Chapter 12

Al didn't go to church with me again, but she began picking up my Bible at odd moments and flipping through it, reading a bit here and a bit there. Perhaps when I was at work she did more than that, but I didn't ask. My hours were long or short depending on the project – some of them were rush jobs and I had to be there all day and all night, it seemed.

Every minute I spent away from Al hurt. She still didn't love me, though she'd never ceased to care. She was a very good wife, in every other way. She was becoming a good cook, and her notions of neatness were beginning to even affect her own drawers, which had initially been just as much a mess as her room had been when we'd picked up her stuff. She was considerate and kind and as she grew in maturity, and left the past further behind, she lost more and more of the self-centeredness that had apparently been necessary for survival on the street.

I would have been thrilled had she come to love me. But even without that, I couldn't have asked for a better wife. If I'd had to describe the ideal wife in the days before Al married me, I would have mentioned the same gentleness and kindness that she brought to the marriage. And I just might have mentioned the overbite that lit up the room when she smiled. I never tired of seeing that smile ... I never tired of seeing her, for that matter, from any angle.

All good things must end, someone once said. I suppose if I'd thought of it I'd have agreed that our marriage was among them. But I could never have thought of how it happened, nor been prepared for it.

It was Saturday, and in order to finish a job that was running a little behind schedule I was putting in a half day at a site on Paseo del Norte, which was beginning to develop. I did some shopping when I got off, and pulled into the parking lot a little after two in the afternoon. The apartment door was locked, which wasn't unusual – both Al and I habitually locked it even when we were home. What was inside wasn't usual at all.

There was a note on the coffee table. Alan, I have to leave. I'm so sorry – I know this is going to hurt you, but I have to. Please don't look for me. I'm sorry. That was all.

I jerked around and ran into the bedroom. She'd clearly left in a tearing hurry. Drawers hung open in the dresser, with disarranged clothing still in them. The closet was a mess too, and there were a couple of hangers on the floor where they'd fallen, and she hadn't picked them up. In the bathroom her makeup was gone, though she hadn't had much; she'd used very little once she left Central Avenue behind.

Back in the kitchen, standing confused and dazed, I realized that her checkbook was on the table. I opened it and looked at the check register. I saw two checks with the day's date – one at the Jewel Osco down at Montgomery, and the other for cash. The second was for $300.

I had no idea what she would need that kind of money for. It wouldn't hurt us – I'd saved well when I was single, and supporting Al hadn't been a strain on my pay. I made good money. But I couldn't understand why she'd write a check to cash for that much ... of course, just then I didn't understand anything very well.

I realized I had to find her, never mind the note. I couldn't let Al disappear. I'd lost her once through not being sure to keep in touch when we moved. And now it looked like I was losing her again, and I couldn't allow that.

I called the police. The problem was, it turned out, that under the law someone doesn't become an official missing person for 24 hours. As the officer who spoke to me said, "People go out for longer times than they planned on, or have flats, or whatever. We just can't assume someone's disappeared because she's not there."

My mind understood that fully. My emotions wanted to scream in negation. I had Darvin Carpenter's phone number somewhere. I scrabbled through the business cards that I kept in a little plastic container behind some books, and found his. I dialed the number.

"Darvin Carpenter's office, this is Alicia. May I help you?"

"Yes, I need to speak to Darvin."

"He's not in right now. May I take a message?"

"Do you know when he'll be in?" I was gripping the phone desperately in my effort to speak rationally.

"No, sir, I don't. I'd be glad to take a message."

I didn't have any choice – I didn't know his home phone number, or even where he lived, except that it was somewhere on Montgomery. "Yes, please, and if you could get it to him just as soon as possible I'd appreciate it. It's an emergency. Tell him to call Alan McGee," and I gave her my number. I wouldn't stir from the phone, except to look outside to see if Al was around, until he called – I knew that.