Gwendy's Magic Feather

61

IN MOST OF EASTERN Maine, news of an approaching nor’easter—still four or five days out but already gaining strength at a monstrous rate—fills the airwaves and front pages of newspapers over the next forty-eight hours. There’s very little panic in this part of the world, even when it comes to the bigger storms—but there is an underlying sense of dread. Blizzards mean accidents—both on the roads and closer to home. There will be broken bones and frostbite; overturned cars in ditches and downed power lines. Elderly folks will be rendered housebound, unable to venture out to grocery stores and pharmacies; meals and refills will be missed and illnesses will slither under drafty door cracks with insidious stealth and take hold. The youngsters won’t fare much better, as they gleefully abandon whatever common sense they possess in the first place to rush headlong outside into the storm to build forts and wage snowball wars and hurtle down tree-speckled hills at breakneck speeds on flimsy slivers of drugstore plastic. If town folks are lucky, no one will need a mortician. But then again nor’easters aren’t usually harbingers of anything even close to resembling good luck.

This time, in the western half of the state, it’s a different story altogether. The approaching blizzard is relegated to page two or even three, and only discussed in detail during the weather portion of most television newscasts. The three missing Castle County girls dominate local media coverage from early morning drive-time to the eleven o’clock nightly news. Family members and friends, schoolmates and even teachers are interviewed, all offering a slightly modified version of the same somber story: the three girls are kind and talented and have never been in any kind of trouble; they certainly didn’t run away from home. Sheriff Norris Ridgewick and State Police Detective Frank Thome are also constant on-air presences. They continue to offer the same grim-faced reassurances that their respective departments are doing everything humanly possible to locate the missing girls and the same passionate requests for information from the public. Their singular message and lack of originality in delivering that message prompts one local reporter to write that both men “are reading from the same uninspired script.”

Despite the lack of recovered bodies or anything else resembling proof, the Portland press have already begun to throw around the “serial killer” moniker and have dredged up no fewer than three sidebar articles relating to Frank Dodd and his stint as “The Castle Rock Strangler” in the early 1970s.

In Castle Rock, there are no mentions of Boogeyman Dodd in the press—although there are plenty of whispers in the bars and restaurants and stores; in a small town like The Rock, the whispering never ends. The December 30, 1999 edition of The Castle Rock Call features large photos of each of the three girls above the front-page fold and a banner headline running just below that reads: MANHUNT TURNS UP NO CLUES – TASK FORCE PUZZLED.

Gwendy Peterson takes one look at the newspaper and tosses it unread onto her parents’ dining-room table. “Let’s go, slowpokes!” she yells upstairs. “We’re going to be late!”

Gwendy and her father have spent the past two days taking excellent care of Mrs. Peterson—at least that’s what they would claim if asked. Mrs. Peterson, on the other hand, would tell a completely different story; without hesitation or filter, she’d tell you they’ve spent the past two days driving her bat-shit crazy.

Despite the doctor’s words of assurance—both at the hospital and during a follow-up phone call yesterday afternoon—Mr. Peterson insisted that his wife remain on the family-room sofa for the remainder of the week, resting and recovering under a pile of blankets.

“Recovering from what?” Mrs. Peterson retorted. “I ate something bad and puked. Big deal. End of story.”

For once, Gwendy took her father’s side of the argument, and the two of them wore a path in the carpet leading to and from the sofa, trying to make sure she was comfortable and adequately entertained. In the process, they also wore out Mrs. Peterson’s patience. After two days spent reading a half-dozen magazines from cover to cover, watching hours of television, knitting, and working on another jigsaw puzzle until she was seeing double, Mrs. Peterson finally lost it, shortly after lunch, hurling the television remote at her husband and declaring, “Stop babying me, dammit! I feel fine!”

And it seems like she really does. Only one short nap yesterday, and nothing at all so far today. The color has returned to her face and her appetite—as well as her spunky attitude—is back to normal. In fact, a short time ago, she not so subtly hinted (insisted) that Gwendy and Mr. Peterson take her out to dinner tonight, and not just any old restaurant, either. She has Gwendy call her favorite Italian bistro, Giovanni’s, in neighboring Windham, and make a reservation for three (which they’ll be late for if they don’t leave the house in the next few minutes).

Gwendy turns at the sound of footsteps and can’t believe her eyes. “Wow,” she says, getting up from the table. “You look like a million bucks, Mom.”

“A billion,” a smiling Mr. Peterson says, coming down the stairs behind her.

Mrs. Peterson is wearing a dark blue dress underneath a long gray sweater. For the first time in months, she has on lipstick and eye shadow. Gold earrings dangle from her ears and a single pearl necklace hangs around her neck.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Peterson says primly. “If you keep up the compliments, I will consider forgiving the both of you.”

“In that case,” Mr. Peterson says, extending his arm toward the front door, “your chariot awaits.”