Read They Almost Always Come Home for Free Online

feel. Get proactive, Lib. Don’t let it die for lack of attention. Don’t throw away a good man without a fight.
    Believe me, Greg and I are no strangers to the concept of fighting. We call our version the clam boil. I boil over. He clams up. Relational healing interaction of the highest quality. Jen pounds the kitchen table pulpit. “Proactive, Lib. You and me. We can do something. Yes, we have to stay out of the way of the authorities and let them do their jobs. But don’t you think two extremely intelligent women,” she says, lifting her chin and affecting the timbre of an English professor, “can think of a dozen ways we can help this investigation along?” “What do you want to do? Drain the boys’ college funds and rent a float plane to cruise at treetop level over the whole Quetico?”
    She leans back. “Now, see? You do still have a brain in that head of yours.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    “And if not that idea, there are others. We can call motels. I suggested that before. We can call hospitals and resorts and . . . did you call your credit card company? Has there been any suspicious activity on your cards?”
    It’s a good thing one of us can think.
    “Credit cards, Lib. That’s a great place to start.”
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    CYNTHIA RUCHTI
    Jen conquered cancer five years ago. Now she thinks like a
    conqueror.
    I suppose I should have expected this. I dragged her to
    concerts in between chemo sessions. I forced her to go to the cosmetology college for free eyebrow-drawing lessons. Some days she might not have gotten dressed if I hadn’t insisted it would make her feel better. I would have been less pushy if I’d known she’d turn around and club me with it now.
    I look at her pleading eyes and beautifully arched reborn
    eyebrows and know the final dollop of excuses is about to meet the spatula of Jenika’s insistence. But I’m nothing if not relentless, so I try one more.
    “I don’t have the energy to spit.”
    She rises, grabs the phone from its cradle, points it at me,
    and says, “It’s a good thing you’re not on your way to the den- tist, then, isn’t it? Dial.”
    I choke on the unspoken questions. What if we find him?
    What if we don’t?

39
    W hat is it called when computer screens get that bleached- out area if you don’t use a screensaver? There’s a word for it. It’s the reason Bill Gates or somebody created screensavers. Whatever it’s called, I think I have it. On my tongue. I’ve recited Greg’s description, his Jeep’s make and model and license plate number so many times the message is imprinted forever. I wonder if God ever thought about creating a memory screensaver. A beach scene or mountain view or a vision of puppies to automatically flash in our minds when we’ve dwelt too long on something ugly. Good idea. I’ll take it up with Him when this is over. We could share the patent.
    Switching the phone to my right ear will mean writing with my left if I find a reason to take notes. So far it’s not been nec- essary. A simple checkmark suffices. Is he here? No. Here? No. No. No. No sign of him.
    I dial again. While I wait for the number to connect, I lean back in the kitchen chair. A knot at the base of my neck pops as if a vertebra rudely smacked its gum. One ring. Two. Three. Come on. Come on!
    “Dew Drop Inn. Are you calling to make a reservation?”
    4
    40
    CYNTHIA RUCHTI
    “No. I’m—” I consider a smart-aleck answer. No, miss.
    Thank you, but I have more than enough reservations. Among them are, how badly do I want my husband back? Am I absolutely, posi- tively certain I’m not capable of homicide if he’s done something reprehensible? If the wilderness became his grave, am I ready to be a widow?
    I swallow my sass acid and say, “I’m looking for my hus-
    band and thought he might have stopped there on his way home.” Home.
    “He’s not here.”
    That was quick. I haven’t even told the woman his name or
    vehicle model.
    “Would you just check for