And here, along the peninsula's northeastern shore, an old yellow cottage stands in the timber overlooking the lake. There are many trees, mostly pine and birch, and there is a dock and a boathouse and a narrow dirt road that winds through the forest and ends in a ledge of polished gray rocks at the shore below the cottage.
It is by the nature of the angle, sun to earth, that the seasons are made, and that the waters of the lake change color by the season, blue going to gray and then to white and then back again to blue. The water receives color. The water returns it. The angle shapes reality. Winter ice becomes the steam of summer as flesh becomes spirit. Partly window, partly mirror, the angle is where memory dissolves. The mathematics are always null; water swallows sky, which swallows earth. And here in a corner of John Wade's imagination, where things neither live nor die, Kathy stares up at him from beneath the surface of the silvered lake. Her eyes are brilliant green, her expression alert. She tries to speak but can't. She belongs to the angle. Not quite present, not quite gone, she swims in the blending twilight of in between.
30. Evidence
Everybody at the office, we used to talk about it constantly, we'd sit around at lunch and try to figure out if Kathy ever showed any signs of—like depression, problems at home, things like that. But you know what? Nobody ever came up with anything. She seemed just like everybody else. You got the feeling that she was basically happy, or that she thought she could be ... Maybe she was just a great actress.
—Bethany Kee (Associate Admissions Director, University of Minnesota)
With missing persons, it's like digging a hole in this big pile of sand, the damn thing just keeps filling up on you ... We looked every single place there was to look—the boathouse, the cottage, every inch. Brought in divers and a couple of State Police sniffer dogs. No luck. He was gone by then, of course. Didn't find a one thing.
—Arthur J. Lux (Sheriff, Lake of the Woods County)
So he dumped her deep. So what?
—Vincent R. (Vinny) Pearson
The Bureau of Missing Persons in New York has handled, since its inception in 1917, more than 30,000 cases a year.118
—Jay Robert Nash (Among the Missing)
My plan, so far as I have one, is to go through Mexico to one of the Pacific ports ... Naturally, it is possible—even probable—that I shall not return. These be "strange countries," in which things happen; that is why I am going.119
—Ambrose Bierce
Sometimes people just up and walk away. That's possible, isn't it? I don't see why everybody assumes the worst.
—Ruth Rasmussen
There was one clue, I guess. It was right after the primary, maybe a day later. Kathy was getting ready to head up north, and so naturally I asked when she'd be back in the office. Like a general date, I meant. Anyway, she goes over to this window. She looks out for a while and finally starts to laugh, except it wasn't real laughing. Like she knew something.
—Bethany Kee (Associate Admissions Director, University of Minnesota)
Whoever undertakes to write a biography binds himself to lying, to concealment, to flummery ... Truth is not accessible.120
—Sigmund Freud
Too bad I never got the chance to ask the man more questions. Vinny was right—some things just plain didn't add up. I don't care what Wade said, one plus one don't never equal zero, not in my book.
—Arthur J. Lux (Sheriff, Lake of the Woods County)
I can't say Claude was too happy about the way they come in that day and ripped the whole place to hell. Wasn't called for, and the old man made sure everybody knew what he thought. A few times he got pretty mouthy—harassment, he kept saying—and he'd let out this cackle every time they came up empty. I miss that old-timer. Miss him bad. He had faith in people.
—Ruth Rasmussen
All I know is, I know the guy gave me this weird look. The day before he took off, he comes in and pokes around and buys all this stuff—like I told you already, the compass and maps and all that—and he ambles up to the cash register and starts to say something and stops and just gives me this look. Soon as he was gone, I real quick locked the door.
—Myra Shaw (Waitress)
Yes, I shall go into Mexico with a pretty definite purpose, which, however, is not at present disclosable. You must try to forgive my obstinacy in not "perishing" where I am ... I am pretty fond of you, I guess. May you live as long as you want to, and then pass smilingly into the darkness—the good, good darkness. Devotedly your friend.121
—Ambrose Bierce
The Peers Commission people weren't looking for him. We were. Nothing to it really ... Once we got wind of this so-called Sorcerer, it was only a matter of time. I put the boys on it. No sweat.
—Edward F. Durkee (Democratic senatorial nominee)
Dear Sorcerer,
I'll keep this letter short because I figure you already know what happened. I didn't plan on talking, and that's the truth even if you probably don't believe me. They were slick, I'll say that. I barely even knew I was saying stuff until I was done saying it. So much for silent Indians. Either way, they already had you pretty much pinned down—the fact that you were there that day. I guess that's my excuse. I didn't mean to get anybody in trouble, and I feel bad, but there's one thing I know for sure now. Remember that night back at the ditch? I said we should get it off our chests and go report it, and you sort of blew me off. But I was right, wasn't I? Honesty's the best policy, that's for sure. I don't know how you stood it so long.
—Richard Thinbill
Yeah, we knew the story was coming. Couple days before, the Star-Trib calls, asks for a comment. John says, "Tell them April Fool." Couldn't fucking believe it. I swear to God, that's what he said, and then he gave me that blank dead-man look of his. Never said another word. That's when I decided to start job hunting.
—Anthony L. (Tony) Carbo
Kathy read about it in the papers like everybody else. July, I think. Really hot. She asked me to drive over and so I did—still in my gym clothes—and I stayed with her all that day and all night. John didn't come home. I remember she was frantic, really frantic, and I kept saying, "Jesus, who cares if he comes home?" But Kathy was more upset about that than the fact that her own husband was a liar and a betrayer and ... So the next morning he finally shows up. Walks in, gives us this don't-dare-ask look, goes off to take a shower I knew right then she'd stick with him no matter what It obvious. So what the hell. I left It makes me feel like This is why I shouldn't be talking.
—Patricia S. Hood
Brings to mind that old saw. Mr. Wade just wanted to crawl into a hole.
—Ruth Rasmussen
Exhibit Eight: John Wade's Box of Tricks, Partial List
Mouse cage
Stand-up mirror
Military discharge, honorable
Book: Marriage: A Guide
I guess Claude was in on it. Never said as much, but after Mr. Wade went off with the Chris-Craft ... Well, I could see Claude wasn't all that surprised. Kind of smiled, if you know what I mean. The two of them got to be pretty close in this quiet way, like they trusted each other, like they understood how things were and how there wasn't no choice finally ... When the old man died last year, I kept waiting for a little note or something. Kept checking the mail. Nothing.
—Ruth Rasmussen
He had happened to dissever himself from the world—to vanish—to give up his place and privilege with living men, without being admitted among the dead.122
—Nathaniel Hawthorne ("Wakefield")
If you cannot believe in something produced by reconstruction, you may have nothing left to believe in.123
—John Dominic Crossan (The Historical Jesus)
For a while Mr. Wade was in radio contact, just a day or so. He didn't sound so good. Rambling Rose, that's what Vinny called him—the man didn't make a whole lot of sense. Anyhow, it didn't last long. Bang. Silence.
—Arthur J. Lux (Sheriff, Lake of the Woods County)
br /> They're gone and they're not coming back. Both of them. I mean, honestly, some things you best walk away from, just shrug and say, Who knows? I'm serious. You been gnawing on this a long time now, way too long, and sooner or later you should think about getting back to your own life. Don't want to end up missing it.124
—Ruth Rasmussen
Writers ... have an obsession with missing persons.125
—Jay Robert Nash (Among the Missing)
Flies! You hear that?
—Richard Thinbill
We couldn't see the man—he was gone—nowhere! ... his departure was a marvel.126
—Sophocles (Oedipus at Colonus)
My guess? I don't need to guess. He did it. Wasted her. That stare of his, the way he didn't even feel nothing. I seen it a zillion times ... Who cares if we didn't never find no evidence? All it means is he sunk her good and deep.
—Vincent R. (Vinny) Pearson
I'm an optimist. Life after death, I believe in it. That big Chris-Craft, it could go forever, all the way to Kenora and then some. So I don't know. Maybe they're in Hudson Bay or someplace. I mean, they were in love. Honest love—just like Claude and me. You could see it plain and obvious. If you want the truth, I keep waiting for that note in the mail. And I bet someday it'll show up.
—Ruth Rasmussen
I'm not in the guessing game, but I'll lay out some basic facts. Number one, they were in debt up to their necks. Number two, there wasn't a dime left in their bank account. Cleaned out slick as a whistle even before they headed up north. Number three, nobody ever found either boat. Not a single scrap, no oars, no life vests. Number four, the man was a magician. Tried to wipe his name off the Charlie Company rolls, tried to vanish himself and damn near did it... Number whatever, Kathy had her own history. That dentist of hers, the way she used to take off now and then. I remember this time in Vegas, years and years ago, we had a talk about how sometimes you need to sort of unstick yourself. Maybe she finally did it. Maybe they both had it rigged up all along. When you think about it, they didn't have a damn thing to come back to—reputation shot, no more career, bills up the gazoo. Christ, I'd run for it too.
—Anthony L. (Tony) Carbo
Those tourist maps he bought. If he's out to zap himself, why tourist maps? Sounds to me like a tour.
—Myra Shaw (Waitress)
Well, sure, the possibility occurred to me. I can buy one missing person, I get antsy when it's two in a row. Certain stuff always bothered me. Like on the day she disappeared, Wade spends the whole afternoon paying bills, getting his affairs in order. Only thing he didn't do was make out a will. Makes you wonder. Mainly, though, it's how he acted, if you know what I mean. The man just didn't seem all that upset or anything. Just sat around. His whole attitude didn't strike me—it didn't seem normal.
—Arthur J. Lux (Sheriff, Lake of the Woods County)
At first I thought she probably drowned. An accident, I thought, but now I'm not even half sure. I told you how we used to sit around in the office and sort of brainstorm, how we all thought she seemed perfectly fine. Right after the election, she was almost carefree. Incredibly happy. Like I'd never seen her before. At the time I figured it was just relief or something. But maybe it was more than that. Maybe they decided ... Hard to say. But I know this much. She had the guts. And she wanted changes.
—Bethany Kee (Associate Admissions Director, University of Minnesota)
A person has to hope for something. So I hope they're happy. They deserved a little happiness.
—Eleanor K. Wade
Yeah, if I know Sorcerer, he had some slick shit up his sleeve. Guy had a million moves. No matter where he is, though, I bet he's still got nightmares. I bet he's out there swatting flies.127
—Richard Thinbill
31. Hypothesis
If all is supposition, if ending is air, then why not happiness? Are we so cynical, so sophisticated as to write off even the chance of happy endings? On the porch that night, in the fog, John Wade had promised his wife Verona.128 Deluxe hotels and a busload of babies. And then for a long while they had cradled each other in the dark, waiting for these things to happen, some sudden miracle. "Happy," Kathy had whispered. "Nothing else."
Does happiness strain credibility? Is there something in the human spirit that distrusts its own appetites, its own yearning for healing and contentment? Can we not believe that two adults, in love,129 might resolve to make their own miracle?130
"If we could just fall asleep and wake up happy," she might've said, and Sorcerer might've laughed and said, "Why not?" and then for the rest of the night they might have held each other and worked out the technicalities. Improbable, of course. More likely they drowned, or got lost, or lost themselves. But who will ever know? It's all hypothesis, beginning to end. Maybe in the fog Kathy said, "We could do it—right now," and maybe Sorcerer murmured something about a pair of snakes along a trail in Pinkville, how for years and years he had wondered what would've happened if those two dumbass snakes had somehow managed to gobble each other up. A tired old story. If Kathy smiled, it was out of politeness. But maybe she said, "I dare us."
Too sentimental? Would we prefer a wee-hour boiling? A teakettle and scalded flesh?131
Maybe so.132 Yet the evidence does not exclude the possibility that they ran for their lives. John Wade was a magician. There was nothing to call him back. And so one chilly evening he might have joined her on the shore of Oak Island, or Massacre Island, or Buckete Island. Maybe she scolded him for being late. All around them there was only wilderness, dark and silent, which was what they had come for. They needed the solitude. They needed to go away together. Maybe they spent the night huddled at a small fire, celebrating, thinking up names for the children they wanted—funny names, sometimes, so they could laugh—and then later they would've planned the furnishings for their new house, the fine rugs they would buy, the antique brass lamps, the exact colors of the wallpaper, all the details. They would've listened to the night. They would've heard rustlings in the timber, things growing and things rotting, the lap of lake against shore. Maybe they made love. Maybe they wrapped themselves in blankets and fell asleep and woke up happy, and maybe in the morning they set a bearing north toward Kenora, or west toward Winnipeg, where they would've ditched the Chris-Craft and made their way on foot to a bus station or to a small private airport.
Documents? Passports?
He was Sorcerer.
High over the Atlantic they would've levered back their seats and unburdened themselves of all secrets. Good things and bad things. "Kath, my Kath," Sorcerer would've whispered, as if to summon her spirit, feeling the rise and fall of her breath against his hand. For both of them it was a wishing game, except now they were inside their wishes, and maybe one day they discovered happiness on the earth—in some secret country, perhaps, or in an exotic foreign capital with bizarre customs and a difficult new language. To live there would require practice and many changes, but they were willing to learn.133
***
John Wade made his last broadcast in the early morning hours of Sunday, October 26, 1986. He offered a number of rambling incantations to the atmosphere, apologies and regrets, quiet declarations of sorrow. His tone was confessional. At times he cried. At dawn, just before signing off, he seemed to break down entirely. Not his mind—his heart. There were garbled prayers, convulsive pleas directed to Kathy and to God. He spoke bluntly to his father, whose affection he now demanded, whom he begged for esteem and constancy, and then near the end his voice began to sink into the lake itself, barely audible, little bubbles of sentimental gibberish: "Your tennis shoes. Those hearts I drew ... Only for love, only to be loved ... Because you asked once, What is sacred? and because the answer was always you. Sacred? Now you know ... Where are you?"
A murderer?
A man who could boil?
At no point in this discourse did John Wade admit to the slightest knowledge of Kathy's whereabouts, nor indicate that he was withholding in
formation. Which brings me to wonder. Is it possible that even to John Wade everything was the purest puzzle? That one day he woke up to find his wife missing, and missing forever, and that all else was unknown? That the clues led nowhere? That explanations were beyond him?
Sorrow, it seems to me, may be the true absolute. John grieved for Kathy. She was his world. They could have been so happy together. He loved her and she was gone and he could not bear the horror.
Winter came early that year. By late afternoon on October 26 a half foot of snow covered the islands and shores of Lake of the Woods. The birds were gone, wildlife was in retreat, the pine forests stood silent in their wrap of white. To the horizon, in all directions, there was only the vast ongoing freeze, everything in correspondence, an icy latticework of valences and affinities. John Wade had lost himself in the tangle. He was alone. The throttle was at full power. He was declaiming to the wind—her name, his love. He was heading north, weaving from island to island, skimming fast between water and sky.