Finding Mary Blaine Read online

  When the sun rose he would start his day, only there would be no music in his thoughts. The details of his life had slipped away with Blaine. He didn’t know the location of the dry cleaners, or which grocer it was who knew just how thick to cut his steaks for grilling. She’d always taken care of all the little things he never thought he had time to worry about.

  He fought down the lump he couldn’t get out of his throat. The little things were the mortar, it appeared, holding his life together. He had no idea how to go on without her. All the times he’d thought she was simply talking to him because she hadn’t talked to anyone else all day, the notes she left him by the phone, the messages on his machine, they were all far more important than he’d thought. They were the details that held his life in balance. They were what told him over and over that she was there in the background…that he wasn’t alone.

  Mark wanted to dress and go in to the office. Maybe he could get lost in work and forget the time. Maybe, for a while, he could forget the charred form he’d seen, the blackened fist holding her wedding rings. Forget the way mud splashed on the body bags as firemen stepped around them rolling up hoses. Mud shouldn’t be on them, he’d wanted to scream. Blaine would hate that.

  He knew he couldn’t go to work. Everyone, from the other partners to the cleaning lady, had hugged him and told him to take a few days off. Mark grinned, remembering the way Teresa almost tackled him when she saw him by the elevators. She’d smelled of cleaning supplies and dust, but that hadn’t stopped her from pulling him against her ample chest. He might be a big-shot lawyer now, but she’d been there when he started and she felt that gave her rights to mother him from time to time.

  “Go home and be with your family,” she’d said. “Let the shock wear off. It will take time for you to heal.”

  Mark hadn’t bothered to tell her he had no family. That was one thing Blaine and he had in common. He’d lost his mother to a car wreck when he’d been in the second grade. His father sat him down and told Mark his mother had died instantly, as if that somehow softened the blow. Then his old man had crawled into a bottle and never came out.

  Blaine’s dad was still alive as far as she knew, but he never bothered to keep in touch. Mark wasn’t even sure how to locate him. Her parents divorced before she started school. Neither, it appeared, had wanted her in the settlement. Blaine said once that her father made sure he didn’t leave a forwarding address so he couldn’t be tracked for child support payments or her mother’s doctor bills.

  Her mother had tried being a single parent for a while but she was fighting her own battle with depression. When the doctor found cancer, she found another reason to wish herself dead. Blaine had taken care of her for a time. She had left Blaine with a friend one morning, but Blaine never said more. Out of curiosity, Mark had looked up the record. A police report said it looked as if she’d turned her car into traffic, but her death was ruled an accident. Blaine never talked about where she’d gone after that, but he knew she never made bonds strong enough to carry into adulthood.

  She had said that her mother hadn’t bothered to say goodbye. Mark hadn’t asked more, not wanting to bring up bad memories.

  Blaine told him once that as soon as she realized she was on her own, she learned to work the system. Scholarships, grants, work study programs. By the time she was in her third year of college, no one noticed that, for her, there were no checks from home.

  Mark realized he’d always been proud of her for what she’d done. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever bothered to tell her so. He’d had an old insurance policy of his mother’s to help him through his first four years of college, but as far as he knew Blaine had no one.

  Maybe being on her own so early was why she always did the volunteer work she did. Never with the symphony or the art guilds, but always with the underprivileged programs. Maybe she was looking for that kid who needed to find the ladder to a better life.

  Blaine never talked about her past. A few times he thought about how it was as if her life started the day they met, and nothing else mattered enough to comment on. He had been about to start law school the summer they met in the library. She’d just graduated with a library science degree and was taking a few education courses. He’d fallen asleep on their first date. Any other girl would have been furious, but Blaine had covered him with a blanket and left him until dawn on her couch. When he awoke she had breakfast ready, and somehow they both knew that they’d become a couple.

  By fall they were married and she worked so he could concentrate on law school. It was that simple with Blaine.

  It always had been. Until now.

  Mark had never thought about it before, but there were years of Blaine’s life about which he knew nothing. He’d never heard her mention the people she lived with from the time her mother died until she moved into the college dorm at seventeen. She said once that she had to work her first few years until her grade point was high enough to apply for more scholarships, but she had never said what she’d done.

  He should have asked, he realized. He should have cared.

  The mangy old calico Blaine called Tres banged its way through the cat door. For years Mark had tolerated the animal, and she’d done the same to him, because of Blaine. Now the cat looked at him and meowed in what Mark would swear was cat-cussing. The cat seemed angry that, if one of them had to leave, it hadn’t been Mark.

  “I don’t know where your food is,” he grumbled. “We had this conversation last night.”

  Tres swore back at him.

  Mark opened several cabinets, finally giving up his search and pouring Cheerios in the cat bowl. “Take it or leave it.”

  Tres glared at him as if promising to get even and then ran back out the cat door. He watched her for a while, wondering if the cat had another home. Blaine called herself momma to the cat, but he’d never once thought of the animal as related to him.

  First light changed the sky. Mark turned away from the window. If he couldn’t go to the office, what would he do with his time? Sit around and think of questions he should have asked his wife?

  He flipped the phone back on, thinking his secretary would call him as soon as she got to work. He’d need to at least keep her working on his upcoming case if he planned to be ready in two weeks.

  With sudden urgency, he pulled on his sweats, darted through the hallway to the stairs and headed north, running down the still-sleeping street of Cat Mountain. The neighborhood had winding paths and shadows so thick they looked like oil on the roads. He loved running. When he ran, he seldom noticed much around him. Sometimes he tried to match his steps in rhythm to his heartbeat. Sometimes he’d hum old songs. More often than not, he counted off the minutes, eventually making himself a clock so accurate that he rarely glanced at his watch.

  He liked the feel of his heart pounding, the way his shoes thumped out each step, the rush of breath again and again as if he were a machine, the way his mind went blank with the beat of it all. Even the strain of his muscles tiring was welcomed, for when he ran, the world balanced for Mark.

  Sweating, he hit the front door still running. Seconds ticked away in his brain. In less than twenty minutes he’d showered, shaved and dressed. He walked into the kitchen, flipped on the TV at the bar and reached for his orange juice. Breakfast was usually juice and a health bar on the drive to work. Anything else took too much time out of his day. Cereal had been his midnight snack of choice since law school, but he never bothered with it in the morning.

  One glassful of juice left, he thought, I’ll have to leave Blaine a note.

  The clock in his mind stopped. The carton of juice hit the tile floor, sloshing an orange spray across the tile. Mark started shaking as if a blast of arctic air had shot through the room. Like a crippled-up old bull rider, he staggered to the couch and crumbled, too numb to cry.

  In the dullness of routine, he’d forgotten for a moment that Blaine was gone. For a moment, the pain within him had stopped, only to slam back af
resh, hard as the first time. Only this time his heart was already bruised when it took the blow.

  He lay perfectly still, trying to remember to breathe.

  When the phone rang three hours later, he hadn’t moved. For the first few rings he wasn’t sure what the noise was. Then slowly he reached across the arm of the couch and grabbed the receiver.

  “Mr. Anderson?” a friendly voice shouted into his ear.

  “Yes.” Mark sat up and tried to pull himself together.

  “I’m Herb Phillips at the morgue. We’re sorry we haven’t called earlier, but most of us have been down with the flu.”

  Mark couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t care about Herb Phillips’s problem.

  The man continued, more serious now. “We’ve got an order to release your wife’s body to the crematorium, but we’d like to check dental records first. Just routine.”

  “But I identified her.” Mark felt he didn’t need this hassle.

  “We know, but there is a missing person from the bombing and the police have asked that we double-check. If you’ll give us your wife’s dentist’s name, we can call and make the arrangements for the records.”

  Mark thought for a moment. “Brooks, I think.”

  “Thank you. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  Again Mark didn’t say a word.

  Herb continued, “The crematorium will need your signature on a form, if you’d like to take care of that while you’re waiting. Then once we release the body all will move along.”

  Mark didn’t see that it mattered, but he agreed and jotted down the address. “I’ll go right out.” He didn’t add that he had nothing else to do.

  “Better hurry. They close for lunch between twelve and one, no matter what,” Herb returned. “I’ve been a few minutes late and had to sit out with a body in the back of the wagon and wait for them to open back up.” He cleared his throat, realizing he may have sounded insensitive.

  Mark hung up the phone.

  When he opened the door a few minutes later, he almost collided with his neighbor, Lilly Crockett. The old woman was the only resident over fifty in the complex of expensive apartments and condos and Mark had found himself frustrated many times waiting for her to get on the elevator or pull out of a parking place. She was always in the way. Today was no exception.

  “Oh,” she said, holding her hand over her chest while she took a deep breath without moving a step. “You startled me. I was just about to knock and offer you a casserole.”

  “Sorry.” Mark stared at the square of Pyrex and foil in her hand, assuming it was food. He hadn’t had a casserole in years. “I was just leaving.” He felt as if he owed her some explanation. “The crematorium needs a signature.”

  Some of the residents had mumbled that Lilly Crockett needed to move to a home with people her own age, but Mark, despite the inconvenience, felt she had her rights to live wherever she wished, even if she was a human roadblock everyone in the building avoided. Her apartment was one of the smallest, her patio the most crowded, and from what he’d heard, all the suggestions ever stuffed into the box at the complex offices had been signed by her.

  Lilly still didn’t move away from the door. Mark waited.

  She stared down at the food in her wrinkled hands. “I could heat it up and have it ready for you when you get back, or I could put it in the icebox and go with you if you need someone along for the ride.”

  Mark almost laughed. How old could this woman be if she called the refrigerator an icebox? The last thing he wanted was Miss Lilly, as Blaine always called her, going with him. The woman dressed as if she’d been working as a carnival gypsy. He guessed she’d been crazy for so many years she wore the condition like a second skin. But she was trying to be kind, which was more than he could say for any of his “first-name only” neighbors.

  “Thank you, but I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I have to fill out some forms. If I don’t catch them before lunch, I’ll have to wait an hour.”

  She smiled and finally stepped out of his path. “That’s okay. You just knock on my door when you get home. I’ll have a meal ready for you.”

  Mark didn’t have time to argue. He just nodded and hurried toward the elevator.

  He sprinted to his car, but luck wasn’t with him. He dropped his keys and spent a few minutes fishing them out from between the seat and the console. Then it seemed as if he missed every light. A van filled with kids sat through a turning light before Mark gave the short honk all Austinites learn. Not laying on the horn, no double beeps, just a polite blast to remind someone in traffic to follow the rules and hurry.

  Mark passed the entrance to the crematorium and had to double back. When he swung into the first parking spot, he saw a sign on the door: Be Back at One. Enjoy Your Lunch.

  He had nowhere else to be and nothing to do for the rest of the day. Frustration boiled in him. Why couldn’t they have waited? Or staggered their lunch schedules? Surely more than one person worked at the place. But then, this wasn’t a business overly concerned with customer satisfaction.

  He pulled back onto the highway and headed for a restaurant where he and other lawyers often went for drinks after work. It was usually dead before the dinner rush, so they would talk over drinks without having to shout. Often they’d talk, more business than social, for a few hours then call their spouses to join them for dinner.

  The sign was the same, the entrance looked exactly as always, but when Mark walked inside, he would have sworn he was in the wrong place if it hadn’t been for the waiters all dressed in white shirts, black pants and red bow ties, as always. The bar was empty except for an employee reading the paper at one end. The tables were occupied, not with young businesspeople, but with older women in red hats and scatterings of mothers with kids on either side of them.

  The welcome board at the desk that usually read, Please Wait To Be Seated, now spelled out in chalk, All-You-Can-Eat Seafood Lunch.

  Glancing around, Mark noticed several people who looked as if they planned to get their money’s worth. One long table of women all had on bright colors with flowers in their hats. They seemed to be having some kind of party.

  He couldn’t resist glancing back at the name to make sure he was in the right place.

  “May I help you?” a young man asked as he passed with a tray of tea glasses.

  “I’d like a bourbon and water,” Mark said. “Make it a double. I’ll be at the bar.”

  The man paused. “The bar doesn’t open until two, but you can order beer with your meal.”

  Shaking his head, Mark walked out of the noisy place where laughter and crying babies seemed piped in. He sat down on one of the dusty patio tables and concentrated on breathing the warm, humid air. It was just a different time of day, he told himself. If he came back at five this would be his restaurant once more. The world hadn’t changed just because his wife died. He could come back with his friends and drink until they called the wives to join them. Only, his wife would no longer come to meet him for dinner.

  Blaine always laughed as if he was asking her for a date when he called. Then she’d say something like, “Order us a couple of Cokes, double cherries in both, and I’ll be right there.”

  Mark smiled. Her request was her kind way of telling him he’d probably had enough drinking for the night. They had an unwritten rule—she never nagged him about drinking and he always switched to Coke when she asked. They had a dozen little tags like that. Conversations only the two of them understood.

  Mark rested his elbows on the table and pushed his palms against his eyes. How come in the ten years they’d been together she’d never once told him what to do? She was so good at planning out the details of a dinner party or a vacation. But there was no plan now. He wasn’t sure she would want to be cremated. It just seemed like the thing to do since the body was far too burned already to have any kind of funeral. If he had a funeral, he’d have to have a grave and he wasn’t sure he could bear to see her name on a stone
.

  Why hadn’t she told him what to do? Why hadn’t she planned?

  “Can I get you something, sir?” the same young man from the restaurant asked from the door.

  “A couple of Cokes,” Mark answered. “With extra cherries in them.”

  He had an hour to wait and then he would have to make some decisions without any hints from Blaine. For a moment, he was angry with her. She’d let him down. She’d died without telling him what he should do.

  For the first time in ten years he wanted to scream at her for not being there when he needed her.

  Dear God how he needed her!

  Eight

  Blaine pressed against the rock wall of the office building and watched. The shadow darted again as if playing a solitary game of tag.

  Time passed. She heard the shadow making calls almost like those of a wild bird.

  The wind circled over the damp lawn. Blaine shivered, wishing for the jacket she’d left at the clinic two mornings ago. She wished she were home and warm. She hated the thought of worrying Mark. No matter her reasons, he would probably be angry that she’d put him through such a hard time. They might even fight, something neither of them liked doing.

  A highway patrol car stopped at the gate. The shadow in the cemetery vanished behind marble.

  A tall figure of a man climbed from the car and put on his Stetson. His outline could almost have been one of an old-time cowboy as he leaned against the cemetery fence and lit a cigarette. A tiredness was reflected in his stance, she thought, yet something about him was still alert. She guessed by first light he’d be ending his shift. She had read somewhere that the highway patrol guarded what they called the Capitol Complex, and the State Cemetery was part of that complex.

  The static of his radio broke the silence. The officer moved toward his car.

  She thought of calling out to him. She wanted to go home. She wanted to feel Mark’s arms around her and his steady voice telling her everything was all right. Even if he often slept in another room, she had always felt him near. Until now. Now he seemed a million miles away, in another world. If she yelled, the patrolman might take her home, back to Mark. Or he might take her to the police station and book her for being in the cemetery after hours. Or he might not believe her story and just tell her to move along. After all, her clothes were ragged, her hair several different lengths thanks to the fire, and her face was scratched to the point that, even if she had makeup, it would do no good. Anyone would have trouble believing she lived in one of the choice complexes in the city.