South of Superior - Ellen Airgood [21]
“And he’s what, five?”
There was bitterness in her voice, but he didn’t blame her. Like almost everyone in town, Paul knew the basic outlines of her story. He wondered how she’d do here. He remembered first coming to McAllaster himself. It had never been in his plans.
Nine years ago he’d set off on an epic journey to Nova Scotia from his home downstate, intent on escaping all reminders of his ruined marriage, and got exactly three hundred and eighteen miles into the trip when the transmission in his truck failed and left him stranded in Crosscut for three weeks waiting for parts. The mechanic there rented him a loaner car, and there’d been nothing much to do but drive around sightseeing. Paul had ended Up in McAllaster one day, and got the idea of staying.
He’d come across a little pizzeria for sale cheap (the owner was desperate to get out), and buying it had suddenly seemed like the right thing to do. The truth was, investing in property seemed a lot smarter than blowing his money on travel, and he was already a little bored with the trip. It was in his nature to work, not fool around. Serving pizzas was something he knew he could do, something he thought he could make a living at, and McAllaster had seemed remote enough to satisfy his Urge to leave the life he’d been leading far behind. All of which had turned out to be more or less true.
Madeline made a small noise of surprise and stumbled on a hummock hidden in the grass and Paul reached out to steady her. “I thought I saw something,” she said. “Over there. But it’s just a tree stump.” Paul nodded, seeing the stump she meant, which could look a lot like a huddled-up boy if that’s what you were looking for.
He and Madeline moved slowly along the edge of the swamp, watching, listening. There was nothing to hear but the rustle of grass and the occasional call of a raven. They made a wide loop around the buildings and came back where they’d started just as the search crew began to arrive from town.
Madeline retreated to the tavern. The hand-painted sign above the door said “The Trackside,” and she wondered if trains ever went by anymore, the cars loaded with lumber like the ones she’d seen in Crosscut. Could Greyson somehow have gotten on one? It seemed impossible. She crossed the room and sat beside Arbutus on a wooden chair. The place was no frills. Most of the light filtering in came from the few windows set high on one wall, and the air smelled of old fryer grease and smoke.
Randi was wringing her hands, saying over and over that Greyson must be hurt, or dead, lost in the swamp, drowned. Madeline yearned to shake her, to make her be quiet. Oh God, would this day never end, and where was this child?
Arbutus of course was kind to Randi. “Try and stop, dear, you’re Upsetting yourself. It really isn’t very likely that he’s come to any harm. He’s such a smart boy. I think we’ll find he’s all right.” She looked very tired, and Madeline could see by the way she shifted in the chair every few moments that she was hurting. Madeline yearned to take her home—as much to escape the grim bar and distressing situation as to help Arbutus, she admitted that to herself—but doubted Arbutus would go.
But oh God, Madeline needed out. She had only been three when Jackie left her in a church basement soup kitchen, never to return. Only three, but she had never forgotten the terror. It was as frightened and alone as she’d ever been.
“Think, Randi,” Gladys said. “Stop caterwauling and think. Was there anyone here that he might’ve wandered off with?”
“No! He’s not going to wander off, he just isn’t.”
No one responded to this, because clearly he had done exactly that.
They all looked