The following is a continuation of the April 18, 1949 entry into the Rocky Stone notebooks.
Pastor Hosea had a backbone like a steel pipe and he sat bolt upright in his seat, fitting his body along the contours of the wooden stall we were seated in. He sniffed at me and told me the answer was fairly obvious, but frankly I didn't see it. He shook his head as if he'd heard it all before and pulled out another photograph, this one cleaner, with sharp edges. The same woman was pictured, a few years older, a lot less face paint, and considerably more conservative in her choice of dress. Arranged around her were three children: a son and a daughter, and a baby held in her arms. She smiled uncomfortably, like she shouldn't be part of the picture.
“I came home one day,” Hosea explained, “and called out to her. The children weren't at home. Later, I found they had been sent to be with a family down the street. I knew of her past and I suspected the worst right away, and sure enough, when I reached the bedroom door...”
(Three sentences follow which are smudged and illegible.)
“...with a melon.”
I wiped the sweat off my face and tried to make it look like I'd heard of such a thing before. Hosea continued to sit steady and unflinching, as if this sort of thing went on everyday. He told me the rest and it was predictable: he tossed the guy out on his ear and sent her packing a few minutes later, but as it turns out she had the last word. Those three adorable little tots of hers weren't his, she said. They were all by different men, she said. She didn't even know which three men, she said, and then she spit in his face for good measure. It was a wonder the man didn't put her out of her misery right then and there. Juries have acquitted men for less.
“You sure you want her back?” I asked.
His chin lifted up an inch so he could look down his nose at me. “I am certain. The one who gave her to me in marriage has ordered me to reconcile with her. I am to love her as He loves this city, this city that pays Him no mind and takes many lovers, this city that wallows in the filth of its...”
“Enough,” I said. “I know all about this city. Thirty bucks a day finds her, payable in advance. That plus any other information of her whereabouts will be helpful.”
He reached into his pocket and selected three ten-dollar bills, each one crisp and newly-printed, and gently laid them on the table in between us. “Her maiden name is Gomer, Marjorie Gomer. I happen to know she danced at a club called The Pink Slipper under the name Candy Eaton. She went a great many places and did a great many things, I'm afraid. She could be most anywhere.”
That's about what I thought. I swiped up the cash from the table and stood and looked down at him, gave him that smile that's supposed to make a man feel like he's getting his money's worth. “If she gets around like you say, she'll be easier to find. People know her and people know where she might be found. I'll catch up with her, brother. Don't you worry.”
Something close to a smile cracked his face. “I won't. My steps are ordered. I was sent to you, just as I was sent to her.”
“Better luck this time, though, huh?”
He glared at me. “Despite what you think, Mr. Stone. I love my wife. Though it kills me inside to know what she has done, I still love her. I suppose you wouldn't understand that.”
“Maybe I don't,” I replied. I looked at him, sitting there, a strong man broken and trying to put the pieces together like a million others out there, all of them crumbling to pieces and all in the name of love. “Maybe I don't want to.”
I left him with that and made my way for the exit. Somewhere out there, Marjorie Gomer was waiting.
Next week, make sure to read THE LOST LOVE, Part 3 across this very same inter-net!
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