Before He Finds Her (38 page)

28

September 23, 1991

Ramsey Miller awoke in panic, heart racing:
I fell asleep while driving!

But no. The boom he’d heard—felt—was no head-on collision, but thunder. The deep sway was no deadly truck roll at 80 m.p.h., but a wave moving his boat. And boats were made to roll.

As he assessed his actual situation—
on my boat, in the ocean
—another wave blasted the boat, sending it rolling again. Lightning splintered overhead like shards of a giant windshield, giving Ramsey a couple of seconds to take in the whipping ocean, to notice the absence of stars, and to understand the magnitude of the storm that had moved in while he slept. Understanding came just seconds before the rain began—almost as if his understanding had caused the rain to start.

The fucking weatherman. Though still shaking off sleep, Ramsey could see the comedy in it: The fucking weatherman had it right all along.

The narrow band of man-made light—land—was clear enough to the east, but he had no idea how far his boat might have drifted. He wasn’t even sure how long he’d been asleep, though the sharp pain in his neck from lying against the seat suggested hours, not minutes. He didn’t like the idea of being in a metal boat during a storm, but that fact was nonnegotiable, so he put electrocution out of his mind and leaned over the engine to pull the starter. Not easy, given the boat’s swaying, but on the third try the little engine revved to life.

The rain fell in torrents, carried by gale-force winds. Lightning and thunder intensified into the sort of storm that made you say “Holy shit” even from inside your house. But the waves were his concern. The flat-bottom boat wasn’t made for this. He’d turn into the waves if he could tell where they were coming from, but they seemed to come from everywhere. So he headed east, toward shore. Too far away to recognize any landmarks, but he’d deal with his position once he got closer. The main thing was to get moving.

The wave that knocked him overboard came out of nowhere, a huge roller that sent the boat onto its side. Ramsey hit the water and forced his head to the surface so he’d keep sight of the dark boat in the dark water. At first he couldn’t spot it. Then, as he rose on a wave, he saw it bobbing in the water fifteen feet away: to the west, he thought, but couldn’t be sure. The fall into the ocean had sent him spinning, and with only his head above water now, he could no longer see the shoreline. He could see nothing at all except the wave in front of him.

He swam toward the boat, but when he rose again he was dismayed to see that the boat’s position had shifted. He should swim east, to shore. But which way was east? He had a sense. Yet he
might
be able to catch the boat, which, without his hand on the throttle, seemed to move in a wide arc. If he swam toward where the boat might end up—

Another wave pounded him, and when he surfaced he could no longer find the boat. He turned in a circle. Which way was east? His waterlogged clothes pulled at him. He tried to kick off his shoes but ended up with another mouthful of water and a frantic race back to the surface. He needed to find east. The boat would keep moving but the shore would not. Swim to shore. Which way was the shore?

Ramsey was a strong swimmer. The water wasn’t cold. The storm would let up.

Another wave knocked him under. Which way was up?

He surfaced again but no air came, only a hack, and more rain, and he vomited something sour, and when his mouth dipped below the surface again, that’s when the first full intake of sea-water came, and that’s when the first full moment of understanding came.

And although he was drowning horribly in the pitch dark, surrounded by nothing and no one, anyone watching would have been proud to know Ramsey Miller, who did not give up.

29

Alive and Wrong

December 26, 2006 * by Arthur Goodale * in Uncategorized

“That’s how we know we’re alive: we’re wrong.”

So wrote the novelist Philip Roth in his Pulitzer Prize–winning novel
American Pastoral
, which I read when it was published a decade ago. I remember that sentence striking me as surprising and provocative when I first read it, and over the years it has stuck with me. But only recently have I come to appreciate its insight. We spend our lives trying to understand the hearts of those around us and the actions those hearts inspire, and we get it wrong, wrong, wrong.

Because let me say this now: I was wrong about everything.

I knew—absolutely
knew
—that Ramsey Miller had killed his wife.

I knew that Meg Miller was dead.

I knew that the Miller case, my self-declared white whale, would remain open, at least during my lifetime.

And on a more personal note: I knew, twelve weeks ago, that I was dying, my bad habits finally overtaking my acceptable genetics.

Every bit of it, wrong.

As you’ve probably noticed, this is the first post since my macabre musings of September 22. I’d have thought that recent events would motivate me to write a flurry of posts about the Miller case as well as my own road to recovery. Not so. (Wrong again, self!) In fact, I haven’t felt the urge to write at all. More to the point—after this entry, I plan to abandon the blog altogether. If I decide to resume it someday, then so be it. But I don’t think I will, now that the blog’s purpose has been fulfilled.

For three years I believed I was casting my private musings into a vast and swirling world, when in fact I was reaching out to Meg.

I just didn’t know it.

Nonetheless, my blog did attract 75 of you along the way, and I owe you some facts:

1.  I did not die. :)

(Until this very moment, I have never in my life used an emoticon. Let that, my loyal readers, tell you something about the vicissitudes of old age.)

More precisely, if I was dying that weekend in September, I’m not dying anymore. The doctors demanded that I change my lifestyle, and that’s what I’ve done. You should see me eating oatmeal. You should see me eating fish. Also, after two-thirds of a century, I finally quit cigarettes back in October. Cold turkey. Boy, has that been a horror show. I’ve become an irritable SOB—but an SOB who walks the boardwalk five mornings a week and who no longer becomes winded climbing the stairs.

2.  Wayne Denison pled guilty to the second-degree murder of Allison Miller and the first-degree kidnapping of Meg Miller.

Details from his confession can be found in any number of newspaper accounts. But a friend on the Silver Bay police force who shall remain anonymous did me the favor of showing me the actual document. After killing Allison Miller, Wayne Denison evidently abducted young Meg and drove her straight to West Virginia, where he convinced his girlfriend to look after her, and returned immediately—that same night—to New Jersey in order to feign surprise around plenty of witnesses when Allison’s body was found the next morning.

Quite a different story from what he told police fifteen years ago—that he left Jackrabbits bar at 10:45 and drove straight home to his apartment. His earlier story was corroborated by his downstairs neighbor, who swore he saw Wayne entering the apartment—an alibi that we now know was purchased for the price of three marijuana cigarettes. In the days leading up to Allison’s funeral, Wayne dropped hints at work that he’d become disillusioned—after all, Ramsey, a man he’d looked up to, had apparently murdered his own family in cold blood. When Wayne quit his job and left town shortly after Allie’s funeral, nobody thought much of it. He returned to West Virginia, reunited with Kendra and Meg, and the three of them disappeared together, this new family that would remain in hiding for the next fifteen years.

In exchange for his guilty plea, Wayne was spared a first--degree murder charge. He is now serving forty years with no chance of parole in the U.S. penitentiary in Allenwood, PA. Kendra Denison claimed that she had been duped by Wayne all these years into believing that she was lawfully protecting Meg (who has grown up using the name Melanie). Prosecutors found Kendra’s story hard to believe but reduced the charge to second-degree kidnapping in exchange for testifying against her husband. She was sentenced to ten years in a federal correctional institution. She is currently serving her term in Cumberland, MD, and will be eligible for parole in five years.

3.  Regarding the many news stories praising David Magruder’s investigative prowess as instrumental in cracking the long-cold case and leading the police to the proper suspect, I have only this to say: Don’t believe everything you read.

4.  Ramsey Miller’s whereabouts remain unknown.

Yesterday, I ate Christmas dinner with Melanie and Phillip Connor. Like every time Melanie has invited me into their home, I felt uncomfortable and intrusive on the drive over, until the moment their front door opened and I realized there was nowhere I’d rather be. This time there was another guest as well, Eric Pace, whom I failed to recognize from our few conversations years earlier. He was physically larger than I’d remembered, yet somehow diminished. We had nothing in common save our mutual affection for our hosts, but that was enough.

Eric hadn’t yet seen Phillip’s scar, a fact that Phillip remedied by lifting up his shirt at the dinner table and recounting what happened on the sidewalk outside the police station on the night of September 29. He used phrases like
My body was her shield
and
In a fair fight, I’d have.
... Having now heard the story on a few separate occasions, I will note only that Phillip’s role in the narrative seems to increase in drama and heroism with each telling.

“Your face was highly effective against his fist,” Melanie added.

Good for them, I found myself thinking, for tinting a tragic moment with comedy in the retelling so they can move beyond it.

It would be impossible for me to gush properly about the Connors or for me to enumerate all the reasons why I tear up so easily in their presence—especially now that Melanie is well into her pregnancy and visibly showing. Suffice it to say that I ate too much last night, stayed too late, and went to bed feeling immensely grateful and lucky.

After sleeping late this morning, something I rarely do anymore, I awoke with that line from Roth’s novel in my head and went to my bookshelf to discover that it’s actually part of a much longer passage that includes the following:

That’s how we know we’re alive: we’re wrong. Maybe the best thing would be to forget being right or wrong about people and just go along for the ride. But if you can do that—well, lucky you.

I’d like to say that from now on I’ll live my life that way—-content with being along for the ride. Trouble is, I’ve had an entire lifetime to practice being wrong. I don’t know if I can stop this late in the game. So let me close out this post, and this blog, by saying the following:

Melanie Connor—formerly Melanie Denison, formerly Meg Miller—rose from the dead, sought me out, and became my friend. That will always be one of the great joys of my life.

About that, I know I’m not wrong.

Posted by Old Man with Typewriter at 12/26/2006 5:42 PM | Comments are enabled.

30

June 17, 2009

Eight a.m. and already a scorcher. Soon the slides will all be too hot to ride.

Melanie sits on the park bench while her daughter climbs and slides, climbs and slides, and monologues a nonstop jumble of songs and stories that Melanie can only half follow.

The two of them are alone in the park. All the other young children in town are either later sleepers or their mothers are less desperate than Melanie to start burning off excess energy.

Phillip is at the high school administering final exams to restless seniors. If the weather holds, the three of them might head to the beach in the afternoon.

“One more, sweetie,” Melanie calls to Brianna, who turned three in April. They named her Brianna—Brianna Allison Connor—because the name is trendy and other girls have it. Melanie wants her daughter to have many things in common with other children.

“Two more!” Brianna shouts back.

In not so long, Brianna will have a sister, or brother. Melanie peed on the stick this morning, and plans to tell Phillip tonight after Brianna goes to bed. If Melanie can hold on to the secret that long. She’s out of practice keeping secrets.

“Okay—two more,” Melanie says. “And then we’ll feed the turtles.”

There are newer, better parks in town, but this one has Turtle Pond. Melanie always enjoys coming here with her daughter, knowing that she used to come here with her mother. And with her father, who is out there somewhere.

After Wayne and Kendra were arrested and briefly made national news, Melanie kept waiting for her father to return. She would scan the faces of men she saw in town, hoping for that flicker of recognition. At night she dreamt that she was still living with Wayne and Kendra in Fredonia, imprisoned in their trailer, and Ramsey would find her there and set her free.

Her home phone number was listed. Her address was listed. Her information was there for the taking. He could have found her if he wanted. But as the weeks and months passed and the media moved on to other stories, Melanie began to accept that her father had chosen to remain hidden. He had been a fugitive for fifteen years, and it must have been agonizing for him, knowing he was innocent but that everyone had already convicted him. By now he must have started a new life somewhere and decided that, all things considered, the best choice was to keep living it.