Maddie Whitaker and Abbie Reams
Introduction
by Christopher Swann
In my fifth-form or junior year at Woodberry Forest School, my English teacher, Mr. Blain, created an unusual assignment for us. The course was unusual enough. Fifth-form English was divided into trimesters, each dedicated to a different literary genre: poetry, drama, and the novel. Mr. Epes, whose thick glasses, rumpled tweed jacket, and shaggy hair somehow gave him the look of an affable Labrador retriever, taught poetry. He loved American poets like Robert Frost and would smile after reading a poem aloud, as if sharing a private joke with the poet. Our drama teacher, Mr. Carr, often bounded into class late with the announcement “Good morning, boys, free write!” which meant we had to write on any topic of our choosing, continuously and without stopping, for five to ten minutes, or however long it took Mr. Carr to focus on what we were supposed to be studying that day. Mr. Carr liked to play the Beatles or Indian sitar music on an old record player while we wrote our free writes, which gives my memory of the class a vaguely psychedelic tinge.
Mr. Blain taught the novel. We all knew this would be the hardest part of fifth-form English. We would have to read more, for starters. A few days before the novel term began, I looked at the opening pages of the assigned William Faulkner novel, Light in August, and came away baffled. But I should have expected that. For summer reading, Mr. Blain had made us read Moby- Dick.
The first day of the novel class, fifteen of us filed in to Mr. Blain’s classroom. Like the other classrooms in Anderson Hall, this one had a blackboard on the wall behind the teacher’s desk, chairs with built-in desk tops, and tall windows on one wall. There were posters on the back wall that
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quoted Shakespeare, and various books scattered on the low bookshelves. But for some reason, that classroom felt different than the others. Serious things had happened here, would happen here.
Mr. Blain was tall and slim and wry, and he would often stand at the front of the room and lean back against his desk, arms folded comfortably across his stomach. He did this now as he told us about our assignment. “We’re going to study the Novel,” he said. “To do that, we’ll read a lot. But we’re going to do something different, as well.” He paused and smiled. “This trimester, you are going to write a novel.”
We were not sure we had heard correctly. Write a novel? We were going to write a novel? Ourselves?
That is exactly what we did. Fifteen students, fifteen chapters, one per student. Any topic, any plot, any writing style of our choosing. “Barring egregious and unnecessary profanity and pornography,” Mr. Blain added, which led to a few muffled groans. We made committees—Character, Plot, Setting. I was on the Plot committee, where I sensed the action was. This would be the group that would decide what happened, I thought. And I desperately wanted in. I wanted to decide what would happen. And this is why I volunteered to write the opening chapter.
The novel, such as it was, told the story of Trip, a senior lacrosse player at an all-boys boarding school. “Write what you know” was advice we all took. Nevertheless, we took creative license with this rule. Trip discovers there is a drug ring on campus, with various sleazeballs on the student body as distributors, the campus doctor as the supplier, and—gasp!—the assistant headmaster and disciplinarian as the chief. The novel, entitled Class Ring, did not become a bestseller or get reviewed by the New York Times. But it was a watershed moment for me as a writer. I think it was an important moment for everyone in that class. We would talk about the endless possibilities for our novel in class, on the way to practice, walking back to the dorms from dinner.
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We argued passionately about the fate of various minor characters. We wanted to show that our protagonist was not just a stereotypical popular jock, so we gave him a sidekick and accomplice, Walter, an unpopular nerd on scholarship who sorts tee shirts and socks in the school gym. Mr. Blain made comparisons to Don Quixote and Sancho Panza which flew right over our heads, but we beamed at his praise nonetheless. We were writing a Novel.
Now, over three decades later, you are holding in your hands the direct descendant of Mr. Blain’s experiment in my junior English class. Over the past several years I’ve had students write novels in small groups, each writing an installment within a specified time frame before passing it off to the next student. For my creative writing classes this year, I’ve asked my students to write their own individual projects over this past semester, whether it is a long narrative, a collection of short stories or poetry, a group of children’s books, or some other compilation of their creative writing. While one pair of students worked together on a long story, the rest of these projects are collections of individual student work. I would set a weekly check-in with a word count. My students rarely failed to meet this requirement. At times they exceeded it. And we’re not talking filler or junk here, either. These students are among the best English students our school had to offer, and their writing shows it.
More importantly, I feel, this assignment gave these students a license to practice storytelling and wordplay, skills not taught enough in high school. Neglecting the ability to tell a story is a tragic mistake. Everyone tells stories constantly, but not everyone is a good storyteller, and few people pay attention to how to write a story. Forget fiction for a minute—most people need to be able to write a story so that it is clear and understandable. All college-bound seniors are typically required to submit a personal essay to the college they wish to attend, and God help them if they can’t clearly communicate a series of events and their significance. Read a few hundred
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versions of a college application essay on “Why Being a Lifeguard Last Summer Was Important to Me” and you’ll know what I’m talking about.
As for wordplay, several students opted to write poetry. I’ve often joked that I’ve written around six poems in my life, which is probably seven too many. But poetry is a unique art form that requires students to be as precise and concise as possible, to value every single word and to imagine portraying old, familiar things in new ways—which is what the best poets do. Whether it is the simple pleasure of rhyme in a children’s book or a heart-stopping moment of realization and recognition upon reading a particularly apt metaphor, poetry is a condensed form of magic that works its spell on us as effectively as any story.
The collections these students wrote are as unique and different as they are, and I cannot tell you how proud I am of them. Their energy, imagination, and dedication to this project are all remarkable. You have in your hands the manifestation of these students’ dreams. As a teacher, I could not possibly ask for more, and I hope you will be pleased by what you read.
Carmen Deedy, our visiting storyteller in the Lower School, says narrative can be life-altering. It certainly has been for me; writing that novel in fifth-form English led me to creative writing courses in college, a handful of published short stories, a doctorate in English and creative writing, and two novels of my own, with a third due out this fall. I don’t know if any of these students will go on to write other creative works, though past students have done so. I do believe that none of these students will ever look at a novel or a poem in quite the same way he or she did a year ago, and I believe they all better appreciate the value of creativity and imagination, two vital parts of the human experience. In today’s résumé-driven world, where students are under pressure to achieve the highest grades, to attend the right universities, and to find the best-paying jobs, they need permission to explore their own sense of
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creativity, to engage their imaginations in constructive ways, to create something that is theirs.
To tell their stories.
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Christopher Swann May 2021
NOTE
This student work has been edited in only the most cursory fashion. I have attempted to standardize it in terms of font, pagination, and the like, and have made few, if any, corrections in spelling or grammar. As this is the work of these students, I wanted to alter it as little as possible and present it as wholly their story.
If you do notice any errors in this work, keep in mind the practice of carpet makers in the Middle and Far East, who deliberately weave a flaw into each rug to show God their understanding that, unlike Him, they cannot achieve perfection, only approach it.
Chapter I
Robbinsville, North Carolina 1979
A cigarette hanging from my lips, I fiddled with my steering wheel, waiting for the only stoplight in Robbinsville, North Carolina to turn green. Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” blared through the speakers of my jet-black 1961 Lincoln Continental convertible, drowning out the sound of the running engine. With each passing second my knee bounced in frustration, knowing I was already twenty minutes late for my weekly dinner with Este at Olive Garden.
“Let’s get a move on, Grandpa,” I hollered at the Pontiac ahead of me when the light finally changed. I laid on my horn and received a nasty glare from the crow-eyed driver in his rearview mirror.
I scoffed at the relic’s reaction, revving my engine and turning my music up, as if it could get any louder. Este’s disappointed pout appeared in my mind. She would scold me now if she saw how close I was trailing the bozo in front of me, but I had an urge to drown myself in a pile of unlimited breadsticks within the next three minutes.
Granted, I wouldn’t be in such a desperate need of said breadsticks if the new shady intern at the police station hadn’t swiped my leftovers from the staff refrigerator. I told Sheriff Reynolds that he shouldn’t have hired a kid straight out of high school with no prior experience and sticky fingers, but no one ever heeded the advice of the “blonde bimbo” who answered the phones and refilled the coffee pot. I should forget to pick up a box of donuts in the morning and see how well they function on an empty stomach. Plus, I’d kill to watch that acne-ridden intern twerp moan and groan without his precious Boston cream. On the other hand, I should take comfort in the fact that without my fax machine expertise and wicked organizational skills, they’d all be running around like hens with their heads cut off. Oh wait, my bad. I meant roosters. I was referring to the male of the species.
With a screech of my tires, I whipped into the Olive Garden parking lot, snagging a spot in the row closest to the front door. My stomach practically jumped for joy as the smell of garlic butter and the promise of a carb-induced coma wafted into my nostrils. Grabbing
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my leather purse from the passenger seat, I flung the car door open and dropped my cigarette, snuffing it with the heel of my boot. I knew I’d get an earful about lung cancer and rotten teeth once Este smelled the smoke on my breath, but my father refused to raise a quitter, and I wasn’t going to let the old man down now. In my opinion, Este’s disapproval of my cigarette smoking sounded a lot like the pot calling the kettle black. Somehow her occasional marijuana escapades weren’t deserving of the same criticism, but I guess she was entitled to a little fun after the crappy hand she’d been dealt in life.
Walking through the double-doors of Olive Garden, I scanned the crowd for a head of auburn hair, knowing Este, a normal person with adequate time management skills, would’ve arrived almost half an hour ago. Straining my eyes against the dim lighting, I spotted her slouched figure seated in a corner booth, her glass of water already half-empty as she scribbled away in her tattered, brown leather journal. I hated that journal. She never let me peruse its precious contents, and it was the one secret that actually existed between us. At one point, I thought it was Este keeping a tally of my screw-ups, but after a heart-to-heart with dear old Dad, I concluded that that assumption was just the narcissism talking. She was most likely filling the pages with whimsical doodles and watercolors. Lord knows those giant artistic gears in her little genius head never stopped churning.
As I approached Este from behind, I saw a perfect opportunity for a light-hearted scare. I rounded the corner and squeezed her bicep.
“Este Arthur Montgomery!” I screeched, causing her to jolt in her seat and toss her pencil in the air. Este whipped her head in my direction, her hand flying to her chest in a gesture I assumed was meant to calm her racing heart. As I slid into the booth seat opposite her, she shot me a look that said if murder wasn’t a crime, I’d already be six feet under.
“Louise May Hunt,” she muttered, shaking her head, “do you ever get tired of being the bane of my existence?”
“Oh, please. You’d be gray and arthritic at twenty-eight if I wasn’t here to keep you young.” I glanced down and noticed the mountain of breadsticks piled into a basket in the center of the table. I almost shed tears of joy at the sheer fluffiness of the rolls. I inhaled the sweet scent of garlic butter and imagined I was somewhere off the
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Amalfi coast, being wooed by an Italian businessman with a gigantic yacht (and bank account). Shoving a breadstick into my mouth with a satisfied sigh, I watched Este close her journal and slip it into her purse. When she moved to place her purse on the floor next to her feet, her pink sweater rose up her arm to reveal purple bruises around her wrist. The familiar sight of her discolored skin made my blood boil, knowing that her no-good-piece-of-shit husband was responsible for putting them there.
Este followed my line of vision to her arm and quickly covered the marks with a tug of her sleeve. She placed her hands in her lap, and judging by her tense body language, I realized that she wasn’t in the mood for my usual lecturing. She knew that I wanted her to leave Earl for the way he treated her, but my mild-mannered friend was never one for confrontation. Plus, I knew that if she wanted to maintain her current lifestyle painting and selling watercolors, she was in no position to divorce Earl and risk financial ruin.
Earl Montgomery, Este’s ball and chain, was a prosecutor at the prominent law firm in town. Este had met him while ago at college, back before his “winning” smile began to look like a cocky smirk. He was just finishing law school, and the prospect of settling down with a successful husband and a white picket fence looked appealing to Este, who had grown up with two deadbeat parents in a trailer park. Earl and Este’s union wasn’t cemented with love, but rather with mutual convenience: he needed a quiet housewife who would complete his image as a family man, and she needed deep pockets to fund her artistic career.
The bruises didn’t start showing up until about a year ago when Earl was overlooked for a position as senior partner. Apparently, dealing with frustrations in a mature way was too difficult for Earl. Instead, he preferred driving his fist into his innocent wife’s stomach when she accidentally burned the lasagna. Charming, right?
Like two estranged siblings, Earl and I never hid our mutual dislike of each other. According to Este, I was too outspoken and free-spirited for his taste. However, I had no problem informing her that he was too much of a chauvinistic pig for mine.
“I see that look, Louise,” Este said, bringing me back to the present conversation. She tucked an auburn curl behind her ear and
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briefly fiddled with the dainty pearl earring dangling off her lobe. “Let’s not ruin a perfectly good dinner by arguing. I know how you feel, and you know how I feel. Beating a dead horse won’t change anything. Let’s just get lost in a bottomless bottle of mediocre white wine.”
I was a little thrown by her decision to avoid the discussion so quickly. Our weekly visits always consisted of a few little spats, so I didn’t understand why she dismissed it so emphatically, but I was willing to put it aside for the evening. As an olive branch, I raised my hands in surrender and then opened my menu. Este did the same, and soon we became enthralled in a passionate conversation in which we critiqued President Jimmy Carter’s recent stylistic choices. She swore that cobalt blue brought out his eyes, while I attested that when he wore the color red, he resembled a creepier version of Mr. Rogers.
Forty-five minutes later, while Este casually sipped on a cappuccino, I dragged my spoon across an empty dessert place, wishing my tiramisu could magically reappear and I could devour it all over again.
“Louise, if you stare any longer at that plate, your eyes will shrivel up and fall out of your head,” Este said, her green eyes bright with amusement. She knew I had an insatiable sweet tooth and inhaled anything and everything involving chocolate. I was prone to post-dessert depression, and Este loved to tease me about it.
“Este, not everyone has self-control. How rude of you to invalidate my struggles and mock my pain.” I pointed my squeaky- clean spoon in her direction. “The least you could do is let me wallow in peace.” With that, I tossed my spoon onto my empty plate with a clatter and sat back with my arms folded across my chest.
“Stop being so dramatic,” Este said, laughing at my sour expression. “All good things must come to an end.”
“Oh please, Este. Get off your philosophical high horse and make yourself useful by pouring me some more wine.” I threw my napkin at her, which she dodged effortlessly.
Our juvenile behavior earned a disapproving glare from an elderly woman seated at a table to our left. The crinkle of her brow and purse of her lips told me that if she had it her way, we’d be dragged out of the restaurant by our ears like a couple kids who were caught snickering in church. Trust me, I’m no stranger to that look.
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Ready to tell this dinosaur to go back to the museum she escaped from, I drew in a breath and turned to face her.
However, before I could get a word in, Este exclaimed, “Louise! Would you look at that? Here comes our check!” Distracted, I watched as Este put her credit card back in her purse and scribbled her signature with haste, eager to get out of the restaurant and away from the woman as fast as possible before I caused a scene and got us both banned from the only Olive Garden in town. Getting up from the table, Este hooked her arm with mine and practically dragged me out of the booth, all while I stared daggers into the back of the woman’s head, burning an imaginary hole in the rat’s nest she called a bun.
As we exited the restaurant, side by side, I began to release Este’s arm, assuming that we would part ways as we always did after our weekly dinners. To my surprise, Este tightened her hold on my arm and began to steer us towards my car.
“Whatcha doin?” I asked.
“Let’s take Marilyn for a drive,” she replied, motioning toward my convertible that we had long ago named after the famous 1960s film star. Always up for an evening cruise, I agreed and hopped into the driver’s seat, starting up the engine and cranking up the tunes. Tom Petty’s raspy voice sang “Don’t Do Me Like That” through the speakers. Este crawled into the passenger seat and bobbed her head to the beat as I shifted into reverse and peeled out of the parking lot.
In the mood for a more scenic route, I turned left down Main Street, knowing all the attractions that Robbinsville had to offer were nestled along this road. The first strip mall we passed was home to the Graham Starr, our fascinating local newspaper headquarters, as well as Nail Wonder and the police station, which all sat across from Bojangles. Let’s just say our motel wasn’t exactly overflowing with tourists. The closest thing we had to a landmark was a poorly taxidermied bear that sat in the town hall and scared little children.
We then passed under the stoplight where I almost caused an accident earlier today and approached the gas station that only had two pumps. It didn’t look like much, but the attendant, Chuck, always gave me a deal on Marlboros if I complimented his toupée. Plus, it fed Marilyn, so I had no right to complain. Across the street, Grizzly’s Bar was brimming with people. Couples walked hand in hand from the parking lot to the front door, and a few stragglers leaned against the wall under the flickering neon sign, puffing on their cigarettes and
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chatting about everything from the fad surrounding leg warmers to who bagged the biggest deer in last week’s hunt.
I used to frequent Grizzly’s in my youth during my more rebellious phase, but I quickly outgrew the sticky bar counter, mediocre mixed drinks, and deafening clatter of pool balls as bored alpha males wagered their life savings on meaningless football games. If I went nowadays, it was solely for the people-watching or to pick up on the town’s latest gossip. There was nothing like alcohol to loosen the tongues of the locals. You could hear about everything, from the preacher gambling at the Cherokee Casino in the next town over to Margaret Davis’s overbaked lemon squares. Nothing in Robbinsville stayed hidden for long. We were all up close and personal with the skeletons in each other’s closets. Like the saying goes, it was a town where everybody truly knew everybody.
I turned left down Hickory Lane, narrowly avoiding a pothole, and cruised into a suburb where Este and I used to ride bikes around when we were younger. The cookie-cutter houses sat nestled together, bordered by lawns littered with abandoned toys. The street was quiet. I imagined Este and I as the only two people awake at this hour on a Tuesday night, but the occasional sight of an illuminated window reminded me that we were not alone in savoring these last few hours of the day.
When we reached the end of the street, I saw the dark brick building off to my right: Robbinsville High School, known to all alumni as the unofficial tenth circle of hell. It looked as gloomy and miserable as the day I passed through its double doors with my cap and gown. Our ten-year reunion was approaching in a couple months, and I knew I’d be dragged kicking and screaming by my bestie into that smelly gymnasium. Honestly, there was no point in attending that dreaded event, which would be crawling with people who peaked in high school and who were unable to let go of their “glory” days. Don’t even get me started on the overachievers, those hoity toities who must’ve forgotten that they wore headgear and cardigans to class. Personally, it would be my pleasure to knock those know-it-alls down a few pegs, but Este told me my tendency to act as the humility police was a sign that I needed therapy. And I was inclined to agree.
Este’s voice from the passenger seat pulled me from my pessimistic trudge down memory lane. “Hey Louise, look!” Este pointed toward the football field as we drove past the school’s athletic
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stadium. I followed her finger to a rusty section of bleachers that looked like it had stood since Robert E. Lee’s time as the commander of the Confederate troops.
“Pray tell, Este, what exactly is so fascinating about that ugly hunk of metal?”
“Oh, come on,” she whined, turning to look at me, her eyes twinkling like the stars overhead. “Don’t you remember how we first met?”
“Of course I do. We met in U.S. History. I copied your homework when you weren’t looking. Thanks for that by the way. Would’ve failed without those big brains of yours.” I drew my eyes away from the road to shoot a quick glance at Este. Her brows were furrowed in confusion. “What?” I asked.
“You pulling my leg? That’s not how we met.” She paused. “Wait, you copied my homework?”
“Oh yeah. Every chance I got. I slept through that class. Mr. Alwyn loved your work though. I always got comments that commended my impeccable skills at connecting the material to my own life.”
“Don’t you mean my life?” Este corrected, rolling her eyes in my direction and chuckling under her breath.
“Potato, potahto,” I said with a nonchalant wave. “Care to inform me on your version of our clandestine meeting? In hindsight, I have a feeling yours might be more accurate considering I was stoned most of high school.”
“I wanna ask how you managed to graduate, but I’m honestly afraid of the answer,” she said, and I offered a smug shrug. “Because your stoner brain has apparently scorched a few holes in your memory, I feel compelled to inform you that we in fact met directly under those bleachers that you so eloquently called an ‘ugly hunk of metal’. We were in gym class. And as a severe asthmatic, I was attempting to run the mile and failing miserably. When Coach Barnes wasn’t looking, I crept off to those bleachers to catch my breath and hopefully evaporate into thin air, but then my poor little lungs were assaulted by clouds of cigarette smoke–”
“Hey! That’s crazy! I used to smoke cigarettes during gym class!” I interjected.
Este deadpanned, “No shit, Sherlock. You were the idiot that almost killed me that day… How is this not ringing any bells? We
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literally talked for thirty minutes after I declined your offer to have a puff. I also distinctly remember you asking why I was such a prude– to which I politely replied I wasn’t a prude, just suffering from a defective respiratory system that could do without the lung cancer. We were joined at the hip after that conversation. Best friends. Inseparable… However, I’m thinking about putting an ad out for a new best friend since you apparently didn’t think meeting me was worth remembering–”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa… it’s coming back to me now. No need to be hasty or dramatic.” I placed a hand gently on her shoulder and met her gaze. “I could never forget you, Silly.”
Este simply crossed her arms and settled into the plush leather seat, shaking her hand in amusement, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. We drove for a little longer in a comfortable lull, listening to music and enjoying each other’s company. We didn’t get moments like these as often as we used to, so I didn’t want to burden it with unnecessary conversation. Instead, we relaxed into our familiarity and let Fleetwood Mac do the talking:
Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night And wouldn’t you love to love her?…
An hour later, I pulled into the almost empty Olive Garden parking lot to drop Este back off at her car. She gathered her purse and pink sweater and hopped out of Marilyn, turning to lean her arms on the door after it closed behind her. Her eyes scanned the planes of my face with a sudden urgency, as if trying to commit it to memory, like she it would be a while before she saw it again. Feeling uncomfortable under her intense gaze, I forced out a laugh, needing to ease the tension that had filled the space around us. “Same time next week?” I asked.
I saw an emotion flash across Este’s face, but it was gone before I could name it. Her lips curled into a smile, although it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You bet. Same time. Same place,” she said. After a pause, she added, “Don’t forget me in the meantime.” Even though I could tell she was trying to make a joke, something in her tone told me she had never been more serious.
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Chapter II
“Goddamnit!” I cried as I accidentally slammed my fingers in one of the drawers of the filing cabinet behind my desk.
I spun around in my rolling chair, cradling my injured digits with my other palm. I was cursed with a tendency to be clumsier than usual when rushed, and although it was only 9 a.m., my morning at work had been a far cry from uneventful. I was being ordered around like a dog by my nimrod co-workers, making coffee and filing paperwork non-stop, barely having time to make my typical, snappy remarks when person after person dumped unfinished work on my desk, expecting me to cross their t’s and dot their i’s, as well as wipe their asses.
Louise, can you fetch me a black coffee with two sugars? Louise, do you mind restocking the break room with paper towels?
Louise, can you run to the drugstore and pick up my prescription?
Louise, what would be a good anniversary gift for my wife?
Each mind-numbing question brought me one step closer to
wanting to break into the
evidence locker, steal a gun, and blow my head off. I wasn’t fond of being told what to do, especially when I knew I wasn’t the only one here with functioning brain cells. I said a silent prayer for the police officers’ pitiful wives, hoping they carried the dominant genes so we can have less fools roaming around.
Walking to the breakroom to get an ice pack for my bruised fingers, I stopped in my tracks when I heard a familiar, deep voice drifting from the sheriff’s office. It was Earl, Este’s husband.
“I already told you, Reynolds, I was on a hunting trip. That’s why I didn’t report her missing sooner. You can ask Charlie. He was with me.”
Her? I thought to myself. Who is missing? What is he talking about? I crept closer to the sheriff’s door, which was slightly ajar, making sure I couldn’t be seen eavesdropping by anyone inside.
“Okay, Earl, I believe you,” Sheriff Reynolds replied. “I’m just trying to get the facts straight. It’s all gotta go on the record, you
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see? I’ll have Deputy Harris draft a report and look into her disappearance. Don’t fret. We’ll find your wife, buddy. Give me a call if you remember anything that can help.”
The two men then emerged from the room, shaking hands in farewell. I quickly pretended to straighten a picture frame in an attempt to blend in with my surroundings and not draw attention to myself.
“We’re still on to grab a beer at Grizzly’s later, right?” Sheriff Reynolds asked, clapping Earl on the shoulder.
“You bet.”
As the two men left the hallway, my hands fell away from the frame. Shaken and confused by what I just heard, I stood frozen in place. Este’s missing? How could that be? I saw her only a few days ago at Olive Garden… I don’t remember her mentioning a trip, and I’d think she’d tell me if she were going out of town… Did she run away? Finally leave that scumbag of a husband? No, she’d tell me if she was going to do that. We were best friends. We never kept secrets from each other…
I took a deep breath to settle my nerves. I then remembered the aching pain coursing through my crushed fingers. I stepped toward the breakroom in search of some ice, but something in my periphery caught my attention.
Hanging on the wall a few paces from the sheriff’s office was a picture of Earl and Reynolds, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders and beers in hand. At the time the photograph was taken at an office party five years ago, Earl and Reynolds were in the midst of celebrating their successful collaboration as arresting officer and criminal prosecutor. That’s about the only detail I remember from the night, considering I had stashed a tequila flask in my bra that I had sipped dry in the first half hour of the festivities. It was a moment, I can recall with partial accuracy, that cemented their already- blossoming friendship.
I never really had a problem with Reynolds, but his choice of drinking buddy in Earl always rubbed me the wrong way. I know there’s a dark side to Earl, having seen the manifestations of his cruelty in the bruises on my best friend’s arm, so either Reynolds is completely oblivious to Earl’s true nature, or he condones it through apathy. Regardless, as a general rule, I keep any friend of Earl’s at an arm’s length, even if he is the one signing my paychecks.
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If Este was missing, she must’ve left clues as to where she went. Knowing Reynolds would never suspect Earl, I decided to use my lunch break to launch my own investigation because if I had to put money on who drove Este out of town, I would bet the whole $16.47 in my bank account that Earl was to blame. I felt it deep in my ovaries that that shady motherfucker had something to do with it. Even though I only fetched coffees and filed reports, I was much better at deductive reasoning than any of the men at the station. They wouldn’t know a piece of evidence unless it hog-tied them with rope and threw them in the back of a van. The only reason I was stuck behind the front desk was because I didn’t have a certain piece of anatomy hanging between my legs. Well, that, and I never really applied myself as much as my mother would’ve liked.
If Este was missing, she wouldn’t stay missing for long, at least not if Louise Hunt had anything to do about it.
When my lunch break rolled around, I hopped in Marilyn and drove to Este’s house, a two-story Colonial with white brick and pillars framing the front door. From the street, nothing about the house’s outward appearance suggested that any foul play had occurred. There were no shattered windows, no broken locks, no suspicious footprints in the mud around the rose brushes that lined the front of the house. Earl’s silver pickup truck was absent from its usual spot in the cobblestone driveway, giving me the go-ahead to continue my investigation inside.
As I made my way up the front stoop, I looked around for the small garden gnome Este kept near the welcome mat, knowing she always hid a spare key taped underneath its feet. Finding it near a potted plant, I turned it upside down and peeled the key from its tiny red boots, removing some of its paint in the process. I panicked for a moment, knowing Este would give me hell for vandalizing her precious gnome who she so lovingly dubbed Sir Chris Anthamum. However, I quickly brushed the worry aside because bigger things were at stake than Este’s garden accessories. Knowing time was of the essence, I plopped dear old Chris back into place, covered his chipped feet in soil, and then slotted the key into the lock.
With a click, the door swung open. I stepped inside and scanned the interior, looking for anything out of the ordinary. To my
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disappointment, everything looked the same as the last time I visited the Montgomery residence. Este’s watercolors of seaside landscapes decorated the walls in wooden frames. The coffee table in the center of the living room held several House & Garden magazines as well as a wilted bouquet of roses that were probably Earl’s sorry attempt at getting back into Este’s good graces after using her as a punching bag. I saw the emerald green loveseat in front of the TV where Este and I usually ate takeout and painted our nails when Earl went on business trips. I smiled at the embroidered pillow nestled in the cushion, thinking of the identical one that she gave me last Christmas that sits on my sofa back home. Apparently, friendship bracelets were too much of a cliche for Este, but matching pillows were perfectly acceptable.
Making my way into the kitchen, I immediately sifted through the pile of mail on the granite countertop. There were catalogs, electrical bills, a postcard from Earl’s parents who were vacationing in Florida, and an advertisement for hunting gear, but no clues as to where Este had gone. Beginning to doubt my investigative skills, I thought I would try my luck in the master bedroom. However, as I passed the trash can, I recalled a scene from one of the true crime television shows I watched every Thursday night in which the detective discovered a piece of evidence hidden in garbage. Oh what the hell, I thought. I’ve done more embarrassing stuff than this for a lot stupider reasons.
Rolling up the sleeves of my corduroy jacket, I opened the lid and plunged a somewhat reluctant arm into a mixture of food wrappers, beer bottles, and what felt like last week’s noodle casserole. I gagged at the mushy sensation, and vowed that if I ever saw Este again, I’d never let her forget the sacrifices I made on her behalf. She was going to have to pay for my meals at Olive Garden for a solid month before I could even consider us being even. I ruffled my hand around for a bit, eventually grabbing onto an object that felt a lot like a book. Pulling it out, I wiped my hand across the cover, trying to determine if it was of any importance. I found no words on the front, so I opened it up and was greeted by familiar handwriting. It was Este’s signature loopy cursive that had nearly made her homework impossible to copy. Este had scribbled notes across the calendars that filled the pages, and I realized that I must have been holding her recently discarded planner. I thumbed through its contents, but most
– 12 –
of what she had written was commonplace, including appointment reminders, grocery lists scrawled in the margins, and the information of buyers who had most recently purchased her paintings.
Deciding to keep the planner in case I had free time later to peruse it again, I went to shove in my leather purse, but my movement jostled something from the spine of the book, and I heard it clatter to the floor. I looked down, expecting a pen, but instead found a small brass key. I bent to retrieve it from the hardwood and noticed a numerical inscription in the key’s metal. Geez, I thought. When did Este develop a habit of leaving keys everywhere? And why was she hiding this key to a P.O. box in her planner? Was the P.O. box a secret from Earl? Why didn’t I know about it?
I pushed my questions out of my head for the time being, focusing on the need to find more clues and not how they all fit together just yet. I stuffed the key into the back pocket of my jeans and tucked the planner under my arm. Although these discoveries provided no clear-cut answers, I was encouraged by the simple fact that I’d found them in the first place. I glanced at the clock above the refrigerator, wondering how much time I’d already spent searching the house. I didn’t want to push my luck and risk the chance of running into Earl, nor did I want to face the wrath of Sheriff Reynolds for abusing my lunch break. Realizing I had just under thirty minutes before needing to return to the station, I turned toward the front door, ready to chase my first lead at the post office.
However, as I went to depart, my hip caught the corner of a small table positioned under the landline that was bolted to the wall. I knocked it askew and reached back to straighten it, fearing anything out of place would alert Earl to an unwanted guest. I then noticed that the Yellow Pages atop the crooked table was laying openface and lodged in the center crease was a folded piece of paper. My curiosity piqued, I unfolded the paper, recognizing it as a credit card statement. A hurried hand had circled the name of a motel and its charge in blue ink. I thought it a bit strange that this bill wasn’t resting on the kitchen counter with the rest of the mail, but I reasoned that perhaps Earl or Este had left it near the phonebook as a reminder to call the credit card company about a false charge, especially since I don’t remember Este mentioning either of them going out of town in the last month.
With a pen from my purse, I scribbled down the name of the motel in one of the blank pages in Este’s planner, hoping that it could
– 13 –
be another clue. One more glimpse of the clock told me I had better make a clean getaway, so I refolded the paper and shoved it back in the crease. Making sure everything was exactly how I found it, I walked down the hallway and out the front door, returning the spare key to the gnome before hopping in Marilyn and speeding off.
– 14 –
Chapter III
I arrived at the post office in record time, giving me about twenty minutes to pop in, locate the P.O. box, examine its contents, and hightail it back to the police station before my lunch break was up. I sent a silent prayer of thanks to the big man upstairs for the size of this microscopic town. The simple fact that I could traverse across town and back in just under seven minutes had never seemed like a blessing when I was a teenager, but I was thrilled about it now.
After swerving haphazardly into a handicap spot, I jerked the gear shift into park, turned off Marilyn’s ignition, and leaped out of the driver’s seat. Eager to chase down my first lead, I power walked to the post office’s glass front door, my heeled boots clacking against the black pavement. To the rhythm of my steps, I sang a melody under my breath, providing me with background music for the epic start to my heroine story…
These boots are made for walkin’
And that’s just what they’ll do
One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you
Whipping open the door of the post office, I was confronted with yellow linoleum flooring and the scent of cigarette smoke. I coughed, guessing that on slow days the clerk at the package counter didn’t have much to do other than puff his way through a pack of Marlboros. I gave the clerk, who was taping postage to a pile of letters, a silent nod in greeting and scuffled over to the back room which housed the wall of P.O. boxes. I cringed at the peeling, gray paint that coated the metal containers. Leave it to Este to choose the post office reeking of mildew as the perfect place to hide her treasures. I fished out Este’s key from my back pocket and continued to sing Nancy Sinatra’s masterpiece…
And you keep losing when you oughta not bet
You keep samin’ when you oughta be a’changin’ Now what’s right is right but you ain’t been right yet
Looking down at the key, I brushed the pad of my thumb over the numerical engraving upon its face. 13. Oh, Este, I thought. You
– 15 –
smooth, sentimental son of a bitch. Our lucky number. Or rather the exact sum of tequila shots we downed together one night during a New Years’ party, which concluded with an unfortunate trip to the emergency room. Turned out that Este wasn’t the Dancing Queen she thought she was. One wrong twirl, and she was plummeting off the bar counter, taking me with her like a fallen domino. We landed in a heap on the ground in a tangled mess of limbs, laughing our asses off while blood dripped from a gash on Este’s elbow and a similar one on my knee. Who knew 13 tequila shots would lead to 13 stitches in a hospital room. When the sun came up the next morning, let’s just say our mutual pain exceeded the usual discomfort that came with a gnarly hangover. Plus, I suffered twice over since Este chastised me about being a bad influence even though she, the married one, was flirting the entire night with the bartender at Grizzly’s to secure copious amounts of Patrón Silver.
I inserted the key into the corresponding box and pulled the small, metal door open. Finding only one white envelope inside instead of something really cool, like a severed human hand, I was underwhelmed with the contents. I guessed the first installment of my epic heroine story would have to be rated PG. I held out hope that the sequel would leave the audience quivering in fear.
“Need any help, miss?”
I jumped, spinning on my heels to see that the musty clerk had snuck up behind me. A mailbag was hanging across his body, and I assumed he was interrupting my serious investigation to deposit some dispatch into the other boxes.
“Oh… um… yeah. You got the time?” I replied. He glanced at his wristwatch. “Ten til one.”
“Shit!” I exclaimed.
“Pardon me?” he stuttered, eyes wide.
“No not you. I’m late.” I whipped back around to grab the
letter from Este’s P.O. box and shoved them into my purse. I slammed the box shut, locked it closed, and hustled past the stunned clerk who was frozen stiff. Clearly my potty mouth and dazzling good looks had sent him into shock. Poor fellow. I scurried out of the building and over to Marilyn, leaping over the driver’s side door. I threw my purse to the passenger side after retrieving my car keys. I slotted them into the ignition, flicked on the radio, and zipped out of the parking lot.
– 16 –
Flying down main street toward the station, I patted Marilyn on the dash.
“Come on, baby. Let’s see some speed. I can’t afford to get fired, and if I do, you’re on your own for gas money.”
Hours later, as I sat at my desk during the usual afternoon lull, I couldn’t help but think about the letter burning a hole in my purse. I had made it back to work in the nick of time, narrowly avoiding a reprimand from Reynolds as he was occupied with the pool table in the breakroom and couldn’t be bothered to notice that I was absent from my desk for the majority of lunch.
Now, my fingers were itching to open it up and uncover what secrets Este was hiding. I took a quick glance around the room, making sure everyone was too preoccupied with their own business to notice my activities. I slid my hand down to grab the letter, bringing it up to my desk. My eyes scanned the return address in the upper left corner of the envelope: Mr. Max Austin from Newport, Rhode Island. Interesting… I didn’t recognize the name.
My index finger broke the seal of the envelope, and I unfolded the piece of paper that was inside.
August 7th, 1979
Dear Mrs. Montgomery,
I am writing to inform you that all of the necessary legal documents pertaining to your inheritance have been processed in full. The bank you mentioned in our last correspondence has been approved by our firm, and they are expecting a wire transfer of $1,500,000.00 to your personal account. If you have any more questions regarding the Last Will and Testament of your deceased grandmother, Marjorie T. S. Arthur, please do not hesitate to contact our office. Despite the unfortunate circumstances of your relative’s passing, it was a pleasure to advise you in handling these legal matters.
Once again, my condolences to you and your family, and thank you for eliciting the support of Austin & Weimen.
Best regards, Max Austin
– 17 –
Austin & Weiman Legal Counsel Newport, Rhode Island
My head was spinning, and my knuckles were white from how hard I was gripping the paper in my hands. I felt breathless. Shocked. Out of all the wild circumstances I had dreamt up surrounding the letters, I never once considered the possibility of Este becoming a millionaire. I set the letter down on the table, backing up in my chair, and running my hands up and down my thighs, trying to release some nervous energy. When that failed to calm my racing heart, I stood up and began to pace behind my desk. I didn’t care if my coworkers thought I looked like a paranoid psychopath who just escaped the loony bin. I was more concerned with trying to reel in my thoughts.
How could Este keep something this monumental from me? I mean, who the hell was Marjorie? Este never told me she had loaded relatives sipping long island iced teas on New England beaches somewhere. And she definitely never mentioned one of them kicking the can and leaving her a fortune. Este grew up in a trailer park for heaven’s sakes! Where were these fat cats then?
Is this why Este ran off? Did she decide to take her money and get the hell out of Robbinsville? Forgetting to inform her best friend? I know the old horror story of people winning the lottery and suddenly their friends turn into moochers, but I would’ve only asked for like one trip to France. All expenses included, of course.
My God. $1.5 million dollars. That could buy a lot of Marlboros. Earl would’ve lost his shit. Wait a minute…Earl!
I snapped my fingers as my feet abruptly stopped their pacing. If I were in a cartoon, a big bright lightbulb would be flashing hysterically above my head. I almost scoffed at how I didn’t see it before.
That slimy little leech would’ve never let Este keep a dime. No wonder she never said anything… I wouldn’t trust my big mouth with a secret that gigantic either. If I had in my possession even an ounce of scandalous information, it wouldn’t be out of character for me to spill the beans to an absolute stranger. Este always chastised me for having looser lips than the patrons at Grizzly’s when it came to juicy gossip, but there were so little vices in this town to keep me entertained. I am only human. At least I’m self-aware.
– 18 –
Now that I knew that Este was keeping certain parts of her life under wraps, I decided to revisit her planner. I plopped down at my desk and rummaged through my purse to find the stupid thing I’d fished through a garbage can to retrieve. Maybe Este was trying to dispose of it because she was hiding more details about the inheritance that she didn’t want Earl to discover.
Placing the planner on my desk, I flipped aggressively through its pages. My eyes scanned the section dedicated to weekly notes from the past few months, and I noticed a recurring appointment that started in July. Beneath Wednesday, July 19th, Este had scribbled Appt. 3:30pm, 89 Cornelia St., Dr. Abigail Anderson. A single doctor’s appointment wouldn’t strike me odd, but consecutive doctor’s appointments at the same address over several months seemed more than fishy. I also couldn’t recall a time recently where Este appeared ill or even mentioned needing to see a physician during our dinners at Olive Garden. I moved to stand and make my way over to the large map of the town to locate where Este’s doctor was practicing, but a hand slapping the front desk counter stopped me in my tracks.
My gaze leapt up to meet the figure who was rudely interrupting my detective work. Sheriff Reynolds leaned casually against the counter on his elbow, his face twisted in a grin that resembled that face most dads make before they unleash the world’s worst attempt at a joke.
“Burning the midnight oil, Louise? You don’t strike me as a workaholic,” he said.
“And you don’t strike me as a comedian, Reynolds, so I guess we’re both full of surprises,” I deadpanned. He faltered at my expression, chuckling awkwardly. He then cleared his throat.
“Whatcha reading there?” He asked, pointing to Este’s open planner on my desk. I evaded his gaze, my mind racing to conjure up a casual response that would shift his attention elsewhere. My left hand brushed the planner closed, and I propped my elbow up next to the book, resting my chin in my other hand.
“I was just going over our expenses from last year,” I said. “You might want to think about reducing the number of your extended family members on our payroll in the future. Nepotism isn’t cheap, you know.” I cocked an eyebrow in his direction, my gaze piercing. His cheeks reddened at my accusation, but a stern crinkle
– 19 –
soon appeared in his forehead, and I momentarily held my breath, thinking I might have crossed a line.
“Alright, Louise, settle down. I pay for your organizational skills, not your opinion on how this station should run. Let’s be honest, if your pop wasn’t an old pal of mine, your job application probably wouldn’t have even crossed my desk, so I’d say nepotism has done more than enough for you.” He rapped his knuckles on the counter, obviously proud he got the last word. “Make sure you lock up when you leave.” He strolled past my desk and toward the double glass doors of the police station. When he met the brisk summer air outside, he lit a cigarette, and I watched the glow fade out of sight as he walked toward his car.
My own nerves were craving nicotine, the adrenaline I’d felt before my conversation with Reynolds had long left my system. I was tired and desperately in need of a bubble bath and an overflowing pitcher of red wine. Sitting in the silence of the police station, I wanted nothing more than to pick up the phone and hear the voice of my best friend. Her wise words and quiet laughter always cheered me up. I felt a gaping hole in my chest with her absence, like someone had carved out a piece of my heart, leaving me wounded without remedy. The profound urge to find her washed over me again, and my eyes settled on the planner once more.
“Where the hell are you, Este?” I huffed frustratedly. “You’ve become a bigger pain-in-the-ass than yours truly.”
Pushing away from my desk, I stood up to make my way over to the town map in the lobby, remembering suddenly the address I’d found in Este’s planner before Reynold’s rude interruption.
The map spanned the entire surface of the wall, illustrating the “far” reaches of our town’s county. My eyes gazed over the tiny, criss-crossing red lines on the map which stood for streets, and after skimming quickly for a few moments, I found Cornelia Street at the bottom left corner of the map, bordering the next county over. I sped over to an officer’s desk nearest to the map and searched for a Sticky Note and pencil. Of course, Officer Nick Lance never kept a neat space, and his desk resembled the aftermath of a recently detonated landmine. Papers were strewn across the desk, and I had to maneuver around fast-food containers and a weird collection of celebrity baseball player bobblehead figures before I could locate a writing utensil.
– 20 –
“Honestly, Nick, I don’t have time to be searching elbow-deep in your shit,” I muttered. Grasping my writing materials, I paced back to the map and haphazardly scribbled down directions to the address on Cornelia Street, holding up my hands in the shape of “Ls” so as to not confuse my right from my left. Realizing that the sun was setting low and that many places in town would be closing up shop, I decided to tuck the Sticky Note with my directions into my bra for safekeeping as well as make plans to follow my new lead in the morning. With a sense of hope blossoming in my chest at the possibility of discovering another clue that would bring me one step closer to Este, I scurried back over to my desk to collect my belongings and Este’s planner. As I exited the police station, Nancy Sinatra’s voice echoed in my head. I found myself whispering her melody under my breath as I climbed into Marilyn.
You keep playin’ where you shouldn’t be playin’
And you keep thinkin’ that you’ll never get burnt (ha) I just found me a brand new box of matches (yeah) And what he knows you ain’t had time to learn
Speeding out of the parking lot, I chuckled to myself, thinking it ironic how applicable her lyrics were to my situation. I’d wreak havoc on this town, unafraid to start a few fires, if it meant Este would emerge from the ashes.
– 21 –
Chapter IV
As I reached for my third donut from the box of a dozen on Marilyn’s passenger seat, I swerved briefly into oncoming traffic, but corrected myself after receiving a blaring horn from a passing car.
“Yeah, yeah I hear you loud and clear, “ I hollered in its direction. “It’s eight in the morning, Bozo, and you’re lucky I’m just tired and not hangry, or else I’d put your nice Cadillac into the scrapyard.” I felt my foot press harder into the gas pedal. I was impatient to get to Cornelia Street. I had tossed and turned all night long, my mind running wild with possibilities of what I’d find when I arrived. What if Este was going to this doctor because she was seriously ill? Was it something terminal? Cancerous? Was she now at a facility somewhere getting treatment? Did she not tell me about the doctor to spare me from some heartbreaking truth?
My hands were sweating as they gripped the steering wheel. I wiped them on my black trousers, realizing halfway through my actions that I’d just smeared powdered sugar into my new pair of pants. For heaven’s sakes! This day better improve before I drive Marilyn off a cliff and meet an untimely demise.
Pulling into 89 Cornelia Street, I am confronted with what looked like an typical office suite built in the late fifties. The building was compact and cubic, constructed out of brick, and multiple stories high. After parking and rummaging around Marilyn to find Este’s planner, which had tumbled gracefully onto the floorboard of the passenger seat after a hard turn into the lot, I flipped through the planner’s pages to remind myself of the doctor’s name. Dr. Abigail Anderson, got it! I climbed out of the car and paced toward the building’s doors.
The building’s lobby was primarily lit by the light coming through the large windows along the walls. There was a softness to the room, and I felt welcomed by the leather chairs cloistered in the far corner as well as drawn by the coffee pot sitting on a table along the wall to my right. I spotted the building’s directory near the elevator to my left, and I made a beeline for it. I scanned the list, and almost wept in relief that it was ordered alphabetically. Abigail Anderson’s name was printed at the top. However, my heart almost dropped out of my ass when I saw the name of the practice listed underneath Dr. Anderson’s name.
– 22 –
Dr. Abigail Anderson M.D. Gynecology and Obstetrics
I must’ve looked like an idiot standing there, staring at the sign, my jaw on the floor and my eyes bugging out of my head.
Pregnant.
Este was pregnant.
My best friend was knocked up.
Holy shit. I needed a cigarette. I thought Este took precautions to avoid this particular situation considering she didn’t want to bring a life into a world where its father was severely troubled in his ways of expressing “love”. But the more that I thought about it, the pieces of Este’s disappearance started to come together like a puzzle in my mind’s eye. What if the baby is the reason she skipped town? There was no way in hell Este would’ve told Earl. Was she going to raise the baby on her own? Goddamnit Este! Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped! My heart twisted in my chest. I felt my breathing pick up. Did she not want my help? Did she think that, because I didn’t possess a single motherly instinct myself, that I wouldn’t be understanding or considerate? Was it my aversion to authority that made her think I’d be a bad influence? My bad habit of smoking? She had to know that I loved her and would’ve loved her kid enough to give all that up.
I took an unsteady step toward the door. I had found what I came for. I didn’t see a point in interviewing the doctor, pressing her for answers, when I knew doctor-patient confidentiality existed and was almost impossible to breach. I felt like I was moving in slow motion. I barely registered getting into Marilyn and driving home. I skipped work, and believe it or not, I skipped lunch and dinner, too. I didn’t know how to process this. I was lost on how to proceed. I felt like I had been dropped in the middle of the ocean with nothing on the horizon but the endless stretch of blue. My best friend was out God knows where, alone and pregnant, and as much as I wanted to drop everything and help her, I wasn’t sure if she even wanted my help.
Then again, the sting of betrayal, sharp and bitter, twisted in my gut. I wanted to be sympathetic, but the anger of being kept in the dark unfurled in my chest. Este and I had been through so much together over the years: finding comfort in each other’s arms after I
– 23 –
had a screaming match with my mother or when her parents got a divorce, me covering up her bruises when Earl first lashed out with a right hook to her cheek, her bringing me ice cream when my childhood dog, Skip, died. Hot tears pooled in my eyes over the fact that in abandoning Earl, Este also chose to desert me.
No, I refused to let the tears fall. I was going to find Este, whether she wanted me to or not. As her best friend, I was entitled to an explanation, and I wanted to hear it tumble from her lips. She was naiver than I thought if she believed I would just let her vanish without a trace and not put up a fight to get her back.
I was going to find Este Montgomery even if it was the last thing I did.
– 24 –