Carole Page - In Search Of Her Own

“I know so.”

“I’ve never considered myself a brave person,” she admitted. “It must be my maternal instincts taking hold. I need to protect my son, whatever the cost”

He squeezed her hand. “You know I’m in your corner, Victoria.”

She nodded, a pleasant warmth flushing her cheeks “You don’t know how much that means to me, Phillip. You’re the one who’s given me the courage to look for my son.”

With obvious reluctance he released her hand. “But if you’re not back here in ten minutes, my brave lady, I’ll come looking for you.”

“Pray for me,” she murmured as she slipped out of the car.

“My prayers haven’t got past the ceiling lately, Victoria,” he called after her.

She looked back at him. “Pray, anyway. My knees are knocking.”

As she approached the massive door with its arched windows and frosted-glass panes, Victoria noticed a small, hand-lettered sign tucked in the molding- Room For Rent. An idea formed as she knocked soundly. A full minute passed before she heard a scuffling sound inside. As the door swung open, a large-boned woman in a flowered, ill-fitting housedress glared out at her.

“Yeah?” the woman grunted, her shrewd, hazel eyes narrowing.

Her brows were thick and unattended; her white, wispy hair was pulled back tightly from her full-lobed ears.

Victoria squared her shoulders and drew in a sharp breath. “Hello,” she said with a buoyancy she didn’t feel. “I—I’m Victoria Carlin—”

“So?” the woman interrupted. She stepped back, a beefy hand on her hip as she gazed appraisingly at Victoria. She had a long horse face with sagging cheeks and a rippling neck. “You selling something?”

“No,” Victoria said quickly. “I—I saw your sign about the room for rent.”

The woman’s thin lips twisted into a smile. “You’re looking for a room? Why didn’t you say so?”

Victoria chose her words carefully. “I’m very interested in finding just the right place.”

“Well, I’ll tell you right up front I’m very particular,” said the woman. “I just put the sign up a few days ago, and I already turned down a couple of drifters I don’t take kindly to strangers in my house, but with times so bad and the pittance we get from Social Security—well, a body has to pay the bills somehow, and my Sam can’t work anymore with his lame back.”

“I know how it is,” said Victoria with genuine sympathy. “It’s very hard to make ends meet these days.”

“And getting harder all the time,” said Maude. “Anyways, you look like a decent sort. Come on in.” She held out her hand. “I’m Maude Hewlett.”

Victoria shook the woman’s hand, then followed her into the dimly lit living room with its antique cherry wood furniture. The heavy drapes were closed, and the flower-print walls were cluttered with primitive paintings and knickknack shelves. Scattered randomly were several artificial plants and wicker baskets overflowing with yarn.

“The room is fifty dollars a week,” said Maude. “Twenty more for meals. I want references and a month’s rent in advance.”

“I’m really not sure I…” Victoria began. She looked around, flustered. The television set was on, distracting her—a game show blaring with overeager contestants laughing, clapping, shrieking.

Victoria’s gaze moved to a framed photograph on top of the TV—a large picture of a young woman and child, their heads together, smiling, the boy’s arms wrapped adoringly around the woman’s neck. Something in the child’s face clicked in Victoria’s memory—the recollection of a photo of herself at age five. The same curly red hair, freckled cheeks and laughing eyes. My son! she thought with a sudden swell of emotion She felt tears gathering, rimming her eyes. She knew she was staring, but she couldn’t pull her gaze away. She wanted desperately to reach out and touch the picture, pick it up, caress it, but she sensed she was raising Maude’s suspicions, so she glanced away before the woman saw her face.

But Maude Hewlett had already followed Victoria’s gaze “That’s my daughter and grandson,” she said matter-of-factly.

“It’s a lovely portrait,” Victoria managed to say.

“They’re both dead,” Maude continued in her detached monotone.

Victoria stared incredulously at her. She felt as if the woman had struck her with a two-by-four. “Both dead?”

“A car accident six months ago.” Maude’s mouth contorted slightly. Her expression hardened as if she were defying Victoria to pity her. She turned abruptly toward the hallway. “You wanna see the room now?”

Victoria clutched the back of a chair. She felt faint; her mind was reeling. Surely it wasn’t true. Her son couldn’t be dead. Oh, God, please, no! Not after I’ve come so close to finding him!

“You coming or not?” inquired Maude sharply.

With great effort Victoria found her voice. “Yes, I—I’m coming.”

The room was small but pleasant enough, with chintz curtains, a polished oak floor with rag rugs and a patchwork quilt on the bed. The dresser mirror was dim with age, the wallpaper yellow and peeling in spots around the mahogany cornices.

“How long you planning to stay, Miss Carlin?” queried Maude.

“I don’t know,” Victoria replied distractedly. How could she carry on a rational conversation when her mind registered only one appalling thought—her son could be dead! Somehow, God help her, she had to convey a semblance of normalcy. “I—I’ll be staying just for the summer,” she said with forced brightness. “I teach up north at a state university. I’m working on my doctorate in contemporary American literature. I need a place with lots of peace and quiet to write my thesis.”

“This is the place,” said Maude. “I don’t like lots of people coming and going. My husband and I keep to ourselves. We don’t mind nobody else’s business and they don’t mind ours.”

“That sounds fair enough,” said Victoria. She inhaled sharply, gathering her courage. “I’ll take the room, Mrs. Hewlett.”

“All right. If your references check out, you can move in first of the week.”

When Victoria finally left the Hewlett home and climbed back into Phillip’s waiting automobile, she felt stunned, emotionally drained. She was trembling and her legs were unsteady. She had held back her feelings with such fierce resolve that now the dam of tears threatened to break. She collapsed into the seat beside Phillip and covered her face with her hands. The anguish tore from her throat in dry, racking sobs.

For an instant Phillip stared helplessly at her, then instinctively he gathered her into his arms. “Victoria, talk to me. Are you okay? What happened?”

She swallowed her sobs and pulled away from him. “I can’t talk yet. Just go. Drive. Get out of here “

Phillip started the car, merged with late-afternoon traffic and drove in silence for several miles, the pulse in his jaw throbbing with tension. Finally he pulled off at a rest stop and parked. “We’ve got to talk, Victoria,” he said, swiveling in the seat to face her. “You were gone so long, I was about to come in after you I never should have let you go in there alone.”

She found a tissue in her purse and blew her nose. “No, Phillip, I had to do it. I—I just didn’t know how hard it would be.”

He slapped his palm against the steering wheel. “I let you down. I’m sorry. I’ve seen enough in this business to know when things aren’t what they should be I was a jerk sending a woman in to do a man’s job.”

“No, Phillip, you did the right thing.”

He grimaced. “Do you feel like talking now? Can you tell me what you found out?”

Her tears started again. “Mrs. Hewlett—she told me—oh, Phillip, she said my son is dead!”