Doppelganger?

Which one of us?

I was first introduced to Anna Cox in 11^th grade English class. She was in a short story as an old bag lady catching a city bus in San Francisco. At the time I imagined this could be my fate, because, you see, my name was also Anna Cox.

I wasn’t troubled by that sneak preview in San Francisco. I lived far from California, and besides, I would be old, and there was a lot of territory to be covered before I, embittered by life’s failures, boarded that bus.

Upon graduation, my first goal was to move away from home, get a job and my own damned money. It was going OK. I landed work in the Treasure Valley, could afford an apartment, keep a car full of vital fluids, and buy groceries.

The first hint that San Francisco Anna wasn’t me was when I showed up for work one day and my co-workers looked surprised.

One asked, “How did you get here?”

I was confused and answered, “By car?”

“When did you get out of jail?”

They’d heard on the radio that Anna Cox of Nampa had been jailed for shoplifting. My supervisor at that moment was calling around to cover my shift.

Another piece of evidence came out a few weeks later when I was at the grocery store. Being a naïve kid from the sticks, I took monthly paychecks to the grocery store to cash, then stuck four twenty-dollar bills in an envelope and sent it to a savings account in my hometown. The other $200 went into my pocket and was parceled out for living expenses for the next four weeks.

After three months of this ritual, one day the clerk didn’t want to cooperate. He called the manager who said I’d have to make the other checks good before they’d deal with me again.

For a few seconds I was outraged that my employer, the State of Idaho, couldn’t make payroll. I’d have to call Dad, also a state employee, and tell him we’d been duped.

I protested, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? How long has this been going on?”

The manager looked at the check and said, “This should cover it.”

“Cover what?”

“The bad checks.”

“But if this is bad, why will it cover the others?”

He was a tall man and looked down his nose and sneered. “Not this one, the personal checks.”

I laughed. Not a good thing, but I was relieved to hear this was a mistake. I told him I didn’t have a checking account. I emptied my pockets where I carried most possessions. There was a driver’s license, car keys and a little change. No checkbook. He didn’t buy the missing evidence argument, but upon examining my license concluded I wasn’t the same person. He agreed to cash the check, but warned if I pulled out a checkbook, he’d bust me.

Walking home that evening I realized the bag lady in San Francisco wasn’t me. The other Anna Cox was the one down on her luck. I was off the hook. I could be a success.

I don’t know if the next four years proved my theory. I flunked out of the first term at a private college that also sucked my savings dry, but not before I picked up a cigarette habit. I married a troubled man who couldn’t hold a job but could spend my money. Married life taught me if I hid/didn’t log some deposits (yes, a checking account was in my future) I could sometimes afford a few classes at state college.

Career was one bright spot. Although I’d come to the brink of dismissal for what my boss called insubordination, I transferred to a place where instead of written warnings they gave me promotions and raises. This drove my insecure husband to despair.

We separated after three years of marital strife. I rented a house with my younger sister and listed the phone under my maiden name.

A call came one evening and the man happily announced, “Anna, it’s me, Wally. I been lookin’ for ya for a long time. You ain’t been in the book.”

His twangy voice reminded me of Hee Haw characters. I pictured a tall, hefty guy with bad teeth who liked to shoot rabbits in the holler. I was a bit lit from after-work cocktails, so imitated him in my reply, “Well, hey Wally. Who the hell are ya?”

“You ‘member me!”

“Nope, Wally.”

“That ain’t funny. We lived together, you and me and your daughter. There in Nampa.”

The light went on. This was the closest I’d come to her. I asked questions but he was convinced I was she, giving him the brush off. He wouldn’t cooperate.

Finally, I had to say, “Wally, you ain’t listenin’. I ain’t that Anna Cox. I never had no daughter. All I got is a dog. Ya gotta give it up or I’ll hang up.”

He launched into a tirade.

I interrupted, “You sound just like my ex-husband.”

“You was married?”

“The whole damn time, Wally. Didn’t ya never wonder what I did while you was away?”

He was silent. I hung up. He never called back.

I forgot to change my name back to Cox when finalizing the divorce. Later, the paperwork was too much of a hassle, so I stayed Anna Means and figured the other Anna Cox could write bad checks, live with another Wally, and shoplift when the need arose. She was on her way to San Francisco. We had parted ways.

Meanwhile, I continued to ride fate’s wave. It took me to a loving man’s arms, a college diploma, other men’s arms, upwardly mobile jobs, another good man, a move to Challis, Idaho, and taking up seasonal work as a camp cook.

Married names come and go, but to cousins you’re always the kid with your father’s name who rode tricycles, jumped off buildings, stole watermelons, and argued the source of thunder (God and angels bowling v some scientific crap).

One afternoon, 14 years after the chat with Wally, Dad left a cryptic phone message. “Are you alive? I guess you’ll call if you are.”

I didn’t think much about it since Dad was famous for his odd sense of humor and oblique references. I phoned back to establish I was among the living, but he was unable to fully explain why he thought I wasn’t. Something about a helicopter crash, which wasn’t totally implausible. I did ride in helicopters, but only when cooking in Alaska. Wrong season, wrong state, Dad.

A few months later the family gathered around 101-year-old Grandmother Cox’s grave. A cousin who worked dispatch for Idaho State Police told me about the day she’d been listening to radio traffic when Anna Cox, from the Boise area, was reportedly a passenger on a downed helicopter around Lewiston. She was the one to call Dad and ask if I was alright.

I updated her with the news that I’d been Anna Means for nearly two decades and had been living in Challis for five years. She was pleased to hear it.

So that’s that, I thought while driving home. It was time to put this little story to bed. I’d made good choices and wasn’t on my way to board a bus in San Francisco with only a bagful of belongings.

Destiny’s waters got choppy that following year. The camp cook economy took a nosedive. I found a job as a news reporter. My good man really was in a helicopter accident and didn’t survive.

I struggled to keep my head above water. I had to swim out of the chop and find another wave, hopefully one that took me somewhere outside the grief that ruled me night and day.

Occasionally, I’d think about Anna. Good choices only take you so far. Any unforeseen bend in the road can bring you down to a level you never imagined for yourself. There’s a fair amount of luck interwoven with those alleged good decisions. And Lady Luck, as I was learning, is fickle. The saying, “There but for the grace of God go I” rattled around in my brain. I didn’t feel so smug.

Eventually, I felt like I was headed in a positive direction again. Three years after Grandmother’s funeral I was on a freelance endeavor scanning microfilm in the Lewiston public library reviewing the first drawdown of Lower Granite dam, an experiment to see if it could help anadromous fish smolts make their way faster to the Pacific. My mission was also experimental. I was following the fish politics from my home on the upper reaches of the Salmon River on down to the ocean.

As I looked through microfilm news clips about commercial interests, which were dependent on Lewiston’s inland port, howled in opposition while environmental groups applauded the effort, I noticed a sideline story. There was hope they might find the airplane that had crashed in Lower Granite reservoir in 1992. At that time the water was too deep to find it, but with the opening of the gates and a drawdown of 42 feet, they were certain they could retrieve the wreckage.

The passenger was reportedly Anna Cox. They had a picture of the pilot, but not Anna.

Airplane, not helicopter — sheesh, my relatives couldn’t get any facts straight.

My interest in politics took a back seat as I pressed my nose to the screen and flipped the knob to find more headlines about the recovery. I kept scrolling, even though my head was light from hunger and bladder full.

Every story told how they got closer and finally, they spotted a piece of the plane.

I took a break, used the bathroom and ate a snack. I wanted to be clear for the conclusion.

There were a few more stories. Extrication was difficult because there was a lot of mud on the steep banks and a strong current.

They finally managed to launch a boatload of divers who pulled out the pilot, God rest his soul, but they couldn’t find Anna. She wasn’t in the cockpit. No trace of her along the exposed banks.

“Ha!” I yelled out loud. “She lives!”

I wonder if she’s made it to California. I imagine she’s given up on flying.