Possessions (2 page)

“Well, it is, but everyone thinks about it. And I suppose I could love someone else if something happened to Craig.” She smiled at Jennifer, who came on to the terrace carefully balancing two plates of steamed shrimp. “Thank you, sweetheart.
Would you and Todd like to go upstairs now? I can take over; you've worked so hard and it's getting late.”

“Todd's already goofing off,” Jennifer said resignedly. “He's talking about Atari games with some computer guy. I
like
being the hostess. See you later.”

Amused, Leslie said, “Seems you've been displaced as hostess. Speaking of computers, my wild oats brother has become a computer whiz. In fact, I hired him a while back, figuring a good job might make him an upright citizen. Fingers crossed and daily prayers; so far he seems to be making it.” She paused. “So do you. You look happy, Katherine.”

“I am.” Through the open doors, Katherine heard fragments of conversation and a chorus reviving old folk songs to a piano accompaniment. She felt she was floating on the bright lights and colors of her beautiful house, and wished Craig were there, to share it. We've got to stop being so solitary, she thought; we should make more friends, entertain more.

“I'm sorry I won't see Craig,” Leslie said, as if picking up Katherine's thoughts.

“I am, too. I can't imagine why he isn't back; he promised he'd be here to help with the party. Can't you stay over? He'll probably get here just when you leave.”

“I really can't. A couple of odd things have come up at the store and I ought to earn my salary by looking into them. I wouldn't even have come up for the conference, if you weren't here. You'll just have to bring the whole family to San Francisco.”

“I will. I don't know what Craig has against it, but we'll—”

“Katherine.” Carl Doerner was in the doorway. “Could I see you for a minute?”

“I'll get some more wine,” Leslie said, and left them alone.

“I apologize,” he said. “No excuse for such childish behavior. I'm on edge, lots on my mind, but still . . . Katherine, have you heard from Craig?”

“No, have you? I thought he'd be back by now.”

“I just called him at the Boynton. He's not there.”

“Of course not. He's on his way home.”

“They don't have a registration for him.”

“They must have; that's where he stayed. But it isn't important, is it? He's on his way home.”

“Katherine, have you heard from him? All week?”

“No, he's probably been busy. So was I, with the party—”

“Does Craig use other hotels in Toronto?”

“No. Carl, what is this? Craig is on his way home; there's no mystery about it.”

“Probably not. But when he gets here, will you have him call me? Right away.”

Something in his voice finally reached her. “Are you
worried
about Craig?”

“Of course not. Just—have him call me. All right?”

She nodded, frowning slightly as he walked away. Behind her, someone said, “Wonderful house, Katherine. So much room to move around.”

“We built it,” she answered. “Three years ago. It is beautiful, isn't it? Craig and the architect worked out every inch.”

What does that mean—no registration at the Boynton?

“Talented fellow; he and Doerner built our office building.”

“And that new motel in Burnaby? Didn't they do that?”

Of course he was registered. Carl was impatient and didn't ask them to check.

“Mom!” Katherine looked down at Todd's mischievous grin. “There's a whole bunch of chocolate cake in the kitchen. It's for us, isn't it?”

She smiled. “How much have you eaten?”

“Just a taste. Jennifer said I better ask you.”

“How much is ‘just a taste'?”

“Uh . . . two and a half pieces? Jennifer only had two.”

“Quite a taste.” She kissed the top of his head. “One more small piece. And don't forget to brush all that chocolate off your teeth before you go to bed.”

“Sure. When's Dad coming home?”

“I guess tomorrow. He'll probably call and let us know.”

He would have told me if he'd changed hotels.

“He promised me a balsa airplane model.”

“Then he'll bring you one. Good night, Todd. Sleep well.”

Unless he changed his plans at the last minute.

“Nice boy, Katherine. The picture of his father.”

But whenever he changes his plans, he calls me.

“Katherine.” Leslie was carrying her overnight bag. “I've got to go or I'll miss my plane.” They walked to the front door
and she looked at Katherine appraisingly. “A sudden problem?”

“Why?”

“Furrowed brow, faraway look. Can I help?”

“No, it's not serious, just something that I can't explain. I wish you could stay longer.”

“Next time. Or you'll stay longer in San Francisco. You will come? Promise?”

“Promise. As soon as Craig can get away.”

“Don't wait too long; I really have missed our talks.”

“So have I. I didn't realize how much until now.”

“You could come alone, you know.”

“Oh. Yes I could. I'd rather not, though; and wouldn't you like a visit from the whole family?”

“Of course. Come soon, then. I'll give you the key to the city.” They put their arms around each other. “So damn good to see you. Letters and phone calls aren't enough. Why the hell we let ourselves get so wrapped up in our own lives—” And she was gone, waving from the front gate as she got into the taxi.

Just as Craig did when he went to the airport on Tuesday.

Three days earlier. Tuesday morning. He held her to him as the taxi pulled up, but he was looking off in the distance, already thinking of Toronto. He kissed her, told her he loved her, and was gone, waving as the car pulled away. An ordinary trip, no different from the dozens he took every year to meet with suppliers, architects, other contractors with whom he and Carl did business. Back on Friday, he had promised at breakfast, to help with the party. An ordinary trip.
But why wouldn't he be registered at the Boynton?

Her exhilaration had vanished; her party had changed. Her guests still gesticulated and smiled, talking rapidly, but the sound and brightness had dimmed, as if muffled by a curtain. I'll find out for myself, she thought, and ran upstairs to call the hotel. “No, Mrs. Fraser, he didn't register,” the clerk said. “We certainly wouldn't make a mistake about one of our regulars. That's what I told Mr. Doerner when he called, and if he hadn't gotten angry and hung up on me, I would have told him that Mr. Fraser did have a reservation but he didn't arrive. We assumed he'd changed his plans. I wish I could help you, but I can't. He isn't here, Mrs. Fraser, and he hasn't been, all week.”

He isn't there, Mrs. Fraser. He hasn't been all week. Katherine sat on the bed and looked blankly at the wall. He hasn't been all week. Laughter drifted up the stairs, glasses clinked, and the chorus at the piano belted out “The Big Rock Candy Mountain,” but the sounds were far off, the air dark. He isn't here, Mrs. Fraser. He hasn't been all week.

O
N
Saturday morning, the debris of the party lay strewn about the house. Katherine sat at the kitchen telephone, watching her children clean up the dining room. “We need a
maid,”
Todd grumbled, stacking plates precariously on the floor.
“We're
the maid,” Jennifer responded. “If Dad was home,” Todd said, “Mom would do it with us, like she always does.” “She's waiting to hear from Daddy,” said Jennifer. “She's worried.” Todd looked up from his stack of plates. “She didn't say she was worried. She just said Dad would be late because he got busy in Toronto.” “He always calls, doesn't he?” Jennifer demanded. “He calls in the middle of the week and he calls if he's going to be late and this week he didn't call at all.” “Mom!” Todd yelled. “Has something happened to Dad?”

Katherine came to the door. Her legs felt heavy, her eyes scratchy from being up all night, waiting, watching the blazing porch light grow feeble as the sun rose. She was too tired to lie convincingly, and her children were expert at catching her
in contradictions—and anyway, she thought, they deserve to know what's happening. “I don't know where he is, Todd. He's probably tied up with some business people and he'll call us as soon as he can.”

“But where
is
he?” Todd insisted.

“I said I don't know,” Katherine snapped. More gently she said, “I'm waiting for him to call.”

The telephone rang and she flung herself across the kitchen to answer it. “You haven't heard from him?” Carl Doerner asked without preamble.

“No.” In her disappointment, her legs gave way and she sat on the stool at the counter. “But if he's really busy . . . Couldn't something important have come up at the last minute? Something in another city—?”

“He's heard of telephones, hasn't he? Katherine, tell me the truth: you have no idea where he is?”

“Why would I lie to you? Carl, I'm
worried;
Craig always calls on business trips, and he promised to be back on Friday. I'm going to call the Toronto police.”

“Well, hold on a minute now, slow down. Craig's a big boy; we don't have to panic just because we're not sure where he is. Something unexpected probably did come up. Chances are he'll walk in any minute and we'd feel pretty silly, wouldn't we, if we had half of Canada out looking for him?”

“Half of Canada? I only said—”

“I know, I know, but I think you should wait. You watch, he'll waltz in safe and sound, wondering what the fuss is all about. I think we ought to give him time to finish his business and get home. But have him call me as soon as he gets in, will you?”

Jennifer was beside her. “What did he say?”

“That we shouldn't worry.” Katherine turned on the burner beneath the tea kettle. “And he's right; Daddy can take care of himself. I think we should get to work. What would he say if he came home to a house that looked like it was hit by a cyclone?”

But all day, and into the evening, as the three of them cleaned the house, all Katherine could think of was Craig lying in the street, victim of a mugging or a hit-and-run driver or a heart attack. But wouldn't someone have found him and called
her? Not if a robber had taken his wallet; that happened all the time. So she had to call the police. And if Carl didn't think she should, that was just too bad.

Still, she waited a little while longer, until Jennifer and Todd went to bed. “Wake us up when Daddy comes home,” Jennifer pleaded.

“We both will,” Katherine said. “Don't you think he's anxious to see you too?” But when she dialed the Toronto police, her voice failed. She felt ashamed, as if she were calling Craig a criminal—someone to be searched for, hunted down, his name bandied about by strangers. An anonymous officer at the other end was saying, “Yes? Hello? Yes?” and at last, knowing she had to do it, she forced out the words. “My husband is missing.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, so matter-of-fact Katherine wondered how many missing husbands he dealt with each week. “When did you last see him?”

“Tuesday morning when—”

“He was coming here? Toronto?”

“Yes, he went there often, on business, and he—”

“What airline did he fly?”

“Airline? I don't know; he didn't tell me. Probably Air Canada.”

“And his hotel in Toronto?”

“He always stays at the Boynton. But I called them and—”

“Did he have a reservation?”

“Yes, but he never . . . he never got there.”

“Never got there. When did you expect him home?”

“Friday. Yesterday afternoon. We were having a party for a friend of mine from San Francisco—”

“He didn't call or write?”

“No! If he had, I wouldn't be calling you!”

“All right, ma'am, I know this is a strain, but if you'll just be calm. We have to ask these questions; it's our job. Give me a description now.”

Katherine pictured Craig, sitting at his desk, organizing neat piles of paper and binding them with rubber bands or string. “Six feet tall,” she said. “Light brown hair and beard, brown eyes—”

“Weight?”

She paused. How odd, she thought. “I don't know.”

“About—?”

“I guess . . . about one seventy? He takes a size forty sweater.”

“Scars or distinguishing features?”

“A scar next to his right eyebrow, not a big one but you can see it. That's all. He's really—he's not unusual—just nice-looking.”

“Shoe size?”

“I don't know.” He must think I'm a terrible wife not to know these things. “I don't buy his shoes.”

“Right.” He went on and on, asking about the people Craig went to see, companies, banks—“I don't know, I don't know,” Katherine repeated—and then for their charge card numbers, and she read them to him. “All right, Mrs. Fraser. We'll get back to you as soon as we can.”

“Tonight?”

“Or tomorrow morning. Sit tight, ma'am; give us time to check everything out.”

That night again, as the hours dragged by, Katherine huddled in a corner of the couch, drinking tea, listening for the sound of Craig's key in the front door. The house creaked and shifted in the dark and she held herself rigid, afraid to investigate the sounds. At dawn she put her head back to rest her aching neck, and fell asleep—to be awakened two hours later by the furious sibilance of Todd and Jennifer's whispers.