Disappearance
Toby Tucker Hecht
Roberta’s husband Gerald disappeared in May.
They were sitting in the living room on a Saturday afternoon, when she casually mentioned that if he wanted omelets for dinner, he’d have to go to the supermarket for eggs, mushrooms, and cheese. After Gerald retired last June, they’d divided up the household chores, taking into consideration that Roberta was still working a forty-hour week, while he got up late, read weighty biographies of historical figures, took four-mile walks, played doubles tennis with other retired teachers on Thursdays, and worked on acrostics. He was more than willing to do the grocery shopping, which he thought of as a creative act, but would not tackle either the laundry or cooking; those tasks did not fit in with his concept of retirement. Roberta was fine with that as mega-supermarkets with their myriad of choices dazed and bewildered her.
Gerald lifted his feet off the coffee table, hunted around for the car keys and then said, “You know what? I think I’ll walk to town.” It was a beautiful spring day and the supermarket was about a mile from the house. He gave her a peck on her nose, grabbed his jacket, and went out the front door.
Two hours later, when Gerald hadn’t returned, she assumed he’d met one of his tennis buddies and stopped in for a latte and a gab at the local café. He hadn’t taken his phone, which was still charging on the foyer table. She waited, but as the afternoon faded into early evening, she began to worry. Gerald was in good health, but he’d had an episode of cardiac flutter a few years before and was on medication for that. She was unsure what to do. If she got in the car and searched for him, she might miss his return or call—if he were able to borrow a phone.
But she couldn’t just sit around, so she scribbled a message, took the keys that Gerald had been looking for (they were with his phone), backed out of the driveway, and followed the straight route he must have taken. There were other walkers on the path leading to the town center, but there was no sign of Gerald. In the supermarket parking lot, people were pushing carts, loading up their cars, and driving away. She entered the store and asked to speak with the manager.
“My husband left home several hours ago on foot and he hasn’t returned,” she said. “He has a short gray beard and was wearing a lightweight tan jacket. Have you seen anyone with that description?”
“Ma’am—almost every male in this town fits that description,” he said. “Are you sure he didn’t tell you that he wouldn’t be back for a while?”
Once outside, she entered and exited several other smaller stores in the shopping center. Most were places Gerald never patronized. The café manager said he didn’t remember anyone of Gerald’s description coming into the shop in the past few hours.
“Mostly we get teenagers who drink these frothy sweet concoctions,” he said. “I would have remembered an older gentleman.”
Gerald wasn’t old, not by today’s standards. He was 63 and she was 59.
Roberta drove home and thought about what to do next. She needed to talk with someone, but they had no children and no close relatives still alive, and the last thing she wanted to do was to alarm a friend who would never stop talking about her premature panicking once Gerald returned with a solid reason for his absence. It happened before when Gerald had his arrythmia event and Roberta was sure she would lose him.
But now it was getting dark and she began to think morbid thoughts. Maybe Gerald had left her. It wasn’t plausible, but these things can’t ever be dismissed. She knew if she called the police, that’s what they would think. A good looking, well-educated guy might run off with a younger woman—someone who might give him the children he never had with the old hen. She would turn out to be the cause as well as the victim.
Gerald might have left her, but it wouldn’t have been that way. He’d have taken all his fluffy cashmere pullovers, the expensive wristwatch she’d given him as a retirement gift, his phone, and the car. He’d have sat her down, and in his kind way, thanked her for all the great years, telling her he had to move on. And having children wouldn’t have been a motivation. He’d said being a teacher and later a principal in a large regional high school gave him a hefty enough dose of kids for a lifetime.
After pacing the living room floor and breathing in and out so hard she was getting lightheaded, she called the local hospital.
“Hello. This is Roberta Rowland. Could you please check to see if my husband Gerald has been admitted or is in the emergency room?” She hardly recognized the high-pitched, breathy voice as hers.
“I’m sorry,” the person answering said. “We cannot give out that information.”
“This is his wife. He left home hours ago on foot and hasn’t returned. I’m afraid something has happened to him.”
“Is this a missing person situation?”
“It might be,” she said. “I just don’t know.”
“You’ll have to call the police and make a report.” The phone clicked off.
Roberta sat down to think. If Gerald were in the hospital, he would have, if he were conscious, asked someone to call his wife. If he were unconscious, the hospital staff might have looked through his wallet, gotten his phone number from several of the cards he carried and called to let her know he had an accident or was ill.
No, it was unlikely Gerald was lying on a gurney in the emergency room. It was becoming as clear as a new pair of reading glasses that Gerald was simply gone.
But was he kidnapped, or God forbid murdered with the abductor transporting his body far away from the town? It was doubtful. Gerald had no enemies—well, at least that she knew of. He was mild mannered and hardly ever raised his voice, even to the most recalcitrant student. At his retirement party, there was no sparing of love and praise.
The next question to tackle was whether she should call the police. It was still early—only six or seven hours since the disappearance. From watching detective shows on television she knew that the police won’t get involved, particularly for a missing adult with all his marbles, until the person was gone two days. There was time to decide on that.
Roberta went upstairs, got into her pajamas, opened the window, and crawled into bed. Somehow, she thought that in the morning, Gerald would be downstairs, having just arrived with a great adventure to tell her about. The breeze was blowing the curtains. She felt a little subversive since her husband never liked to have the window open when he slept; too much racket from the chirping tree frogs. Roberta loved that sound which reminded her of her childhood in upstate New York. She fell asleep easily.
It was well after eight, when Roberta awoke alone in her bed. She strained to hear if there were noises coming from downstairs, but all was silent. She decided to wait until the evening to call the police. Perhaps she would receive some word from him before then. All that day, Roberta sat around in sweatpants and read, watched television, and munched on popcorn. It was something she would normally never do on a Sunday, a day that was always full of the activities that Gerald liked to do, like attending a sporting event or going on a bicycle trek. Those were not things she would have chosen to do, but she’d been agreeable, at least before Gerald retired. Since then, a certain amount of resentment crept into her thinking. Why didn’t he do what he wanted during the week? When she said she’d like to go to the ballet or the contemporary art museum or do nothing at all, he squinted, and one side of his lip went up as though he were in pain.
The phone jangled; it was Gerald’s cell phone with its happy tune. She rushed to get to it before a message was left. But it was a robotic voice that said they could get better rates on their credit cards by calling the 800 number that was repeated three times. Life was full of crooks and manipulators. You couldn’t escape—not if you had email (and who didn’t?) and used the internet. She’d bought a jacket for Gerald online, the one he wore when he went missing, and ever since then her internet surfing was filled with ads from that company. It made you want to crawl in a hole or move to an electricity-free cabin in the Adirondacks.
The more Roberta thought about her circumstances, the more agitated she became. She was not going to call Gerald’s friends and try to hunt him down. Maybe someone knew about his disappearance but wouldn’t tell her. Maybe they didn’t know but would think, behind her back, that the situation was amusing—even hilarious—and would talk about it all over town. And she was not going to call the police. What would they do—ask a lot of intimate questions, have her fill out reams of forms, and then tell her they’d let her know if they heard anything? No, if Gerald disappeared on his own free will, leaving, for some reason, everything behind, she would just have to suck it up and adjust until he decided to return.
On Monday morning, Roberta opened Gerald’s bureau drawer and looked at the pile of carefully folded cashmere pullovers. She lifted out the buttercup-yellow one on the top of the pile, held the softness to her face, and then tried it on. Although the sleeves were a little long, the sweater fit perfectly. She folded over the cuffs and looked in the mirror. Why hadn’t she ever purchased lovely things like this for herself? She’d never resented Gerald for spending what he did on his clothes, and she was certain he wouldn’t have cared if she bought something expensive occasionally. Well, now she felt no reluctance to appropriating the sweater—hell, the whole stack of them—for her own wear. She rummaged in her own drawers, found an arty pair of earrings that matched the sweater, applied a bright coral lipstick to her mouth and went off to work.
On leaving her office in the evening, she began to think what to prepare for dinner and then realized she didn’t have to prepare anything. A can of tuna fish and some crackers would do. But on the way home she decided to stop by the hospital since it was visiting hours and perhaps, she’d be able to find out more information.
“I’m here to visit Gerald Rowland,” she announced at the information kiosk at the entrance.
“Just a minute. What floor is he on?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he a surgical or a medical patient?”
“I’m not sure.”
The next few minutes were spent watching the woman behind the desk type furiously, like an airline reservation attendant, on her keyboard. Then she looked up and asked how to spell the name. After Roberta responded, she said, “There isn’t anyone here named Rowland. Are you sure you have the right hospital?”
“I thought that’s what I was told,” Roberta said. “What is the next closest hospital?” She sounded like someone who just arrived in town instead of a resident of over two decades.
“Brightwood Memorial on Parker Road.”
Roberta thanked her and left. Brightwood was at least twenty minutes away by car. It was unlikely Gerald had ended up there.
That night as Roberta sat at the computer paying bills, she thought of checking to see if Gerald had used his credit or debit card since he left. If so, she might be able to track his whereabouts and get a better idea of his motivation. But so far, there had been no withdrawals or expenditures. In one sense, that was positive; no one had held him up and dragged him to an ATM to take out money. The thought of a gun thrust into Gerald’s chest by a madman made Roberta feel faint.
Several more days went by quietly. There was no ransom note and, at least what she saw in the crime section of the newspaper, no body was discovered within the area covered by the press. Roberta went to work and never mentioned anything about Gerald to her colleagues. On Wednesday night, the phone rang. It was Paul Berg, one of Gerald’s tennis partners.
“Could you please tell Gerald I can’t make tennis for the next few weeks?” he said. “We’re going on a cruise. I told the other guys and they were okay with taking a break. I’ll get in touch when I get back.”
“Thanks. I’ll be sure to let him know,” she said. “He might be away when you return, though. He’s thinking of visiting his nephew in Portland. It might be better if he called you to get back on a schedule. Have a good time.”
Gerald was an only child, like she was. The lie about seeing his relative came so spontaneously that it surprised her. Why Portland? That might be a great place to visit. Perhaps she should go there one day.
It worried her that other friends or acquaintances might call or stop by and it would be hard to continue making excuses about Gerald’s whereabouts. She needed a good story, and more than that, she needed a concrete plan for her future. Money wasn’t an issue. She had a good job, Gerald’s retirement plan and the Social Security Administration would send a check to the bank each month, and they paid off the house right before Gerald stopped working. But she couldn’t go on pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t. Well, if she was truthful about it, for her it was fine. After more than 25 years of marriage, it was wonderful to have space, and ability to do whatever she wanted without all the compromising. She knew it was selfish, and she did still love Gerald and wanted him back and in good health, but not having him around for now was emancipation.
In the still hours, she thought about whether Gerald’s escape was long-planned—whether he was waiting for the right time and asking him to go shopping was the go-ahead signal. Would he have disappeared that day if they’d continued to sit in the living room discussing the upcoming local elections? But there were countless moments—when Roberta was at work, for instance—when he could have walked out. What was the impetus on that Saturday afternoon?
Perhaps Gerald was in trouble and had to disappear. Had he embezzled funds? He hadn’t worked in a business; he was a school principal without criminal opportunities, unless it was dipping into PTA or the Theater Club dues. That was absurd, especially since he hadn’t worked in eleven months. But maybe he had something going on, on the side—something she knew nothing about. He would have confided in her, she was sure, if he had gotten into a messy jam. And if he had to leave, for whatever reason, he wouldn’t have gone without a change of clothing and his toothbrush. She was getting sick thinking about all these things. It was useless; after a long journey of twenty-seven years together, Gerald, it appeared, was out of her life.
The next several weeks flew by and Roberta noticed that she was beginning to forget little things about her husband as though his existence was slowly being erased. After adapting to sleeping in the middle of the bed, Roberta, for one second, couldn’t remember which side was his. And did he like olives? She didn’t think so, but then found a plastic container of Kalamatas in the refrigerator that she knew she hadn’t purchased or asked for.
One month later, she felt edgy and exhausted. Every time the phone or doorbell rang, her heart lurched, and she had to quickly conjure up a new story about Gerald that was credible. She wondered if she should have gone to the police, after all. They would probably want to know why she waited so long. Perhaps, despite the rule of corpus delicti they’d be suspicious of her and charge her with foul play. They might haul her into the precinct station for interrogation, dig up her back yard. The longer she held off, the worse it would become. Her life from then on would not be one of independence, but instead of chaos and ruin. And she’d have to use all her savings and assets in seeking legal help. Her options for moving ahead with her life were evaporating.
Hardly noticing it, Roberta passed her sixtieth birthday. The days were now shorter and chillier. The house felt like a prison. Each weekday, she got out of bed and went to work. She interacted with her colleagues on job-related issues but nothing more. In the evenings and on weekends, she watched television, read, and went to bed by eight o’clock. The novelty of doing whatever she wanted at any time was becoming stale. In fact, she really didn’t know what she wanted to do. She had no energy anyway. She was lonely. A numbing depression she couldn’t shake was setting in.
On the first day of autumn, she walked into the company’s human resources office and announced to Dora, the head of personnel, that she wanted to start the paperwork for her retirement.
“I’m shocked,” said Dora. “You’re one of the most dedicated employees here. I thought for sure you’d die at your desk.”
“I think I did.”
Dora laughed. “No really,” she said. “This is sudden. Don’t tell me…you’ve come into some money and you and hubby are going to travel around the world.”
“Something like that,” Roberta said, forcing a smile.
Dora came over and gave her a hug. “It’s been great. Best wishes.”
“Could you possibly push the paperwork though right away? And I have several weeks of annual leave accumulated. I’d like to take that starting now.”
“Sure, but what about a retirement party?” Dora said. “You’ve been here, what, twenty-five years?”
“No party. I just want to leave quietly.”
After cleaning out her desk of personal items, she drove to a real estate company. She didn’t have an appointment and sat in the waiting area making notes on a pad. A woman finally got off the phone, shook Roberta’s hand with vigor, and said, “I’m Nicole. What can I help you with?”
Roberta could tell by her demeanor that the woman was a no-nonsense agent and that she’d come to the right place. She sat down at Nicole’s desk and said,” Do you handle house rentals?”
“Renter or rentee?”
“I want to rent my house furnished to a responsible person or family. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Perhaps a long time. I’ll be traveling. Everything will have to be taken care of by the agency. You’ll have to vet the renters, collect rent and deal with repairs and maintenance. Each month you’d take your commission and expenses and deposit the rest of the rent into my checking account. Is that something you can handle?
“Yes,” she said. “I have another client who is doing something similar. What about mail?”
“I hardly get any. We pay all our bills online. The rest is junk.”
Then, she and Roberta got busy going over the details of the house and made an appointment for Nicole to come over to take pictures.
Roberta stopped at her bank branch and discussed arrangements with the manager. She told him that she’d be available by cell phone, but she and her husband wouldn’t have a permanent address, perhaps a post office box once they settled. When she left the bank, she felt lighter as though the pressures weighing her down had been lifted. Now she was really free. She could go anywhere and be anyone.
In the morning, Roberta began to go through all the things in her house, deciding what to give away, what to put into storage, and what to take with her. She packed her clothes in a single large suitcase, and took her wedding and other photographs, some kitchen articles, linens, and her laptop computer. After some thought, she also included Gerald’s sweaters, watch, and phone. She had no idea where she was heading; that was part of this fearsome adventure.
The doorbell rang. For a moment, she pictured Gerald standing on the front stoop ready to resume his life with her. Sitting down to supper. Lying in the same bed. What if it really was Gerald? Would there be anything he could say or do that would allow them to begin again? She didn’t know but wanted to find out. With her heart pounding, she answered the door. It was Nicole. She let go of the breath she didn’t know she was holding in and realized she was glad.
In the following days, all the loose ends were tied up and Roberta piled her belongings into the trunk and backseat of her car. Next to her was a book of maps of the United States—all fifty. She stopped at Nicole’s office and handed her a set of keys. And then she was on the road heading west. The highway spun out like a long, smooth ribbon, but there was no point in speeding. She hadn’t a timetable or a destination. She could stop anywhere and try out a new life in a town or city or in the most rural county. She could ditch her name and be Bobbi or Berta or something completely different. It wouldn’t matter. She was sixty years young with perhaps thirty years in front of her. There was time enough to start over. She could keep going and going until she reached the coast. She’d never seen the Pacific Ocean, or the Columbia River with its gorges, waterfalls, and teeming with salmon. Portland might be the perfect place to touch down.
In the years to come, there would be occasions when in a crowd at a concert or in a park or walking with her new friends along an avenue somewhere, she’d see a man who resembled her husband. He’d be older, but she knew if it was Gerald, she’d recognize him, and she’d turn away, because by his disappearing it gave her permission to do the same.
Toby Tucker Hecht
Roberta’s husband Gerald disappeared in May.
They were sitting in the living room on a Saturday afternoon, when she casually mentioned that if he wanted omelets for dinner, he’d have to go to the supermarket for eggs, mushrooms, and cheese. After Gerald retired last June, they’d divided up the household chores, taking into consideration that Roberta was still working a forty-hour week, while he got up late, read weighty biographies of historical figures, took four-mile walks, played doubles tennis with other retired teachers on Thursdays, and worked on acrostics. He was more than willing to do the grocery shopping, which he thought of as a creative act, but would not tackle either the laundry or cooking; those tasks did not fit in with his concept of retirement. Roberta was fine with that as mega-supermarkets with their myriad of choices dazed and bewildered her.
Gerald lifted his feet off the coffee table, hunted around for the car keys and then said, “You know what? I think I’ll walk to town.” It was a beautiful spring day and the supermarket was about a mile from the house. He gave her a peck on her nose, grabbed his jacket, and went out the front door.
Two hours later, when Gerald hadn’t returned, she assumed he’d met one of his tennis buddies and stopped in for a latte and a gab at the local café. He hadn’t taken his phone, which was still charging on the foyer table. She waited, but as the afternoon faded into early evening, she began to worry. Gerald was in good health, but he’d had an episode of cardiac flutter a few years before and was on medication for that. She was unsure what to do. If she got in the car and searched for him, she might miss his return or call—if he were able to borrow a phone.
But she couldn’t just sit around, so she scribbled a message, took the keys that Gerald had been looking for (they were with his phone), backed out of the driveway, and followed the straight route he must have taken. There were other walkers on the path leading to the town center, but there was no sign of Gerald. In the supermarket parking lot, people were pushing carts, loading up their cars, and driving away. She entered the store and asked to speak with the manager.
“My husband left home several hours ago on foot and he hasn’t returned,” she said. “He has a short gray beard and was wearing a lightweight tan jacket. Have you seen anyone with that description?”
“Ma’am—almost every male in this town fits that description,” he said. “Are you sure he didn’t tell you that he wouldn’t be back for a while?”
Once outside, she entered and exited several other smaller stores in the shopping center. Most were places Gerald never patronized. The café manager said he didn’t remember anyone of Gerald’s description coming into the shop in the past few hours.
“Mostly we get teenagers who drink these frothy sweet concoctions,” he said. “I would have remembered an older gentleman.”
Gerald wasn’t old, not by today’s standards. He was 63 and she was 59.
Roberta drove home and thought about what to do next. She needed to talk with someone, but they had no children and no close relatives still alive, and the last thing she wanted to do was to alarm a friend who would never stop talking about her premature panicking once Gerald returned with a solid reason for his absence. It happened before when Gerald had his arrythmia event and Roberta was sure she would lose him.
But now it was getting dark and she began to think morbid thoughts. Maybe Gerald had left her. It wasn’t plausible, but these things can’t ever be dismissed. She knew if she called the police, that’s what they would think. A good looking, well-educated guy might run off with a younger woman—someone who might give him the children he never had with the old hen. She would turn out to be the cause as well as the victim.
Gerald might have left her, but it wouldn’t have been that way. He’d have taken all his fluffy cashmere pullovers, the expensive wristwatch she’d given him as a retirement gift, his phone, and the car. He’d have sat her down, and in his kind way, thanked her for all the great years, telling her he had to move on. And having children wouldn’t have been a motivation. He’d said being a teacher and later a principal in a large regional high school gave him a hefty enough dose of kids for a lifetime.
After pacing the living room floor and breathing in and out so hard she was getting lightheaded, she called the local hospital.
“Hello. This is Roberta Rowland. Could you please check to see if my husband Gerald has been admitted or is in the emergency room?” She hardly recognized the high-pitched, breathy voice as hers.
“I’m sorry,” the person answering said. “We cannot give out that information.”
“This is his wife. He left home hours ago on foot and hasn’t returned. I’m afraid something has happened to him.”
“Is this a missing person situation?”
“It might be,” she said. “I just don’t know.”
“You’ll have to call the police and make a report.” The phone clicked off.
Roberta sat down to think. If Gerald were in the hospital, he would have, if he were conscious, asked someone to call his wife. If he were unconscious, the hospital staff might have looked through his wallet, gotten his phone number from several of the cards he carried and called to let her know he had an accident or was ill.
No, it was unlikely Gerald was lying on a gurney in the emergency room. It was becoming as clear as a new pair of reading glasses that Gerald was simply gone.
But was he kidnapped, or God forbid murdered with the abductor transporting his body far away from the town? It was doubtful. Gerald had no enemies—well, at least that she knew of. He was mild mannered and hardly ever raised his voice, even to the most recalcitrant student. At his retirement party, there was no sparing of love and praise.
The next question to tackle was whether she should call the police. It was still early—only six or seven hours since the disappearance. From watching detective shows on television she knew that the police won’t get involved, particularly for a missing adult with all his marbles, until the person was gone two days. There was time to decide on that.
Roberta went upstairs, got into her pajamas, opened the window, and crawled into bed. Somehow, she thought that in the morning, Gerald would be downstairs, having just arrived with a great adventure to tell her about. The breeze was blowing the curtains. She felt a little subversive since her husband never liked to have the window open when he slept; too much racket from the chirping tree frogs. Roberta loved that sound which reminded her of her childhood in upstate New York. She fell asleep easily.
It was well after eight, when Roberta awoke alone in her bed. She strained to hear if there were noises coming from downstairs, but all was silent. She decided to wait until the evening to call the police. Perhaps she would receive some word from him before then. All that day, Roberta sat around in sweatpants and read, watched television, and munched on popcorn. It was something she would normally never do on a Sunday, a day that was always full of the activities that Gerald liked to do, like attending a sporting event or going on a bicycle trek. Those were not things she would have chosen to do, but she’d been agreeable, at least before Gerald retired. Since then, a certain amount of resentment crept into her thinking. Why didn’t he do what he wanted during the week? When she said she’d like to go to the ballet or the contemporary art museum or do nothing at all, he squinted, and one side of his lip went up as though he were in pain.
The phone jangled; it was Gerald’s cell phone with its happy tune. She rushed to get to it before a message was left. But it was a robotic voice that said they could get better rates on their credit cards by calling the 800 number that was repeated three times. Life was full of crooks and manipulators. You couldn’t escape—not if you had email (and who didn’t?) and used the internet. She’d bought a jacket for Gerald online, the one he wore when he went missing, and ever since then her internet surfing was filled with ads from that company. It made you want to crawl in a hole or move to an electricity-free cabin in the Adirondacks.
The more Roberta thought about her circumstances, the more agitated she became. She was not going to call Gerald’s friends and try to hunt him down. Maybe someone knew about his disappearance but wouldn’t tell her. Maybe they didn’t know but would think, behind her back, that the situation was amusing—even hilarious—and would talk about it all over town. And she was not going to call the police. What would they do—ask a lot of intimate questions, have her fill out reams of forms, and then tell her they’d let her know if they heard anything? No, if Gerald disappeared on his own free will, leaving, for some reason, everything behind, she would just have to suck it up and adjust until he decided to return.
On Monday morning, Roberta opened Gerald’s bureau drawer and looked at the pile of carefully folded cashmere pullovers. She lifted out the buttercup-yellow one on the top of the pile, held the softness to her face, and then tried it on. Although the sleeves were a little long, the sweater fit perfectly. She folded over the cuffs and looked in the mirror. Why hadn’t she ever purchased lovely things like this for herself? She’d never resented Gerald for spending what he did on his clothes, and she was certain he wouldn’t have cared if she bought something expensive occasionally. Well, now she felt no reluctance to appropriating the sweater—hell, the whole stack of them—for her own wear. She rummaged in her own drawers, found an arty pair of earrings that matched the sweater, applied a bright coral lipstick to her mouth and went off to work.
On leaving her office in the evening, she began to think what to prepare for dinner and then realized she didn’t have to prepare anything. A can of tuna fish and some crackers would do. But on the way home she decided to stop by the hospital since it was visiting hours and perhaps, she’d be able to find out more information.
“I’m here to visit Gerald Rowland,” she announced at the information kiosk at the entrance.
“Just a minute. What floor is he on?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he a surgical or a medical patient?”
“I’m not sure.”
The next few minutes were spent watching the woman behind the desk type furiously, like an airline reservation attendant, on her keyboard. Then she looked up and asked how to spell the name. After Roberta responded, she said, “There isn’t anyone here named Rowland. Are you sure you have the right hospital?”
“I thought that’s what I was told,” Roberta said. “What is the next closest hospital?” She sounded like someone who just arrived in town instead of a resident of over two decades.
“Brightwood Memorial on Parker Road.”
Roberta thanked her and left. Brightwood was at least twenty minutes away by car. It was unlikely Gerald had ended up there.
That night as Roberta sat at the computer paying bills, she thought of checking to see if Gerald had used his credit or debit card since he left. If so, she might be able to track his whereabouts and get a better idea of his motivation. But so far, there had been no withdrawals or expenditures. In one sense, that was positive; no one had held him up and dragged him to an ATM to take out money. The thought of a gun thrust into Gerald’s chest by a madman made Roberta feel faint.
Several more days went by quietly. There was no ransom note and, at least what she saw in the crime section of the newspaper, no body was discovered within the area covered by the press. Roberta went to work and never mentioned anything about Gerald to her colleagues. On Wednesday night, the phone rang. It was Paul Berg, one of Gerald’s tennis partners.
“Could you please tell Gerald I can’t make tennis for the next few weeks?” he said. “We’re going on a cruise. I told the other guys and they were okay with taking a break. I’ll get in touch when I get back.”
“Thanks. I’ll be sure to let him know,” she said. “He might be away when you return, though. He’s thinking of visiting his nephew in Portland. It might be better if he called you to get back on a schedule. Have a good time.”
Gerald was an only child, like she was. The lie about seeing his relative came so spontaneously that it surprised her. Why Portland? That might be a great place to visit. Perhaps she should go there one day.
It worried her that other friends or acquaintances might call or stop by and it would be hard to continue making excuses about Gerald’s whereabouts. She needed a good story, and more than that, she needed a concrete plan for her future. Money wasn’t an issue. She had a good job, Gerald’s retirement plan and the Social Security Administration would send a check to the bank each month, and they paid off the house right before Gerald stopped working. But she couldn’t go on pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t. Well, if she was truthful about it, for her it was fine. After more than 25 years of marriage, it was wonderful to have space, and ability to do whatever she wanted without all the compromising. She knew it was selfish, and she did still love Gerald and wanted him back and in good health, but not having him around for now was emancipation.
In the still hours, she thought about whether Gerald’s escape was long-planned—whether he was waiting for the right time and asking him to go shopping was the go-ahead signal. Would he have disappeared that day if they’d continued to sit in the living room discussing the upcoming local elections? But there were countless moments—when Roberta was at work, for instance—when he could have walked out. What was the impetus on that Saturday afternoon?
Perhaps Gerald was in trouble and had to disappear. Had he embezzled funds? He hadn’t worked in a business; he was a school principal without criminal opportunities, unless it was dipping into PTA or the Theater Club dues. That was absurd, especially since he hadn’t worked in eleven months. But maybe he had something going on, on the side—something she knew nothing about. He would have confided in her, she was sure, if he had gotten into a messy jam. And if he had to leave, for whatever reason, he wouldn’t have gone without a change of clothing and his toothbrush. She was getting sick thinking about all these things. It was useless; after a long journey of twenty-seven years together, Gerald, it appeared, was out of her life.
The next several weeks flew by and Roberta noticed that she was beginning to forget little things about her husband as though his existence was slowly being erased. After adapting to sleeping in the middle of the bed, Roberta, for one second, couldn’t remember which side was his. And did he like olives? She didn’t think so, but then found a plastic container of Kalamatas in the refrigerator that she knew she hadn’t purchased or asked for.
One month later, she felt edgy and exhausted. Every time the phone or doorbell rang, her heart lurched, and she had to quickly conjure up a new story about Gerald that was credible. She wondered if she should have gone to the police, after all. They would probably want to know why she waited so long. Perhaps, despite the rule of corpus delicti they’d be suspicious of her and charge her with foul play. They might haul her into the precinct station for interrogation, dig up her back yard. The longer she held off, the worse it would become. Her life from then on would not be one of independence, but instead of chaos and ruin. And she’d have to use all her savings and assets in seeking legal help. Her options for moving ahead with her life were evaporating.
Hardly noticing it, Roberta passed her sixtieth birthday. The days were now shorter and chillier. The house felt like a prison. Each weekday, she got out of bed and went to work. She interacted with her colleagues on job-related issues but nothing more. In the evenings and on weekends, she watched television, read, and went to bed by eight o’clock. The novelty of doing whatever she wanted at any time was becoming stale. In fact, she really didn’t know what she wanted to do. She had no energy anyway. She was lonely. A numbing depression she couldn’t shake was setting in.
On the first day of autumn, she walked into the company’s human resources office and announced to Dora, the head of personnel, that she wanted to start the paperwork for her retirement.
“I’m shocked,” said Dora. “You’re one of the most dedicated employees here. I thought for sure you’d die at your desk.”
“I think I did.”
Dora laughed. “No really,” she said. “This is sudden. Don’t tell me…you’ve come into some money and you and hubby are going to travel around the world.”
“Something like that,” Roberta said, forcing a smile.
Dora came over and gave her a hug. “It’s been great. Best wishes.”
“Could you possibly push the paperwork though right away? And I have several weeks of annual leave accumulated. I’d like to take that starting now.”
“Sure, but what about a retirement party?” Dora said. “You’ve been here, what, twenty-five years?”
“No party. I just want to leave quietly.”
After cleaning out her desk of personal items, she drove to a real estate company. She didn’t have an appointment and sat in the waiting area making notes on a pad. A woman finally got off the phone, shook Roberta’s hand with vigor, and said, “I’m Nicole. What can I help you with?”
Roberta could tell by her demeanor that the woman was a no-nonsense agent and that she’d come to the right place. She sat down at Nicole’s desk and said,” Do you handle house rentals?”
“Renter or rentee?”
“I want to rent my house furnished to a responsible person or family. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Perhaps a long time. I’ll be traveling. Everything will have to be taken care of by the agency. You’ll have to vet the renters, collect rent and deal with repairs and maintenance. Each month you’d take your commission and expenses and deposit the rest of the rent into my checking account. Is that something you can handle?
“Yes,” she said. “I have another client who is doing something similar. What about mail?”
“I hardly get any. We pay all our bills online. The rest is junk.”
Then, she and Roberta got busy going over the details of the house and made an appointment for Nicole to come over to take pictures.
Roberta stopped at her bank branch and discussed arrangements with the manager. She told him that she’d be available by cell phone, but she and her husband wouldn’t have a permanent address, perhaps a post office box once they settled. When she left the bank, she felt lighter as though the pressures weighing her down had been lifted. Now she was really free. She could go anywhere and be anyone.
In the morning, Roberta began to go through all the things in her house, deciding what to give away, what to put into storage, and what to take with her. She packed her clothes in a single large suitcase, and took her wedding and other photographs, some kitchen articles, linens, and her laptop computer. After some thought, she also included Gerald’s sweaters, watch, and phone. She had no idea where she was heading; that was part of this fearsome adventure.
The doorbell rang. For a moment, she pictured Gerald standing on the front stoop ready to resume his life with her. Sitting down to supper. Lying in the same bed. What if it really was Gerald? Would there be anything he could say or do that would allow them to begin again? She didn’t know but wanted to find out. With her heart pounding, she answered the door. It was Nicole. She let go of the breath she didn’t know she was holding in and realized she was glad.
In the following days, all the loose ends were tied up and Roberta piled her belongings into the trunk and backseat of her car. Next to her was a book of maps of the United States—all fifty. She stopped at Nicole’s office and handed her a set of keys. And then she was on the road heading west. The highway spun out like a long, smooth ribbon, but there was no point in speeding. She hadn’t a timetable or a destination. She could stop anywhere and try out a new life in a town or city or in the most rural county. She could ditch her name and be Bobbi or Berta or something completely different. It wouldn’t matter. She was sixty years young with perhaps thirty years in front of her. There was time enough to start over. She could keep going and going until she reached the coast. She’d never seen the Pacific Ocean, or the Columbia River with its gorges, waterfalls, and teeming with salmon. Portland might be the perfect place to touch down.
In the years to come, there would be occasions when in a crowd at a concert or in a park or walking with her new friends along an avenue somewhere, she’d see a man who resembled her husband. He’d be older, but she knew if it was Gerald, she’d recognize him, and she’d turn away, because by his disappearing it gave her permission to do the same.
