Chapter One : Part 3

Here If You Need Me: A True Story
by Kate Braestrup

(Page 3 of 4)

Mr. Moore looks away, toward the edge growth that fringes the parking lot. "I am too."

Mrs. Moore stands still, but her eyes scan constantly for signs from the surrounding darkness, her arms wrapped tightly across her chest. It's work to wait this way, aching physical labor.

"It's miserable to wait," I observe, and she nods, still scanning, her mouth taut.

Beyond the parking lot, the edge growth gives way to mixed deciduous woodland that rolls on for miles, interrupted only by an occasional swamp or swiftly flowing stream. It's been nine hours since the family dog returned and Alison did not. The Moores are tourists on vacation from a large Massachusetts city, but even if they were locals, the forest and the nearby bog and water would seem increasingly menacing as the hours wore on past mealtime, past bedtime. The people with uniforms, guns, and dogs had arrived in their emergency vehicles, blue lights flashing, as well as airplanes and boats, verifying the seriousness of what is, the awful plausibility of what might be.

"Look, Reverend," Mr. Moore says, gesturing into the darkness. "I know all these guys have to keep looking. I can tell they are putting on a brave face for Marian here. But you can tell me the truth."

Unbeliever though he may be, Mr. Moore is not asking the lady in the clerical collar for an objective assessment of a practical situation. He wants the God's honest truth. He wants me to tell him, with all the weight and authority my presence conveys, that his daughter is not dead.

"Do you think she's dead?" I asked Lieutenant Trisdale after Charlie Later landed me safely on Masquinongy Pond. We were driving to the search scene in his truck, bouncing over the old roads, the lieutenant's paperwork, coffee cups, and collection of cell phones leaping about my knees. Fritz Trisdale has nearly three decades of experience behind his assessment. whatever he says, I will believe.

Fritz scrubbed thoughtfully at the five o'clock shadow on his jaw. "I'll tell you what, your Reverendship," he said slowly. "I think she's still okay, to be honest with you. It's not like the kid was retarded or suicidal or something. She's just good and lost. Those woods have been cut over so many times that there's plenty of scrub and low growth to keep her hidden from us. Hell, you'd practically have to step on someone to find 'em in there. She's probably scared of the voices she hears, if she hears 'em at all. I think she's alive. Ronnie Dunham's bringing his dog Grace up this evening, and Grace'll have a fresh nose." Fritz stopped and gave it another thought but came to the same conclusion. "Yeah," he said. "I think we're going to find her."

"Listen," the child's father is saying to me. "I'm an engineer. I work with statistics. You don't have to bullshit me."

His wife is holding onto my hand, tightly, and her hand is cold. She turns her eyes to me as her husband continues: "I know that the longer this search goes on, the greater the chances are that my little girl is dead." Mrs. Moore flinches sharply at the word, and grips my hand even more firmly. Later my knuckles will ache, and I'll find the marks of her fingernails in my palm.

"I have been on many searches with the wardens," I answer him. "These guys are good at what they do. They have a lot of experience between them. And I've been with them on searches where they really don't think they are going to find somebody alive."

I pause and both parents lean closer, as if my voice might suddenly soften beyond the reach of their ears, but I speak boldly. "If the wardens have told you that in their professional opinion they think they will find your daughter alive, I believe we're going to do just that."

Mr. Moore's knees visibly wobble. Mrs. Moore gives forth with a weak exclamation, and her hand softens in mine.

Oh, please, Jesus, let this be true. Let the little girl be alive.

If it isn't true, then one of the searchers will find the body. It is a small body to begin with, no more than fifty-five pounds according to the report, and it will have dwindled in death. There will be no vital signs, no spring of skin or tapping pulse beneath the warden's gentle fingers at wrist or throat, no warmth. The clothing will correspond to the description each searcher carries: khaki pants, light blue jacket, blue sweatshirt with a picture of Elmo on the front, gym socks, and Teva sandals.

"I wish we had better news for you," the lieutenant will have to say to the parents. "Oh, I am so sorry," I will say. And the wardens will make their assessments of the scene, consider the possibility of foul play, take measurements and photographs, note the condition of the body, call the medical examiner, inform the news media. When the medical examiner authorizes removal, they will place the little body in a body bag and carry it from the woods. Then they will go home, hold the warm, living bodies of their own children, and know too well the risk they take by loving in such a precarious world.

At eight forty-five, Alison still has not been found. The Moores and I are sitting in a little row on a picnic table, our feet braced on the seat. We are on a first-name basis by this time; they have dispensed with "Reverend," and I have been invited to call them Ralph and Marian. I'm secretly pleased to note that Marian is no longer holding my hand, and Ralph is no longer keeping his distance from her fear or from my comfort. Husband and wife sit close to one another, their hands entwined, and close to me.

Over our heads, the bats continue darting in their unnerving, skittish flights. The Moores tell me the story of their last vacation day, of their cheerful plan for a final autumn picnic, about the thermos full of hot chowder, the crisp Macoun apples they picked at an orchard the day before. They need to describe the way the dog ran off and the little girl went after him, calling his name, and how they didn't think to follow her.

Copyright © 2007 by Kate Braestrup

About the Author

Braestrup's novel Onion was published by Viking in 1990, and she has since published a series of magazine articles in Mademoiselle, Ms., City Paper, Hope and Law and Order. She lives in Maine.