Erica did not reply, but stared down the road for a long time. When Mrs. Gavin finished her Coke, she stood and signaled to her granddaughter. Goodbyes and thank-yous, an awkward embrace, and then they got into the car and drove away. When the Gavins had disappeared, he checked his wristwatch and announced they had another twenty minutes to wait for the bus.
“Imagine that little girl, all alone with that old woman, and never knowing what happened to her parents. I feel sorry for her.”
“Don't,” Wiley said, and then threw his empty bottle into the trash. “She was trying to get you hooked every night. Love junkie. That's how much she wanted to make her own dream come true. They would have kept you forever if they could.” Worse fates were possible, she decided, and better ones. Waiting for the bus, she resolved to rekindle her feelings for Wiley, to choose to be happy, to will herself to give in to his schemes and wild notions. She resolved to be what he wanted her to be, to change as he had changed. A silent laugh flared in her chest and rippled through her throat and echoed in her brain. The idea of forever seemed an impossibility, like love itself, or finding your way ashore from the middle of an ocean, or returning to earth after being abandoned at the top of the sky, blue as the cup resting in her hands.
23
Diane nearly bumped into the postman on her way out the door, and after apologies were exchanged, he handed her the mail and tipped his cap goodbye. In her haste to get back home to Washington, she passed the bundle on to Margaret, who laid the mess atop the sideboard by the door. Joe had been calling nightly, missing her, and at her sister's insistence she prepared to make the long drive back. Golden light dressed the morning, and the sisters, glowing white, lingered by the car packed with her suitcases. Reluctant to take her leave, Diane held her in her arms and would not let go. “You call me the minute you hear anything. You call me any time you need to talk, night or day.”
Crushed by her sister's embrace, Margaret could only nod.
“She'll be back,” Diane said. “I'll keep you both in my prayers.”
Though she had her doubts, Margaret thanked her and stood in the street till the car vanished. With a sigh, she walked into the foyer and swept the mail together and laid the lot on the table. Already missing Diane, she fetched a cup of tea and sat to sort the junk from the bills. At the bottom of the stacks lay the postcard. On its face, a photograph of a Victorian funereal statue, a grieving stone angel in the foreground framed by bare branches in the wintry background. Historic Elmwood Cemetery, Memphis, Tennessee ran the caption.
What kind of person would send such a morbid picture? She flipped over the card and the sight of her daughter's handwriting struck her in the solar plexus: “Do not be blue, for I am finally happy. Goodbye, and do not try to find us.” Without understanding, Margaret managed to read it twice before the first tear hit the saucer's edge.
? ? ?
ANOTHER PICTURE POSTCARD sent from Memphis arrived in the rural post office box but was not retrieved until the week of Thanksgiving, when Mrs. Gavin came into town to buy a small turkey. The photo on the front showed a downtown streetscape at dusk or dawn, a few stragglers talking in doorways, marquees glowing, and a lonesome car parked curbside. Beale Street and a progress of musical notes in the upper left corner, and Home of the Blues centered in the bottom. Una did not know why such a card had been chosen for her, but she kept it many years.
Dear Una,
Drat, I messed up with this postcard and meant to send this one to my mother and the one with the angel to you, for you are the true angel and I will always remember you. See, I told you I would write and will write again.
“Miss Nancy”
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