.” Katherine steadied her voice. “They can check hospitals faster than we can. That's all they're doing. How was your picnic? Tell me about it while we make dinner.”

They were subdued, but they talked and helped her as they did every evening and once again, for a few peaceful moments, Katherine thought that everything would be fine; how could anything bad happen when her house seemed so normal? And
then they heard the front door open and with a yell Todd and Jennifer tore through the dining and living rooms with Katherine just behind them. But it was not Craig; it was Carl Doerner.

“The door was open,” he apologized, striding in. “I didn't hear from Craig; did you forget to tell him to call me?” He stopped in the middle of the living room, his back to Katherine. When she was silent, he let out a long sigh and turned to face her. “Nothing? Not a word?”

She shook her head.

“Damn, damn, damn.” His large head, with its mane of gray hair, moved slowly back and forth. “I'm sorry, Katherine. I hoped it wasn't true.”

Uneasy, Katherine turned to Todd and Jennifer. “Would you set the table? I'll be there in a few minutes.” Jennifer made a disgusted sound but the two of them left the room. “What does that mean?” Katherine asked Carl.

“He's skipped. I wish I could spare you this, but—”

“What are you talking about? Skipped? You mean ran away? He had nothing to run away from. And he wouldn't anyway. You know him, Carl; he's not the kind of man to run away from anything.”

“Katherine, I'm sorry.” Restlessly, Doerner moved about the room, shoving furniture out of his way. Katherine thought how out of place he looked in the bright room with its flowered furniture and drapes—like a shaggy bear in a summer garden. “I'm sorry,” he repeated, his voice heavy and slow. “But Craig's been stealing company funds for over two years.”

“Stealing! Carl, are you mad?”

“Nearly seventy-five thousand dollars. The accountant caught it, and Craig and I had it out and he admitted it: he made up fake companies, sold them fake materials, authorized payments to himself—it's complicated, but I can show you how it worked if you want. He asked me to give him a week and—”

“It's not true!”

“He asked for a week to raise some money, and I believed he meant it, so I promised not to go to the police.”

“I don't believe it; there's been a—”

Doerner pulled a thick envelope from his pocket and held it out to her. “Statements. From the accountants, the solicitors—” When she did not move, his hand dropped. “God damn
it, Katherine, why would I make this up? Craig was more a son to me than a partner; I was going to retire and sell him the company in a couple of years. Now what the hell am I going to do?”

“Craig stole?” Katherine asked numbly. “He stole from the company?”

“That's what I said.”

“Well, you're wrong. Why are you so sure it was Craig? Why are you blaming him—?”

“I'm not blaming him;
he admitted it.
Said your house set him back more than he expected, and there were other things—he wouldn't say what—but he said he'd pay it back, every damn cent. And I trusted him! I let him go!”

“When?”

“What?”

“When did you and Craig talk about . . . about the money?”

“Monday. Last Monday. He said he'd have some of it by Friday and a plan to pay off the rest. He was crying. Damn it, so was I. Now what the hell can I do? I don't
want
to charge him with embezzling!”

“Wait, please, just wait a minute.” Katherine was dizzy. Doerner had pushed the furniture out of place and the room seemed to be shining, like the deck of a ship in a storm. Monday. And on Tuesday, even though she asked him to stay home that week, he rushed off to Toronto.

He kissed me goodbye and said—I'm sorry; I love you.

She clasped her hands. “What are you going to do?”

Doerner grunted. “Up to now I've kept my word. But damn it, he betrayed me! Don't you see that I've got to report this? Too many people are involved—the insurance company, our solicitor, the accountant—I have no choice; I have to go to the police!”

Like a missile, Todd flung himself across the room at Doerner. “You can't go to the police about my Dad, you bastard; you're a
liar—!”

“Todd!” Katherine pulled Todd's battering hands away from Doerner and knelt to hold him against her. As he buried his face in her shoulder, crying noisily, she saw Jennifer watching stonily from the doorway.