Disconnect

Anita Witt spun the truck's steering wheel, rounding the building's corner, skidding to a stop. She climbed the loading dock steps, then turned her face to the rising sun, murmuring a supplication in its radiance, asking forgiveness for Joe and grace for Lucretia's soul.

Hurrying, she keyed open the loading dock door, stepped into the hall, then headed to her office. She hung up her parka, then changed from boots to shoes. She tissued away a winter tear and took a makeup kit and a mirror from her desk. Gazing into the mirror, she searched only vainly for her elegant lines, the oceanic depth of her eyes, the shifting poetry of her expressions, the storms of her passion, and the rapture of her fertility.

My youth is gone; I announced my retirement six months ago. This Friday coming is my final day on the job. I've always dreamed of having a retirement party, crepe paper, and balloons. People wish me good luck.

She pulled a mascara brush out of its tube, touched up her lashes, then went to the kitchen, where she threw on the light switches. The sodium banks flickered. She walked the brick tiles, powering the appliances: mixers and warming ovens, steam tables, and a soup cauldron.

A delivery truck backed up to the loading dock. The driver threw up the rolling tailgate, then hauled premade lunches into the kitchen. He called Anita's name.

"I'm in the stockroom, taking inventory."

"How's my favorite redhead?" he asked, peering around the stockroom door.

"I'm ok, Childs. How are you?"

"Well, you know, they changed my route again. I wish my bosses would make up their minds for once."

"Heh, I wouldn't hold my breath. How's your wife?"

"She hasn't left me yet."

"Would you give her my best? She's such a gentle soul."

"You have my promise," Childs said.

A moment passed.

"Is there something wrong, Anita?"

"It's that bad, huh? I guess it shows. I'm scared about Pups. She's sick. I have an appointment for her with the veterinarian. I don't know what I'll tell Joe if it's bad news. He doesn't understand things. He doesn't know why he's in prison, and they gave him thirty years. Oh well, oh well." Her hands trembled.

"Jesus, Anita, I'm sorry."

"I shouldn't bother you. You've got your routes to finish."

"Hell, the deliveries can wait a few minutes. Let me help you put up some of this stock."

"You'd keep me company for a minute? Just a little bit is all. That would be nice."

The part-time kitchen employees arrived. They hung up their coats and punched their timecards.

Anita walked into the cafeteria and looked through the windows. School buses pulled up in a big circle. Children disembarked, breathing frosty clouds while filing steadily into the main entrance. Sparkling sheets of ice covered the courtyard's surfaces. She flinched, seeing Mack, the head custodian, lose his footing and fall on a wheelchair ramp.

She headed back to her office, grabbed the inventory sheets, then started down a locker-lined hallway to the school's main office.

Sissy, the school's receptionist, sat at her desk. "I almost broke my ass this morning," she said.

"It's bad out there."

"Bad? That's good. Mack's got no ice melt because he used up his budget on a fancy floor burnisher. That's what's bad. We can all thank Mack if somebody gets hurt."

"I don't think about blame, Sissy. It's disheartening."

As Anita left the office, she felt Sissy's eyes following her. Yes, I'm old. Have a good look. But I was young once and beautiful.

Anita was born in the Michigan farmhouse that her grandparents built. She had had her bedroom upstairs with a north-facing window she opened for the fragrance of conifers and the chill of snowflakes. She could see first across the family's pumpkin field for a half-mile from the sill, then past the run-down cemetery where her father lay buried--a shipyard accident. Frost heave had tumbled his headstone. Anita dreamed of the day she'd transform the settling grave into a stately mausoleum with marble columns, gravel pathways, and strong iron fences. Beyond her father's resting place lay a vast temperate forest.

She'd had no siblings. Anita and her mother, Trish, shouldered the weight of their farm alone.

In winter, they repaired the farm's equipment. In early spring, they disk-plowed the forty-acre field. Afterward, they switched from plow to cultipacker and made the seedbed. Next, they calibrated the seed drill for planting depth and seed type. Trish backed an International Farmall to the drill while Anita signaled directions. With the hitch in place, Anita dropped the pins, and Trish hooked up the hydraulics. Finally, they cleared irrigation ditches and culverts so that, as the headgate opened, water could flow to the flood pipes. Fall was the pumpkin harvest, and they prepared the field for winter rye. They maintained a bee aviary for pollination and the extra income it provided.

Trish was an instinctive woman; austere and exacting, her self-possession guided her excellent posture, steady and straight. She home-schooled her daughter and assigned her farm duties, often asking Anita to repeat her instructions for clarity. But Trish had more than a simple reserve. The community regarded her as a sensible woman with a lighthearted laugh that invited others to join her high spirits. Trish gave the best of herself to her daughter, though. She loved Anita dearly and sympathetically. She also understood her daughter's need for something more than a mother's companionship.

In the summer of Anita's thirteenth year, Trish set up a honey booth at a nearby farmer's market and, throughout that summer, became acquainted with a couple nationally recognized for excellence in horse breeding. Alex and Elaine Wellington's estate lay just two miles south of Trish's property. The couple became regular shoppers at Trish's booth, often lingering for small talk. On one occasion, Elaine Wellington wrote her phone number on paper. She handed it to Trish, saying, "I know an introspective woman when I meet one. Won't you call sometime?"

"We've got a daughter, too," Alex said. "Her name is Lucretia. She's got moxie."

"Moxie indeed, how delightful," Trish answered, smiling charitably. "I've heard it said that dull children never quite recover from the condition. What age is she?"

"Just close in age to your daughter," Elaine said with a wink.

"Oh, that's delightful!"

"Yes, I can't see why we shouldn't make an afternoon of it sometime. Lucretia is back from Connecticut in August. She's visiting relatives. Oh, but do call me sooner. I love to chat."

Trish was up for the idea, and when she did call, she found Elaine to be forthcoming, expressive, and willing to share her story. Lucretia's conception had been a miracle of sorts--a redemption. Infertility and nervous disorders had challenged Elaine's sense of worth, but no more. Lucretia was her love song. Elaine happily described Alex's reaction to her pregnancy: "Well, he jumped from his seat and gave me a vigorous slap on the back. Gracious, but that gave me a start. It started me coughing as well. 'A job well done! That's fair enough, by Jove!"

"By Jove?" Trish laughed.

"Why yes, he invoked Jove! Are you acquainted with Jove? Well, I'm certain I've never met the man! At any rate, Alex hardly spoke before Lucretia's birth. He's very expansive these days. I'm sure it's got little to do with me--cultured pearl that I am. Everything's happiness and generosity."

Trish sensed a cloud, something ironic in all of Elaine's buoyancy, peculiarities in her manner. This was especially the case when Elaine spoke of Lucretia at length. Something hidden. Something anguished. But then she'd chastise herself for being overimaginative. Elaine's just concerned for her child's wellbeing, nothing more. But the question remained in her mind.

August arrived, and Elaine called, asking Trish if she fancied refreshments. Lucretia was back from Connecticut. Would Anita come, too? Trish was steering their truck down the Wellingtons' quarter-mile driveway within the hour. Anita gazed hopefully through a sultry haze as they sailed along.

"Oh, my, Appaloosas!" exclaimed Trish, slowing the truck to stop at a corral. A young lady stood inside the fences. Her hair shone in the light, falling about her waist in black tresses as she groomed a magnificent animal. She wore a gaucho jacket and riding boots. She'd clipped a small, beaded purse to her belt. Anita piled out of the truck and climbed the corral gate.

"Hello," Anita called out. "We've come to visit. Are you Lucretia?"

Lucretia tossed her hair over a shoulder, then turned toward Anita with a tremulous smile, emerald eyes flashing vividly under an aquiline brow. A tinge of rose bloomed in the porcelain symmetry of her features. "I am she."

Anita blushed and glanced at Trish.

Heavens, but her smile is jewelry, thought Trish.

"What does your purse hold?" asked Anita.

"My adornments," said Lucretia.

As their parents had hoped, a friendship between the girls blossomed. Elaine sent fruit baskets and encouragement notes. She invited Trish to social affairs and made introductions. Alex hired a laborer to be at Trish's disposal.

"I really can't accept," Trish said.

"Nonsense, it will bolster your farm's output. Think of the freedom our girls will enjoy."

And the girls used their freedom well, tramping through the forest, riding horses, snowshoeing, and skating. They played board games in front of a fire and had sleepovers. Each kept their dreams in a diary. Each sensed the other's heart and the desires within.

One morning in April, having just shared breakfast in the Wellingtons' kitchen, Anita and Lucretia decided to walk through the forest. While strolling near a spruce stand, Lucretia asked, "Is it nearly a year that we've known one another?"

"Close to that, I think," Anita replied.

"Do you love me?" asked Lucretia, touching Anita's face with her fingertips and kissing her forehead. "I never doubt that we bring out the best in each other."

"Yes," whispered Anita. "I love you."

"And I feel you with my heart." Lucretia pushed Anita's hair back, leaned forward, and pressed her lips against Anita's ear.

"Oh, Jeez! What are you doing?"

"It's a seduction," breathed Lucretia.

"It's warm."

"Yes, baby, it's warm," Lucretia said, "It's warm... it's warm," She felt Anita tremble and pulled her to the ground and kissed her neck

"I've swooned," whispered Anita."

Yes," said Lucretia, "a swoon within the privacy of our forest cathedral. Should I stop?"

"Oh, please, no, hold me more tightly. Let me surrender."

"Yes," Lucretia said.

Anita stared into the either, at the branches swaying in the soft breeze.

Later that same week, Lucretia took Anita by the hand, saying, "Let's get baskets and collect orchids in the forest."

"Yes, but from where?"

"From a bitter old swamp that lies beyond the quarry--a torment of green algae and incessant croaking. There are fallen cedars, patches of sunlight, and orchids springing from decay. We'll fill our baskets, then follow a stone wall that goes deeper into the forest than you'd think possible. When the wall comes to a meadow with a fen, it climbs grassy slopes to an outcrop where one can stand and look down to the shores of Lake Michigan. Oh, Anita, how well do you love me? We'll run to the shore and spread our orchids on the shallows when night falls. The northern lights will rise and sanctify our love for eternity."

"You speak strangely sometimes." Anita giggled.

September arrived, and the nights became chilly. Anita sat at Lucretia's vanity while Lucretia stood behind, braiding Anita's hair. Their eyes met in the mirror. Anita reached for one of Lucretia's hands, then held it to her face in a fit of passion.

"Lucretia put her chin on Anita's shoulder and whispered, "Always and forever, little girl."

She stood and pulled Anita close. "Listen to my heart."

"Yes," Anita said, pressing against her lover, "Let me listen."

Later that evening, as they lay in each other's arms, Lucretia suggested they use the coming Saturday to investigate the quarry.

"God, but I loathe that place," said Anita. "Cliffs and caves. Falling rocks and fat tadpoles lazing about in the murk of drowning pools. It's been abandoned for a hundred years."

"The perfect air for a picnic," insisted Lucretia. "Should we set the time for noon?"

"The dregs," complained Anita. "But very well."

"Then it's decided? Oh, to think of all the splendors in the world," gushed Lucretia. "It seems I love a rendezvous just as well as an enchantment!"

They held one another once, and finally, as Anita dissolved in the desperation of Lucretia's silken embrace.

The Saturday arrived, but circumstances delayed Anita. Trish's wall clock had run down, and Anita wore no wristwatch. She'd spent a whimsical morning daydreaming while her fingers worked a crochet needle. When Trish noticed the clock at a standstill, she applied its winding key and called out to Anita.

"It's past noon. Aren't you meeting Lucretia?"

"Shit!" exclaimed Anita. She scurried about, trying to collect herself.

Trish stood calmly by the back door, holding a prepared basket that Anita grabbed as she bolted by. Unbelievable, though Trish, shaking her head in good-humored dismay.

Anita jogged to the forest's edge, then disappeared beneath the canopy, continuing hurriedly with mottled light splashing about her feet. The air was sweet. Birds sang. She smiled with anticipation, and her heart swelled at the thought of Lucretia's embrace. She pushed a branch away from her face, sidestepped a familiar obstacle, then leaped over a stone wall. But as she landed, her heart froze, and trepidation sharpened her senses to a keen edge. She cast an alarmed glance backward. Setting the basket down, she stood fast in the throes of her intuition, straining her ears, and wiping her palms on her jeans. She called out for Lucretia and waited. She clenched her fists in front of her face and called at the top of her lungs. Wide-eyed, she scanned the foliage. The wind pushed through the canopy, and a deadwood branch came crashing to the ground. She started forward, stumbling over the basket.

"Lucretia!"

Shrieking crows answered, and her fear boiled over.

"Lucretia!!" she screamed, stumbling down the darkening path. She reached the quarry, but just as quickly, she felt the presence of a warning angel. She dropped to her knees with her chest heaving and a terrible ache in her throat. She dredged enough courage to stand and follow a narrow slope to the quarry's entrance. She rounded a large boulder, then shrank back in horror, staggering sideways with shocked pupils, covering her mouth with her hands. The forest wept.

Lucretia lay silently on the ground, her skirt torn aside and her tresses strewn above her head. Anita scrambled forward, heedless of her preservation, then dropped to Lucretia's side. She let out a sob, gazing into the emerald ruins of her lady's eyes, the tears of Lucretia's agony still wetting the bruises on her throat. Within this proximity lay Lucretia's purse. Scattered were her adornments: the trinkets and pieces of a broken charm bracelet. Anita reached out, confusedly arranging Lucretia's clothing to a position of modesty, then leaped suddenly to her feet, flying away from mutterings in nearby undergrowth.

A pack of hounds led police to a cave where an escaped lunatic had concealed himself. A single shotgun blast destroyed him. Lucretia's funeral took place two days later.

Fog haunted the morning. A priest chose from Ecclesiastes and began Lucretia's rite of commitment. At the same time, Anita stood unsteadily at the gravesite, squeezing Trish's hand, and staring morosely, first at the priest's face and then past the coffin to Lucretia's parents: to Alex, undone by his loss, to Elaine, her anguish the herald of her coming madness.

Suddenly Elaine erupted. "Fuck you all that sponged away my daughter's life!" she ranted. Alex wrapped her in his arms. Others quickly came to her aid. She convulsed brutally, wailing, "No, not my little girl!"

Anita grabbed Trish's arm. "I can't breathe," Anita gasped. "Don't let me see this!" And then Anita cast her gaze skyward, searching for the sun, a smoldering marble in an edgeless expanse, irretrievably gone, indifferent to the desperation of her soul. In the endless halls of her bereavement, Anita scorned God. She thought no more of stately mausoleums; Lucretia was gone to the rye and would only return in the split seams of Anita's subconscious.

Anita revisits the quarry in her bad dreams, treading on limestone slabs that sink beneath her feet while the sides of a valley rise, glistening with groundwater and the light of a sailing moon. The walls crash silently, now a shale field with a hillside of shifting scree in the offing. Lucretia's bones percolate through the shale and lie before her. Anita turns to run but freezes as Lucretia materializes, reaching through the rye with a caress. "I never doubt that we bring out the best in each other."

Elaine Wellington was institutionalized a month later. The sanitarium's psychiatrists described her condition as unspecified catatonia. Alex, the victim of misfortune's vilest storm, existed in the past moments of a kinder life. In time, due to the strength of his character, he rose to the surface.

Anita's sophistication did not discern the treacheries of her broken heart. Nor could she master the tundra of her indifference and aggressive gloom.

The next several years witnessed Trish's struggle to keep the farm afloat. She worked as hard as her body would allow, but the farm chipped away at her energies, and then a blight of root rot brought her to the brink. She'd spent her health, and she sensed the end coming. The farm would be too much for Anita, so Trish reached out to Alex Wellington and received the assurances she had hoped for. Should the need arise, Alex would become the farm's guardian. A heart attack claimed Trish's life just four months later.

Alex stepped forward to formulate the farm's future, true to his word. Anita was unreceptive, telling him flatly that she only wanted the farm's end. Alex understood her well enough. With the court's permission and Anita's blessing, Alex sold off the farm, then quietly handed Anita a sum of money far greater than the farm's sale had garnered. She did not question nor understand the windfall.

Heedless of Alex Wellington's advice, Anita took a room in nearby Traverse City. She found work in a mercantile store, but her beauty and effusive manner made her the object of unwanted attention. It drew cattiness from the other working girls. A slope-shouldered manager fired her. Anita let drop that he and other of the store's employees were a lot of hypocrites.

After the mercantile store, she found work tearing tickets in a movie house. She did not exist outside the screen and its flickering dramas for a short while.

A giant of a longshoreman came to the movie house one day. He seduced Anita with blandishments, brought her to a stylish restaurant, and then had his way with her. He shipped out the following morning. Pregnant with Joe and her naivete, Anita tore tickets for three months while awaiting the longshoreman's return.

Alex Wellington was not surprised when, upon answering his bell, he discovered Anita standing on his stoop.

"Can you help me?" she asked emotionally.

"Please come in. Whatever it is, I'm sure there's a solution."

Alex Wellington oversaw her shelter and health care for several. But both understood the reality of her circumstances, though. After a lengthy discussion concerning her future, Anita traveled to a maternity home in Colorado. She gave birth to Joe five months later. She decided to stay in Colorado and then found employment in a cafeteria, utilizing the skills she'd learned during her time in the maternity home.