Shred of Evidence

He was waiting for his luggage at Schiphol Airport when he spotted her. She was wearing the somber, seal-gray coat he had given her last Christmas, and it was only the crimson in the scarf at her throat that caught his eye. They had decided it was silly for her to meet his plane. He had outlined the reasons against it; she nodded her acceptance. But here she was anyway looking lovely, standing as still and pale as a porcelain figurine amidst the stolid Dutch pea-soupers in their bulky winter dress. Almost involuntarily, his hand rose in a greeting. She placed one gloved hand up to the glass in response and smiled. The delicacy of her movement encapsulated all that he loved about her.

Moments later, he pulled his bags off the carousel and walked quickly through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ gate. She turned for his kiss and they bumped noses. He wondered whether other married couples miss each other’s lips as frequently as they did.

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Billie Slack was nearly seventeen the summer she found her father’s name in a Detroit telephone directory in a branch of the Philadelphia public library. “Wilton Wist,” she read aloud. “Wilton Wist.” Of course, there was no guarantee this was her father; it was, after all, the third Wilton Wist she had come across.

Wilton Wist #1 lived in New Canaan, Connecticut. She had called him nearly two years ago, and after keeping her on the phone for twenty minutes pretending to some sort of relationship, #1 finally admitted to being in his eighties. No, he confessed regretfully, he had neither sons nor male relatives with his name. “Let me know if you find him,” he urged as she quietly replaced the receiver. “You can call me collect.”

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Patricia Abbott has published stories in journals such as Fourteen Hills, Inkwell, The Potomac Review and The Portland Review. Having come over to the dark side now, forthcoming stories will appear in Demolition and SHOTS.