A Long Time Gone (26 page)

Mrs. Shipley patted her helmet of hair as if a strand would defy her by moving. “I heard about the unfortunate soul buried in your yard. Carrie told me that you would be interested in old newspaper articles about missing women. I think that's a great place to start! Because the newspapers were easy to identify, they all got separated from the rest of the papers and grouped together in the same area.”

“Lucky me,” I said, my eyes scanning the brimming shelves. “Did Carrie also tell you that I'm not sure how much longer I'm going to be in town? I might not be here long enough to put a dent into any of this.”

Mrs. Shipley glanced back at my mother and her face softened. “I understand. My grandmother got sick like that, too, and it just about killed my mother taking care of her. But your mama has Tommy and Cora Smith, who's like a saint if you ask me, so you wouldn't have to worry about her being taken care of.”

“That's not what I meant.”

Mrs. Shipley regarded me, waiting for me to explain the reason I would leave again, and I stared back at her, having no idea what to say. I turned around, pretending to examine one of the shelves. “Just show me where to start and how you'd like them organized and I'll have Chloe help me. If you could bring my mother a box of photographs Carrie said originally came from the newspaper's archives, she can get started on those.”

With pursed lips, she nodded. “Of course. This way.” Chloe and I followed Mrs. Shipley down an aisle and watched as she pulled out a Hammermill paper box, then carried it to the table where Carol Lynne sat. “Just look through these, Miz Moise. They're probably from all time periods since the camera was invented, but if you'd like, you can put aside any photographs where you recognize a person or building, and any with something written on the back. That would be a start, anyway. I suppose we should get all the old-timers in here to look through the photos and see how many we can identify.”

“Sounds like fun,” my mother said with confidence, and I could only hope that Mrs. Shipley didn't have high expectations that the photographs would be sorted in any discernible way. Carol Lynne pulled a photo out of the box, examining it closely, as if she knew what she was looking for.

Mrs. Shipley had already started walking toward the back of the room. “These shelves are where we put all the newspapers. Before the fire, we had a pretty complete collection starting from about 1870. Carrie and I thought this would be a great opportunity to discover some interesting historical tidbits in these old papers to write about in your newspaper column.”

“My newspaper column?”

She stopped walking to face me. “Didn't Carrie tell you? The editor of the paper has okayed a weekly column for the paper and their Web site, and I remember you from the school paper, Vivien. I know you'll be able to get people all excited about the library opening and about the history of Indian Mound and the surrounding area. We at the Friends were just thrilled when you accepted the opening.”

“I actually haven't accepted . . .”

Mrs. Shipley had already turned away and was marching toward the back of the room. I heard Chloe snort behind me.

“Just grab a box and start sorting by date. I thought you could use these four tables to lay them out, starting with the oldest paper in the far left corner and then just adjusting the piles as you go through the boxes.” She slid a box off a shelf and handed it to Chloe. “And both of you can read the headlines and see if anything jumps out at you that might be interesting. I already calculated that we'll need twelve columns before the library's grand opening.” She beamed. “I just can't wait to see what you come up with.”

I took another box from the shelf and dumped it next to Chloe's on the nearest table. A moth fluttered out of the box, as if even he wanted to get away. I started to explain that I wasn't supposed to be here, that I'd been home less than a month and nothing had turned out as I'd expected, least of all being stuck in the basement of City Hall with boxes of old newspapers, a mother with dementia, and a teenager who wanted to be there less than I did.

But then I imagined Mrs. Shipley asking me what other plans I had that would prevent me from doing this job. The embarrassment of hunting for an answer was enough to keep me quiet. The thought that I might actually find an article about a woman's disappearance seemed farfetched at best, but at least searching meant I was moving forward instead of treading water. What I'd do next wasn't something I was ready to consider.

“Well, then, that should be a place to get you started. When you find an interesting article, bring it up to me and I'll photocopy it. It's against our policy to allow any originals out of the library. And remember, no food or drink, and definitely no chewing gum.”

“I'm sure that won't be a problem,” I said, wanting to point out that we were volunteers and couldn't be fired for breaking the rules. But she quelled any further dialogue with her librarian look before marching brusquely to her desk to finish picking up the tiny paper dots from the floor.

I grabbed a stack of newspapers from the first box and settled them into a spot in front of me. Looking over at Chloe, I saw she was busy texting on her phone. “Seriously?” she said, her voice loud enough to cause Mrs. Shipley to poke her head above her desk from down the long hall of shelves. She rolled her eyes. “I don't have
any
bars down here. How am I supposed to text if I can't get a signal?”

“You're in a basement, Chloe. And you're not supposed to be texting anyway, because you're supposed to be helping sort old newspapers. Besides, if Mrs. Shipley sees you using your phone in here or even thinks it might be turned on, she will take it. And you might not get it back.” I didn't add that I spoke from experience.

She sat back in her chair with a heavy sigh. “How long do we have to do this?”

I scanned the stacked shelves with a sinking feeling. “We have until October. But for today, I say let's work until lunch. If you get hungry, I brought a bag of almonds that Mrs. Fusselbottom shouldn't be able to sniff out.”

She barked out a laugh, but quickly stifled it. “My dad says nuts are fattening and I shouldn't eat them.”

I took a deep breath. “Nuts are high in fat and calories. But they're very nutritious and high in fiber, too. That means that a small handful is all you need to get a good energy boost with a reasonable amount of calories.”

She looked at me as if I'd just suggested we should strip naked and run screaming through the hallowed halls of Mrs. Shipley's basement library.

I went to make sure my mother was still happily going through photographs, and then returned to my task. I didn't look back at Chloe, but after a few minutes I heard her groan and then the sound of newspapers being slid out of her box and slapped on the table.

Three hours later my eyes were bleary, I had newsprint smears all over my face and hands, my backside was numb from sitting too long, and I'd gone through only two boxes. I glanced over at Chloe, who was on the floor on her stomach, her hunger pangs of an hour ago presumably erased by a strategically passed handful of almonds. She was swinging her legs as she appeared to be absorbed in a newspaper from 1963.

She'd barely gone through half of her box, because she'd start reading a headline and then get drawn into the rest of the story, and then see another article until she'd read the whole paper—including the advertisements—before she realized it. I couldn't bring myself to get her to stop, as this was the first thing besides grunge rock, boys, and her phone that I'd seen her give this much intense concentration to.

We'd accumulated a pile of printed-out articles on a variety of
subjects from a good sampling of decades, including the deal with the devil bluesman Robert Johnson made for his world-renowned guitar abilities, the two German POW camps operated in the county during the last two years of World War II, and the yellow fever epidemic of 1888. She didn't want to, but I made her also include the story about the famous “floating hamburger” found only at the now-defunct Labella's restaurant near the Indianola train depot. At this rate, I'd have articles for my column well into the next century.

I stood and stretched, ready to call for a lunch break, when my gaze settled on the newspaper in the front of Chloe's box. I slid it out and read the headline in bold, black letters.

MISSISSIPPI RIVER BREACHES LEVEES IN 145 PLACES—16 MILLION ACRES FLOODED IN SEVEN STATES AND NEARLY 500 SOULS LOST!

I scanned the page, looking for the date at the top, remembering the waterline in the stairway of our house. There it was: April 22, 1927. Thinking this would be a good topic for my first column—not that I'd completely decided I wanted to do it—I quickly thumbed through Chloe's box and found three more editions from 1927 and 1928. I found another from April 1937, the tenth anniversary of the flood, then plucked them from the box and stacked them on the table to start with them when I returned.

Calling over my shoulder, I said, “Go ahead and finish up, Chloe. I'll go round up Carol Lynne and see how productive she's been.”

I didn't have high hopes, since every time I'd gone to check on my mother she was either making patterns on the table with the photographs or wandering around the shelves, and once was discovered sleeping on the floor between two shelves. Mrs. Shipley had taken her to the bathroom a few times, but most of the time she acted as the gatekeeper to keep Carol Lynne from wandering out of the basement.

I stopped at the table where my mother had placed stacks of photographs in a circular pattern. I surveyed them and tried to determine if they'd been arranged with any method of organization.

After giving up hope that the stacks were intentional, I asked, “Are you hungry?”

She looked up from where she was spinning a single photograph with her short-cropped nail, flicking a corner as soon as it came around, seeing how fast it would spin. She stared at me as if needing to translate what I'd just said. She furrowed her brow. “I think so.”

“Do you want to grab a sandwich and a shake at the lunch counter at the drugstore? I thought Chloe might enjoy that.”

The name didn't seem to register, so I quickly corrected myself. “I meant JoEllen. She's coming, too.”

She smiled the smile I was beginning to recognize as the one she used when she was unsure of a situation and didn't want anybody else to know. She hadn't made a move to slide out her chair, so I grabbed it by the sides to help her, then stopped, my gaze settling on the photograph she'd been spinning.

It was an old black-and-white studio portrait of a baby girl with light eyes that could have been green, sitting on a satin blanket, smiling up at someone or something behind the photographer, her index finger raised in a point. But it wasn't the baby or her sweet expression that captured my attention. It was the tiny gold ring she wore on her finger, with half of a heart that appeared to have an engraving on the face of it. I squinted my eyes, peering closely at the letters, but they were too small to see.

“Do you know who this is, Carol Lynne?”

She looked at me with clear eyes that looked remarkably like the baby's in the photo and smiled. “Yes.” She tapped her finger on the photo at the spot where the ring was.

“Who is it?” I prodded.

She looked down at the photo, and when her eyes met mine again, they wore the familiar cloudiness that I'd begun to grow used to.

“Who is it?” I asked again, knowing it was too late.

“A baby,” she said, her smile wide, as if she'd just given the right answer in a spelling bee.

I picked up the photo, staring at the ring and wishing I could read the engraving. And then, when nobody was looking, I slid it into my shirt. I'd be careful with it, but I knew Mrs. Shipley wouldn't agree to
let me take it, and for some reason I couldn't explain, I didn't want a photocopy.

We said good-bye to Mrs. Shipley and made plans for our return visit, the photograph seeming to burn a hole in my chest while I tried to remember where I'd seen the photograph before, and the identity of the baby who wore the other half of the ring found in the unknown woman's grave.

Carol Lynne Walker Moise

CALIFORNIA
DECEMBER
1976

Dear Diary,

I just found this journal in the bottom of my backpack, where it hasn't been touched in twelve years. I'm thinking that's a good thing, seeing as how I don't remember much about those years, and what I do remember isn't worth writing about.

I have a baby boy now. I named him Tommy, after the song from my favorite band, the Who. I was living on a ranch somewhere in northern California, and I had lots of boyfriends whose names I can't remember. Like Tommy's daddy. At least that meant I got to name him whatever I wanted, because he belonged only to me.

Tommy's the reason I'm clean now. Right when I'd figured out I was pregnant, I was real sick, and the healers at the ranch couldn't get the right medicine for me. I had to thumb a ride into the nearest town and find a doctor who would give me some medicine. The receptionist in the fourth doctor's office I tried was the doctor's wife, and she said she recognized my accent and asked was I from the South? It turned out she was from Itta Bena, not too far from Indian Mound.

I don't know if it was because I was sick or because I was pregnant or
even if it was just hearing her voice that reminded me of home, but I started to cry. She got the doctor and he gave me some medicine to make me feel better. But he also said I had to get clean for the baby. He said if I thought I could do that, I could stay with them and I could work filing stuff in the office, and when I told them I knew how to type, he said I could do some typing work, too, to pay them for my room and board.

That meant I couldn't go back to the ranch, and I'd been okay with that. I'd been crazy about a boy there, Michael, and he said he was crazy for me, too, but the rules said that we couldn't have partners, so he was with another girl every week. It wasn't supposed to, but it made my heart hurt, and there was nobody else there to make it better. So it worked out that I moved in with Dr. and Mrs. Kelly and got clean and got a job and had my healthy baby boy.

Dolores—the doctor's wife—wrote to Bootsie and told her where I was and that I was okay and that she had a grandbaby. I hadn't spoken to Bootsie since that Thanksgiving twelve years ago when I left without saying good-bye. I didn't mean for that long to pass without sending a letter or anything, but those years are all a blur, like pages being flipped in a book where you can't read all the words.

Bootsie wrote back saying she would wire money for a ticket home for me and Tommy, that now that I'm a mother maybe things will be different for us. I wasn't so sure, but Dolores told me that I needed to at least try, and that her house would always be open to us. They didn't have any kids of their own, and I think me and my baby had become family to them.

I've decided that I will go home. It's funny that I still call it home even though I haven't been there for so long. But when people ask me where I'm from, that's where I tell them, and not because I don't remember all the other places I've been since I left, but because it just feels right. I don't know how long I'm going to stay, but I do want Tommy to see where his people come from.

He's such a sweet boy, real good-natured and smiling all the time. He's a bit shy, and always watching what's going on with those big blue eyes. He has hair the same color as mine, too, but more curly. I thought I'd give him up after he was born, because I was pretty sure I didn't have a mothering bone in my body. But when they first put him in my arms it was like I'd been touched by the hand of God. It was that powerful. All I could think about was being the best mother I could, and I knew that meant not
taking him back to the ranch. I had the funniest vision of him walking through cotton fields and fishing in the lake. Maybe that means I need to take him home. Maybe Dolores is right and things might be different now between Bootsie and me.

I remembered what Mathilda told me about chasing ghosts, and I wonder after all these years if I'm any closer to catching them.