Brides in the Sky by Cary Holladay

Author:Cary Holladay [Holladay, Cary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ohio University Press
Published: 2018-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

Operator

A CALL CAME IN on Christmas Eve, 1954.

“Help. My parents are hurt,” the person said.

“Where are you?” I’d been a telephone operator in the Richmond, Virginia, area for two years, and I could tell when a caller was scared.

“I’m at home.” The voice shook—a child’s voice, a little girl’s. “We live near Ashland.”

A little town about half an hour away. I’d been to a Fourth of July picnic out there with Stuart Wilkinson, a man I’d hoped to marry.

“Hold on. I’ll connect you with the police.” I plugged in the wire, and the sheriff’s office answered.

At that point, I could have hung up, but I didn’t. From the child’s end of the line came the faint sound of a train whistle, and I remembered the tracks that ran through Ashland’s lonely pine woods. The picnic seemed long ago. I had taken cupcakes and little flags.

The deputy was trying to get the child’s address. She named a main road, but no, they weren’t in town.

“What’s your name? and your parents’?” the deputy asked.

“Emmy Turner. Mom and Dad are . . .” she paused. “Charlie and Velma Turner. A man hurt them with a gun. Come quick.”

“Is he still there?”

“No, he’s gone.”

“Can you give me a landmark?” he asked.

“The barn roof is red,” she said, “but you can’t see it in the dark.”

“Who are your neighbors?” the deputy said.

“Mrs. Matthews.”

The name clicked in my brain. Hazel Matthews had hosted the picnic. A strong old widow, she was a cousin of Stuart’s. Lots of people were at the picnic, probably Emmy Turner and her parents among them.

“I’m on my way,” the deputy said. “Can you lock the room you’re in?”

“I did,” she said.

I heard myself say, “Emmy, are you on the same side of the road as Mrs. Matthews?”

“Ma’am?” said the deputy, surprised I was still on the line.

“Yes,” Emmy said.

The connection broke off. I yanked off my headset and laid it down. The operator beside me looked up in surprise. Our shift wasn’t over.

“I have to go,” I said.

* * *

I had it in my genes. My grandmother was a telegraph operator for the railroad till she got glass arm. Now we’d call it carpal tunnel. One minute, you’d be tapping at your bug—that was what they called their set—and the next, your arm lay numb on the table.

I stayed single till I was thirty, then married a lineman, had three children, and wound up divorced and running a secondhand store, selling dishes and knickknacks. One day, a dog ran across wet cement outside my shop, and forty years later, the paw prints are still there, and I’m just an old lady with white hair and tennis shoes. But I’m getting way ahead of my story.

There wasn’t any 9-1-1 back then, no GPS or Google. People were supposed to keep emergency numbers—fire, ambulance, and police—taped to the wall by the phone, but generally, if something bad happened, they were too rattled to do anything but call the operator. If you needed to be found, you gave directions as best you could.

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