When Did We Lose Harriet? Part 11

The woman who came to the door was probably forty-five years old and forty-five pounds overweight. She must have just come home from work and started to get comfortable, because her brown hair was still neatly tied at the nape of her neck with a smart navy bow and her eyes were still ringed with mascara, but she was barefoot, bare legged, and wearing a zip-front, sleeveless cotton shift in peach and peac.o.c.k blue.

She waited for us to speak first. Mac obliged. "Ms. Crawley? I'm MacLaren Yarbrough and this is Josheba Davidson. We're trying to find Harriet Lawson."

The woman stepped back and started to shut the door. "You have the wrong address. Harriet lives with William and Dixie Sykes, out in McGehee Estates."

"I've spoken with them." Mac put one hand on the door to ask her nicely not to shut it in our faces. "They said she left home several weeks ago, and they aren't sure where she is."

Eunice Crawley looked at her blankly for a second, then shook her head. "I haven't seen Harriet for some time now."

"We're getting worried about her," I told her frankly.

Eunice hesitated a second, then seemed to come to some decision. "Well, why don't you all come in? It's too hot to stand out here, and I've just made a fresh pitcher of tea."

Some people have closets as big as Eunice's living room, but most closets don't have white walls, white woodwork, a white carpet, white blinds (pulled down), and white lace valances. Even the slipcovers on the love seat and fat armchair were white. A beveled gla.s.s coffee table sat like an iceberg on bra.s.s legs, and instead of pictures there were three mirrors in white frames. The woman didn't even have colored knickknacks on her mantle piece. She had gla.s.s candlesticks with white candles. Vanilla candles. I could smell them from the door.

The only color in the whole room was provided by a big blue and white needlepoint pillow showing a polar bear, propped in the middle of the love seat, and a soft gray Persian crouched on one end.

Eunice looked around her room with pride. "White makes everything seem bigger and cooler, don't it?" Her air conditioner was doing its fair share, too. I felt like I'd blundered into a refrigerator. "Sit down and let me get you some tea. You! Clear off that sofa!"

For one startled moment, I thought she was talking to us, but the cat stretched like he was bored to death, rose, and stalked out, tail a-plume. "Sit down, now. Sit down!" Our hostess patted the air with one plump hand to show that the last command was for us, then bustled into her kitchen without waiting to see if we obeyed.

Mac chose the love seat, disregarding the very good chance that her navy pantsuit would get covered with cat hair. I perched on the front of the armchair.

"Like I said before, I haven't seen Harriet in a c.o.o.n's age," Eunice called breathlessly from the kitchen, "but she used to be in and out of this house all the time. She's just like my own, practically."

"Have you seen her since school was out?" Mac called back.

"No, not since her granny's funeral the end of April."

The cat came back, brushed against my leg, and stayed to lean, purring. I reached down and scratched him between the ears. Eunice returned with a tray. "Why don't you all come in to the dining room where we can be more comfortable?"

We obeyed, although four chairs, a table, a small corner hutch, and a life-sized picture of Hank Williams filled the room without us. Eunice spread a white cloth over the table, then went back for a tray with wavy green gla.s.ses of iced tea and a clear bowl of freshly cut lemon. "You like Hank?" she asked, handing out white paper napkins. "He's my love. I go up to the cemetery once in a while to talk to him. Now just let me get the cookies." She spoke in the breathless voice of an overweight woman who has hurried. I felt a catch in my throat. Mama used to sound like that sometimes.

I'd never eaten in a white person's house before, and wondered if she would have gone to all that trouble for just Mac or if she was showing off for me. From the sharp little looks she kept giving me, I suspected she was showing off. I gave her a big smile to show her I appreciated her thoughtfulness. Finally she set down a green flowered plate of Oreo cookies and squeezed herself into the chair nearest the kitchen door. "Now, what is it you're wanting with Harriet? And how do you know her?"

Mac nodded for me to begin. "I work at a library where Harriet used to come almost every week," I explained, "but she hasn't been in for quite a while. Then yesterday-"

Mac gave me a startled look. "Was it really only yesterday? It seems like a year."

I nodded. "I know. Anyway," I continued to Eunice, "Mac here was volunteering yesterday at a teen center where Harriet used to go, and the girls there said they haven't seen Harriet all summer."

"She left some things at the center," Mac picked up the story, "including a library book. That's how I met Josheba. When I took the other things out to her guardian-"

"Dixie Sykes-or Dee, I think she's calling herself now." Eunice nodded and reached for a handful of cookies. "I was just ahead of her and her brother Frank in school."

"Harriet's dad?" Mac asked.

"Yeah. He married my baby sister Myrna before she ever finished school. He was a lot older'n her, of course, and working. They had Harriet that next year." She shook her head like she was answering a silent question. "I haven't seen Dixie in years. Since she married money, I figured Harriet was sittin' pretty in that big fancy house." She looked around and sighed. "I'd have loved to have her here, of course, but I work all day."

My eyes met Mac's. Would a woman with a white living room really want a teenager? Eunice was antsy enough watching grown women drink tea and eat Oreos over her white tablecloth. Any crumbs that strayed from our napkins were immediately swept into her wide palm and brushed back onto the cookie plate.

"Harriet hasn't been at the Sykes's since early June," Mac said, taking another cookie. "They thought she was staying with a friend, but he hasn't seen Harriet since school was out."

"He? A boyfriend?" Eunice asked suspiciously.

"No, a foster child her grandmother kept. A brother, like."

I jumped in again. "The only other idea we have is that several people said they thought Harriet might have gone to stay with her mother."

When I was growing up, neighborhood children used to play a game called "Statues." Somebody would swing the others hard, then let go. You were supposed to freeze like you landed. Eunice Crawley froze just like a statue as soon as I said, "stay with her mother." Then she gave her head an emphatic shake. "Her mother? Why would they think that? Harriet hasn't seen her mother since she was a baby."

"Somebody thought Harriet had a letter from her," Mac explained.

A funny look crossed Eunice's face. "I doubt it. Myrna's not much of a writer." She pushed herself to her feet and began collecting the napkins and the cookie plate. "I haven't heard from Myrna lately myself."

I stuck out one toe and nudged Mac's leg, hoping she could read my mind: Give me a minute or two. "Could I use your bathroom?" I asked in what I hoped was an apologetic tone.

"Right through there." Eunice waved me toward a hall that led to bedrooms, as well.

Mac, bless her heart, picked up the three gla.s.ses and headed toward the kitchen.

"If you do hear from Harriet, would you tell her to please call Dee?" I heard her ask Eunice over the sound of running water. I appreciated her making all that noise.

I hurried with what I wanted to do, then gave the toilet a noisy flush and joined the others. It took all the willpower I had to give Eunice Crawley a grateful smile and say casually, "Thank you very much. Ready to go, Mac?"

Mac seemed in no hurry whatsoever to leave. When I headed to the car, she was giving Eunice her brother's phone number and asking her to call if she heard from Harriet.

As soon as she got in the car I pulled away and drove down a couple of blocks. Then I pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. "Mac, that woman reminded me so much of my cousin Stella that when she wouldn't look at us while she was saying she hadn't gotten a letter lately from Harriet's mom, I just knew she was lying. Stella always tucks letters into the frame of her mirror, so I thought I'd take a look. Sure enough-look!" I thrust an old charge receipt at her-the only thing I'd had to write on. "I scribbled down everything except her bad spelling. Read it, and tell me why that woman lied to us!"

May 10 Dear Eunice, Guess who I ran into? I can't tell, because I promised, but you'd be surprised. That's how I heard both Frank and Granny are dead. Good riddance to one, and the other was an old busy body, but sounds like she stood by Harriet. I think I should come see her. Maybe we could even move in together. But don't tell her anything. I'll write myself. I don't know when I can come, but sometime this summer. Don't be surprised when I give you a call and say Here I am! Love and kisses. Myrna.

"Harriet must be with her mother!" I told Mac as we headed downtown. "And from what I've seen of her at the library, if she had a letter saying to come to her mother's, she'd just go, and deal with ha.s.sles later. Harriet doesn't take anything off anybody, but she avoids conflict if she can."

"And the money?"

"Stashed in what she felt was a safe place until she got back. For the first time in several weeks, Mac, I feel okay-" An enormous peal of thunder cut me off.

Mac peered out her window and pointed. "Looks like we're going to get a terrific storm from the north. Jake's garden sure could use some rain."

I was making a tricky left turn, so I only gave the clouds a quick glance. "Morse called today and said they've had nothing but rain up in the mountains."

"That must have been unpleasant when he wanted to be on the river."

"Unpleasant is certainly the operative word." I carefully edged over a lane. "He's grumpier than Snow White's dwarf. How long've you been married, Mac?"

"Forty-four years this fall."

"Does marriage take a lot of adjusting?" As soon as I'd asked it, I half wished I hadn't. It felt real disloyal to Morse. But lately there were some things about him that made me feel-well, smaller. Like I was being swallowed up in Morse's opinions and Morse's preferences. Mac didn't act the least bit swallowed up in anybody. I wondered how her marriage worked.

She answered without looking at me, as if fascinated by those roiling clouds. "You have to learn to let the other person be who he is, but that takes a lot less adjusting if you like who he is in the first place. Then piddly annoyances stay small. Joe Riddley leaves dirty socks on the floor by our bed, for instance, and I can track him by his trail of dirty gla.s.ses, but he's so fine and honest and sweet-and he puts up with so much in me-that socks and gla.s.ses don't matter much. I'm real fond of the old coot."

"So you think it's important to admire and respect the person you marry," I translated carefully, thinking of some of the things I admired and respected in Morse. He was a good coach to the boys (except when they lose, a stupid little voice whispered), he paid me a lot of attention (he eats up your life, nagged that little voice), and he loved me.

Meanwhile, Mac was chuckling. "Admire and respect? Oh, I admire and respect Joe Riddley, but mostly I just downright like him."

"You're fortunate," I said softly, wistfully hoping I'd like Morse that much after forty-four years. I thought the conversation was over.

However-"I didn't get Joe Riddley in a lottery, Josheba, I picked him!" she said hotly. "Pick somebody you like, and you'll enjoy living with him." She flushed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get so het up. But I need to confess something. Yesterday when I was going back to my room from washing up, I overheard Morse fussing at you about something. Your door was open a little, and he-"

"He was certainly yelling loud enough to be heard." I felt as embarra.s.sed as she looked. "But the truth is, I'd let his very favorite shirt get wrinkled because I hadn't done what he told me to-take it straight from the dryer. It was all my fault. And Morse has been under a lot of pressure lately-"

"No matter what you had done or how much pressure he's been under, honey, he ought not yell at you like that-and you oughtn't to let him. Has he ever hit you?"

"Of course not!" I said indignantly.

She gave an embarra.s.sed little laugh. "Good. And I can just hear Joe Riddley right now: *Stick to your own business, MacLaren. The woman knows her own mind.'" She checked her watch. "I hope we can get me home fast. I promised Glenna a fantastic supper, and I haven't even decided what to have." We talked recipes the rest of the way home.

After leaving Mac at her brother's, I decided to swing by the teen center. Lewis Henly deserved a report on Mac's break-in and our visit to Eunice Crawley. Besides, maybe now that he knew one of the librarians personally, he might be open to a summer reading program for the kids.

He sat at his desk, munching peanut-b.u.t.ter crackers and swigging them down with grape cola. "hotshot executive meal?" I asked, raising one eyebrow. "Your roomful of secretaries said to come on in."

He raised one eyebrow right back. "And I told them not to let anybody in except potential donors."

"I could donate some time, if you'd let me start a reading program around here."

"Josheba, these kids don't want to read. They get reading at school. Next year I want to start a dynamite tutoring program, but I don't want to drive them away this first summer. They want to read, they can come to your library." He paused. "That what you came for?"

"No. I came to tell you I just spent the afternoon with Mac. Somebody tried to break into her house last night."

"No kidding! Was she hurt?"

"No, she scared them away, but she thinks it was Ricky. She figures he was looking for Harriet's money."

"Good thing she put it in the bank, then. Want a cracker?"

"No thanks. I also wanted to tell you that Mac and I just visited Harriet's mother's sister. Harriet may have gone to visit her mother."

"Whoop-de-doo." He twirled one finger in the air. Seeing my face, he looked ashamed of himself-as he ought to. "I really do hope she's okay, Josheba, but Harriet was such a pain around here, and things are so much more peaceful without her riling people up, that I can't help being glad she's found somewhere else to spend her summer." He stood up. "Speaking about spending time, how about coming out to dinner? I thought all I was going to get was crackers, but if you feel like sharing a pizza, I sure would like to get away for an hour or so. Have to be back later for a basketball game."

I started to refuse, of course. Morse would throw a fit if he heard I'd had dinner with another man. "I don't really think-"

Lewis cut me off with one upraised hand. "Not a date. I dropped by the library this afternoon, and they informed me that their Ms. Davidson is engaged to be married to a handsome hunk-I quote-at Christmas. But since you didn't immediately say *I have a date,' I a.s.sume you don't-at least for dinner. Does your engagement mean you can't even go to dinner with friends?"

Put that way, it sounded not only harmless, but like an excellent idea. Truth to tell, since I started dating Morse, I hadn't even been out with girlfriends much. He liked me to stick close. I hated to admit how much I was enjoying some time to myself that week.

I'd have felt more virtuous, though, if Lewis Henly weren't so attractive. In a black turtleneck and slacks, he looked like a young priest.

"Hey," I asked, suddenly suspicious, "you aren't a preacher in disguise, are you? I don't even go to dinner with preachers."

He shook his head. "Used to be a lawyer, until last year. What you got against preachers?" He took my arm and led me toward the door.

"I drive," I informed him. "I've got a real liking for air conditioning. And how about if we go to Sinclair's instead of for pizza? I feel like a salmon salad."

"You don't look like a salmon salad, sister, but if you're driving, you drive where you want to go. Now, what is it you've got against preachers?"

I waited until we were on the road before I told him. "What I've got against preachers is, my daddy was one, before it got him killed."

He'd been fiddling with the radio, but he stopped and stared. "Henry Davidson? Used to go around with Martin Luther King?"

"Yeah, before I was born. Dr. King was shot before I made the scene. Daddy got shot when I was nine. Only difference is, Daddy didn't get statues and streets named after him."

"But he was a fine man." Lewis looked at me like he thought I was suddenly somebody, and said in this wondering voice, "I'm going out to eat with Henry Davidson's daughter. Think of that. You know what? You and I are old friends, Josheba. When I was a little boy, my granny used to go to your daddy's church. When we came to visit her, I used to see you sitting on the front seat in hair bows and frilly skirts. Your daddy was the first preacher I ever really listened to. Man, could he preach!"

"Yeah." I always hate it when people talk about Daddy, because mostly what I remember about him is how he died. "Look," I told Lewis, "if we're gonna talk about Daddy all night, I don't want to go. All right?"

"Sure. Whatever you say. No Daddy and no Harriet Lawson. I can handle that."

We had a terrific time. Sinclair's is a little restaurant somebody made out of an old Sinclair gas station. It's decorated in black and white, and has all these old photographs hanging on the walls. The food is delicious, too.

That night, though, I hardly noticed what I ate. Lewis talked about his days as what he called a "hotshot lawyer with more money than sense," and got me laughing so hard at some of his cases that I nearly wet my pants. I told him a little bit about working in the library and some of the funny things kids say, and he laughed so much he spilled his wine.

After dinner, we split a Bananas Sinclair-bananas, ice cream, brown sugar, b.u.t.ter, rum-oh, it was grand! By the time we'd scooped up all the runny parts from the bowl, I felt like I'd known that brother all my life.

It wasn't romantic or anything. He didn't touch me the entire meal, not even hold my elbow as we left the restaurant. But you know, it just felt good to walk beside him and know we were breathing the same air-together, yet our own selves.

When we got back to the center, he climbed out quickly. "The basketball team's gonna wonder where I am. Thanks!" He hurried inside.

I drove home slowly, savoring the whole evening. I wouldn't trade Morse in for Lewis, of course, but Lordy, how that man could talk!

I refused to think about the way my pulse reacted to his last smile.

Fifteen.

As twisting the nose produces blood,

so stirring up anger produces strife.