by Vin Carver
“You’ve been dead a long time Doc. You must have seen Tom on the other side. Is he—”
“Shut your ijit mouth and let me think.”
Time slowed inside Mark’s mind, or, his mind slowed inside time. He wanted to find out about his brother, but he had to obey Doc’s commands. Doc needed to think, that much Mark understood, but he also wanted Mark to shut his ijit mouth. Mark had never heard the word “ijit” before. He searched for the word in his memories. Nothing matched. He searched his memories for everything he had ever written or read—every ratty steno pad, every book, paper, and poster. Still nothing. He needed a connection. He had an ijit mouth, so an ijit must be a kind of mouth, or something that describes a mouth. Accounting for Doc’s western accent, ijit might mean itching. Mark’s mouth didn’t itch, but he scratched it just in case.
Doc’s lips split wide enough for the cracked tips of his lower teeth to show. “Get out of my trapping’s, boy. I need them back.”
Mark, still contemplating the meaning of ijit, didn’t move.
Doc’s face twisted, gray stubble pointed in all directions. “Give me my clothes back.” He twirled the cigarette one rotation around his index finger. “Don't make me have to put this here ciggy out in your eyeballs.”
No eyeballs meant no eye contact. No eye contact meant no communication. Mark needed his eyeballs to make connections, to communicate. Doc wanted his clothes back, and Mark was more the happy to obey. Without blinking, he unbuttoned the shirt and pulled it off his shoulders.
“You're as rack thin as me,” Doc said. “Don’t stop there, I need my trousers too.”
Mark unbuttoned the denim pants and checked if he had put on underwear. He had. He took off the pants and revealed a pair of cartoon boxers. The boxers were bright yellow and always made him smile. He wadded the shirt and pants into a ball and held them out to Doc with a smile bright enough to light up the bottom of the ocean.
“That’s a good boy.” Doc put his cigarette out in the incense burner. “Who’s that fellow on your scivvies? He looks like a piece of cheese.” Doc took the clothes and walked into the kitchen. “You're going to have to turn around, I ain’t as flamboyant as you. I still got some dignity.”
Mark turned around, beaming in the glory of the benevolent spirit. “Doc, thank you for coming to my house.”
My house is your house.
He placed his hands over his heart. “Will you tell me about Tom now?”
Doc said, “You know…” Mark glanced over his shoulder, and Doc pulled the denims on over his wrinkled hips. “I was going to do you one better than tell you about him. I was going to send you to be with him.”
Send me to be with him?
Mark took another glance, and Doc pulled the flannel shirt on over his decrepit shoulders. “I was thinking I might as well kill you because, now that I broke every rule there is to break, it don’t matter. Hey, have you ever been to Canada?”
Mark’s mind raced. He wished he’d gone to Canada. He wished he and his brother had gone to Canada. Iraq hadn’t killed his brother, but coming back had. Instead of dodging the draft, Mark's brother should have dodged the honorable discharge. Mark's brother should have—
Mark asked himself to tell himself everything the spirit had just said.
I might as well kill you because—
“Are you deaf, boy? I asked you a question.”
Mark froze.
“You can turn back around now. Ahhh. It feels good to be back in my own trappings. Those hippie clothes of yours made my insides feel all grainy. I suspect you left my boots on the porch, is that right?”
Mark turned around and fell off his high. The benevolent spirit became a conspiratorial phantasm. At any moment, the phantasm would become a political poltergeist. Mark wasn't sure how, but the government had something to do with it. His mind burned with possibilities. He opened the front door and pointed down at the welcome mat.
Mark said, “That’s right. I left your boots right here on my welcome mat.”
“Thank you.”
Mark leapt over the boots and took off running. He ran through the forest as fast as he could. Passing by a cabin, he caught the glow of a computer screen.
It’s the government.
He focused back on the road and ran faster. The authorities were after him. It didn’t matter if the authorities were from this side or the other side, they were after him, and he had to get away.
(Maude Gantry tore her eyes from her laptop long enough to see a scruffy-haired hippie running through the woods in nothing by a pair of yellow boxers. She shook her head, gazed at the computer screen, and smiled at her pair of aces. She clicked on CALL.)
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Toothpick
Warren waited for one of two things to happen. His dad would get drunk, and his parents would fight, or, his dad would get drunk, and his mom would go to bed. Either way, his dad would eventually pass out on the couch. Warren would sneak out, find his backpack, and leave. After seeing Nirvana, he had nothing here, nothing other than a crusty yellow pillow, and a little kid’s comforter.
Warren rehearsed his lie. His parent’s might do the unexpected and come into his room. His mom had done the unexpected by looking for him. She might have talked to Tanner. Warren wished he’d stayed at Tanner’s longer to get their stories straight. Tanner didn’t need help lying though, he was the one who had taught Warren how to lie. The best lies are based on the truth, and the less information given, the better. Tanner would have told Warren’s mom that Warren had slept at the old shack, and nothing more. If she pressed, he might have brought up the reason—abusive parental fighting—just to shut her up.
But maybe his mom hadn’t questioned Tanner. She didn’t care about Warren. All she wanted was for Warren’s dad to stop drinking. She'd do anything for that, even tell lies. The mom in Nirvana never lied. The parents there loved each other and never fought. Why would they fight? They had everything they could want, and everyone was still alive.
Warren sighed. When I get my chance, I’m going to look away, then, walk away. I’m going to Nirvana, and I’m never coming back.
A throaty engine grumbled onto the edge of the driveway, groaned when the driver put the transmission in park, and sputtered into silence. Hard-soled footsteps, accompanied by a beep and a pkshht, clacked on the concrete walkway.
A staticy voice reverberated through Warren’s bedroom window. “Officer Maxwell, state your location.”
“I’m at the Renner place following up on that missing person’s report. Copy.”
The policeman’s knocking made the front door rattle in its frame. Warren got out of bed and put on his hoodie. He put his ear to the door and glanced at the window. His dad had pounded two nails through the metal frame of the window in a rage. Those nails could keep the window from sliding open, but they couldn’t keep the glass from breaking.
From beneath his bedroom door, a funny little shadow danced across his floor. He cracked the door open and peered down the hall. Half of the dinette-set hid behind the edge of the hallway. On most nights, his dad sat where Warren could see him, and his mom sat around the corner, but not always. Sometimes, she stood by the kitchen sink.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Cass?” Warren’s dad slurred her name, and it came out cassh. “Can you get that?”
His mom’s shadow move across the hall, and Warren heard the front door open.
She said, “Hello Officer, have you found—”
“We only just started looking ma’am. They should've told you about the twenty-four-hour waiting period for missing persons when you called it in.”
“Yes, they told me. Please, come in.”
“Thank you. I have some standard questions to ask you and your husband. Is he at home?”
“Yes, he’s in the kitchen.” Her voice shook like loose guitar strings. “Seth, the police are here.”
“I’m coming.”
I wonder where he’s hiding his drin
k this time.
The policeman said, “We need to get started ma’am. Mind if I sit?”
Warren’s mom walked across the end of the hall, nodded, and Warren heard her sit in her usual place. The policeman sat down opposite her, flipped open a small notebook, and retrieved a pen from his breast pocket. Warren’s dad stepped into view and bumped the table. Warren didn’t think it was possible, but his dad’s red face became redder. His dad put a water glass on the table, sat down, and stared at the policeman.
Warren grinned every time the policeman spoke. Paul—formerly known as Toothpick, now known as Officer Maxwell—was a poser. Warren used to be friends with Paul’s little brother, Peter. In second grade, Warren would go to Peter’s house and play board games. Paul always joined in, which was weird because Paul was in high school at the time. After Paul graduated from high school, he had gone to the police academy. When he had come back, he had more muscle, but he was still a skinny nerd like his little brother. Warren smirked at the patch on Paul’s shoulder—TAMARACK’S FINEST.
Paul said, “First name?”
“Warren.”
“Last name?”
His dad said, “Must we do this Paul? You know Warren. You know he’s our kid.”
“Police procedure sir. Last name?”
Warren grinned. He had liked going to the Maxwell’s. Peter and Paul always finished every board game they started, and they were easy to beat. Warren had liked the Maxwell’s so much that, one day, he introduced them to his older brother in the urn.
The invitations to come over and play games stopped. Warren had come down with a case of the stigma disease, and the Maxwell’s didn’t want to catch it. Warren stopped grinning.
His mom said, “It’s Renner. That’s two r’s, two e’s, and two n’s, just like it sounds.”
“Height?”
“Five-foot-seven,” she said.
“Weight?”
“130—”
“No, he’s not. He’s not a pound over ninety-eight.” Warren’s dad slurred his words. “He’s a ninety-eight-pound weakling.”
Paul shook his head and wrote on his pad. “Hair?”
Warren’s mom said, “Brown.”
“Eyes?”
“Brown.”
Paul turned toward Warren’s dad. “When did you last see him?”
“Let me think.”
“Yesterday morning.” She put her hand on her husband’s forearm. “We saw him yesterday morning, remember honey?”
“Yeah, that sounds right.”
She said, “I made him a bagel, and you got him up to go to school. Right, honey?”
Why does she lie like that?
“Yeah. That’s right.” Warren’s dad blinked several times and rubbed his forehead.
“What was he wearing?” Paul said.
They stared at each other. Neither of his parents had really seen him in three days. Neither of them had really seen him in years. They didn’t care.
His mom said, “I think he was wearing his hoodie and jeans.”
“Shoes?”
Another pause.
“Ma’am, what kind of shoes was he wearing?”
His dad said, “I don’t know, probably sandals. He’s too lazy to tie shoes, so it was probably sandals.” He took a drink out of the water glass. “Warren's too lazy to do things like tie shoes.”
She said, “What are you going to do, Officer Maxwell?”
“In cases like this, we typically find the missing person at a friend’s house, or at a relative’s. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Did you ask his friends if they had seen him?”
His dad said, “He doesn’t have any frien—”
“He does too.” She tensed her voice. “I talked to his friend Tanner this afternoon. He hasn't seen Warren since yesterday.”
“Hmm,” Paul said. “Did this Tanner say where?”
Warren’s dad rolled his eyes.
She said, “They left school together and split up at Lake Forest like always.”
“Hmm…” Paul flipped through the pages in his notebook.
“What is it?” Her voice shook.
“Around what time would that have been?” Paul said.
“It was after school, and they were walking home, so it was around 3:30. Why?”
“Can we get on with this?” His dad’s head drooped. “I’m exhausted.”
Paul said, “I don’t want to alarm you, but there was a significant forest fire on the other side of town yesterday.”
Her voice rose. “The fire…oh, you don’t think—”
“They’re calling it an act of nature because there’s evidence that lightning started it, but we also found a lighter in the area of origin.” Paul sounded so important.
He must be loving this. What a poser.
Warren’s mom wept.
Paul said, “Does Warren have a history of playing with fir—”
His dad said, “Stop it. Just stop it.” The word came out shtop. Warren’s dad sat up straight, and he drained his water glass. “Look, Toothpick. We’re missing our son, not hunting down an ars…an arson…an arsonist.” His shoulder dropped, and his arm slid across the table. One eye closed part way before he forced it back open. He sat up and shook his head as though he’d been splashed with water.
Paul grimaced. “My name is Officer Maxwell, not Toothpick.” He flipped ahead in his notebook and readied his pen. “Sir, how much have you had to drink tonight?”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Something Soft yet Solid
The question sucked the air out of the room.
Sir, how much have you had to drink tonight?
Warren’s mom stopped weeping. Questions like this were off limits in the Renner household. Warren had never heard his mom ask this question, and he had never dared to ask it.
Warren’s dad sat up straight and licked his lips. “I’ve only had a couple of drinks. My shon—my son…is missing. I needed to take the edge off.” He clasped his hands together and held them on the table. “Is there a law against that?”
Warren’s mom said, “Toothpick—”
Officer Maxwell’s fingers flexed around his pen. His knuckles turned white, and he bent his pen to the point of snapping.
“I’m so sorry Paul. I meant to say Officer Maxwell. Do you think Warren got caught in the fire?” Her throat clogged. “Do you think he could be—”
“Please keep calm ma’am. No bodies have been found.”
“Bodies?” she said.
“Yes. Bodies.” Paul sounded stern and gleeful at the same time. “Please remain calm. The investigation will end soon, and they’ve yet to find any bodies.”
“Oh, God.” She began to weep again.
“Please ma’am, like I said before, in these cases the missing person is usually at a friend’s or a relative’s house. Sometimes, we find them hiding in their own home. Have you given your home a thorough search?”
Warren dropped to the floor.
His dad spoke slow and even, like an angry statue. “Yes. We looked everywhere.”
Paul closed his notebook. “You looked everywhere, but did you search? Did you overturn his bed, search his closet?”
Warren opened his bedroom door and crawled into the hallway. He kept his eyes on Paul and noticed a ring of keys hanging from Paul’s belt.
One jingle of those keys, and I’m running.
His mom said, “Don’t you think we’d have looked everywhere by now? He’s missing. He’s not here. He might be dead.”
“Cass, honey…” Warren’s dad reached toward her. “Did we look under his bed?”
Paul pointed toward the fireplace. “Is that his backpack over there?”
“Oh my God,” she gasped.
“Mr. and Mrs. Renner, we must search his room.” Paul shifted his weight, and the kitchen chair slid backwards. His keys jangled.
Warren dove into his parent’s bedroom. He crawled across the floor and hid under the bed. Three shadows st
retched down the hall, breaking the light from the kitchen into three spires of darkness. Warren held his breath until Paul and his parents passed by.
“I made his bed this morning,” his mom said. “He wasn’t under it then.”
“Let’s check anyway,” Paul said.
Warren exhaled, took a deep breath, and inhaled a dust bunny. He had to cough. He covered his mouth and waited until everyone’s feet had disappeared. With one strong ahem, he cleared his throat. The dust bunny had left strands of feathery hairs stuck to the corners of his mouth, and when he wiped his face, his elbow bumped into something soft yet solid. He twisted and found a plastic bag. He pulled it near his face and smiled.
Cameron. So, this is where she hid you.
His dad said, “Nope, he’s not under there.”
Paul said, “Wow, I remember that blanket. He still sleeps with—”
“What’s that Officer?” Her voice had calmed.
Paul cleared his throat. “Nothing, ma’am. It’s nothing. Please step aside so I can see behind the door.”
Warren grabbed the bag of Cameron's ashes and crawled out from under the bed. A cloud of perfume and dust hung in his parent’s room. It smelled like old people. An open bottle of aspirin lay on the dresser next to a box of condoms. Warren took one of the aspirins and pretended he hadn’t seen the condoms.
He walked to the doorway and peered around the corner. A sliver of light escaped through his bedroom door, and he could see part of Paul’s uniform through the crack.
Look away, then, run away.
Warren made a break for it, and—
My backpack. Where’s my backpack?
His bedroom door opened, and he turned around.
“Stop right there.” Paul held up his left hand and made eye contact with Warren. His right hand moved toward his belt.
Warren’s mom struggled to see over Paul’s shoulder. “Warren?”
Paul unsnapped the leather strap on his holster and gripped his gun. Warren’s mom grabbed Paul’s elbow, and he whirled toward her. Warren ran down the hall. The family photos blurred and blended with the chalky white walls of the living room. Turning toward the front door, his foot caught on the leg of a dinette chair. The chair flipped up and bounced off the table. He pulled the bag of ashes into his chest like a quarterback crossing the line of scrimmage, stumbled, and crashed into the coffee table. The coffee table crashed into the couch, and Warren fell face-first onto the floor. The dinette chair landed on the backs of his calves, and—
