Correction of Drift: A Novel in Stories

Dreams, Sightings, Expressions of Sympathy

What arrives, arrives in sacks: telegrams, postcards, letters largely unsolicited; notes and parcels packed in bags of canvas of a sailcloth weight, roped and grommetted at the neck. Unlike the one of gunny, the kind used for the containment of the boy, for the reduction of struggle. The gunny being looser in its weave, allowing the exchange of air, permitting inhalation of bits of hemp found inside the nose and mouth. Unlike the strands found along the windowsill: wool snagged from what might have been someone’s trouser seat, and cotton from the diaper or the footed sleeping suit. Colonel and Mrs. Lindbergh have asked that the public limit correspondence to credible leads and reliable information only. Gulf-Coast Guardian March 12, 1932 Dreams, Sightings, Expressions of Sympathy 74 Pamela Ryder The mother of the boy is shown the color of the thread. Sorry to disturb you Ma’am, but is this what he was wearing? Would you mind taking a look? No, she wouldn’t mind. Yes, of course, certainly, give me just a minute. She takes a sip of tea from the cup on the bedside table. There is a sheaf of writing paper, a packet of stamps, a pen without ink. There is a bunch of winter roses someone has sent. The attached note of condolence has not yet been read. She rings for the maid. Violet, dear. Never mind another tea. I feel so thirsty, but I cannot drink. The bunch of winter roses has begun to wilt. She has been told that flowers must be removed from a room at night or they will take oxygen from the air. She has been told that there is too much ice left on the river for an adequate search. She keeps the bedside lamp unlit. She keeps a box at the foot with things to be put away: romper, porridge dish, the owl and the pussycat, muffler, mittens. Ma’am? Are you there? It will only take a minute. Yes, yes, I’m here. She takes another sip. The tea has gone cold. The maid has not remembered to remove the pits from the wedge of lemon. The napkin is frayed and bears traces of a Dreams, Sightings, Expressions of Sympathy 75 stain. The pattern of the saucer does not match the pattern of the cup. The maid has not yet been up to add water to the vase or to clear away the mess. Violet, can you hear me? Has the mail been delivered? Have you wound the hallway clock? The hands click across the face and into position. The double doors swing open. A wooden bird emerges and emits a one-note whistle. These days, deliveries are often late. A small town such as this was unprepared and ill-equipped. However, neither rain nor snow nor sleet. The postmaster receives complaints. Two, three bags a day going out there with just one truck, don’t you forget . The truck turns out from the town on the county road and takes the trestle bridge across the river. Left on Featherbed Lane. Right on Lindbergh Drive. The mother of the boy can see the truck coming down the hill. She hears the tires on the gravel and the wet out front. She hears the motor: chug chug chug and cough and sputter to a stop. A cough like that, Violet, that’s what he has and a bad case of the sniffles and out somewhere in this weather in that sleeping suit not nearly warm enough. The doors on both sides of the cab swing open and the men climb down. They swing the tailgate flat and shove the sacks along the bed of the truck. There is soft new snow in the drive and icicles on the gutter ledge. Give me a hand with this, Ed. 76 Pamela Ryder Hatless, gloveless. Rope and canvas, abrasive to the knuckle. Couriers poorly appointed. Well, damn it all, Ed, but don’t these galoshes leak. Hallo, anybody home? Special delivery. Anybody here to sign for this? Hallo-oh? The cook stops stirring the soup and taps the spoon against the pot. The maid puts down her sewing. Violet, dear, would you get the door? Sign for whatever it is they’ve brought. And ask them if they’d like something hot. Elements are tracked in. Snow clings to a sole. Mudcake and heavy slop are carried in...