Patricia Rockwell - Essie Cobb 02 - Papoosed (18 page)

            “Oh, no!” cried Essie.  “This is Maria’s?”

            “
Si
, Miss Essie,” said Santos.  “Just like mine.”  He opened his heavy jacket and pointed at a similar nametag on his apron.  “I find it in a ditch very close to Maria’s apartment.  Snow almost covers name tag.  I look everywhere nearby, Miss Essie, but I do not find Maria.”

            “Maybe she fell there and lost her tag,” suggested Essie, “and then got up.”

            “Then where is Maria?” asked Santos.  “She does not come to work.  She does not call Santos to get baby.  Where is Maria?”

            “I don’t know, Santos,” replied Essie, “but finding this nametag certainly indicates that Maria was there in the woods at one point.  Maybe she fell, but then maybe she got up and was able to walk away.  I think that’s a good sign.  It means she’s ambulatory.”

            “I do not know this big English word, Miss Essie,” said Santos.

            “She was able to walk,” replied Essie.

            Oh,
si
!  Like ‘ambulance’,” he said.

            “Yes,” agreed Essie.  “Like ambulance.  Maybe she was able to get to a hospital and get help.  Or maybe someone helped her.”

            “So why she does not call Santos?  Why she does not call about baby?”

            “That is the big question, Santos,” said Essie.  “I think we’re going to have to call the authorities about Antonio … .”

            “No!” cried Santos, grabbing Essie’s hands on her walker handlebars. “Please, Miss Essie!  Please wait more time for Maria.  I know Maria is very good mother.  Maria does not … how you say …
abandonar
á
…”

            “Yes,” said Essie, “abandon.  That’s the word.  But Santos, I’m afraid it’s no longer a case of Maria abandoning Antonio.  It’s a case of Maria’s safety too.  The very fact that she hasn’t returned for her baby suggests that something horrible may have happened to her …”

            “But, Miss Essie,” he pleaded, “Gerald is dead.  He cannot hurt Maria.”

            “He may have already hurt her, Santos,” replied Essie. 

            “Please, Miss Essie,” argued the young man.  “Give me more time.”  He looked directly into Essie’s eyes as he clutched her hands tightly.

            “Oh, all right,” agreed Essie.  “I guess a few more hours won’t make a difference.  And finding her name tag does seem to indicate that she ran into the woods … just not where she is now.  I will make some more phone calls.  And Santos …”

            “I go back to kitchen,” he said, now moving towards her door.  “Maria will come back for baby.  I know.”  He nodded continuously as he looked back at Essie.  She followed him into the hallway where he abruptly turned back and with an embarrassed downward glance, briefly leaned over the handlebars of her walker and hugged her tightly.  Essie heard a door open as she felt some snowflakes from Santos’s jacket melt against her blouse.  Santos leaned back.  “Sorry, Miss Essie.  No mean get you wet!”

            “It’s okay, Santos,” she replied as the young man turned and quickly disappeared down the hallway.  The sound of a doorway slammed and Essie turned to her left just in time to see Clara Monroe’s door close.  Oh, no! she thought, just what I need! 
That old busybody will concoct some new story now
!”  She stormed back into her apartment and closed her door behind her, panting with worry.

Chapter Twenty

“Getting a burp out of your little thing is probably the greatest satisfaction I’ve come across.  It’s truly one of life’s most satisfying moments.”

–Brad Pitt

            Trying not to think what would happen if Clara had seen one of the Happy Haven kitchen workers give her a totally innocent hug, Essie put that possibility away and decided to concentrate on the issues at hand. 
Desperate situations call for desperate measures,
thought Essie, as she went to her chair and sat back down.  She couldn’t help but notice the items on her end table that reflected all of her pressing problems–Maria’s wallet with her green card, the gift box with the expensive necklace from Hubert Darby, and her open telephone directory.  At the moment, she couldn’t do anything about the first two items, but maybe she could let her fingers do the walking through her directory to see if she could find out some more information about the missing mother of baby Antonio.

            Looking in the section where local government office numbers were listed, Essie quickly found a number for the Reardon Police Department.  She was a resident of Reardon, she thought to herself, and she could report information and ask for information as well as any other resident.  She quickly pressed the numbers indicated and an operator answered promptly.

            “I’d like to talk to someone about a recent traffic fatality,” she began.  She really had no idea what she was going to say or even if anyone would talk to her about the accident, but she decided that it was worth a try.

            “Traffic Investigation,” announced the operator and informed her to wait as she transferred her to the appropriate department.  Soon a male voice responded.

            “Phelps,” said the man.  “Reardon PD.”

            “Oh, yes,” said Essie, “I’m calling about a recent traffic fatality.  The victim was Gerald Compton.  It happened last night.”

            “Yeah,” replied the officer.  “How can I help you?”

            “I’m just calling to see if you have any information about his … uh, his next of kin?”

            “Uh … yeah … just a minute, let me find that file.  Okay, here.  Yeah, the father is the next of kin … a Harold Compton.  You can direct any inquiries to him.  You need a number for him?”  The officer sounded harried.

            “No,” said Essie as politely as possible.  “I was wondering about his wife.”

            “Uh, don’t have a record for a wife,” replied Officer Phelps, apparently looking through his records.  “Just the father.”

            “So, you don’t have any indication of what happened to Gerald Compton’s wife Maria?” she said, pressing him.

            “No,” he said, somewhat befuddled.  “The father identified the body.  That was it.  Never mentioned a wife.”

            “May I ask what prompted you to contact the father?”

            “Listen, lady,” said Phelps, “what’s this all about?  You a relative?”

            “I’m just trying to locate his wife,” she replied.  “She’s been missing since the accident.”

            “You wanta report her as a missing person?” asked Phelps. 

            “No,” said Essie.  “I’m just curious why the father didn’t mention Gerald’s wife or report her missing.”

            “Hey,” said Phelps, casually, “maybe she isn’t missing.  Who knows?  But, lady, if you want to report her missing, you need to come down to …”

            “Uh, no, thank you, Officer,” replied Essie, “I’m sure she’ll turn up soon.”  She gently replaced the receiver.  Now what to do?  Other than Santos and her friends and herself, no one seemed to care what had happened to Maria Compton.  The young woman had no relatives in Reardon or anywhere for all they knew.  None of the people who cared about her had any authority to force the police to pursue an investigation.  And, of course, it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since she had been missing.  She had often heard that someone had to be missing at least twenty-four hours before the police would even consider them missing.  And Maria had no relatives in Reardon (except her baby) to officially file a missing person’s report.  Where could the young woman be?  If she was dead, her body had not been found.  At least, no body had been reported.  How could she have just disappeared from her apartment last night?

            A soft cry alerted Essie to baby Antonio, beginning to stir on her bed.  She quickly gathered the paraphernalia that she needed to feed the youngster and headed into her bedroom.  She settled herself on her bed and gathered the infant onto her lap and squirted a small amount of liquid into his mouth.  The hungry baby began to suck immediately on the little rubber finger.

            “Where’s your mommy?” Essie whispered to Antonio as she cuddled and fed him.

            The baby responded only with pleasant gurgling noises as he stared up into Essie’s eyes.  Essie was soon entranced with his sweet face and thoughts of his family predicament faded as she bonded with the bundle in her arms.

            After a half hour or so, Essie placed the contented and newly changed baby back on her bed.  She rolled herself out to her living room and landed exhausted in her chair.  She was now getting hungry and she looked over at the present from Hubert Darby and was actually annoyed that it wasn’t peanut brittle.  She could use a little sweet treat right about now.  Maybe she had something to chew on in her pocketbook she thought as she scooted over to her desk and began rummaging through the items in her purse. 

            There was a sharp knock on the door.  It didn’t sound like one of the nurses, who would typically knock quickly and then open the door.  Her friends would do the same.  But, of course, it wouldn’t be any of her friends at the door as the building was under quarantine.  Surely, her children weren’t here this early.  They had said five o’clock and it was barely three thirty.  Essie cautiously shuffled over to the door and peeked out.

            Violet Hendrickson was standing in the hallway, her companion clipboard and pencil tucked professionally under her arm.  As with all staff members during the virus outbreak, she wore a green paper face mask which only added to the woman’s frightening appearance.

            “Miss Essie,” began Violet, her sharp voice somewhat muffled by the mask.  “Have you been entertaining the kitchen workers in your apartment?”

            “What?” sputtered Essie.  “What do you mean ‘entertaining’?”

            “You know what I mean, Essie,” said Violet, glaring at her through the crack in the door.  “Are you having male kitchen workers in your apartment?”

            “Miss Hendrickson!” exclaimed Essie. “Are you suggesting that I–a ninety-year-old woman–would be engaging in romantic activities with the help?”  Essie knew, of course, what Violet was speaking about.  Obviously, Clara Monroe had been complaining again.  After Clara had seen Santos give her that hug a while ago, she had probably contacted Violet and lodged another complaint.  It was actually funny, thought Essie, that Clara would even begin to imagine that she–Essie–would be having a tryst with someone Santos’s age. 

            “It has been reported,” continued Violet Hendrickson, “that men … men who are known to work in the kitchen … have been seen coming out of your apartment.  It has also been reported that said men have been seen embracing you!”

            “I’m a very friendly person!” retorted Essie.  “I embrace a lot of people!  I’ve even been known to embrace a plumber or too in my time when they unclogged a toilet for me!  They never seem to get the recognition they deserve for their service, don’t you agree, Miss Hendrickson?”

            “Don’t change the subject, Essie,” said Violet with a cold smirk that Essie could still clearly see over her mask.  “You can’t laugh this off.  We have rules here at Happy Haven.  We have standards to uphold.  We will not tolerate residents comingling with staff!”  Violet gave a sharp little upwards jerk of her chin.

            “I can assure you, Miss Hendrickson,” replied Essie, attempting to stand up to her full four feet three inches.  “I can assure you that I have never conmen … or commenced … or whatever you are suggesting.  And you can tell that busybody Clara Monroe to mind her own business and keep her door shut!”

            “Really, Essie,” said Violet, shaken from Essie’s defense of her morals, “Miss Monroe can hardly help but notice inappropriate behavior that occurs right outside of her doorstep!”

            “Inappropriate behavior!” cried Essie, her sides hurting from the laugh that demanded to come forth.  “Kidnapped kangaroos!  I’ll show Clara some inappropriate behavior if that’s what she’s looking for!  If I gave Clara a friendly hug, she’d probably think I was attacking her!”

            Violet took a calming breath.  She orchestrated this breathing with her hands, gently raising and lowering them like a band leader attempting to quiet a rowdy trombone section.  “Essie,” she said finally, carefully replacing a wayward lock that had come loose from her very tight hairdo.  “There’s no need to get hysterical.”

            “I’m not hysterical, Miss Hendrickson,” whispered Essie to the Happy Haven Director.  “It’s Clara Monroe who’s hysterical.  She thinks anyone and everyone’s behavior is designed to annoy her.  Believe me, that is not so.  I’ll tell you what she saw … Miss Hendrickson.  Um … one of the workers brought me some ice cream and I … um … gave him a tip because I had heard his family was suffering financially.  He was grateful so he gave me a hug … a very chaste hug right in the middle of the hallway.  That’s what Clara saw.”

            “Humph,” declared Violet.  “I suppose it’s possible that Clara exaggerated … .”  Violet fidgeted with her clipboard and twisted the tip of her elegant high heel into the carpet.

            “It’s more than possible,” urged Essie. “It’s her daily behavior.  She sees scandal everywhere.”  Essie waved her hands about in a fury to indicate Clara’s activities.  “As a matter of fact, she’s probably listening to us speaking right now, and she’ll no doubt distort our conversation so much that it will be all over Happy Haven that you and I are … thespians or homo sapiens … or something worse before the day is out!”

            “My goodness!” declared Violet, quickly stepping back a space from Essie’s walker.  “All right, Essie.  I will let it go this time.  But, please, be careful what you do, and remember who lives next door.”  With a glance over her shoulder to the left at Clara’s door, she gave a disgusted little roll of her eyes that Essie could see above her face mask and strode quickly down the hallway, her high heels soundless on the carpet, but the kick pleat on her tight skirt slapping the backs of her thighs as a sort of dramatic punctuation.