In Search of Eden, page 13
“He seemed like a nice fella,” Ernest said, ducking his head in shame. Joseph could imagine how he felt. Useless, stupid, not even a competent human being, much less the vigorous man he used to be. Mr. Norwood had been a deacon in the church when Joseph was a boy, and he remembered seeing him drive his tractor down the road every day as he rode the school bus home. Mr. Norwood grew tobacco and tied the finest fishing flies around. Joseph had one in his own tackle box, as a matter of fact. He had been strong, hardworking, and kind. It wasn’t right that he should be victimized this way.
“He said he had some paving materials left over and if I let him seal my driveway, he’d give me half off. It wasn’t until this morning that I noticed my bankbook was gone.”
“The sealant was probably water or just plain oil,” Henry said. “Have you called the bank?”
Ernest nodded. He wiped his mouth and shook his head. “I was too late. He cleaned out my account with a check he cashed in Beckley with false identification.” So he had driven across the state line to West Virginia, where no one knew Ernest Norwood from Adam. “They said I might get my money back, but they’ll have to look into it.”
“Don’t feel bad, Mr. Norwood,” Joseph said. “These people are slick. They make it their business to know how to get people to trust them. We’ll get your money back for you. Never mind the bank.” Henry gave him a warning look, which he ignored. If he had to pay it out of his own pocket, he would.
Mr. Norwood shuffled back to his chair, and Henry and Joseph left.
“Don’t you think you’d better just cool your engine there, sonny?” Henry asked him as soon as they were out of earshot. “You look like you’re about to explode. Besides, you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I’ll keep it.”
Henry gave him an appraising look and said nothing more.
“So where are you going to start?” Joseph asked.
“With the bank in West Virginia, I suppose. Get a description and a copy of the ID. Do a records search. Put out an APB on the car. Keep my eyes open and put out the word that people should keep their doors locked and not trust anyone.” He looked as disgusted as Joseph felt.
Joseph drove back to the office feeling anger, but underneath it was something deeper, a grief of sorts that he felt every time a crime happened, even though this one was not technically on his watch. It was a disruption, a tear in the fabric of their world, a blot on a white garment, a snake in the garden. He tightened his jaw and felt the grief turn to something uglier. There should be no mercy for people like that. And when he found whoever was responsible, he would show none.
He had a wry twist of humor, thinking that he pitied the next person who crossed his path while committing any infraction of the law. He would have to mind himself or they would become the target for all of his pent-up frustration and powerlessness. He had no sooner formed the thought than a huge silver Cadillac pulled out in front of him, causing him to stand on the brakes to avoid a collision. The driver never even saw him. Shaking his head in disgust, Joseph flipped on the lights and gave the siren a whoop. After a few more seconds the big Caddy awkwardly pulled over to the shoulder.
“Well, for crying out loud!” Miranda said to nobody in particular. “Of all the luck!” She obediently pulled over to the side of the road, trying not to drive Mr. Cooper’s late wife’s Cadillac into the ditch, then shook her head and gathered her thoughts, all the while glancing in the rearview mirror. A very big, very tall man was unfolding himself from what she now realized was an unmarked police car, and he didn’t look any too happy. He covered the distance to her in a few long strides and in seconds was leaning down into her window. Looming over it, more accurately. He had sand-colored hair, greenish gold eyes, and a nice enough face except for the fact that it looked like it never smiled. She pasted on a happy grin herself and tried to look suitably apologetic. He was having none of it.
“You pulled out in front of me back there,” he accused her. “If I hadn’t slammed on the brakes, I would have hit you.”
She didn’t like being scolded, though heaven knows she had taken enough of it in her life. She felt her back tense up. “I apologize,” she said stiffly, her chin going into the air in spite of herself. She thought about mounting a defense of some kind but decided the least said, the better. The truth was, she had been so busy thinking about her mission here and wondering where to start that she hadn’t even seen him.
“May I please see your driver’s license?” he asked with the exaggerated politeness that policemen always have before they write you a ticket.
“Certainly, you may.” She dug around in her purse and found her wallet, then dug around some more until she remembered she had pulled out her driver’s license the last time she’d used her charge card and had put it in her change purse. “It’s right here,” she said, smiling encouragingly at him. “I just forgot where I put it.”
He glared at her and took it from her hand. He studied it, then glanced at her, studied it some more, gave her another look, turned it over and inspected it front and back, then put it on his clipboard. It was always bad when they brought the clipboard.
“May I see your registration and proof of insurance please?”
Uh-oh. She kept her dismay to herself, though, and gave him another smile. “Well, of course you may.” She opened the glove compartment and dug around. She finally found the registration and handed it over, but the last proof of insurance she could find was dated 1998.
He read the registration, then looked down at her with a frown. “This vehicle is registered to William Cooper of Nashville, Tennessee.”
“He’s a friend of mine,” she explained. “He loaned me the car.”
The policeman frowned again, then went back to his car. He stayed gone for ten minutes or so, then came back and handed her the registration.
“So you found out it wasn’t stolen?” All right, some of the sweetness may have been wearing a bit thin by then.
He didn’t answer her. He was busy writing. He tore off the ticket and handed it through the open window. Failure to yield right of way. Failure to provide proof of insurance.
“Since you’re just passing through, I’d appreciate it if you would proceed to the city hall and pay this fine right now. And you’ll have to schedule a court date.”
“A court date! What for?”
“Failure to yield doesn’t have a preset fine. It can be a misdemeanor or an infraction. The judge will decide.”
She opened her mouth to speak but didn’t get a word out before he continued.
“Go down to the next intersection, turn right, then make another right and park in the visitors spot in front of the town hall right by the statue. I’ll follow you just to make sure you don’t get lost.”
She shook her head in disbelief and started to protest, but on seeing his suspicious expression, she thought better of it. She didn’t know why she had ever thought him attractive. “Suit yourself,” she said smartly and rolled up the window. No need to be overly polite anymore. She did not look at him, just stared straight ahead. After a minute he went back to his car. She started up the Cadillac and drove very, very slowly—well, maybe even more slowly than she should have. She plodded along at about ten miles per hour. Another whoop of the siren nearly made her jump out of her skin.
“Do you want another ticket for obstructing traffic?” His voice came echoing over the loudspeaker, turning heads and drawing stares and not a few smiles.
“What traffic?” she hollered back, but thankfully he couldn’t hear her. She drove at twenty-five the rest of the way, then parked in front of the city hall. He pulled in behind her car so she couldn’t back out. Well, of all the nerve. She gathered up her purse and ticket, along with what remained of her dignity, and walked up the stairs. She could almost hear her mama scolding her. You walk around with your nose in the air, all high and mighty, and somebody’ll bring you down a peg or two. She stepped inside the swinging door, and it was only then that she looked back. He was watching her, and he gave her a little salute with two fingers. Well, of all the cheek. Her face grew hot with anger. Of all the things in the world she couldn’t stand, arrogant men were at the top of the list, and arrogant policemen were even worse, she now knew. She thought about going down there right now and telling him what she thought, but on second thought, she didn’t want to spend the night in jail. With a longsuffering sigh, she turned toward the desk and followed the signs to schedule her court date.
chapter 17
*
Her dealings with the criminal justice system finished for the time being, Miranda came out of the courthouse and looked around furtively before climbing into the Cadillac, ready to proceed with her search. The only problem was, she had no idea where to begin. She drove up and down the quaint streets for a while, a little nervously, expecting the whoop of a siren to blare out at any second.
She left the town center and entered the outskirts, happy to put a little more distance between her and the police headquarters. On each side of the highway were green pastures and fields and rolling hills. A green-and-yellow John Deere tractor went slowly by in the opposite direction. She shook her head, marveling at the irony of it all. Middle of nowhere, Virginia! That’s where she had ended up. She had wandered all over creation in her footloose days, and now she realized she had been looking for her child in every little face she saw. But it was plain to see that she needn’t have been wandering to Minnesota and Maine and New York and Los Angeles. The only clue had pointed here all along. This was where she should have been looking, just two hours’ drive away from her home.
Abingdon, Virginia. It hadn’t been hard to find. She had bought a travel atlas and located it easily. It was about twenty miles northwest of Bristol in southwestern Virginia, within a stone’s throw of Tennessee, Kentucky, and West Virginia. She supposed it wasn’t a random choice that Mama had picked the adoptive parents from here. She and Aunt Bobbie had grown up somewhere close by. Were there relatives still living near here? She supposed the answers to the questions had died with Mama. They were things she never talked about.
She knew they had left West Virginia and gone to Nashville and had nothing to do with their people after that. They didn’t speak of them, either. Whenever she brought it up, Aunt Bobbie just gave her a weary look, and Mama’s tight lips became even tighter. Miranda looked down at the envelope again, then out the window. Mama had thought of her home when she had dispatched her grandchild. But whether that was an act of love or revenge remained to be seen.
She sighed again. All her life she had imagined her child living somewhere exotic like New York City or Los Angeles. Taking violin lessons and ballet dancing and going to concerts and vacations on Martha’s Vineyard. She consoled herself with the fact that maybe her baby’s family had moved to somewhere a little more exotic. But then she remembered that this address was the only link she had to her baby. If they had moved, she would probably never find them. For crying out loud, she would probably never find them anyhow, but here she was, driving up and down streets, craning her neck out the window, as if she had good sense.
She tried to think of what to do next. She would see an attorney. She didn’t really think Virginia law would be much different from Tennessee’s, but she would find out at least. After that she had no idea. Maybe she could just stand outside the school and see if anyone looked familiar. Maybe she could ask around about who had adopted children. She shook her head in frustration. They would think she was a kidnapper or worse. She heaved a great sigh and knew it was ridiculous, her coming here. It would serve no purpose, but actually, now that she thought about it, it would. When she followed this lead to its bitter end and found out nothing more than she’d known at the beginning, at least then she would be done. She would be finished looking for this child once and for all, and she would go on with her life.
She fished the picture out of the envelope and brought it up to eye level. She stared at it again. What a beautiful child. It was a girl, she was sure. She was almost certain. She brought her finger to her lips, kissed it, then gently touched the tiny cheek on the photograph, and she knew the truth of the matter. She would never forget. She might go on with her life, but she would never forget.
She drove a little longer and found herself at the entrance to the highway leading out of town. She stopped at the intersection, idling her engine. She felt sad and hungry and tired. She didn’t know what she’d been thinking to come here. It was hopeless. She would never find that child. It was a human impossibility. She very nearly turned Mr. Cooper’s car toward 81 South and Tennessee.
But oddly enough, she remembered two things that kept her from doing so. The first were Mr. Cooper’s parting words to her yesterday. “With God, all things are possible,” he’d said, giving her a gentle smile good-bye. And the other came to her suddenly with the detail and emotion of having happened just this afternoon rather than eleven years ago. She was fifteen again, frightened and in pain, and feeling as though some vital part of her had been ripped away and she was left bleeding. And then the door to her room had opened, and there was the kind nurse handing her that sweet bundle. She closed her eyes now and smelled the baby’s skin, felt the tender cheek against hers, and heard the funny little squeaks that babies make. She remembered drinking them in, then feeling a hand on her head and hearing the tired, kind nurse pray for God to bring her and her baby back together again someday. She felt a shiver, a chill, as if she’d brushed up against something that was not of this world.
A car honked tentatively behind her, bringing her back to the present quickly. Miranda opened her eyes. She went on through the intersection and pulled to the shoulder, hunted around in her purse, and finally found a McDonald’s napkin, which she used to blow her nose and wipe her eyes. She nodded decisively, made a U-turn, still looking over her shoulder for Wyatt Earp, then drove back toward town, to where this winding two-lane road with pastures and fields on either side became the bustling streets of Abingdon. She checked into the Super 8.
Across the street was a Shoney’s. She bought a burger and fries and coffee and, after eating, felt a little calmer, although still not very hopeful. She went back to the hotel room, took the Abingdon telephone directory, the Welcome to Abingdon binder the hotel provided, and her notebook, then went outside and sat down in the grass at the crest of a hill and watched the bluish purple evening creep up from the valley while she wrote down anything that seemed helpful. Finally, when she had gooseflesh on her arms and her rear end was damp, she went into her room, took a hot shower, put on her pajamas, and looked at her list.
It was pitiful.
“How to Find an Eleven-Year-Old Child,” she’d titled it.
“Without knowing their name, sex, address, interests, or history,” she muttered to herself. The only thing she knew was the date of birth—December 14, 1995.
She read what she’d written.
Eleven-year-olds:
Go to school
Play on sports teams
Join Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Camp Fire Girls
Go to the pediatrician
Go to Sunday school
Go to the dentist
Possibilities:
Hire attorney
Hire private investigator
It seemed pretty hopeless now that she looked at it on paper. She had little hope for the last two options. She’d heard people had found success with professional searchers, but they usually had something to go on. A name, a parent’s name, an address. Something. She knew nothing. Not even the sex. All she knew was the date of birth. She set the notebook on top of her open suitcase, got into bed, turned out the light, and lay staring at the ceiling.
“Dear God,” she said out loud. Her voice sounded lonely, like an echo over a deep, dark canyon. “If you’re there, would you help me find my baby?” Nothing happened for a minute or two. She was listening hard, and she realized she really expected to hear something. And it was the oddest thing, but after a minute the feeling sort of came over her that she was exactly where she was supposed to be. It wasn’t anything scary or sensational, just a quiet sort of peace. She didn’t know any more than she had a few minutes ago, but the dark hotel room now felt like a holy place. She had done right to come here, she realized, and it may have been the first time in her life she’d had that assurance about one of her decisions. It was definitely the first time she felt one of her prayers had been answered. She let out her breath in a long, relieved sigh and rolled over to sleep. She didn’t know how, and she didn’t know when or who, but she knew that if she stayed here, somehow she would find what she was seeking.
chapter 18
*
The next morning Miranda rose, showered, dressed in a businesslike but uninspired pair of blue pants and a white blouse, and walked to Shoney’s again. After a muffin and a cup of coffee, she returned to her room and began phoning the attorneys in town. She found, to her chagrin, that no one could see her before the next afternoon. She told herself another day wouldn’t matter and booked another night at the Super 8.
There was no sense getting herself completely worked up about the quest to find her child, she told herself. What she should do was lower her expectations. She would look for her child, but she wouldn’t lose her mind over it. Anyway, that baby had been lost to her for eleven years now. She didn’t suppose what she did in the next month or two was of the utmost importance. She would take things a day at a time. Meanwhile, she would treat Abingdon, Virginia, as just another stop in the milk run that was her life. She would behave here as she had in Washington, D.C., New York City, Bozeman, Santa Fe, Minneapolis, and Seattle. So, first of all, she needed to get a job.
