The Disappearing Act

There had been no sign of her for days.

There was a ham and cheese sandwich 

And an apple jelly sandwich

Both with the crusts removed

In the fridge.

Her eleven year old’s sons lunch.

A cigarette had been left burning in an ashtray

On the window sill.

She started smoking again after her separation.

The cigarette had burned but it had not been smoked.

It had simply been lit and then left in the ashtray.

The ashtray was a made of heavy hand blown glass.

The glass was a Smokey emerald and blue in colour.

It was a relic of the 1960s

It was given to her by her mother in-law.

A mother in law she initially liked.

A mother in law she learned to hate as time went on. 

She had been raised by a very controlling superstitious grandmother.

She hated her grandmother.

It didn’t take long for her to see the same qualities in her mother-in-law.

It was an easy transferal. She just moved the hatred forward in time. 

The ashtray was an elaborate and expensive effort for its time

when smoking was considered stylish.

Some might  even say attractively reckless

For many, it was just something to do with their hands. 

Her reasons for smoking were unclear.

A long delicate grey ash drooped from the lipstick stained filter.

It was fragile. The slightest turbulence could easily collapse the ash.

The only Evidence of her possible disposition moments before she

Disappeared. 

She had obviously taken a drag off the cigarette and 

Immediately lost interest, 

As though something had distracted her.

Numbers don’t lie.

That notion was disquieting. 

How many times the heart beats 

Can mean one is horrified or delighted,

Impassioned or enraged.

Maybe numbers don’t lie

But they often miss the point.

They don’t tell you a woman’s story.

They don’t explain temptation or longing. 

Numbers may to some extent explain a man.

Men count things. Things add up for men.

Men take measurements.

They subtract, divide and sometimes come

Up with answers.

For some women at least, numbers 

Only tell them how far away things are.

Numbers tell a woman what distance feels like

Based on the number of zeros.

No-one ever mentions the unsolved cases

Failure as they say is an orphan.

A beautiful woman in her early forties

Disappears.

She still wore her hair as she did in high school.

She still applied her makeup as she did in her first job.

Red lipstick. Rosy cheeks.

Dresses cut high at the neck and low at the knee.

She had learned to be discreet about her body.

Men in a small town talked.

Married men sheepishly watched her

As she walked away.

Young men only saw the camouflage. 

Men liked her figure. 

They felt comfortable with her 

dated sense of style.

They could safely fantasize about her.

She wasn’t modern and for timid men 

Of average or less than average accomplishment in life

that was comforting

She was a possibility.

She wasn’t modern or liberated. 

She was an unrealized possibility

But a possibility nonetheless

There was a faint murmur on her answering machine.

the night before she disappeared. 

It was like nothing she had ever heard

She had the answering machine for fourteen years.

It was plastic with a synthetic rose wood veneer.

At work she had voice mail.

At home she liked and was used to seeing the flashing red light

Of the answering machine.

It was like coming home to a friend. 

She loved seeing the lit up screen that said how many calls came in.

She was a creature of habit. 

In nature being a creature of habit is 

A signal to predators.

They gain knowledge over time 

Of the comings and goings of their prey

They watch and wait.

They sharpen their claws

They look down from heights.

They stalk their prey at the water cooler.

They seem harmless in their blue serge suits.

And Florsheim shoes.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Numbers lie all the time. 

She experienced the world from the inside out.

At the bank where she worked, she turned 

bills that were upside down right side up, so 

the numbers aligned. 

When she pulled the laundry out of the dryer 

She carefully matched the socks and folded them

Together. 

She would align the heels and then with a flick

Of the wrist, fold them outside in, so that

When her former husband unfolded them they would be 

Ready to wear.

It was painstaking but satisfying.

She saw it as her duty.

It was how she viewed her role.

Her girlfriend, a college professor

Would visit and talk about “Purpose “

Purpose didn’t make dinner or 

Vacuum the house.

She was fine with her role.

Purpose was for 

Women who wore gowns in soap operas

And drank cocktails at noon with men

In blue serge suits.  

People disappear.

How many is not generally known

Numbers may not lie

Sometimes They just don’t show up.

It is fair to say

Someone, somewhere knows the numbers

But the numbers, when it comes to failure

Are a secret. 

People hide things.

They go to great lengths to pretend 

certain things did not happen.

Specifically, the things they don’t understand

Or the things they understand all too well.

So they say things like

“Numbers don’t Lie”

Until eventually everyone stops looking. 

Derek Earl Houghton