The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Silent Night: Difference between revisions

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Carol’s house was two down from mine. We were friends from childhood up through high school, though she was a year behind me. I graduated and got a full-time job filing and answering phones and filling in pink “While You Were Out” slips. Carol cheered at Homecoming and made culottes in Home Ec. That first year of work, I went to my company Christmas party at the Sheraton ballroom downtown. I wore a peach satin halter dress, one that I imagined Carol would have worn herself. I had the money, finally, to buy the clothes I always wanted—still living at home, paying a small car loan. The only coat I owned was a parka, and I didn’t think it matched the dress, so when Paul Ruskin picked me up in his truck I rushed down the front walk of my mother’s house with nothing on but the dress and a pair of black velvet heels. I never brought a purse with me on dates. The house was always left open, and I knew I didn’t have to pay.
Carol’s house was two down from mine. We were friends from childhood up through high school, though she was a year behind me. I graduated and got a full-time job filing and answering phones and filling in pink “While You Were Out” slips. Carol cheered at Homecoming and made culottes in Home Ec. That first year of work, I went to my company Christmas party at the Sheraton ballroom downtown. I wore a peach satin halter dress, one that I imagined Carol would have worn herself. I had the money, finally, to buy the clothes I always wanted—still living at home, paying a small car loan. The only coat I owned was a parka, and I didn’t think it matched the dress, so when Paul Ruskin picked me up in his truck I rushed down the front walk of my mother’s house with nothing on but the dress and a pair of black velvet heels. I never brought a purse with me on dates. The house was always left open, and I knew I didn’t have to pay.


I think of this now in light of Carol’s disappearance how we’d grown up with the desire to be unencumbered. No one carried a purse to the keg party by the reservoir. You had some bills in the pocket of your jeans and that was for cigarettes if you were low. The boy paid for the alcohol he plied you with, and condoms, and the motel, if he lived at home, too, and wanted to have sex somewhere other than his car. It was considered romantic to get a room something couples did on the night of prom. Even if the room was at the Grantmore on the Berlin Turnpike.
I think of this now in light of Carol’s disappearance how we’d grown up with the desire to be unencumbered. No one carried a purse to the keg party by the reservoir. You had some bills in the pocket of your jeans and that was for cigarettes if you were low. The boy paid for the alcohol he plied you with, and condoms, and the motel, if he lived at home, too, and wanted to have sex somewhere other than his car. It was considered romantic to get a room something couples did on the night of prom. Even if the room was at the Grantmoor on the Berlin Turnpike.


In the three months since her last sighting, a snowstorm in December, Carol’s cell phone had not been paid, her number given to someone else. Her bank account and credit cards had gone unused. Carol didn’t own a car. On the website broadcasting her disappearance, nothing is listed for “Clothing and Accessories,” which is a terrible injustice. Carol was always fashionably dressed, and it saddened me that whatever outfit she had pulled together on that day would always go unnoticed. I imagined her stepping out into the snow the way we often did—with nothing but ourselves and the pull of the unknown. ''What will happen now?'' we had thought. We didn’t worry about bodily harm. These were local boys who knew how to drive the town’s winding roads. They gripped the wheel of the car or truck, their sleeves rolled up and their forearms ropy with muscle. All through high school, Paul Ruskin was Carol’s boyfriend, and his family lived in Kenwood in a brick colonial, and she was safe, safe, safe.
In the three months since her last sighting, a snowstorm in December, Carol’s cell phone had not been paid, her number given to someone else. Her bank account and credit cards had gone unused. Carol didn’t own a car. On the website broadcasting her disappearance, nothing is listed for “Clothing and Accessories,” which is a terrible injustice. Carol was always fashionably dressed, and it saddened me that whatever outfit she had pulled together on that day would always go unnoticed. I imagined her stepping out into the snow the way we often did—with nothing but ourselves and the pull of the unknown. ''What will happen now?'' we had thought. We didn’t worry about bodily harm. These were local boys who knew how to drive the town’s winding roads. They gripped the wheel of the car or truck, their sleeves rolled up and their forearms ropy with muscle. All through high school, Paul Ruskin was Carol’s boyfriend, and his family lived in Kenwood in a brick colonial, and she was safe, safe, safe.
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“Ice Queen,” he said, putting the truck into gear. A compliment, or not, I couldn’t tell.
“Ice Queen,” he said, putting the truck into gear. A compliment, or not, I couldn’t tell.


The night was dark and clear, the sky like it had been pricked with a fork, the sparks of light showing through. We drove through town the Congregational Church strung with lights, the roads black and shining, the houses looking like everyone inside sat in front of their televisions with hot cocoa and bowls of popcorn. At my house my mother perched on the edge of her bed watching her little black and white television, drinking sherry. My sisters were out somewhere with their friends in the night, loose and as immune to the cold as I was. Back then, people said things like “the wrong side of the tracks,” and that was where we’d moved with my mother when she divorced my father, when the house we’d grown up in was sold and only the living room’s love seats fit in the rental—a gray house with slipping clapboards. The winding lane and the maples and the iron lamp post of our old house no longer protected us, and we were suddenly, like a store with it lights flipped on, open for business. “Here we are!” we said.
The night was dark and clear, the sky like it had been pricked with a fork, the sparks of light showing through. We drove through town—the Congregational Church strung with lights, the roads black and shining, the houses looking like everyone inside sat in front of their televisions with hot cocoa and bowls of popcorn. At my house my mother perched on the edge of her bed watching her little black and white television, drinking sherry. My sisters were out somewhere with their friends in the night, loose and as immune to the cold as I was. Back then, people said things like “the wrong side of the tracks,” and that was where we’d moved with my mother when she divorced my father, when the house we’d grown up in was sold and only the living room’s love seats fit in the rental—a gray house with slipping clapboards. The winding lane and the maples and the iron lamp post of our old house no longer protected us, and we were suddenly, like a store with it lights flipped on, open for business. “Here we are!” we said.


Paul Ruskin was one of a string of boys who took me out the year we moved, all after my first boyfriend decided to tell his friends about the things we did together. I saw now that he’d been hurt and rejected when I broke up with him. I was probably cruel, though I cannot remember what I said. I only know I wanted to be away from him, that I wanted to be with someone else. Later, he moved on with his life and married a local girl and had children and discovered cancer in his lungs and died. It struck me now how much he may have truly cared for me taking me to the motels for sex, trying to make it nice in various ways. But no matter how nice I didn’t care for him, and there was nothing to be done about that.
Paul Ruskin was one of a string of boys who took me out the year we moved, all after my first boyfriend decided to tell his friends about the things we did together. I saw now that he’d been hurt and rejected when I broke up with him. I was probably cruel, though I cannot remember what I said. I only know I wanted to be away from him, that I wanted to be with someone else. Later, he moved on with his life and married a local girl and had children and discovered cancer in his lungs and died. It struck me now how much he may have truly cared for me—taking me to the motels for sex, trying to make it nice in various ways. But no matter how nice I didn’t care for him, and there was nothing to be done about that.


Paul drove I-95 downtown to the Sheraton, into the depths of the parking garage, a place as dank and forlorn as any I’d ever seen. We took the elevator, and inside, in its mirrored walls, I saw how pale my shoulders were, how my nipples poked against my dress. Paul wore a suit. He kept tugging on his tie.
Paul drove I-95 downtown to the Sheraton, into the depths of the parking garage, a place as dank and forlorn as any I’d ever seen. We took the elevator, and inside, in its mirrored walls, I saw how pale my shoulders were, how my nipples poked against my dress. Paul wore a suit. He kept tugging on his tie.
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“We don’t have to stay long,” I said, though a plan for after the party had not been shared.
“We don’t have to stay long,” I said, though a plan for after the party had not been shared.


The elevator opened into the lobby and we followed the little placards to the ballroom. My dress moved along my legs, and Paul put his hand on the small of my back, and I thought we were an attractive couple he was one of the most handsome boys I knew, and that was the reason I’d asked him. He looked like the kind of boy the person I pretended to be would date, and this would impress the people I worked with the office women with their manicured hands and designer bags and dishes of watermelon candies; the men who invited me into their offices and told me to close the door, then leaned back, their chairs squeaking.
The elevator opened into the lobby and we followed the little placards to the ballroom. My dress moved along my legs, and Paul put his hand on the small of my back, and I thought we were an attractive couple—he was one of the most handsome boys I knew, and that was the reason I’d asked him. He looked like the kind of boy the person I pretended to be would date, and this would impress the people I worked with—the office women with their manicured hands and designer bags and dishes of watermelon candies; the men who invited me into their offices and told me to close the door, then leaned back, their chairs squeaking.


“So, you have a boyfriend? What does he do?”
“So, you have a boyfriend? What does he do?”


I was happy to have the break from the dull clerical work, and it seemed as if these men were bored, too distracted and irritated with their wives and children, tearing open packages of Snowballs and Mars bars and downing cans of Coke. I can honestly say I never knew what sort of work they did at the company or looked with any interest at the piles of papers on their desks. I never saw them working at anything.
I was happy to have the break from the dull clerical work, and it seemed as if these men were bored, too—distracted and irritated with their wives and children, tearing open packages of Snowballs and Mars bars and downing cans of Coke. I can honestly say I never knew what sort of work they did at the company or looked with any interest at the piles of papers on their desks. I never saw them working at anything.


Owner of the Hole in the Wall theater, and he played Romeo in a version in which Romeo and Juliet remove their clothes in their tower, a construct of wood and artificial stone. Paul had invited me to the show’s final performance the week before. It was our first date. The lights were dimmed in the theater, but everyone knew beforehand that there would be a nude scene this was probably why they were there. I sat in the audience and watched him step out of his pants, embarrassed for him. After, I met the theater owner at the cast party, and he took a handful of my hair in his hand and asked me to be in his version of “Hair.”
Owner of the Hole in the Wall theater, and he played Romeo in a version in which Romeo and Juliet remove their clothes in their tower, a construct of wood and artificial stone. Paul had invited me to the show’s final performance the week before. It was our first date. The lights were dimmed in the theater, but everyone knew beforehand that there would be a nude scene this was probably why they were there. I sat in the audience and watched him step out of his pants, embarrassed for him. After, I met the theater owner at the cast party, and he took a handful of my hair in his hand and asked me to be in his version of “Hair.”
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Paul had been to these sorts of things before. He located our seats and pulled out my chair. Bob Ossowski’s wife was the only occupant, and she held her slim hand out to me. I wanted to tell her that her husband spent his work days eating Snowballs and taking naps on the couch in the back of the shop, but I decided that the secrets of the office should be safe with me, that if I told her something she didn’t know she might begin to imagine other things I was hiding.
Paul had been to these sorts of things before. He located our seats and pulled out my chair. Bob Ossowski’s wife was the only occupant, and she held her slim hand out to me. I wanted to tell her that her husband spent his work days eating Snowballs and taking naps on the couch in the back of the shop, but I decided that the secrets of the office should be safe with me, that if I told her something she didn’t know she might begin to imagine other things I was hiding.


Bob’s wife’s name was Cassandra. Paul offered to refresh her drink, and she admitted she was a lightweight. Her watered down Tom Collins sweated onto its green napkin. She made conversation the way older adults often did by asking questions, and discovered that she’d graduated from Oberlin the same year as Paul’s father.
Bob’s wife’s name was Cassandra. Paul offered to refresh her drink, and she admitted she was a lightweight. Her watered-down Tom Collins sweated onto its green napkin. She made conversation the way older adults often did by asking questions, and discovered that she’d graduated from Oberlin the same year as Paul’s father.


“Oh Christ, I’m old,” she said, and I saw suddenly that she was—the skin around her eyes sagged beneath her make up. Her hands were thick with veins, her head topped with coarse, wiry hairs that stuck up from her page boy haircut. I felt a rush of terror that this was my fate.
“Oh Christ, I’m old,” she said, and I saw suddenly that she was—the skin around her eyes sagged beneath her make up. Her hands were thick with veins, her head topped with coarse, wiry hairs that stuck up from her page boy haircut. I felt a rush of terror that this was my fate.
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“You’re not,” I said, placing my hand onto hers on the table cloth. “Look at you,” she said. “Look at the two of you.”
“You’re not,” I said, placing my hand onto hers on the table cloth. “Look at you,” she said. “Look at the two of you.”


Paul put on his clever grin the one he used as acknowledgement when someone said how good looking he was. He leaned over and gave me a wet kiss on the cheek, grabbed my empty glass and slipped from the table.
Paul put on his clever grin—the one he used as acknowledgement when someone said how good looking he was. He leaned over and gave me a wet kiss on the cheek, grabbed my empty glass and slipped from the table.


We knew how to get drunk quickly and efficiently, something the doldrums of our small town fostered. There was no pretending to pace things. There were never any regrets for what we did when we were drunk. I knew Carol and I had that in common. Wherever she was that night, she was doing what I was doing, and maybe more maybe not the cocaine yet, but she was smoking pot and drinking, and she was a happy, funny, entertaining drunken girl. She may have been at a party of her own, or at the movies, or hanging out with friends in their cars, the cars lined up in the bowling alley parking lot. And maybe she would drink too much and argue with her date and take off into the night, her high heeled boots striking the pavement in that ringing way, a pint of blackberry brandy in her coat pocket. We did that, too, often enough struck out on our own into the darkness, the air burning our lungs, some boy trailing after us in the car. “Get in the car, please,” and then finally slamming on the brakes and chasing us down. We were a danger to ourselves, we needed to be corralled and brought back.
We knew how to get drunk quickly and efficiently, something the doldrums of our small town fostered. There was no pretending to pace things. There were never any regrets for what we did when we were drunk. I knew Carol and I had that in common. Wherever she was that night, she was doing what I was doing, and maybe more—maybe not the cocaine yet, but she was smoking pot and drinking, and she was a happy, funny, entertaining drunken girl. She may have been at a party of her own, or at the movies, or hanging out with friends in their cars, the cars lined up in the bowling alley parking lot. And maybe she would drink too much and argue with her date and take off into the night, her high heeled boots striking the pavement in that ringing way, a pint of blackberry brandy in her coat pocket. We did that, too, often enough—struck out on our own into the darkness, the air burning our lungs, some boy trailing after us in the car. “Get in the car, please,” and then finally slamming on the brakes and chasing us down. We were a danger to ourselves, we needed to be corralled and brought back.


Paul delivered my drink and he slipped me a pill, some sort of pain pill he’d told me earlier in the truck he’d swiped from his mother.
Paul delivered my drink and he slipped me a pill—some sort of pain pill he’d told me earlier in the truck he’d swiped from his mother.


“Did you take one?” I’d asked him, the guardrails cold and snow-topped, slipping past.
“Did you take one?” I’d asked him, the guardrails cold and snow-topped, slipping past.
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Beneath all the chatter was music—that Bing Crosby holiday fare, the kind even your parents called classic. It lent a strange sort of feeling to the event, as if we’d been caught in a version of a party that had played out in the room for years. At some point servers delivered food and maybe I ate chicken cutlet and mashed potatoes, and maybe Paul kept lighting my cigarettes and holding my hand, and maybe Matt Carpenter brushed his fingers down my back. I didn’t leave any impression of myself behind that night. If you’d asked Cassandra, she might have remembered me in my peach halter dress, my hair long to my waist. “She was a little girl trying to act like a grown up,” she might have said. “She was with that boy, the one who ate lit cigarettes.”
Beneath all the chatter was music—that Bing Crosby holiday fare, the kind even your parents called classic. It lent a strange sort of feeling to the event, as if we’d been caught in a version of a party that had played out in the room for years. At some point servers delivered food and maybe I ate chicken cutlet and mashed potatoes, and maybe Paul kept lighting my cigarettes and holding my hand, and maybe Matt Carpenter brushed his fingers down my back. I didn’t leave any impression of myself behind that night. If you’d asked Cassandra, she might have remembered me in my peach halter dress, my hair long to my waist. “She was a little girl trying to act like a grown up,” she might have said. “She was with that boy, the one who ate lit cigarettes.”


Paul became the center of attention. Everyone gathered around and watched as he did his party trick. I stood to the side, humiliated, the magician’s assistant handing him lit Marlboros. Matt came up and slipped his hand along my waist and leaned into my hair and sighed, the sort of sound you make when you have taken a bite of something delicious. I didn’t wear a bra. He could have untied the bow at the back of my neck and the dress would have dropped to my waist, exposing my breasts. I suppose if I had suggested this someone might have remembered me, and I would later learn that this was the way you made an impression offering yourself up, fearless and bold and without shame.
Paul became the center of attention. Everyone gathered around and watched as he did his party trick. I stood to the side, humiliated, the magician’s assistant handing him lit Marlboros. Matt came up and slipped his hand along my waist and leaned into my hair and sighed, the sort of sound you make when you have taken a bite of something delicious. I didn’t wear a bra. He could have untied the bow at the back of my neck and the dress would have dropped to my waist, exposing my breasts. I suppose if I had suggested this someone might have remembered me, and I would later learn that this was the way you made an impression—offering yourself up, fearless and bold and without shame.


“What are you doing with this clown?” Matt said. “Don’t let him kiss you with that mouth.”
“What are you doing with this clown?” Matt said. “Don’t let him kiss you with that mouth.”
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Paul parked his truck behind the Hole in the Wall theater and we had sex. He told me to say I liked it and I did. He didn’t call me Carol again. The only thing I feared was his dragging me into the theater, that the owner would be there waiting for me in his velvet jacket—the threat of the stranger so much more than this boy I felt I knew.
Paul parked his truck behind the Hole in the Wall theater and we had sex. He told me to say I liked it and I did. He didn’t call me Carol again. The only thing I feared was his dragging me into the theater, that the owner would be there waiting for me in his velvet jacket—the threat of the stranger so much more than this boy I felt I knew.


A year later, I saw Carol at a New Year’s party in town a party in someone’s parents’ house—my husband’s though I didn’t know it then. The house was a raised ranch, and people milled up and down the carpeted stairs from the subterranean rec room to the living room and kitchen. The place was too warm and filled with smoke and music. Carol saw me and grabbed my arm in surprise.
A year later, I saw Carol at a New Year’s party in town—a party in someone’s parents’ house—my husband’s though I didn’t know it then. The house was a raised ranch, and people milled up and down the carpeted stairs from the subterranean rec room to the living room and kitchen. The place was too warm and filled with smoke and music. Carol saw me and grabbed my arm in surprise.


“Come outside with me,” she said, and the two of us slipped out the steamed-up storm door. It was bitterly cold, the snow sheened with a layer of ice, the houses along the road festooned with colored lights. Carol’s nails were an opalescent pink. She wore a white angora sweater, long and belted, as was the style at the time. From a pocket she pulled a pack of Newport cigarettes and offered me one, and we walked along the slate path to the street and the mailbox. I wore only a blouse, and Carol slipped an arm from her sweater and told me to put my arm through so that we shared it two bodies enclosed within the wool like conjoined twins.
“Come outside with me,” she said, and the two of us slipped out the steamed-up storm door. It was bitterly cold, the snow sheened with a layer of ice, the houses along the road festooned with colored lights. Carol’s nails were an opalescent pink. She wore a white angora sweater, long and belted, as was the style at the time. From a pocket she pulled a pack of Newport cigarettes and offered me one, and we walked along the slate path to the street and the mailbox. I wore only a blouse, and Carol slipped an arm from her sweater and told me to put my arm through so that we shared it two bodies enclosed within the wool like conjoined twins.
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I held the cigarette to my lips. I wanted to give a right answer when really, there wasn’t one. I tried to say the place that Carol would say, “Miami Beach.”
I held the cigarette to my lips. I wanted to give a right answer when really, there wasn’t one. I tried to say the place that Carol would say, “Miami Beach.”


We’d walked the length of the road to Folly Farm’s wooden fence, half buried in snow.
We’d walked the length of the road to Folly Farm’s wooden fence, half-buried in snow.


Carol said she would go back in time. “I want to be little in my bed again, listening to my parents and their friends and their party downstairs. I want to hear the ice tapping my window during a snowstorm, and the radiators clanking heat through the house.”
Carol said she would go back in time. “I want to be little in my bed again, listening to my parents and their friends and their party downstairs. I want to hear the ice tapping my window during a snowstorm, and the radiators clanking heat through the house.”
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I had avoided Paul for a year, and I didn’t want to see him, but though I resisted, Carol pulled me back with her toward the road.
I had avoided Paul for a year, and I didn’t want to see him, but though I resisted, Carol pulled me back with her toward the road.


“Not hiding from you,” she said.
“''Not'' hiding from you,” she said.


The two of us fell over the fence, tangled up in the sweater in the snow.
The two of us fell over the fence, tangled up in the sweater in the snow.
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Back in high school, we were like cars stalled out on a small back road— waiting for some kind of life to start, as if we needed only to remain still for it to find us. Eventually, you got a job at Travelers or Connecticut General or Aetna, or you married and had children and bought a little house in a suburb and were grateful. Changing diapers and letting out the dog you were happy you had security and a car in the driveway to take to the store for milk.
Back in high school, we were like cars stalled out on a small back road— waiting for some kind of life to start, as if we needed only to remain still for it to find us. Eventually, you got a job at Travelers or Connecticut General or Aetna, or you married and had children and bought a little house in a suburb and were grateful. Changing diapers and letting out the dog you were happy you had security and a car in the driveway to take to the store for milk.


Carol never wanted anything like that. She took up with an older man who kept her in an apartment downtown, not far from the Sheraton where I had my Christmas party. She didn’t have to work. She only had to be beautiful when she was with him at business dinners and on trips to Napa. I’m not sure what else happened to her then. I was married and had two children I pushed in a double stroller around town a replica of that scene created for the picture riddle book sneaking my covert cigarettes. I passed Folly Farm on my walks, the baby throwing out his pacifier into the road, the horses coming to the fence for windfall apples. The smell of manure and hay and mud, the swarm of flies followed me along the fence. I was not myself then. I had become someone else at some indistinct point in my past, assumed a disguise and then grown so used to it I had forgotten the other person the one in the peach satin halter dress who imagined the man from work undoing the bow at her neck.
Carol never wanted anything like that. She took up with an older man who kept her in an apartment downtown, not far from the Sheraton where I had my Christmas party. She didn’t have to work. She only had to be beautiful when she was with him—at business dinners and on trips to Napa. I’m not sure what else happened to her then. I was married and had two children I pushed in a double stroller around town—a replica of that scene created for the picture riddle book— sneaking my covert cigarettes. I passed Folly Farm on my walks, the baby throwing out his pacifier into the road, the horses coming to the fence for windfall apples. The smell of manure and hay and mud, the swarm of flies followed me along the fence. I was not myself then. I had become someone else at some indistinct point in my past, assumed a disguise and then grown so used to it I had forgotten the other person—the one in the peach satin halter dress who imagined the man from work undoing the bow at her neck.


Though Carol’s parents continued to live in town, and Carol returned to live with them intermittently throughout the years, I rarely saw her. I didn’t know anyone who knew her, so for me her disappearance shouldn’t have made much difference. Still, when the fliers went up in the pharmacy and the Shop Rite and the bike shop, when they flapped on telephone poles on Park Road, I felt, as did all her old high school friends, a terrible loss. The local police station began to receive sightings of Carol in New Britain, in Bridgeport. She was spotted in Vermont, in Lakeland, Florida.
Though Carol’s parents continued to live in town, and Carol returned to live with them intermittently throughout the years, I rarely saw her. I didn’t know anyone who knew her, so for me her disappearance shouldn’t have made much difference. Still, when the fliers went up in the pharmacy and the Shop Rite and the bike shop, when they flapped on telephone poles on Park Road, I felt, as did all her old high school friends, a terrible loss. The local police station began to receive sightings of Carol in New Britain, in Bridgeport. She was spotted in Vermont, in Lakeland, Florida.


But I knew she was none of those places. She’d been last seen leaving her parents’ house, walking down Gun Hill Road. Her mother, suffering from Alzheimer’s, couldn’t say the exact time. Her father had been in the basement watching the game on television and had fallen asleep. The night she disappeared, the barn at Folly Farm caught fire. The fire department response was swift, but the freezing temperatures hampered the fire fighters’ efforts, and twenty horses were lost to smoke inhalation. She had nothing to do with the fire a spark in the wiring caused it to smolder and then rage but everyone would associate the barn fire and her disappearance the way that people always associate tragedies. “They come in threes.”
But I knew she was none of those places. She’d been last seen leaving her parents’ house, walking down Gun Hill Road. Her mother, suffering from Alzheimer’s, couldn’t say the exact time. Her father had been in the basement watching the game on television and had fallen asleep. The night she disappeared, the barn at Folly Farm caught fire. The fire department response was swift, but the freezing temperatures hampered the fire fighters’ efforts, and twenty horses were lost to smoke inhalation. She had nothing to do with the fire—a spark in the wiring caused it to smolder and then rage— but everyone would associate the barn fire and her disappearance the way that people always associate tragedies. “They come in threes.”


For me, the third loss was the death of my first husband, whom I’d long divorced. He drove his car off the road leaving the old Gun Club and hit a tree. If my sisters and I had stayed married to our local boys we would all three be widows now. Or we would have been in the car with them when the accident happened. Our bodies might have been found in shallow graves in the woods or asphyxiated in our station wagons in our garages. And even if there had been a chance to go back and start over, who’s to say what we would have done differently? Who’s to say how things might have turned out.
For me, the third loss was the death of my first husband, whom I’d long divorced. He drove his car off the road leaving the old Gun Club and hit a tree. If my sisters and I had stayed married to our local boys we would all three be widows now. Or we would have been in the car with them when the accident happened. Our bodies might have been found in shallow graves in the woods or asphyxiated in our station wagons in our garages. And even if there had been a chance to go back and start over, who’s to say what we would have done differently? Who’s to say how things might have turned out.