Lost by Gary; Devon Page A

decided that the illusion of false depth was created by the complex, paisley-patterned lining of the case. On top of the secret compartment she refilled the space with the folder of newspaper clippings she had been able to find about the fire and Mamie Abbott’s progress. Then, the beginnings of a runner she had been crocheting on the sly for Emma, and the crochet hook. And finally Doc’s Browning automatic, given to him by a distant cousin who had survived the Normandy invasion.
    The barrel of the handgun carried the inscription FABRIQUE NATIONALE D ’ ARMES DE GUERRE HERSTAL BELGIQUE , but she didn’t know what that meant. Doc Merchassen had a name for the gun she couldn’t remember—maybe it was service issue, or officer’s issue. No, that wasn’t right. She did remember Doc telling her how to cock it by pulling the top sleeve back, and that it held thirteen shots, which seemed appropriate. To the best of her knowledge, the gun had never been fired and it frightened her. Leona imagined it packed with dirt inside, blowing up in her hand when she squeezed the trigger. And yet she kept it because it had been one of his most treasured things.
    She put it in with the crochet work and shut the briefcase. She wrapped the three big bills inside a five-dollar bill to keep in her hand, took the briefcase, and turned off the light.
    Her perspective slowly changed as she went down the curved staircase. Everything seemed to float away from her—the oblong of the downstairs door, the writing table with its vase of silk chrysanthemums, Emma wearing a fresh orange-colored apron. Feeling light-headed, Leona descended the stairs carefully, holding the bannister by the hand with the money and carrying the briefcase in the other.
    â€œI wish you could at least stay until Frank gets home. I know he’d like to say goodbye.”
    Leona could deal with Emma, not her husband; there was no telling what he might do. She’d planned all along to be gone before he came home from his pinochle game. Deep down, she believed he resented her being there. “Emma, if I wait, it’ll be too late to get anywhere tonight and I’ll never have another chance.” It came out sounding too harsh, too selfish, and she tried to lighten it. “Besides, if I have to sit through watching John Cameron Swayze again, I’ll just cringe.”
    Emma slowly looked away and went to hold the kitchen door open at the side of the house. When Leona went by, she hugged her with her free arm and kissed her cheek. “Wish me luck, Emma,” she said and slipped the bills, unseen, into Emma’s apron pocket.
    â€œWhere will you go?”
    â€œWherever she wants to go.”
    It wasn’t an answer, but Emma didn’t pursue it. “Well, let me know how you are.” Her chin dimpled and creased like a peach pit and she said no more.
    Then she was gone, Emma’s image losing detail until it was a waving silhouette, framed in the doorway by the yellow light behind.
    Slowly she drove down the street, slowly along streets she had taken night after night, streets so embedded in her memory she could walk them blind a year from now. She knew where the sidewalk bucked up from tree roots and where it was sunken, washed over with grass. Past houses that had never been and would never be hers, past families in rooms of light, glimpsed through swagged curtains. How long her heart had ached for such a place—a home and a family all her own.
    Anything could go wrong. If Emma let on or started bawling or told Frank and he called the hospital; or if one of the nurses for some unknown reason decided at the wrong moment to go to the laundry room, and in the dark they collided … But Leona couldn’t worry about that. For the last few days now, she had mentally rehearsed her going in and coming out. By merely closing her eyes, she could visualize the course she would take, the pale yellow-brown floor and