The Road Home by Patrick E. Craig Page A

whole life. She had to find out who she was.
    Jenny checked her purse. She had a few dollars and some change. Quickly she packed up the microfilm and replaced it in the file. She went to the front desk and told Mrs. Blake she was taking a break. Then she took her notes and left. A row of phone booths stood along the curb in front of the library, and she went into one. She thought about calling Uncle Bobby but remembered he was having lunch with her papa. So she picked up the phone book hanging on a chain from the wall and looked up the number of the Daily Record . She dialed it, and a woman’s voice answered.
    â€œThe Daily Record , how may I assist you?” the woman asked.
    â€œHello. Does Mr. Bob Schumann still write for the paper?” Jenny asked.
    â€œMr. Schumann retired a few years ago, but he drops by from time to time. He’s what we call our editor emeritus. And you’re in luck because he happens to be here today. Let me connect you.”
    After a moment’s silence, a gruff voice said, “Bob Schumann here.”
    Jenny hesitated. She knew that if she started down this path, she would have to go wherever it took her, and a momentary fear of the future and what might happen to her family choked her up.
    â€œHello, Bob Schumann here,” the man said again.
    Jenny took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Mr. Schumann, my name is Jenny Springer. My parents are Reuben and Jerusha Springer. Fifteen years ago you wrote an article about a dead man who was foundin Jepson’s Pond and a little girl who had been rescued from the car the man was driving. I’m that little girl.”
    â€œWell, for goodness sake,” Schumann said, his voice softening. “That was a long time ago. Quite an interesting story. Say, how did you know the man was driving the car? There were so few clues as to his identity, the police could never even definitely connect him with the car.”
    â€œI remember that night,” answered Jenny. “The man was driving the car, and he wrecked it when he tried to reach back and grab me. Then when he tried to get me out of the car, he fell through the ice.”
    â€œYou say you remember?” Schumann asked. “You were only four years old. How can you remember that far back?”
    â€œMr. Schumann, I don’t know how I remember, but all I know is that over the past few days, the details have become more and more clear in my mind,” Jenny said. “But the man is not the issue. Somewhere to be found in this whole mystery is the identity of my birth mother. It has become very important to me that I find out who she is and why I was alone with that man in the car that night. I don’t know if he was my father—he might have been—but I do know that my mother was associated with him somehow and that she was very, very sad about something in her life. And I can’t rest until I find out what it was that caused her so much pain.”
    â€œWhat did you say your name was?” Schumann said.
    â€œI’m Jenny, Jenny Springer. You wrote about me being placed with my mama and papa—Reuben and Jerusha Springer—and about my adoption.”
    â€œOh yes, Jenny. Did they adopt you?”
    â€œYes they did, and they have been wonderful parents. But now I need to know more.”
    â€œYes,” Mr. Schumann said. “That story always bothered me. There was never a conclusion to it, and I like to have conclusions to my stories.It was maybe the one story of my career that I never got the answer to my questions. Jenny, we need to talk.”
    â€œI’m working at the library today,” Jenny said. “We could meet now, if you’re available…in the microfiche room?”
    â€œI’ll be over in fifteen minutes.”

C HAPTER N INE
    Roadblocks

    B OBBY AND R EUBEN WALKED INTO E ILEEN ’ S on the Square in downtown Wooster. The waitress who met them at the door smiled and grabbed two