GOODNIGHT

Mary is gone, gone with the wind, gone to her god, gone to hell. I don’t care where she has gone just so it is forever from my life. I have beentortured too long, tolerated her fits, her depressions, screechy voice for 25 years and now have my just rewards. She left her bed unmade, her coffee mug still ½ full and disappeared, poof, into thin air.

Her separate closet looks unchanged. Our car is in the driveway. I hurry to my desk and find my bank book properly in place. The wall safe in my bedroom holds our stock, her jewelry and two thousand dollars for emergency. Nothing is amiss except Mary. Her vanishing frightens me. Am I next? I pace the floor, go over again all that I have checked. What do I do next, dare to call the police? They will ask questions, over and over, and I have no explanations.

The phone rings. My heart jumps. My lips mutter by themselves, ‘Mary, Mary, where are you. Please let me hear your voice.’ Instead I hear a deep, heavy tone, ‘Mr. Crystal, we understand your wife, Mary, has vanished. Is that correct?’ ‘Yes, yes, but how do you know?’ The voice only tells me that two detectives, Lts. Morrison and Schwab are on their way to my house.

Such timing. The doorbell rings and there stand the Bobbsy twins, except one is Caucasian and one is not. Schwab, the white one, enters first and heads directly to the sofa in the living room. The two men sit side by side, each holding a yellow lawyer’s pad and a pen on his lap. They write in about the same rhythm any answers I give to their endless questions. ‘When did you see your wife last?’ Morrison asks. ‘Last nite when she went to her bedroom about 9.’ ‘And then what?’ he asks. ‘Then nothing. I came downstairs this morning at 7 a.m. and her mug of coffee still was warm on the table. I called her but got no answer. She was not in the house, garage or outside in the yard. So far, I’ve found no note.’ The questions continue. ‘Anything seem missing besides your wife?’ I tell the men exactly what I have checked so far. They ask if they may look around. I step back and give them free range to go where they want. Schwab hands me his card and tells me to call tomorrow morning even if there is nothing to tell them. ‘We have to wait 24 hours from the first report.’ They leave me as discombobulated as I was before Mary disappeared.

By 11 I have called her few friends, her hairdresser, been to the bank and our safe deposit box. It is as it should be. Nothing is missing. I keep telling myself I don’t want Mary back but my curiosity is torturing me. No windows are broken. There is no blood. No medications are spilled on the floor, in the sink. The toilet is clear, nothing in it except blue water. I see no unusual footprints outside, nothing on our doorstep.

I can’t think of anything else to do except walk from room to room and think, think, think. Father Calhoun, the priest I have known since childhood, offers a prayer for Mary’s return. I do not have the guts to tell him I don’t want her back, want only for her to be safe and well.

By noon my stomach talks to me. I answer by pouring myself a hefty glass of Jack Daniels, followed by a bologna, cheese, tomato sandwich on rye and another shot of J. D. My belly is sated but my mind is not. ‘Mary, Mary, where are you? Don’t come home. Just answer me, where are you?.’ Mary doesn’t answer. By the time I should be having my usually silent dinner with Mary, Old Jack D. has done its job. I fall asleep watching some asinine t.v. show and wake at 3 a.m. I stumble to my room, pee Jack down the toilet and fall, fully clothed, on my bed until 7:30. My head aches. My bed looks like a cyclone hit it. Mary wouldn’t like that so I straighten my sheets, fluff the pillows and go downstairs.

Steaming coffee burns my tongue. Cold O.J. gives temporary relief. I call Lt. Morrison. The department will put out an APB on Mary. At noon Mutt and Jeff knock on my door. They have a search warrant in hand but politely ask my permission to go ahead. I give it easily. Two other officers follow them inside. Every closet, every drawer is opened and closed neatly. They toss both beds, check the tile basement floor, find nothing suspicious and tell me this case is being investigated and I should not leave town. ‘Where would I go, Officers? I’ll be right here.’

I do go someplace, to my church. The donation plate gets a fairly heavy addition from me. Father O’Toole tells me not to worry. ‘Mary will come home.’ It isn’t easy to muffle my snickers but I do. I tell him the truth. ‘All I want is for Mary to be safe and happy. ‘

Weeks go slowly. There are no clues, no suspects. I have answered the same questions dozens of times, taken a lie detector test and was exonerated. My life has become a drag. There is nobody to argue with, nobody to ignore. Work, grocery shop, fix my own meager meals and I have had it. Everything is in order except my mind.

In the bathroom I gaze at my lean, gray face, open the medicine cabinet, fill the pink and red plastic glass Mary liked and I detested, with water. In my hand I drop every pill that says ‘one a day.’ Without counting them, without knowing why Mary took them, I swallow them several at a time.

I go into her bedroom, lie down in the center of her bed, fold my hands on my chest, close my eyes and wait to meet Mary again.