Vanished Read online

  Praise for Vanished

  “Charles Dickens is the presiding spirit of this tale.… Vanished becomes an American bluegrass version of Oliver Twist.… Any writer who can play so well with our sympathies is to be watched.… MORRIS KNOWS HOW TO TELL A STORY.”

  —Boston Globe

  “An astonishing first novel … Morris’s book should be judged … against the work of our most highly practiced and accomplished novelists.”

  —Vogue

  “In Vanished, Mary McGarry Morris manages to give voice to an invisible, inarticulate underclass … with precise imagery, a fine ear for dialogue, and a sure knowledge of the horrors that can lurk just outside the most carefully calculated lives.… WE ARE IN THE HANDS OF A FINE WRITER.”

  —Seattle Times/Post-Intelligencer

  “Ms. Morris is a writer to reckon with … as fine a writer as you are likely to find on any publisher’s list this season. Her language is precise, concrete, and sensual. Her eye for telling detail is good, and her ear for the way people talk is tone-perfect.…”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “POWERFUL … Author Mary McGarry Morris stretches a tone of menace as tight as a wire … Pungent, atmospheric prose … THE BOOK AND ITS CHARACTERS ARE MESMERIZING.”

  —Worcester Sunday Telegram

  “A story that not only rings true, but that is so achingly right it feels as if it might have come from one’s own memory.… ALMOST UNBEARABLY POIGNANT … A VERY FINE NOVEL.”

  —ALA Booklist

  Vanished

  A Novel

  Mary McGarry Morris

  To Margaret, my mother,

  who heard the Voice in every soul

  Prologue

  This is the true story. It starts once upon a summer day in Vermont, on a narrow mountain road, a few miles up from the Flatts, not far from Atkinson. A crew of smudge-faced, oily-backed laborers for the county are smoothing off the newly poured hot top. It is boiling hot and the mood of the men is dark and mean. They have worked most of the morning in silence. Though he is not sure exactly what has happened, the little man in the brown shirt and brown pants knows how swiftly their edginess could turn on him. So he works by himself far from the rest of the crew.

  After a while, the talk starts. They lean on their rakes and in low voices pass on what they have heard. It doesn’t take long before their banter runs as black as their sweat. Soon, one of the younger men, Bud, makes some crack about the dead man, James E. Johnson, and how his pants were half-burned and the mound of spent matches the deputies found on his crotch. With this, T. Garth approaches the men. He is Johnson’s first cousin and also his uncle by marriage. The pores in his face are silted with grime. His eyes smolder. “Cold-blooded murder,” he snarls. “They oughta shoot her on sight,” he says, then spits out a glob of phlegm that sputters up and down on the hot tar like a sizzling egg. Bud’s fists are clenched at his sides. “Goddamn crazy little bitch,” T. Garth says, then spits again, and this time, it lands on Bud’s boot. Bud says something and suddenly T. Garth grabs the red bandanna at Bud’s sweaty neck and yanks him chin to chin.

  Hazlitt Kluggs steps up to the two men and shoves them apart. Kluggs is the foreman of this crew and the little man’s father-in-law. With just a few words, he cools the men down and gets them back to work.

  Down the road the little man continues to stamp his metal padded striker up and down, back and forth over the hot top. His steps are cautious and measured, because of the square metal plates that are strapped to the bottom of his boots. If he is not careful, he trips and falls. After all these years, he still forgets that they are on his feet. He is barely aware of the scuffle that has just taken place or the reason for it. It does not concern him. There is little that does.

  The sun climbs higher and higher—and so do the men’s voices as they push their rollers and drag their heavy metal rakes back and forth over the blazing hot roadbed. Hazlitt Kluggs looks up quickly. T. Garth and Bud have just had words again.

  “Hey, T.,” Hazlitt calls out to the pock-faced man. “What’d the loonie say to the organ-grinder’s monkey?”

  “How the hell’m I s’posed to know,” Garth growls. “Ask your son-in-law.”

  “Hey, Wallace,” Hazlitt calls out then. “What’d you say to the organ-grinder’s monkey?”

  Everyone laughs. In the distance Wallace smiles a fuzzy little smile. He did not hear what Kluggs said. He had been watching his shadow work. He likes his shadow. He likes the afternoon shadow best, the way it stretches long and lean with the sinking sun. Sometimes he imagines there are two parts to him—two Aubrey Wallaces: the one they are grinning at now and this quick, dark one with its sure silent step.

  It is noontime. They lay aside their tar-crusted tools and take turns over the buckets of water, splashing it on their faces and lathering their arms with umber suds. Friday lunchtime is the best part of the whole week. This is the day they all pile into the biggest truck and head down the mountain for subs and beer at Ida’s.

  “You coming?” Hazlitt calls from the back of the truck to Wallace, who shakes his head no.

  “Aw, c’mon!” Hazlitt calls with a jerk of his arm.

  “Can’t,” Wallace says in a resolute voice that causes the men to grin down at him.

  “And why the hell not?” Hazlitt calls, though he surely knows why.

  “Cuz of Hyacinth,” Wallace says uneasily. “She’s temperate.”

  “And what the hell’s that mean, temperate?” Hazlitt calls back. Wallace chews his lip and thinks a minute. “Means if she smelt it on me, her temper’d be riled,” he says so earnestly that they can’t contain it any longer. They all burst out laughing. And none laughs harder than Kluggs, who, if the truth be known, is secretly fond of this strange little man, whom he will never see again once this truck rounds the bend.

  Aubrey Wallace settles himself down now on a can of sealant with his lunch box propped on his knees. He watches the truck start down the road. From a distance he might pass for a child. He is short and small-featured. His hands and arms are squat, but strong. He is a shy man with eyes that are soft and brown and wary. Even his hair is lank and as fine as baby hair.

  At times his movements are so self-consciously awkward as to seem furtive. His wife, Hyacinth, is convinced of this. To her he is a monster of deceit. There is no other way she can rationalize marrying this simpleton. He tricked her, plain and simple. She did not know that his silence was because he had nothing to say. But like a child, he has no part of himself that is truly secret, beyond that puzzlement of things he does not know or cannot understand. He has never traveled further than this mountainside. It is not that he does not want to, but simply that it has never occurred to him to do so. Why should he, when everything he needs is here?

  As soon as the truck is out of sight, he raises the lid on his lunch pail and takes out a cheese sandwich made with crusts and wrapped in the bread bag. “Sure is hot,” he mutters to himself as he works the knot out of the bag. “I’ll say. Damn hot.” He looks around, then says a little louder, “Hot enough for ya?” Then he shakes his head and chuckles. “I’ll say. Hot as hell. Hot as Gorcey’s unnerpants.” And then he looks down guiltily. He’s not sure who Gorcey is, but all the other guys say that. To each other, of course. Never to him.

  People rarely talk to him. But that’s fine with him. Conversations make him nervous. What happens is that he works so hard trying to come up with something to say when it’s his turn that he usually ends up forgetting the whole gist of things or else the conversation will have taken a turn he hasn’t noticed and he’ll still be on Carson’s goat and how bad it smells when everybody else is talking about Reverend Brassey’s ailing mother.

  Hyacinth hardly ever talks to him and he’s
noticed how it’s the same with his two young boys, Arnold and Answan. Lately, when he tries to tell them important things, things his father told him, they look at him funny. Like their mother does, cold and filmy-eyed. The other night he tried to tell Arnold how if he’d just sleep with his two feet out of the covers, he’d never wet the bed. Arnold gave him that look and then Wallace said, “Well it’s true. That’s how I finally stopped. That and your mother beating on me every morning the bed was wet.”

  He chews in careful nibbles on his front teeth and stares up the heat-waved road. His eyes, beady bright, are fixed like a squirrel’s, straight ahead on nothing in particular. He has to do something tonight—something for the wife. But damn it, he can’t think what it is. He squints and tries hard to remember. It was something to do with dying. Get straight home from work, she said. There’s been a death.

  He tried not to listen.

  found the body … deep in where she dragged it … musta dragged it all night and half the next day to get it that far.…

  His sons listened in eager horror. Their cereal thickened to mush as they pestered her with questions.

  But why her own daddy? Was he bad? What’d he do?

  “God only knows,” she muttered, her lips fanged shut with a mouthful of straight pins. She was doing up the hem on a black dress somebody from the church had sent over for the newly widowed Mrs. Johnson.

  “Some daddies’re bad,” she said. “But you don’t go bashing their head in, acourse. You just stay outta their way and make it a point to grow up better’n him.…”

  That’s when he got confused and lost track of what she had said before. Who was she talking about? Him or the man that died? He couldn’t be sure.

  His eyes slit to creases now, and he stops chewing. In the distance, down through the rise where the pine tops steeple the road in shadows, a girl in white skims toward him. As she comes closer, the light catches on her like a shimmer through a dark dream. She is barefoot and half-dressed in a man’s large white shirt and nothing on under (he can tell from here) but panties.

  For a long curious moment, she stands over him and says nothing. She watches his gulp and then the quick dry swallow that waters his eyes, which flit nervously between her and his father-in-law’s pale-blue pickup truck. His first impulse is to run inside the truck and lock the doors. When she finally speaks her dry, gritty voice drags over him like rake prongs over concrete.

  “A guy name Bud here?”

  “Nope.”

  “Know where he went?”

  “Downt’ Ida’s.”

  “Shit!”

  “They went for subs.”

  “I’m sick, mister.”

  “Acourse beer too.” He blinks uneasily. “And them subs.”

  “I ain’t eaten in three days, mister. I feel so weak.”

  “Ida’s ain’t far. Five or six miles, mebbe. Got real good subs.”

  “Can I have a bite of your sandwich, mister? Please?”

  He hands up the rest of his limp sandwich, which she snatches away. She moves off a few feet from him and with her back half-turned, wolfs down the sandwich. He gives her his apple, and his two brownie bars, and the rest of his coffee. All of this, she consumes without a word. Not even a thank you. Next, she asks for water for her feet, which are not only filthy, but raw with scratches and burns. Her hands are scabbed and dirty and her long reddish hair is wild and matted.

  The water buckets have already been emptied so he points toward the woods on the other side of the road. A ways in, there’s the river, he tells her and blinks, a little surprised to hear his own voice so clear and steady. Just follow the path, he tells her. She says she’s afraid of getting lost again. Her voice is soft now. Like a little girl’s. Would he mind showing her where.

  He leads her a short distance through the woods to a wide flat rock that juts out over the river. She sits down and dangles her feet in the water. He stands behind her, thinking how familiar she looks. She slides off the rock and wades downstream with her arms out at her sides. The water is up to her chest now. A little further on, she turns, and all of a sudden in the sparkle of sunlight and the clear running water that breaks at her chin like a glass ruffle, he knows what she looks like. Like a picture in a story book. A picture of a fairy. A chill shivers through him. Sometimes at night when the wife reads to the boys, he listens from the hallway, as breathless and as spellbound as they are.

  Sometimes if Hyacinth is mad at the boys, she makes up her own bad endings. All the princesses die and the frogs stay frogs forever and only the wicked stepmother lives happily ever after. The boys never protest, never say a word back; they don’t dare. The dark silence from their bedroom always terrifies him. It presses over him until he feels smaller and smaller. All night long he lays next to his wife and waits for the right moment to sneak into their room and wake them up and change it all around the right way; the way stories should turn out. But he never does, never leaves the bed. The dark is not his time.

  In the morning when he comes into the kitchen, they don’t even look up from their cereal bowls. They always seem different to him after those nights; pinched and puckered. It is as if they wake up from those bad endings with some new part of their mother in them; not looking like her, he thinks, but being like her. It is as if in the night, in the telling of the story, she had pressed her sharp thumb to their soft flesh and reworked a bone here, tucked in the same hard, thin creases as hers, so that even their eyes, though once as brown as his, have begun to ridge up from their sockets like hers, as dull and as worn as the little gray stones under the drain spout.

  The girl is swimming back now. She tries to climb onto the rock, but keeps slipping back into the water. He scrubs the seat of his pants with his knuckles. He can see right through her wet shirt. For such a slight girl, she has an awful big chest.

  “Hey, mister!” she keeps hollering. “Help me out!”

  He squats on the rock and extends his tarry hand to pull her out when suddenly, with a strange howl, she falls back and yanks him into the river.

  She is up on the rock watching him. But he doesn’t know that. He thinks he is drowning. Then he thinks he is dreaming. His arms stop flailing and his legs turn to stone as he sinks deadweight to the rocky river bed with the metal plates still on his boots.

  A few minutes later, she has dragged him limp and gasping onto the rock. Part of him feels dead. His brain sloshes in his skull. His ears ring. Like a morning bird, her voice filters down through the trees and the streaming light, not making a bit of sense, but soft as glistening dew. He watches her unstrap the metal plates from his boots. He isn’t used to soft and gentle things. As they come through the woods, she apologizes.

  “It ain’t your fault I can’t swim,” he says.

  “Yah,” she says, “but I shouldn’ta pulled you in.”

  “Well,” he says, “that’s one way a looking at it.”

  When they get to the road, he is relieved to see that the crew isn’t back yet. He sits down on the can of sealant and the girl climbs up into his father-in-law’s truck.

  “Hey mister,” she calls down to him. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  “C’mon now,” he wants to say. “C’mon and get down now.” But she is starting up the truck and steering it past him. He springs off the can and chases after her. She laughs as he runs alongside, begging her to stop. He almost cries. She slows down, just enough for him to catch up; then she speeds up, laughing over her shoulder as he races after her.

  “How far you gonna run?” she hollers out the window and then roars out of sight around the curve. He is out of breath. His heart pounds in his chest, but he keeps on running in his heavy, sodden boots. Without that truck, he keeps thinking, I’m a dead man. A dead man. He huffs and puffs down the winding road. And there, just around the bend, there she is, parked on the soft shoulder waiting for him. She won’t open her door, but she reaches over and opens the other side to let him in. And then when he does climb in, she roars off whil
e he’s still gasping for breath, trying to explain how the last thing he needs is trouble with Hazlitt or any of them Kluggses, but she keeps on driving.

  She keeps on going and going. He’s pressed against the door trying to come up with a good enough story for Hyacinth and his bull-necked father-in-law. But who’s ever going to believe a grown man could be stolen away by a fourteen- or fifteen- or sixteen-year-old; she has given him three different ages in the last hour and as many names. Finally she settles on Dotty.

  He closes his eyes and keeps assuring himself that any minute now he’ll figure a way out of this mess. Soon as they get to a phone, he’ll call. Soon as they stop for her to go to the bathroom, he’ll drive off and leave her. But he doesn’t. Damn it. Half of it is, he just can’t stand the thought of her coming out in the middle of nowhere and finding herself stranded. And the other half is, she always takes the keys with her.

  That first night, they sleep in the back of the truck. She spreads her arms and legs under the starry night and tells him to help himself. It’s the least she can do, she says. No thanks, he says, his face burning with shame. He wants to tell her how he’s not that kind; how he’s married and way into his forties, with two boys and the wife, but sweet damn Jesus, that girl’s tongue is lapping up the words and sucking the breath right out of his toes. The things she does.…

  All night long, he lies awake next to her. Strands of her coppery hair drift across his face like a veil. She smells salty and sweet, like his littlest boy in the middle of the night. He never felt like this before. He feels almost holy. For the first time in his life, the dark seems a wonderful place to be.

  The next day, she lets him drive. He is lost, hopelessly lost. He’s not even sure what state they’re in. A while back it was New Hampshire. But now all the cars have Massachusetts plates. The tailpipe is rattling loose and he is starving. They pass through town after town. He has lost track of time.

  Finally in one of these towns he pulls off the main road onto a side street and tells her they have to head back. Soon as he gets that tailpipe wired up. No ifs, ands, or buts, and he’s sorry about last night, he says. But sometimes things just happen, right out of the blue, so fast you don’t have a chance to think what’s right or wrong, which is just how he’ll explain it to Hyacinth and all them Kluggses.