Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

And so I did. I wanted to ask Tom if he still loved me, but I couldn’t. It had been a long day, a very long day. Still, once I was between the crisp cotton sheets and down comforter that were worthy of the most luxurious hotel, sleep eluded me. I switched from fretting about Tom, to wondering if I could safely boot my laptop and read his e-mails, to worrying about Arch. Where was my son at that moment? Did he miss me? I turned over and sighed.

“Goldy, what is it?”

“I’m just thinking about when Arch was a newborn.

I’d lie in bed and fret about whether he was breathing, even though he was just down the hall. I found that if I lay very still and listened, I could hear him. It was like your eyes adjusting to the dark. My ears took in all the sounds of the night, and finally made out his tiny infant breath. In and out. It was comforting. Does that sound nuts?”

“He’s breathing now, Miss G., in his bed at Korman’s house. He’s all right. If he wasn’t, we would have heard about it.”

At that moment a muffled knock on the door indicated Julian was retiring to his room. A few moments later, Tom snored softly beside me.

My eyes remained wide open, my body tense. Finally, I eased from beneath the comforter. Despite the heat pouring from the baseboards, the air in the big room was chilly. I sat down on the velvety wool rug.

Tom wasn’t in a deep enough sleep for me to start tapping away on a keyboard. Besides, if I read the e-mails tonight, I’d feel too guilty to sleep. Especially if he caught me.

I hugged myself against the cold and thought about Arch. Yes, he was with John Richard, and no, I couldn’t phone at midnight to check that he’d brushed his teeth and been tucked in. (Question: How do you tuck in an almost-fifteen-year-old, anyway? Answer: You don’t.) And what if Viv decided to tell Arch a bedtime story about automatic weapons?

Don’t think about it. Very quietly, I slipped into my heavy coat, boots, and mittens. There was something I could do, a ritual that had always helped with worry about Arch’s safety when he was spending the night at a friend’s, or camping with the Cub Scouts in the wildlife preserve. I’d face in the direction of my son’s location and send him good vibes. This was not a spiritual exercise sanctioned in your neighborhood Episcopal church. But I’d always found it reassuring, and believed that God would understand.

I quietly maneuvered through the set of double doors to the southeast tower. My boots scraped the floor. The sharp air was dense with ice crystals. The dim light illuminating the tower cast long shadows on the dark stone.

John Richard’s house lay southwest of the castle, in the Aspen Meadow Country Club area. I shivered, oriented myself, then stood by the window that faced southwest. I closed my eyes. Then I brought up the vision of Arch sleeping. I willed myself to be very still.

After a few moments, I could have sworn I heard breathing. It was not my own breath, but the rapid, shallow inhale-exhale of a child. Fear rippled through my veins. I opened my eyes and glanced around quickly: nothing. When I tipped forward to check out the window, there was only the barely lit black water of the moat below, and across the moat, a small neon light by the castle Dumpster. Ghosts didn’t usually breathe, did they? Being dead and all? I’m losing it, I decided, as I tiptoed back to our room, shed my outerwear, and slipped into bed. I need sleep.

But I lay awake for a long time, thinking about what to do next.

Dawn brought frigid air and charcoal clouds hemmed with a bright blue sliver of sky. To my chagrin, my neck had stiffened from my nasty encounter with the computer thief. What sleep I’d managed to get had brought some clarity, however. Boyd and Armstrong had promised to touch base today. I would call them first, with some questions of my own. And I had to talk with Eliot about the new arrangements for the next day’s labyrinth lunch. With Tom still asleep, I rolled quietly out of bed, emptied my mind, and began a slow yoga routine. Breathe, stretch, breathe, hold. Before long, I felt better.

As I started to get dressed, I remembered the disk and Sara Beth O’Malley. I frowned, remembering Tom’s story. Talk about a ghost.

Tom’s snoring was deep and sonorous. With my laptop tucked under my arm, I tiptoed into the bathroom. I didn’t give myself time to think, much less feel guilty. I plugged in the computer and booted it up, covered the toilet seat with warm towels, and sat down to break into my husband’s e-mail.

There were seven messages: three from “The Gambler,” as Andy apparently called himself, three from “S.B.,” and one from the State Department. I had already opened the first of S.B.‘s messages: Do you remember me.p You said you’d love me forevet: Now I went straight to the second.

I need to prove myself to you? I smiled. Good old Tom. Figure out if she is who she says she is. I’m putting myself in danger just writing to you. Nobody knows I’m here. Remember our secret engagement ring? We didn’t want people to criticize us for being too young to know what we were doing. So you picked out a tiny ruby, my birthstone, set in platinum. In answer to your other question, I’ve been in a little village. After my so-called death, I went from being a nurse to being a doctor.: - S.B.

At least she wasn’t calling herself “Your S.B.” anymore. I battled guilt as I opened the third and final communication from her, dated three weeks ago.

Tom, I saw your wife and son today. I read in the paper that she’s a caterer: I don’t want to upset your life. I just would like to see you. Why am I here, you asked. An anonymous donor is giving us medical supplies. I’m pilling them up. I also have a dental abscess and need a root canal. They don’t have neighborhood endodontists in my country, although they can manage fake passports and counterfeit checks. I’m taking the risk to tell you all this for a reason. I have an appointment at High Country Dental on February 13 at 9 A.M. I’d like to see you before my appointment, if possible. S.B.

Wait a minute. My country?

The next communication, the one from the State Department, was unemotional and to the point.

Officer Schulz: As you were notified by the DOD in 1975, Major Sara Beth O’Malley, R.N., was listed as missing, presumed dead. Her Mobile Army Surgical Hospital unit was destroyed during on attack three months before American forces withdrew from Saigon. Her body was not recovered, and the DOD has not had reason to change its assessment.

From time to time, we get unsubstantiated reports of war-era Americans still living in Vietnam. Neither we nor the Defense Deportment has any way of investigating these claims.

We urge all persons who have eyewitness reports of missing veterans to fill out a Form 626-3A, available on-line at the above address.

This happy epistle was signed by a minor dignitary of the Department.

So: Sara Beth O’Malley had somehow survived the war, unbeknownst to Washington bureaucrats. She’d also become a doctor for a village whose plumbing facilities undoubtedly wouldn’t appeal to Sukie. The part I couldn’t fathom was why she’d risk coming back to Colorado after twenty-five years to pick up supplies and have her teeth fixed, and oh, by the way, to check on her old fiancé, who had long believed her dead.

I don’t love her. Tom had probably been afraid that if he died from the shot, I’d find the e-mails. Which I had anyway. She thought Arch was his son. If she read in the paper that I was a caterer, she knew I did local events, like the one at Hyde Chapel. Had she been waiting for me to show up for the labyrinth lunch, and shot Tom by accident, instead of me? I wondered if the army or her villagers had taught her to shoot, after all.