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At First Glance

Bob Strother

    Bernice Crowder was slumped in her wheelchair, dozing, when the squeak, squeak, squeak of rubber soles on linoleum awakened her. She checked the screen of the muted television where Vanna White illuminated letter tiles and smiled brightly for the cameras. Must be dinnertime, Bernice thought.
    A moment later, one of the nurses poked her head through the doorway. Her nameplate read Olivia, and her smile was not nearly as effortless as Vanna’s. “May I wheel you down to the dining area, Ms. Crowder?”
    “Not tonight, Olivia. I think I’ll take dinner in my room.”
    “Oh, come on now,” the plump woman said. “Don’t you want to spend some time with your friends?” Her mouth still bore the same tight smile, but her dark eyes held the hint of a challenge—like she might just decide to whisk Bernice away in spite of any protestations to the contrary.
    Bernice supposed it was a necessary thing on occasion—the nurses’ disregard for what they likely considered the irrational whimsies of the residents. After all, at least half the nursing home’s population suffered from a marked lack of their faculties. But not her—not yet, at least—and she was determined to stand her ground. She straightened in her chair and squared her shoulders. “I’m quite sure my friends will not suffer from my absence.” Then, to avoid any further discussion, she added, “I’m not feeling well this evening. It might be a cold. I wouldn’t want to expose anyone else.”
    Olivia pursed her thin lips and nodded. “All right, then. I’ll have someone bring your dinner shortly. Ring if you need anything.” She turned and left, squeaking back down the corridor.
    Dinner, Bernice thought. It was Saturday, so the evening’s fare would be meatloaf covered with a gelatinous, gray skim of what passed for gravy, mashed potatoes, and overcooked green beans. It was barely palatable. Even less palatable was the way her friends cooed and fawned over the home’s latest arrival—Emma Gamble, a heavily made-up octogenarian who claimed to have once been a Las Vegas stage star. The woman’s stories were overly dramatic, often bawdy, and, to Bernice’s way of thinking, almost assuredly complete lies.
    She grasped the wheels of her chair, maneuvered around the foot of her bed, and paused just inside the doorway of her room. In the hallway, men and women headed toward the dining area, shuffling behind walkers or in wheelchairs, slack-jawed and vacant-eyed. They reminded Bernice of a movie she’d seen in her younger days. Something of the Dead, wasn’t it?
    A gaggle of women appeared to her left. They moved slowly but without the need for devices or assistance: her usual dining partners, plus one—Emma Gamble—who already was holding forth with another of her rambling tales. The women huddled around her like chicks after a hen, straining for every word. A frown creased Bernice’s forehead. She flipped off the wall switch next to the door and retreated into the shadows as the group passed. “Enjoy your story time, ladies,” she murmured. “I’d rather watch TV. It’s much more believable.”
    As Bernice was about to turn back, she heard a commotion—laughter and youthful voices. Curious, she inched forward and peered around the doorframe. Strolling down the corridor was Blanche McCall—at seventy-three, one of the home’s more sprightly residents—accompanied by a younger man and woman, a teen-aged boy, and an even younger blonde-haired girl. Before Bernice could retreat into the shadows, Blanche caught her eye.
    “Hello, Bernice. This is my son and daughter-in-law and my grandchildren. We’re going out for dinner.”
    The couple nodded, the boy crossed his arms over his chest, looking bored, but the young girl stepped forward and offered her hand. “I’m Tiffany,” she said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
    Bernice took the girl’s hand in her own, feeling the smooth, soft skin and the warmth of her grasp, losing herself in the child’s innocent green eyes. She held on for just a few seconds too long before forcing her gaze back to her friend. “That’s wonderful, Blanche. Do have a grand time, won’t you?” She watched as the happy group disappeared through the building’s entrance foyer, then she pivoted the wheelchair and returned to her station beside the bed. On the television, Wheel of Fortune had given way to Jeopardy. There in the darkened room, a tear fell from Bernice’s cheek and formed a tiny bead on her hand—the hand still tingling from the young girl’s touch.

.....


    She was fifty-two when it happened, driving home from the drugstore after replenishing her supply of over-the-counter antihistamines. She’d taken the cut-through street, the one she always used to avoid the main thoroughfare’s traffic lights, and was deciding on what to cook for dinner when she spotted the yellow vase. It sat alongside the road among some flattened cardboard boxes and other assorted rubbish obviously meant for trash pickup. Such a lovely color, she thought as she passed by. It would look perfect on the dining room table with some tulips from the garden. On impulse, she circled the block and came back around, slower this time, and eased to a stop just beyond the uneven heap of boxes. She hesitated for a moment, embarrassed at the thought of rummaging through someone else’s castoffs. What if someone saw her? Then she thought, Rubbish! I’ll only be a minute, and chuckled at her joke.
    Bernice left her car running and hurried back to the trash. She glanced left and right, and, satisfied no one was watching, scooped up the vase. She turned it in her hands, admiring the way it gleamed incandescently in the sunlight. It really was beautiful, and in such good shape it looked practically new.
    Bernice heard a noise behind her and turned. At an intersection some fifty yards back, a silver sedan had stopped in the roadway. Two men—one black, one white—got out and circled back to the rear of the vehicle. The black man opened the trunk, and for a moment, it blocked Bernice’s view of them. Then, seconds later, the trunk lid slammed shut and only the black man was visible.
    What on earth was going on?
    As she stood clutching the vase, the black man re-entered the car, gunned the engine once, and whipped past her down the street. Bernice blinked. Did I just see what I think I saw? She checked the adjacent houses, this time hoping she would see a curious face peering out from behind a window—but again, there was nothing. With her heart racing, Bernice ran back to her car, threw it in gear, and sped off in pursuit of the silver sedan.
    She caught up with the car a block further on but had no idea what she was going to do. Her eyes scanned the yards and cross streets, searching desperately for some sign of life—someone whom she could alert and ask to call the police. Up ahead the sedan swung wide into a three-way intersection, careened through a sharp u-turn, and raced by her again heading back the way they’d come. He’s seen me, she thought. He knows I’m following him and he’s trying to get away.
    Bernice slammed on her brakes and cut the wheels hard right. She jerked into a paved driveway, threw the car into reverse, and bounced back out onto the road. The sedan’s rear window shimmered in the sunlight, now almost a full block ahead of her. She jammed down on the accelerator, heard the squeal of the tires as her car leapt forward. Gradually she gained ground, bumping over cracked asphalt and potholes, her fingers turning white on the steering wheel.
    She’d heard of an adrenaline rush—read about it somewhere—and thought that must be what was happening to her. Her pulse thumped like a drum in her ears and her whole body trembled. But inside ... inside, she felt alive. For once in her life, she was actually doing something. Something she’d only read about in novels, something heroic.
    A stoplight loomed in the distance, signaling the main artery toward downtown. Could she stay with him in traffic? She pressed hard on the gas pedal, pulling within twenty yards of the other vehicle. Then, almost before she realized what had happened, the silver sedan blew through the yellow, hooked a left, and was gone. Bernice braked abruptly and stopped just short of the intersection, breathing hard.
    On the other side of the street, a Seven-Eleven offered two-liter Pepsis for seventy-nine cents and Marlboros for two-twenty-five a pack. When the light changed, Bernice rolled into the parking lot and stopped by the outside pay phone.

    The two responding police officers—one black with Sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve, the other a younger white man with none—asked Bernice to show them the scene of the abduction. She did so, pulling onto the shoulder where she had first seen the vase as the patrol unit nosed in behind her. The two officers got out of their car and joined Bernice at the edge of the road.
    “All right, Mrs. Crowder,” the older man said, “please tell us again what you saw.”
    Bernice retold her account of the incident—how she’d seen the men stop and walk to the rear of the sedan, and how a moment later, the black man had locked the other man in the trunk. “Then he got back into the car and took off.”
    “And you followed them.”
    “Yes, I’m not sure why; it’s not like me at all to be so impetuous. I just didn’t know what else to do. The way he was driving—much too fast for this road, I’m sure—and the way he made that U-turn, I’m positive he was trying to make a getaway.”
    The officer who had introduced himself as Sergeant Johnson turned to his younger partner. “Haskins, knock on some doors. See if you can find anyone else who witnessed the incident.”
    As Haskins walked away, Johnson took a pad and pencil from his pocket and said, “Just once more, Mrs. Crowder, if you don’t mind. Let’s start with your driver’s license information this time.” He licked the tip of the pencil and took notes as Bernice talked.
    Several minutes later, another car arrived, this one without the markings and light bar of the patrol unit. A tall, heavyset man got out and introduced himself as Detective Styles. He had bristly gray hair, heavy jowls, and eyes that never left Bernice’s as Officer Johnson explained the situation. Then Styles asked Bernice to tell the story yet again.
    When she finished he said, “Seems like a strange place for a kidnapping—right here on a busy cut-through street, with you and whomever else might be observing.”
    Bernice wasn’t sure what to say. Was this man questioning what she saw? Her cheeks grew warm and she felt a rush of anger building inside her. “I know what I saw.”
    The detective looked at Officer Johnson and raised his eyebrows. Then he stepped over to her car and looked inside. When he returned he asked, “Are you on medication, Mrs. Crowder?”
    She thought of the two tablets she’d swallowed before leaving the drugstore parking lot. “I took a couple of antihistamines for my allergies.”
    “What about alcohol? There are several empty beer cans in the floor of the rear passenger compartment.”
    Oh, my God. Bernice glanced back toward her car. She’d thought she heard something rattling around in the back. “Those are my husband’s empty cans from his fishing trip last weekend. I asked him I don’t know how many times ...”
    Bernice paused as the younger officer returned and addressed Sergeant Johnson.
    “Two of the neighbors saw Mrs. Crowder picking through the trash but no one saw anything else.”
    Bernice felt a flush creep up along her neck. Picking through the trash; how awful it sounded—as though she were a vagrant or something.
    The detective sighed loudly. “Okay, ma’am, you can return to your car for a minute while we sort this out.”
    Once inside the car, Bernice’s breathing went shallow again—not from excitement as it had during the car chase, but from a growing awareness that she was being humored. In her rearview mirror she saw the detective’s jowls quiver as he shook his head and clapped Johnson on the shoulder, saw the barely concealed amusement on his face as he sauntered to her car and leaned down to the open window.
    “You can go on home now, Mrs. Crowder. We’ll take it from here. That is, if you feel okay to drive.”
    “Why wouldn’t I feel all right to drive?” she snapped as she started the engine and yanked the gearshift lever into Drive. She almost said something else, but thought better of it and pulled back onto the road. As the detective grew smaller in her mirror, tears welled up behind Bernice’s eyes. That was so humiliating, she thought. They didn’t believe me. They didn’t believe me at all.
    A few blocks from her house, Bernice turned onto Brice Avenue, eased to the curb, and shut off the car’s motor. Retrieving a small, embroidered handkerchief from her purse, she adjusted the rearview mirror and dabbed at her eyes. Nothing gained by going home looking like I’ve been crying. It was while she was repairing her mascara that the blue van rounded the corner of a side street a half-block behind her and stopped, facing back the way Bernice had come. She mightn’t have paid it any attention at all except for the little blonde girl playing in the yard next to the van.
    Her hair was so light and shiny it appeared flaxen in the bright afternoon sunlight. As Bernice watched, the girl approached the vehicle and seemed to be talking with its occupant. A moment later, the passenger door swung open and the little girl climbed in. As soon as the door was closed, the van screeched away and hurtled down the street.
    Bernice sat in her car, transfixed by what she’d just seen. Her first, natural impulse was to find a telephone and call the police. Then she remembered the detective—the way he’d looked at her when he’d told her to go on home. The humiliation she’d felt. It couldn’t happen twice, could it? Not in the same day. Not within the same hour.
    “I’m being ridiculous,” she said. “It was probably the girl’s parents.” Then she started her car and drove home.
    But even after she began preparing dinner, she couldn’t get her mind off the girl. When the telephone rang she snatched it up, eager for distraction. The caller was Sergeant Johnson.
    “I thought you’d want to know, ma’am. We solved the mystery of the silver sedan. A similar car came back down the road only minutes after you’d left, and we pulled it over. Seems two men from the local Ford dealership were checking for a rattle in the sedan’s trunk. One climbed into the trunk to check it out while the other drove. I’d have gotten back to you sooner but we received another call—a little girl kidnapped over on Brice Avenue, kind of close to your house. The whole department’s been looking for her.” He paused for a moment. “You were absolutely right in calling us, Mrs. Crowder. The incident may have seemed a bit implausible at the time, but we have to check all these things out.”
    Bernice tightened her trembling grip on the telephone. “I ... Sergeant Johnson ... I may have seen something ... on Brice Avenue ... after I left you.” She stumbled through the rest of it—what little there was. When she was done, Sergeant Johnson thanked her politely and rang off, his unasked question hanging over her head like a thick, dark cloud: Why didn’t you call us?
    Bernice was quiet at dinner that evening, telling her husband that her allergies were bothering her again. She stayed up alone to catch the eleven o’clock news, hoping against hope that the little blonde girl had been found.
    She had, but the news was not good.

.....


    “Mrs. Crowder, I have your dinner. Shall I put it on your tray?”
    Bernice opened her eyes. One of the kitchen help stood silhouetted in the doorway. “Yes ... the tray will be fine. Thank you.”
    Bernice waited while the woman arranged her tray and pushed it within her reach. She removed the round metal top, placed it to one side, and sniffed the food. No smell, no flavor, might as well be cardboard.
    About now the others would be having their dessert and lingering over cups of tepid coffee, doing anything to avoid going back to their lonely rooms and the long night ahead. But things always looked cheerier in the morning: the nurses’ standard mantra. There would be breakfast, lunch, and dinner—and stories, always the stories. If they weren’t Emma Gamble’s they would be someone else’s. Everyone had their stories—everyone except Bernice.
    She might’ve had a story.
    The men from the car dealership would have been a good one. Everyone would have laughed. But that story couldn’t be separated from the other one. The little blonde girl’s story—the time Bernice might have been a heroine, but wasn’t.
    Bernice took a bite of mashed potatoes. They were stiff and cold and stuck to the roof of her mouth. She put down her fork and turned to stare out the window where the trees formed skeletal outlines framed by a lowering black and purple sky.



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