what makes her inch the door open, make way for him to step inside.
“You want a beer?”
“Sure.” He follows her into the kitchen, sits down on one of the red wooden chairs, looking huge and out of place. Brenda pulls two beers from the fridge, hands him one. “Thanks.” He pops the tab and takes a long swallow, his eyes traveling the cramped kitchen, taking in the dingy rose wallpaper, grease-stained beside the stove and sink, peeling at the ceiling. An ancient microwave the size of a small refrigerator sits on a preassembled cart. The room is stuffed with Thomas Kincaid decorator plates lining the wall in random regard, their shiny, hand-painted beacons making a feeble attempt to brighten the kitchen. There are cookbooks, thick and thin, a roll-out dishwasher connected to a black hose, a chipped stove and matching refrigerator with a door handle wrapped in silver electrical tape. In the center of the tan-flecked counter top is a stainless steel coffee pot, the kind with the built-in thermos. Big. Expensive. And beside it is a framed picture of Brenda, her arms wrapped around a man. A man who looks a hell of a lot like Les.
Rupe jerks his eyes away. Brenda is watching him, daring him to open his mouth and say something that will challenge what he’s just seen. You think he doesn’t care? He can almost hear her nasal twang. You don’t know anything. He might be married to her, but he’ll always come back to me.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubs his neck again. “I came home and she wasn’t there. I thought she was at the grocery store or maybe my mother’s. I called, I went, I checked the side streets, the back roads, looked for tracks where the wagon might have gone in a ditch.” He shakes his head. “Nothing. Not a damn thing. Last person who saw her was Bud Bell at Furmano’s; said she was in there around 1:30 or so.”
“Maybe she’s just taking a little breather,” Brenda says. “You know, we all need little breathers now and then.”
“A breather? From what?”
She sinks into the chair across from him, wraps her long red nails around the can. “You know.” She lifts a shoulder, shrugs. “Everything. Life.”
What the hell is she talking about? “Evie doesn’t need a breather. She’s fine.”
“Okay, she’s fine.” She lifts the can to her lips, takes a sip.
He slumps forward, stares at his hands. “I don’t know where the hell she is. I drove all around town and into Checkering and Pikeston, looking for her wagon, but there was no sign of it.”
“She’ll be back, Rupe. Evie isn’t going anywhere.” Her voice is soft, drifting to him. “We all know that. Evie isn’t going anywhere.”
Chapter 8
It has been fifty-two hours and they still haven’t found her. Detective Olnowski came to the house yesterday morning and filled out a Missing Person’s report and took down all the necessary information to post a five-county search.
Quinn is lying flat out on his bed, stomach down, head buried between his arms. He tries to lose himself in his music, but even the Rolling Stones can’t blot out images of his mother, first quiet glances of her doing ordinary things: washing dishes at the kitchen sink, smiling at him over her canvas as he paints next to her, waving good-bye on her way to the grocery store. Simple snapshots. Normal life. And then the other visions intrude, the ones of her slashed and bloodied, dumped in a ditch, clothes ripped, body violated. He pushes them from his mind, wills them away, but they return, over and over, first in sleeping hours and now, during waking times.
He tries to remember the last time he saw her, tries to pull out the details but already they are fading. Was she wearing a red shirt that morning or orange? She had on a jean skirt, of this he is certain. He can picture her at the kitchen sink rinsing syrup off the dishes. She made them all French toast that morning but he slept in and only had time for a quick gulp of orange
“You want a beer?”
“Sure.” He follows her into the kitchen, sits down on one of the red wooden chairs, looking huge and out of place. Brenda pulls two beers from the fridge, hands him one. “Thanks.” He pops the tab and takes a long swallow, his eyes traveling the cramped kitchen, taking in the dingy rose wallpaper, grease-stained beside the stove and sink, peeling at the ceiling. An ancient microwave the size of a small refrigerator sits on a preassembled cart. The room is stuffed with Thomas Kincaid decorator plates lining the wall in random regard, their shiny, hand-painted beacons making a feeble attempt to brighten the kitchen. There are cookbooks, thick and thin, a roll-out dishwasher connected to a black hose, a chipped stove and matching refrigerator with a door handle wrapped in silver electrical tape. In the center of the tan-flecked counter top is a stainless steel coffee pot, the kind with the built-in thermos. Big. Expensive. And beside it is a framed picture of Brenda, her arms wrapped around a man. A man who looks a hell of a lot like Les.
Rupe jerks his eyes away. Brenda is watching him, daring him to open his mouth and say something that will challenge what he’s just seen. You think he doesn’t care? He can almost hear her nasal twang. You don’t know anything. He might be married to her, but he’ll always come back to me.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubs his neck again. “I came home and she wasn’t there. I thought she was at the grocery store or maybe my mother’s. I called, I went, I checked the side streets, the back roads, looked for tracks where the wagon might have gone in a ditch.” He shakes his head. “Nothing. Not a damn thing. Last person who saw her was Bud Bell at Furmano’s; said she was in there around 1:30 or so.”
“Maybe she’s just taking a little breather,” Brenda says. “You know, we all need little breathers now and then.”
“A breather? From what?”
She sinks into the chair across from him, wraps her long red nails around the can. “You know.” She lifts a shoulder, shrugs. “Everything. Life.”
What the hell is she talking about? “Evie doesn’t need a breather. She’s fine.”
“Okay, she’s fine.” She lifts the can to her lips, takes a sip.
He slumps forward, stares at his hands. “I don’t know where the hell she is. I drove all around town and into Checkering and Pikeston, looking for her wagon, but there was no sign of it.”
“She’ll be back, Rupe. Evie isn’t going anywhere.” Her voice is soft, drifting to him. “We all know that. Evie isn’t going anywhere.”
Chapter 8
It has been fifty-two hours and they still haven’t found her. Detective Olnowski came to the house yesterday morning and filled out a Missing Person’s report and took down all the necessary information to post a five-county search.
Quinn is lying flat out on his bed, stomach down, head buried between his arms. He tries to lose himself in his music, but even the Rolling Stones can’t blot out images of his mother, first quiet glances of her doing ordinary things: washing dishes at the kitchen sink, smiling at him over her canvas as he paints next to her, waving good-bye on her way to the grocery store. Simple snapshots. Normal life. And then the other visions intrude, the ones of her slashed and bloodied, dumped in a ditch, clothes ripped, body violated. He pushes them from his mind, wills them away, but they return, over and over, first in sleeping hours and now, during waking times.
He tries to remember the last time he saw her, tries to pull out the details but already they are fading. Was she wearing a red shirt that morning or orange? She had on a jean skirt, of this he is certain. He can picture her at the kitchen sink rinsing syrup off the dishes. She made them all French toast that morning but he slept in and only had time for a quick gulp of orange
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