My husband Bob is a stay-at-home spouse, and although he’ll never find himself barefoot and pregnant, he certainly knows his place in our household: taking full responsibility for the care of our home.
If there isn’t a Patron Saint for Wandering Husbands there ought to be, and I’d like to nominate my Great Uncle Albert for the job. And when I say “wandering” I don’t mean “philandering.” I mean “walking off and never being heard from again.” This Patron Saint, however, would lend no protection to dead-beat dads. Just husbands like Albert.
By most accounts, Albert was a good husband and father, a man who tried his best to provide for his family during the Great Depression. But one day he set off to buy a pack of cigarettes and never came back. At least that’s the story that was widely distributed by the disgusted women and envious men who knew him.
The longer he was gone, the more he was considered a bum, a deserter, and a louse of the lowest order. It’s only natural that people said the worst about him because, after all, he wasn’t there to defend himself. The same thing happens every time you walk out of a party or a meeting. Once you are no longer present, your pedigree and reputation are thoroughly examined, reviled and revised in order to make most folks feel better about themselves. Sure, they may have their own faults and failings, but at least they are not you. But let’s get back to Albert, the wandering husband.
Albert soon represented all the things that mothers warned their daughters to avoid. His own family led the attack and there were plenty of friends with bobbing heads who were quick to point out that they knew Albert was a “bad egg” from the moment they first met him. He was gone, and that was proof enough that he was a genuine lout.
And then the letters started coming in. Albert was making his way to Oregon to find work. He would be sending money as soon as he got paid. He hadn’t abandoned his family, he had gone to look for opportunity, and his family knew it. Countless letters documented Albert’s heroic saga and his family was full of hope that he would find the Promised Land and they would join him.
But back when Albert suddenly disappeared, his neighbors had been too quick to think the worst about him. They rallied together, pouring out sympathy and support, generosity and good will upon the family, and it was all gladly accepted under false pretenses. Albert’s family certainly didn’t want to embarrass such gracious neighbors by refusing their wonderful gifts.
And where did Albert go? Who knows? The letters stopped after he reached Oregon. He had a job lined up and prosperity was on the horizon, but that’s the last anyone heard of him. The family concluded that he must have suffered a dastardly fate to vanish so completely. They graduated him from Scoundrel to Saint.
Of course, Albert’s letters were withheld from the neighbors. Outside the family he is still considered a skunk, but the relatives all agreed there was no sense in telling the whole truth and cheating the neighbors of their special joy in helping the helpless.
So, thank you, Great Uncle Albert, for demonstrating that it is possible for a husband to wander off with the best intentions, the worst results, and a story that’s sure to provoke daydreams among husbands everywhere.
CHAPTER ONE
First, I must admit my name isn’t really Adam Small. And I’m not really a Medium, either. The whole thing started as a prank at a party, and the next thing I know the police are calling me to take a look at a case that had them stumped.
Here’s what happened. I was at this party, post-game or something, and I decided to play a joke on a guy. He was a total stranger. I told him I had read his mind and knew the exact number he would pick between 1 and 7, and to prove it, I had already written his number on a slip of paper and hid it in the room. Of course, I had written slips of paper for each of the numbers from 1 to 7 and hidden the slips around the room, so when he picked a number all I had to do was remember where I put that particular slip. Easy. He picked the number 3, I told him to look under a table lamp, and guess what? There was the slip of paper with his number on it! Tah-dah! He was amazed. He was also an undercover cop, which was just fine until he saw my teenage brother pumping beer from a keg. He shut the party down. My brother wasn’t drinking, but I guess minors can’t even pump beer around here.
We got to be friends, the cop and me. His name is Jim, but he’ll answer to just about anything. He says sometimes he forgets his undercover identity, so he just goes by whatever name you want to call him. I call him Jim. He thinks my name is Adam Small because that’s the fake name I gave when we met at the party. A long time ago I learned to never give my real name at parties. And never ever hand out business cards to people you don’t know. One night, I was on the roof of the Peabody Hotel in Memphis listening to a band, eating, drinking, and handing out business cards. I thought handing out business cards was the cool thing to do. But when I got on the elevator to leave, there was some guy putting the move on some chick and he gave her one of my business cards! Fact! I didn’t say anything. Just laughed. But later I got worried that if anything happened to that chick my card could turn up as evidence. So, I don’t hand out business cards to strangers anymore. Too risky.
Anyway, Jim thinks my name is Adam Small and that I’m a psychic or something because he never caught onto the trick I played on him. He said the cops sometimes use psychics on what they call “cold cases,” and asked if I might be interested. Well, I love the cop shows on TV and I’ve read all the Sherlock Holmes Mysteries, so I said sure. Then he asked for my business card.
That night, I came up with “Medium at Large” and had cards printed without any phone number or address. I figured I could hand out these cards at parties with no problem. Jim asked how he could contact me and I said, “Hey, remember that party? The number on the slip of paper? Jim, I know exactly what you’re thinking, so, like it says on my card,” I pointed to a simple line of text, “I’ll call you when you need me.”
CHAPTER TWO
It just goes to show you that sometimes you can be too cute. I had fallen into my own trap, and here I was digging deeper and deeper into the hole. If I really were a Medium, or even if I had just a little more common sense, I would have known where this would lead me.
TO BE CONTINUED…….
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