Thinking she might have misdialed she tried again, this time speaking the number aloud as she dialed. The recording clicked on a second time and repeated the same message.
Hitting a brick wall as she had only increased Margaret’s curiosity. She pulled the county telephone directory from the bookshelf and searched Bateman Investigative Services. Nothing. She tried searching Bateman Detective Agency, Bateman Surveillance, Bateman Security, and the yellow pages. Still nothing. Returning to the residential listings, she ran her finger down the long list of Batemans. It began with Alfred Bateman and continued on until it reached Yolanda Bateman. Two columns in all.
It would take a day, possibly two, for her to call every one of these listings, and even then she could come away with nothing. Not discounting the idea altogether but wondering if what she found would be worth the effort, she replaced the directory on the bookshelf.
First, she had to finish cleaning out Albert’s desk. There was only the top drawer and a few more file folders to go. Once those were done, she’d go back to searching for Bateman. Pulling the last of the folders from the drawer, she began leafing through them.
While she’d gone through the earlier folders page by page, careful not to miss a thing, these got little more than a cursory glance. A few prospectuses from companies he’d considered a solid investment, his daddy’s death certificate, a copy of last year’s income tax return. None of these things interested Margaret. She was still wondering about those invoices and what it was Albert needed to keep secret. She tossed the outdated prospectuses in the waste basket, closed the drawer, and returned to the telephone book.
“That top drawer can wait,” she mumbled as she dialed Alfred Bateman’s number. The phone rang nine times. Seconds before she was going to hang up, the receiver was lifted from its cradle. She could hear someone rustling around, but no one spoke.
“Hello? Are you there?” she asked.
After what seemed a long time, someone on the other end yelled, “Hello?”
The voice was so loud she felt vibrations in her ear.
“No need to shout,” she said. “I can hear you just fine. I’m looking for Alfred Bateman.”
“Which one?” he yelled.
Stumped, Margaret paused a moment. “The one who would be involved in the Bateman Investigative Services company.”
“Can you give me that again?”
Holding the receiver a good distance from her ear, she repeated the request and added, “Can you please lower your voice?”
They went back and forth several times before she learned that the old man and his son were both named Alfred Bateman and had no connection to the investigation company.
“We’re butchers,” he said. “Always have been, always will be.”
Margaret thanked him for his time and hung up.
A single phone call had used up almost 15 minutes. At this rate it would take a week to call all of the Batemans, and even then there was no guarantee of success. With a groan of resignation she moved on, dialing the next number.
After five no answers, one “temporarily disconnected” recording, and 19 people who had no idea what she was talking about, she dialed the number for Geneva Bateman. By then, it was after 7 pm.
Forcing herself to sound cheerful, she said, “Good afternoon. I wonder if you can help me. I’m trying to locate someone familiar with a company called Bateman Investigative Services. Does that name sound—”
“It’s seven-fifteen,” the woman snapped. “We’re in the middle of dinner. You should have enough courtesy to call at a more suitable time, not when a family is eating their meal.”
She slammed the telephone down—hard.
Margaret crossed Geneva off of her list, then set the telephone book aside. Tomorrow she could start over again. Right now, she was hungry, tired, and discouraged.
The thought of sitting alone at the kitchen table settled in Margaret’s chest, and she could feel herself crumbling. Leaning forward, she lowered her face into her hands and gave way to tears again.
“Why, Albert, why?” she said through her sobs. “Why would you find it necessary to keep this secret?”
She thought back to that year: 1944. The year they bought this house. They’d gone through a rough patch the year before, and she’d been on the verge of leaving. Not because she didn’t love him, but because they argued night and day.
Buying the house was Albert’s way of trying to make things better. He’d started to do that sort of thing; buy her some ridiculously expensive gift, thinking it would smooth things over. Of course, it didn’t.
The house was never the problem. She could have been happy forever living in the colonial they had. What she wanted was a family, but he refused to listen. For years they’d tried to have a baby, but it never happened. After two miscarriages, they gave up trying.
She begged him to consider adoption, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He had a dozen different excuses. He was too old to contend with an infant. With just the two of them they were living the good life, and a baby would change everything. Somebody else’s baby could never be the same as having their own child. The list went on and on.
She thought she’d learned to live with it, but the truth was she hadn’t. She hadn’t tried to find her siblings and had gone through life thinking one day she’d have her own family. When Albert wouldn’t consider adoption, the empty spot in her heart grew larger. She’d explained that to him, but as an only child himself he either couldn’t understand or chose not to. They’d stayed together, but it was years before she completely forgave him.
Margaret wondered if during those difficult years Albert had found other ways to satisfy himself. Was it possible he had a lover? Another family? He traveled and it was not unusual for him to be gone for two or three days at a time, but she’d never considered that it might not be all business. She’d lain next to him in the bed, their bodies so close that only a thought could pass between them, and she’d never suspected…
“Damn you, Albert!” she shouted. “Damn you for leaving me!”
She balled her hands into fists and hung her head.
Looking for Answers
ONCE THE MEMORY OF THAT terrible year settled in Margaret’s heart, it grew larger and more vivid. She thought back on how night after night she and Albert had climbed into bed with their bodies turned away from one another and a wall of silence between them. She’d cried until there were no more tears left but couldn’t remember him shedding a single tear. At the time, she’d thought it was because he’d believed it unmanly to cry. Now she had to wonder.
When things were at their worst, she’d reached out to him, tried to make him understand why having a child was so important. She told him things she’d never spoken of before, explained how being separated from her brothers and sisters had caused an emptiness inside her soul, an emptiness that could only be filled with a family of her own. He’d taken her in his arms, held her face to his, and said he was her family. Then he swore come what may, he’d always be there for her.
Later on he’d asked why the family broke apart as they did, but she could never fully answer the question. She said only that times were hard, and after her daddy disappeared her mama did what she thought was right. He’d eyed her with curiosity, then turned away saying he found it hard to believe anyone could think sending children off on their own was right.