Read When the Morning Glory Blooms Online
Authors: Cynthia Ruchti
When the Morning Glory Blooms (45 page)
Did he choose the Thunder Bay or International Falls crossing into Canada? What was your husband’s intended destination in the Quetico Provincial Park? Where did he arrange to enter and exit the park? Did he have a guide service drop him off? Where did he plan to camp on his way out of the park? How many portages?
I should have sent Frank to file the report. He’d know. Greg probably rambled on to me about some of those things on his way out the door seventeen days ago. My brain saw no need to retain any of it. It interested him, not me.
Kentworth leans toward me, exhales tuna breath—which seems especially unique at this hour of the morning—and asks, “How’ve things been at home between the two of you?”
I know the answer to this question. Instead I say, “Fine. What’s that got to do with—?”
“Had to ask, Mrs. Holden.” He reaches across his desk and pats my hand. Rather, he patronizes my hand. “Many times, in these cases—”
Oh, just say it!
“—an unhappy husband takes advantage of an opportunity to walk away.”
His smile ends at the border of his eyes. I resist the urge to smack him. I don’t want to join the perps waiting to be processed. I want to go home and plow through Greg’s office, searching for answers I should have known.
Greg? Walk away?
Not only is he too annoyingly faithful for that, but if anyone has a right to walk away, it’s me.
I thought it would be a relief to get home again after the ordeal at the police station, which included a bizarre three-way conversation with the Canadian authorities asking me to tell them things I don’t know. We won’t even mention the trauma of the question, “And Mrs. Holden, just for the record, can you account for your own whereabouts since your husband left?”
Home? A relief? The answering machine light blinks like an ambulance. Mostly messages from neighbors, wondering if
I’ve heard anything. A few friends and extended family—word is spreading—wondering if I’ve heard anything. Our pastor, wondering if I’ve heard anything.
I head for the bedroom to change clothes. The cotton sweater I wore to the station smells like tuna and handcuffs. Or is that my imagination?
Quick census. How many cells of my body don’t ache? You’d think I’d find this king-sized bed and down comforter impossible to resist. But it’s another symbol that something’s missing. Something’s wrong and has been for a long time. Moving from our old queen-sized mattress to this king represented distance rather than comfort. For me, anyway. I needed a few more inches between us. A few feet. I guess I got my wish.
I throw the sweater in the wicker hamper, which ironically does not reek of Greg’s athletic socks today. On the way from the hamper to the closet, I clunk my shin on the corner of the bed frame. The bed takes up more of the room than it should. Old houses. Contractors in the 1950s couldn’t envision couples in love needing that much elbow room. My shin throbs as it decides whether it wants to bruise. That corner’s caught me more than once. I ought to know better. About a lot of things.
I pull open the bifold closet doors. Picking out something to wear shouldn’t be this hard. But Greg’s things are in here.
If he were planning to leave me, couldn’t he have had the decency to tidy up after himself and clear out the closet? For the ever-popular “closure”? How long do I wait before packing up his suits and dress shirts?
One of his suit jackets is facing the wrong way on the hanger. Everyone knows buttons face left in the closet. Correcting it is life-or-death important to me at the moment. There. Order. As it should be. I smooth the collar of the jacket and stir up the
scent of Aspen for Men. The boa constrictor around my throat flexes its muscles.
With its arms spread wide, the overstuffed chair in the corner mocks me. I bought it without clearing the expenditure with Greg. Mortal sin, right? He didn’t holler. The man doesn’t holler. He sighs and signs up for more overtime.
Maybe I’ll find comfort in the kitchen. This bedroom creeps me out.
Greg has thrown us into an incident of international intrigue. Melodramatic wording, but true. We’re dealing with the local authorities plus the Canadian police.
Staring out the kitchen window at the summer-rich backyard proves fruitless. It holds no answers for me. I’m alone in this. Almost.
Frank’s my personal liaison with the Canadians—border patrol, Quetico Park rangers, and Ontario Provincial Police, the latter of which is blessed with an unfortunate acronym—OPP. Looks a lot like “Oops” on paper. I can’t help but envision that adorable character from
Due North
, the Mountie transplanted into the heart and bowels of New York City. Sweetly naive as he was, he always got his man. Will these get mine?
Frank will be much better at pestering them for answers. My mother-in-law would be better still. Pestering. Pauline’s gifted that way.
I’m no help. Big surprise. When I spoke with the north-of-the-border authorities, I either tripped over every word and expressed my regrets for bothering them or shouted into the phone, “Why aren’t you doing something?”
They are, of course. They’re trying. Analyzing tire tracks. Interviewing canoeists exiting the park. Looking for signs of
a struggle. The search plane they promised is a nice touch. Under Frank’s direction, they’ll scan Greg’s expected route to check for mayhem.
While I wait for yet another pot of coffee to brew, I brush toast crumbs—some forgotten breakfast—off the butcher shop counter into my hand. Now what? I can’t think what to do with them.
The phone rings.
It’s Greg’s district manager again. He’s the pasty-faced, chop-stick-thin undertaker hovering just offstage in a lame western movie.
No, no word from Greg yet. Yes, I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something. Yes, I understand what a difficult position this has put you in, Mr. Sensitive, I mean, Mr. Stenner. Can we request a temporary leave of absence for Greg or . . . ? Of course, I understand. Not fair to the company, sure. Only have so much patience, uh huh. God bless you too
.
Right.
Oh, and thanks for caring that my life is falling apart and my husband is either
muerto
or just fine but not with me and either way he’s a dead man
.
I slam the phone into its base station, then apologize to it.
The sweat in my palm reconstituted the bread crumbs during the call. Wastebasket. That’s what one does with crumbs.
How long will it take me to figure out what to do with the crumbs of my life?
And where will I find a basket large enough for the pieces?
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