life.”
When she was small, Belle said, she and her mother had lived with her grandparents. Her mother had remarried when Belle was five. Her stepfather was apparently a nice enough person, and Belle had grown up in Bay City, not far from Lake Huron. She had gone to college in Ohio, earning a degree in business. After college she had worked for an arts association in Saginaw, which is not far from Bay City, and had married one of the group’s board members. I deduced that he had been some years older than she had been. They had no children, and her husband had died two years ago. I also deduced that she had inherited a bundle from him, but of course Belle didn’t say so.
“And now you know all there is to know about me,” she concluded. Including the fact that she had an emotional hang-up about her father, I thought. But it wasn’t up to me to solve Belle’s problems. She was on her own there.
We were leaving the restaurant before Emma Davidson entered the conversation, and neither Joe nor I was responsible for bringing her up.
Actually, our close friend Lindy Herrera dropped by our table and introduced her into the conversation.
“What an experience you had with Emma Davidson,” she said to me.
Belle gave a sort of gasp, and I realized that she knew exactly who Emma Davidson was.
“It was startling,” I said. “I hope she’s better.”
“What happened to Emma Davidson?” Belle asked.
I explained, trying to make the whole episode sound almost casual. I left out the part about the pill bottle, but Belle caught on right away.
“I don’t suppose it could have been some sort of overdose?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I said.
We said good night then, and I drove off in my van, leaving Joe to follow me home. And all the way to the house I wondered about Emma. Then I wondered about Belle. They were two troubled women.
But, I told myself firmly, they had to solve their own problems. I was not a professional counselor, and I was not even a close friend of either of them. Neither would appreciate my taking more than a casual interest in their woes. I resolved to put all their problems out of my mind. I even resolved not to think about the Clowning Around building that night.
This lasted until Joe and I went in our back door. The message light on the answering machine was flashing. Joe punched the PLAY button.
The impersonal voice of the electronic guy who takes our messages spoke. “Wednesday. Ten oh six p.m.,” he said.
Next we heard a whispery little voice. “Mr. Woodyard? This is Emma Davidson. I got your phone number from the telephone book. Please call me. I need to talk to you in the worst way.”
Chapter 11
“Well, darn!” Joe said. “I left my cell phone number. Why did she call this one?”
We chewed that question over until we got in bed, and then for twenty minutes afterward. Which proved, I guess, that we had become an old married couple.
But it
was
a puzzle. All day long Joe had called Emma Davidson, and each time he had left his cell phone number and asked that she call it. But when she did finally call, she looked our home number up in the phone book and called our house. Why?
The most obvious explanation, I maintained, was that Chuck and Lorraine were trying to keep her from calling Joe and therefore had not passed the cell number on to her.
“But that implies they’re controlling her actions,” Joe said. “That’s hard to visualize. She’s a grown woman.”
“The one time I saw her, she didn’t exactly act assertive.”
“Maybe not. Everybody says Emma is naturally quiet. Being quiet, however, is a long way from being a . . . a
prisoner
.”
“Elder abuse does occur,” I said.
We were concerned enough that I called the Davidson house to check on Emma. Lorraine answered and told me that Emmahad been admitted to the hospital in Holland and would be there at least overnight. She thanked me for calling 9-1-1.
“Emma’s been a worry to Chuck and me,” she said.
When she was small, Belle said, she and her mother had lived with her grandparents. Her mother had remarried when Belle was five. Her stepfather was apparently a nice enough person, and Belle had grown up in Bay City, not far from Lake Huron. She had gone to college in Ohio, earning a degree in business. After college she had worked for an arts association in Saginaw, which is not far from Bay City, and had married one of the group’s board members. I deduced that he had been some years older than she had been. They had no children, and her husband had died two years ago. I also deduced that she had inherited a bundle from him, but of course Belle didn’t say so.
“And now you know all there is to know about me,” she concluded. Including the fact that she had an emotional hang-up about her father, I thought. But it wasn’t up to me to solve Belle’s problems. She was on her own there.
We were leaving the restaurant before Emma Davidson entered the conversation, and neither Joe nor I was responsible for bringing her up.
Actually, our close friend Lindy Herrera dropped by our table and introduced her into the conversation.
“What an experience you had with Emma Davidson,” she said to me.
Belle gave a sort of gasp, and I realized that she knew exactly who Emma Davidson was.
“It was startling,” I said. “I hope she’s better.”
“What happened to Emma Davidson?” Belle asked.
I explained, trying to make the whole episode sound almost casual. I left out the part about the pill bottle, but Belle caught on right away.
“I don’t suppose it could have been some sort of overdose?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I said.
We said good night then, and I drove off in my van, leaving Joe to follow me home. And all the way to the house I wondered about Emma. Then I wondered about Belle. They were two troubled women.
But, I told myself firmly, they had to solve their own problems. I was not a professional counselor, and I was not even a close friend of either of them. Neither would appreciate my taking more than a casual interest in their woes. I resolved to put all their problems out of my mind. I even resolved not to think about the Clowning Around building that night.
This lasted until Joe and I went in our back door. The message light on the answering machine was flashing. Joe punched the PLAY button.
The impersonal voice of the electronic guy who takes our messages spoke. “Wednesday. Ten oh six p.m.,” he said.
Next we heard a whispery little voice. “Mr. Woodyard? This is Emma Davidson. I got your phone number from the telephone book. Please call me. I need to talk to you in the worst way.”
Chapter 11
“Well, darn!” Joe said. “I left my cell phone number. Why did she call this one?”
We chewed that question over until we got in bed, and then for twenty minutes afterward. Which proved, I guess, that we had become an old married couple.
But it
was
a puzzle. All day long Joe had called Emma Davidson, and each time he had left his cell phone number and asked that she call it. But when she did finally call, she looked our home number up in the phone book and called our house. Why?
The most obvious explanation, I maintained, was that Chuck and Lorraine were trying to keep her from calling Joe and therefore had not passed the cell number on to her.
“But that implies they’re controlling her actions,” Joe said. “That’s hard to visualize. She’s a grown woman.”
“The one time I saw her, she didn’t exactly act assertive.”
“Maybe not. Everybody says Emma is naturally quiet. Being quiet, however, is a long way from being a . . . a
prisoner
.”
“Elder abuse does occur,” I said.
We were concerned enough that I called the Davidson house to check on Emma. Lorraine answered and told me that Emmahad been admitted to the hospital in Holland and would be there at least overnight. She thanked me for calling 9-1-1.
“Emma’s been a worry to Chuck and me,” she said.
Similar Books
