Knock, Knock

She began to speak, but he turned and walked down the sidewalk, out of the light that cast a weak glow around the door and into the inky night.

In every family, someone is born to roam, wandering like a river flooding its banks. My great-grandmother had four children. One, a girl named Delia, was as wild as a storm.

When she was a small girl, instead of working dutifully in the family garden, half an acre that spilled out from just beyond the back door to the outer edges of the property, Delia would roam in the woods. There was nothing there, just acres of loblolly pines punctuated by white oaks and sweet gum trees. But she wandered away countless times, always coming back to undone chores waiting while mosquitos buzzed insolently in the dusky heat of summer.

The house and land had been in my great-grandmother’s family for generations. It stood back a hundred yards from the tar and gravel road that ran through the county and stopped at the marshy wetlands of the Chesapeake Bay. Generations were born and died in the house. My great-grandmother was born there. Her father was born there and died in the spare bedroom. But Delia was not held down by the roots running through every acre. She wanted to roam beyond the property, beyond the waterlogged county, and over the Bay.

My great-grandmother didn’t know she had left until later that evening. And she didn’t know where she had gone. No one did.

In 1950, the longing overwhelmed Delia. She was 24. The nearest bus station was 12 miles away, and she caught a ride with a waterman who headed into town in the early afternoon. Taking all the money she had been saving for a few years, she bought a ticket for Baltimore and, with no note of explanation, disappeared.

My great-grandmother didn’t know she had left until later that evening. And she didn’t know where she had gone. No one did.

A chasm opened in my great-grandmother’s life. Her husband, my great-grandfather, had died a few months earlier. Alone, she did what she could do—she waited, hoping with a fading certainty that her wandering daughter would come home.

As the land turned from green fields sprouting through moist black soil to parched plants and packed summer dirt, there was no word from her daughter. Neighbor’s tongues wagged with the blush of scandal but soon settled into the stale rhythm of rural life. With no news, imaginations soon were parched like the August corn fields. The heat of September blew away like bits of husk floating over gravel roads. October that year was clear and warm, but no news or explanation came. The long walk to the post office my great-grandmother once made with expectant energy became more infrequent, loping back into a rhythm of a few years earlier.

In the bleakness of the cold and damp winter, when snapping winds blew over brackish water that rose and fell with the tides, the daily routines returned, and life moved at its sluggish pace.

In late June of the following year, the heat and humidity dropped like a blanket. Windows were open, and she propped a fan on a table near her favorite chair. She sat by the window sewing while the fan pulled in the fragrant early summer air.

One evening was stifling, and she knew she wouldn’t sleep until the night stole the heat of the day. She sewed and listened to the crickets and croaking bullfrogs. Then, in the stillness, there was an unexpected knock at the back door. She startled, pricking her finger, and a small drop of blood fell onto the fabric sitting on her lap. She pressed her finger to her mouth as she walked through the kitchen and the small mudroom, flicking on the outside light.

At the back door, standing on the sidewalk near two concrete steps, was her father. He was dressed in his familiar way—pressed khaki pants, a starched blue shirt, and brown suspenders. He was wearing a pair of double-soled cordovan wingtips and an old brown fedora with the front brim flicked up. He took off his wire-framed glasses, folded them, and placed them in his shirt pocket as she opened the door.

“Daddy,” she gasped. He held his hand up to stop her. It had been his usual way of staunching a flow of emotion. “She’s coming back,” he said. My great-grandmother instinctively knew he was speaking about Delia. “You’ll hear from her soon.” He nodded his head gently and smiled in a comforting but melancholy way.

She began to speak, but he turned and walked down the sidewalk, out of the light that cast a weak glow around the door and into the inky night.

Though she stood, her knees buckled, and she took a halting step toward the chest freezer to her left. She knew she wasn’t asleep. Looking down, she saw the small scab on her finger where she had pricked it moments ago. Was it moments ago? That night, she didn’t sleep.

At the first hint of sunrise, she made coffee and went through her chores mechanically. The heat and humidity grew throughout the morning, and by early afternoon she was tired enough to sit in a wicker rocking chair on the screened porch. A sticky but constant breeze blew through the screen and across her face. Cooled by the moving air, exhausted by a lack of sleep, she closed her eyes and slept.

A ringing in the sleepy distance roused her. In her lethargy, she heard it growing closer. Her eyes opened. Standing on weary legs, she walked into the house and picked up the phone.