sweatsuit. “Julian took Grandma and Grandpa to the airport.He’s taking our tuxes back, too. I was just about to start putting the food in the walk-in, the way Julian told me. Where’s Tom? How come your clothes are so messy? Where’d you get that blanket thing?”
“Oh, hon. It’s a long story.” I begged off immediate explanations by announcing I would take a shower while he put the platters away. Wearily, I climbed the stairs. Every muscle in my body ached. In the bedroom that Tom had begun only recently to share with me, I stood in front of the mirror and gazed at the ruined beige silk outfit.
A middle-aged Miss Haversham,
my reflection mocked back. A flood of anger sent my fingers ripping at the tiny pearl buttons. Two flew off and
pinged
on the wooden floor. A half-formed sob squawked out of my throat. I carefully removed the churchwomen’s necklace.
I don’t deserve this,
I reflected bitterly. Selfish to worry about what I didn’t deserve, but I didn’t care. Tears leaked out of my eyes as I groped around on my knees until I found the buttons. I
have suffered enough already. Hey, God? Did you hear me? If you’re really there.
After placing the buttons on my bureau, I reached for Tom’s pillow on the bed, then buried my face in it. I sobbed and gasped, then inhaled deeply. Even though he’d spent the last few nights at his cabin, the pillowcase had the wonderful smell of him.
In the shower the spray went to scalding as I rocked back and forth, back and forth. Eventually I wrapped myself in a thick terrycloth towel and sat on the bed, dizzy and exhausted. I rose and pulled on a sweatsuit. Again I caught a glimpse of my wan reflection. What to say to Arch? To Julian? I didn’t even know what I was going to say to myself.
In the kitchen the counters were empty except for a tray of marzipan-covered petit fours and chocolate truffles that had been meant to be take-home presents for our wedding guests. I asked Arch if anybody had called. He said no and went back to methodically pulling off the wrapping and then eating truffles, one small bite at a time. I hugged myself and began to rock again. Arch stopped in midbite, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses.
“What’s going on, Mom?”
“Oh, Arch … I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“Father Olson. I heard.”
“No. This is about Tom.” Arch was one of the people who had to know. I braced myself, then flatly recounted the bare outlines of the story: Tom finding the mortally injured priest and then apparently being hurt and forcefully taken.
As I spoke, my son’s freckled face went numb with shock. When I’d finished, he sat motionless for a long time, then, carefully, he put the half-eaten truffle back on the paper napkin embossed with
Tom and Goldy, April 11.
He pushed his glasses up his nose and clasped his hands under his armpits.
“Tom Schulz was kidnapped?”
“They think so.”
“They’re going to find him, aren’t they?”
There was no point in equivocating. I
hope so,
or
The police are working on it
would only lead to a tangle of unanswerable questions and a flood of worries. There was no reason to voice the unwanted fears that chilled my spirit the way winter winds howl down the mountains. I saw myself picking out a plain coffin for Tom Schulz. In a few short years, Arch would go off to college. I would live out my days alone.
“Yes,” I told my son firmly, with more conviction than I felt. “They will find him.”
Arch started to sweep the kitchen floor, an order-restoring chore he often undertook when his outer life was in chaos. My stomach said I should eat, but one glance inside the walk-in refrigerator at the platters of beautifully decorated reception food made me turn away. Would whoever abducted Tom feed him? I paced around the kitchen, felt the gnawing in my stomach develop into spasms, willed the pains away. Arch finished the floor, took out his drawing materials, and sat at the kitchen table. He knew I would
“Oh, hon. It’s a long story.” I begged off immediate explanations by announcing I would take a shower while he put the platters away. Wearily, I climbed the stairs. Every muscle in my body ached. In the bedroom that Tom had begun only recently to share with me, I stood in front of the mirror and gazed at the ruined beige silk outfit.
A middle-aged Miss Haversham,
my reflection mocked back. A flood of anger sent my fingers ripping at the tiny pearl buttons. Two flew off and
pinged
on the wooden floor. A half-formed sob squawked out of my throat. I carefully removed the churchwomen’s necklace.
I don’t deserve this,
I reflected bitterly. Selfish to worry about what I didn’t deserve, but I didn’t care. Tears leaked out of my eyes as I groped around on my knees until I found the buttons. I
have suffered enough already. Hey, God? Did you hear me? If you’re really there.
After placing the buttons on my bureau, I reached for Tom’s pillow on the bed, then buried my face in it. I sobbed and gasped, then inhaled deeply. Even though he’d spent the last few nights at his cabin, the pillowcase had the wonderful smell of him.
In the shower the spray went to scalding as I rocked back and forth, back and forth. Eventually I wrapped myself in a thick terrycloth towel and sat on the bed, dizzy and exhausted. I rose and pulled on a sweatsuit. Again I caught a glimpse of my wan reflection. What to say to Arch? To Julian? I didn’t even know what I was going to say to myself.
In the kitchen the counters were empty except for a tray of marzipan-covered petit fours and chocolate truffles that had been meant to be take-home presents for our wedding guests. I asked Arch if anybody had called. He said no and went back to methodically pulling off the wrapping and then eating truffles, one small bite at a time. I hugged myself and began to rock again. Arch stopped in midbite, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses.
“What’s going on, Mom?”
“Oh, Arch … I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“Father Olson. I heard.”
“No. This is about Tom.” Arch was one of the people who had to know. I braced myself, then flatly recounted the bare outlines of the story: Tom finding the mortally injured priest and then apparently being hurt and forcefully taken.
As I spoke, my son’s freckled face went numb with shock. When I’d finished, he sat motionless for a long time, then, carefully, he put the half-eaten truffle back on the paper napkin embossed with
Tom and Goldy, April 11.
He pushed his glasses up his nose and clasped his hands under his armpits.
“Tom Schulz was kidnapped?”
“They think so.”
“They’re going to find him, aren’t they?”
There was no point in equivocating. I
hope so,
or
The police are working on it
would only lead to a tangle of unanswerable questions and a flood of worries. There was no reason to voice the unwanted fears that chilled my spirit the way winter winds howl down the mountains. I saw myself picking out a plain coffin for Tom Schulz. In a few short years, Arch would go off to college. I would live out my days alone.
“Yes,” I told my son firmly, with more conviction than I felt. “They will find him.”
Arch started to sweep the kitchen floor, an order-restoring chore he often undertook when his outer life was in chaos. My stomach said I should eat, but one glance inside the walk-in refrigerator at the platters of beautifully decorated reception food made me turn away. Would whoever abducted Tom feed him? I paced around the kitchen, felt the gnawing in my stomach develop into spasms, willed the pains away. Arch finished the floor, took out his drawing materials, and sat at the kitchen table. He knew I would
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