Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, November 25, 1993 TAG: 9311250356
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: HOLIDAY
SOURCE: Beth Macy
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
It is noon. He is in the parking lot at Lowe's. They had been standing in the long line with their cabinet trim and paint. His wife seemed antsy, impatient.
He thought she'd said, ``I'm taking a walk outside while you wait.'' She handed him the checkbook. He thought she'd meet him in the car.
He waits in line 10 minutes, writes the check, walks to the car and looks around. He carefully arranges the wood molding in his car, front seat to back. He looks around.
Maybe she's walked around to the lumber section. He checks it out. Maybe she's walked back inside to the bathroom. He asks a female clerk to check it out.
At 12:15, he has her paged on the intercom. At 12:25, they page her again. At 12:30, he hears her name on the loud speaker one last time.
He calls his aunt and uncle, who live nearby. Have you seen her? Has she walked over to your house?
At 12:40, he drives down Apperson, scanning the roadside. Maybe she started walking home. He drives less than a mile, then turns around - afraid he'll miss her at the store.
At 12:45, the aunt and uncle drive around scanning the roads. The lumber man at Lowe's is worried, too.
``Were you in a fight?'' he asks him.
No.
``What does she look like?''
Five-feet-6. Dark hair with streaks of gray. She's 6 months pregnant.
``Maybe you should call the police.''
He takes another look around the parking lot. He walks the 200 yards down to the river. He imagines the worst. He thinks again about ``The Vanishing.''
At 12:55, he dials 9-1-1.
The dispatcher asks, ``Were you in a fight?''
Every 10 steps, she turns around looking for his car.
She'd told him she needed to walk. She thought he'd be right behind her in the car - 10 minutes tops.
At 12:15 she imagines him running into a friend, discussing kitchen cabinets. At 12:20 she thinks maybe he went back for that cordless drill he's been begging her to buy.
She keeps walking - every 10 steps turning around, every 10 steps looking for his car.
At 12:30 a friend drives by, sees her and stops. ``Do you need a ride?'' he asks. She tries explaining the strange situation: She doesn't want to miss him by getting in someone else's car. Besides, it's a warm, pretty day and she doesn't mind the walk.
He drives away thinking, ``Were they in a fight?''
At 12:40 she starts to get tired. She thinks about turning back, but she's just a few blocks away from her friend's house. She worries: Maybe he's been in an accident. Maybe the car won't start. She walks faster.
At 12:45 she arrives at the house of her friend, who is talking to her mom, long-distance. She waits on the porch, still looking for her husband's car.
She watches her husband's uncle drive by and she smiles at his silly white hat. She waves, but he doesn't see her.
Her friend drives her back to Lowe's, marveling at her two-mile walk. At 1 p.m., she spots her husband's car, still parked in the same spot.
She can't decide whether to be worried or mad.
He is both.
When their eyes finally meet, he throws up his arms. She sees him mouth the words, ``Where the hell have you been?''
By the time he reaches her friend's car, he's in tears.
She is about to yell at him herself, but then realizes he is twice as upset as she is mad. She has never seen him cry before - not at home, not at the movies, not in a hardware-store parking lot. He is stammering, ``I called
9-1-1 ... we were down by the river looking for you ... I thought someone had hurt you.''
He stands there, rocking her in his arms. It will take days before he can get the picture out of his mind - the ditch, the river, the scene in that movie, ``The Vanishing.''
``I thought you were dead,'' he says, both of them crying, both of them confused.
Their neighbor thinks they should take Communications 101. His aunt and uncle are still rolling their eyes. The nice guy at Lowe's, the nice policeman - they figure it was probably a lovers' spat.
She has apologized 11 times at last count - though she insists she did nothing wrong. She said she'd meet him on the road.
He accepts her apologies, but he's still confused. He insists she said nothing about walking alongside the road.
At 5 p.m. they go to the grocery. He keeps his eye on her wherever she goes.
It is 3:45 Sunday morning. He is in bed snoring fitfully, their dog at his feet.
She lies awake beside him, watching him breathe, imagining his day. She watches him turn over, imagines him dreaming that movie. It is in black-and- white. It is scarier than she remembers.
She gets up, goes downstairs and writes it all down. Only then will she sleep. Only then will she let yesterday go.
In the margins of her journal, she makes a note to remind him: She is 5-foot-8, not 5-foot-6. She was wearing the sweater his mom made for her on their first Christmas. She was wearing her black tights, black shoes and her silly black hat.
She feels like he should know all this, she's not sure why.
She feels like she has just walked two miles in his shoes.
Beth Macy is a features department staff writer. Her column runs Thursdays.
by CNB