by Bill Noel
Yvonne, one of the owners, greeted us and said that Joe would be taking care of us. Joe, a long-tenured employee I’d known for a few years, was close behind Yvonne and took our drink orders. Five of us said water would be fine while Burl and Lottie ordered Diet Pepsi.
We were seated at a large, bar-height, rectangular table with Burl at the head and three of us seated on each of its long sides. Various NFL games were on televisions strategically located throughout the room.
“Thank you for breaking bread with me this lovely sabbath,” Burl said, sounding more like a prayer than something you would normally hear in a bar.
Lottie was closest to Burl and patted him on the arm. “Preacher, we’re delighted to join you.”
Joy and Dude were seated next to Lottie and across from Bernard, Charles, and me. Bernard spoke next, but it was so loud in the room that I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Joy and Burl laughed, so it must’ve been humorous. It was good seeing Joy fitting in.
Our drinks arrived, and Dude stood, raised his glass and said, “Toast. Boss preacher.”
Dude wore one of his many tie-dyed shirts, was in his mid-sixties and looked like the stereotype of an aging hippie, which he happened to be. He also had a way with words, a way to mangle them.
The rest of us raised our glasses to toast while Joy looked at the lifelong surfer like he was speaking Tigrinya. I told Joy that Dude owned the surf shop and had been on Folly many years. I failed to mention that despite his appearance, and extensive vocabulary that may exceed fifty words, that he was one of the island’s most successful businesspeople and well-respected by both its bohemian residents and city fathers.
Joe returned and took our orders, and Bernard leaned across the table and asked Joy how she enjoyed the service. I thought it was an awkward question with the preacher in hearing range.
“Bernard,” Joy said, “I thought it was inspiring.”
Dude leaned toward Joy. “Be good as other preachin’ you been to?”
I realized that Dude didn’t know anything about Joy and the reason she was staying at Hope House. I wanted to tell him what’d happened but didn’t want her story and whereabouts known outside a limited group of people.
Charles decided that Dude was someone we could trust, and said, “Dude, Joy has amnesia and can’t remember much about her past.”
Dude tapped Joy on the arm and said, “Cool. You be lucky, bad history gone.”
Joy’s eyes darted around the table, most likely, hoping someone would comment. No one did, and she said, “Thanks, Dude. I think. I wish it was a cool thing. All it makes me think is that I’m an outcast here.”
“Cool,” Dude said, repeating one of his favorite words.
I was pleased when Joy said, “Why?”
He pointed to each person at the table. “We all outcasts. You be in good company. Cool.”
I wouldn’t have put it like that, but the truth was that each of us were either outsiders to Folly, or in the cases of Charles and Dude who’d been here many years, were considered left of quirky, even by Folly standards.
Our commends appeared to put Joy at ease and she asked Lottie what’d brought her to Folly. Lottie hesitated before sharing her story, a story involving physical and emotional abuse, and homelessness. Bernard jumped in the conversation and talked about his experiences in Afghanistan, and how he’d been homeless.
Dude had never been homeless or abused, yet felt he needed to add something and said, “Me have Pluto.”
As farfetched as it may seem, Joy didn’t understand what he was talking about, and said, “You have a planet?”
Dude shook his head and pointed to the ceiling. “Pluto up there be dwarf planet, not planet.”
“Oh,” Joy said in response to Dude, as many others had said before her.
He pointed to his chest. “Australian Terrier be my Pluto.”
Joy grinned. “Oh, they’re so cute.”
I wondered how she knew that. Clearly, there was much I could learn about amnesia.
Food arrived, and Burl asked for a moment of silence while he offered a prayer. The noise was getting louder in the crowded restaurant and our table was the only island of silence. The comforting aroma of lunch permeated the area. Burl finished the prayer, and Joy looked at her plate and slowly turned back to Dude, and said, “Dude, what if I have a dog? If I do, who’s taking care of it?”
Dude swallowed his first bite of food, and said, “Me be flummoxed.”
Charles said, “I’m sure that if you have a dog, it’s being taken care of.”
I wondered why he was sure.
The conversation turned to what everyone was doing between now and Christmas and Burl shared stories about his younger days growing up on a cattle ranch in southern Illinois. Joy appeared to drift in and out of the conversation and I wondered how difficult it must be for her listening to stories about past Christmases.
Most of us were laughing at something Bernard had said when I noticed Joy staring at the bar along the side of the restaurant. I said, “Joy, what are you thinking?”
She shook her head like she was trying to move back to the present and nodded toward the bar. “Chris, that looks so familiar.”
“Like you’ve been in here before?”
She closed her eyes and said, “Maybe.”
10
It turned out to be a pleasant Sunday afternoon. Puffy white clouds dotted the blue sky, and the temperature hovered in the low-fifties. Instead of heading home, I turned on Center Street and started toward Barb’s Books, when I noticed Joy hurrying to catch up with me. I made a benign comment about how nice the weather was. She asked where I was going, and I told her the bookstore.
“Would you mind if I tag along? I haven’t seen Barb since, umm, you know.”
“Sure,” I said, not waiting for her to relive the traumatic event in the surf.
“Everyone at the house is so nice. Preacher Burl and Adrienne found me some clothes, and, well, they’re kind.” We walked a few more steps, and she added, “You know what they can’t do?”
“What?”
“Give me my memories. I need to get out and get some fresh air to clear my head, at least the little that’s in it.”
Two men wearing shorts were leaving the bookstore as we approached. They turned our direction, pivoted, and walked the other way.
Joy shivered and said, “Aren’t those guys freezing?”
“I’d be if I had on shorts,” I said, and held the door open for Joy.
Barb saw us and smiled. “Hey, Joyce, it’s great to see you. Who’s that old geezer with you?”
Joy laughed, louder than I thought necessary, and said, “Picked him up on the street. You know him?”
Barb said, “Seen him around. He’s not important, how are you?”
“Physically, I’m okay except for a couple of bruises. Can’t say the same about my memory.”
Barb nodded. “Nothing coming back?”
Joy shook her head.
“Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee, soft drink, water?”
“Coffee would be nice. I’m not as warm blooded as those guys in shorts.”
Barb led us to the tiny office behind the showroom. “Oh, did you meet Troy and Nate?”
“No,” I said. “They went the other direction.”
Barb said, “They’re from Canada, Ottawa, I believe. They think it’s hot here.”
The names sounded familiar. “Are they your next-door renters?”
“Good memory, Chris.” Barb turned to Joy. “Joyce, they’re staying next to me in my condo building. They’re here for a month.”
Joy returned the smile and said, “Preacher Burl started calling me Joy instead of Joyce. I sort of like it.”
“Then Joy it is.”
Joy’s smile faded. “Those guys are here for a month. I wonder how long I’ll be here?”
Barb inserted a K-cup pod in her Keurig coffeemaker and turned to Joy. “It’ll work out.”
Joy tu
rned from looking at the coffeemaker to staring at Barb. “What makes you so certain?”
“From what I’ve heard, you’re surrounded by good people at Hope House, and this is a loving community. It may not be quick, but your memory will start returning and everyone will help you with whatever is needed.”
“I hope so.”
I told Barb who we had lunch with.
She turned to Joy and said Dude was her half brother.
Joy stared at her and said, “You’re kidding.”
Barb laughed and gave Joy an abridged version of their relationship.
All Joy said was, “Hmm, half brother. Guess that’s why he only got half of your vocabulary.”
Barb laughed again and said, “Joy, Chris may not have told you, I practiced law for many years before opening the bookstore. I even had a client with the same kind of amnesia you have. I’ve avoided doing legal work since opening the store, but I’ll be glad to help you in any legal entanglements you may encounter.”
Barb handed Joy a mug of coffee and inserted another pod in the Keurig.
Joy took a sip, and said, “Barb, I don’t have any money. I can’t—”
“Joy, we’ll deal with that when the time comes. Heck, you may be a billionaire and will want to pay me more than I’m worth.”
“Or, I could be broke.”
Barb smiled. “Then we’ll deal with it later.”
My phone rang, I answered and instead of Charles saying anything normal like hi or hello, he screamed, “Where are you?”
I told him.
“We’ve gotta go. I’ll be out front in five minutes.”
“Where?”
The word was wasted. He’d hung up.
I returned the phone to my pocket and Barb said, “What?”
“It was Charles.”
“I know that. I heard him yelling.”
“He wants me to meet him out front.”
Barb shook her head. “Then go?”
“Joy, Charles wants me to go somewhere with him.”
Barb answered for her. “Go. Joy and I have some catching up to do. I want to tell her more about Dude and the geezer she came in with. We’ll be fine.”
I opened the door and Charles’s Toyota Venza was already in front of the store and blocking the driving lane. Two cars behind him were patiently waiting for him to move. A third vehicle wasn’t as patient and tapped the horn twice. I slid in the passenger seat before road rage commenced, and Charles turned right at the next intersection.
“Would it be too much to ask where we’re going and why the hurry?”
* * *
“Nope,” he said and kept his eye on the narrow road.
Two blocks later, my question about our destination was answered. Charles pulled in Dude’s front yard and parked beside his rusting, green Chevrolet El Camino. The front of the pre-Hugo, elevated, wood-frame house had old-fashioned, multi-colored Christmas lights strung around the front door, up the corners of the house and across the roofline. Straggly shrubs on each side of the steps were covered with more of the near-antique lights.
Before getting out, Charles smacked the steering wheel and said, “Pluto’s vamoosed.”
Dude must’ve seen us arrive. He scampered out the front door, down the steps, and was standing at the driver’s window motioning for Charles to get out.
“He be gone!” Dude shouted as we exited the car.
Charles put his arm around the distressed, aging hippie. “Let’s go in and you can tell us about it.”
“What’s to tell. He be gone!”
Charles nudged Dude up the steps, and I followed.
This was the second time I’d been in Dude’s abode, so I’d gotten over the surprise of seeing wall-to-wall, bright-green shag carpet and the three colorful beanbag chairs arranged in a triangle. Charles helped lower Dude into the green one. Dude slumped down and stared at a lower half of what appeared to be a rubber Santa Claus the size of a large dog bone on the floor beside the red chair.
“Dude, I know Pluto’s gone,” I said. “What happened.”
Dude turned to the back door and said, “Me be at Logger’s. Church lunch.”
Charles said, “We were with you, remember?”
I wanted to say, “Charles, shut up, and let him finish.” Instead, I said. “Let Dude tell us what happened.”
“Me skip home from Logger’s. See back door cracked open. Pluto gone … gone.”
Charles said, “Do you think someone broke in and took him?”
“You be detective. That’s why I call you.”
With an effort I wouldn’t have needed twenty years ago, I pushed out of the beanbag chair, and walked to the back door. The lock didn’t appear tampered with and there was no evidence of a break in. I looked at Charles and shook my head.
He nodded, and said, “Dude, did you go out the back door when you left for church?”
“Exit front. Ride be parked in front.” He rubbed his unshaven face. “Woe, today backwards. Took trash out back, then boogied to church.”
“Is it possible that the door didn’t close all the way when you left?”
He again rubbed his face. “Possible, affirmative. Likely, not.” He shrugged.
“Has Pluto gotten out before?”
Dude stood and started pacing the living room floor. “Never.”
I said, “Don’t you think he’ll come home when he gets hungry?”
“What me think, don’t mean what he do. Australian Terriers be bred to boogie after rodents and snakes. Me never be lettin’ him out without leash. Never,” Dude said and went through the kitchen, grabbed his jacket off a chair, and exited to the large patio.
Charles and I followed and watched Dude as he stared at the back yard. He turned to Charles and said, “Woe, plum forgot. You be detective. Here be clue.” He picked up a red rhinestone-studded collar that usually adorned Pluto’s neck and handed it to Charles. “Stuck to branch behind hacienda.”
The collar was fastened. I said, “Dude, was it loose on his neck?”
“Loose enough that he could have snagged it on a branch and pulled it off?” Charles added.
“Could be. Me no want to hurt cute little neck. Kept it loose.”
Charles ran his hands around the collar, and said, “So, Pluto could have escaped if the door wasn’t closed tight enough, got his collar caught on the branch, and ran away.”
Dude stared at Charles. “You be detective. You tell me.”
Dude then said he was going to drive around and look for the missing member of his family. Charles and I said we’d do the same. I wasn’t nearly as worried about Pluto. I figured when he got hungry, he’d find his way back.
An hour later, we’d driven every road on Folly, had seen several dogs walked by their masters, and stopped to ask each person if he or she had seen Pluto. All, to no avail. My optimism faded.
Charles dropped me at the house and said he was going to ride around longer. I didn’t think his luck would change. I called Barb to see how her time with Joy went. She had three customers and said she’d call later. I settled in the recliner in my living room and alternated between rehashing the busy day and snoozing. Snoozing ruled.
11
It wasn’t yet six-thirty and the sun had faded behind the marsh. Early sunsets were my least-favorite features of December. I sighed as it departed and realized that I hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch at Loggerhead’s. I also realized that my cupboard was bare, its normal condition, and I didn’t want to eat another meal today at a restaurant. I walked next door to Bert’s Market, Folly’s iconic, eclectic grocery that prides itself on never closing and was the island’s go-to place for everything from beer to Band-Aids. Included in that mix was a deli where I ordered a five-cheese panini and was killing time waiting for the sandwich when Chief Cindy LaMond moved behind me and said, “You’re not ordering something healthy, are you?”
I smiled and said, “I plead the fifth.”
“That answers my question
,” she said, and looked around to see if anyone was close enough to hear us. No one was, and she continued, “I’m glad I ran into you. I was going to call after I got home, and despite being pooped from an exhausting day at work, I’m going to fix a fine five-course gourmet meal for hubby.”
“Picking up a pizza from Woody’s?” I said.
Woody’s pizza was an institution on Folly and had been feeding visitors and locals for years.
Cindy smiled.
“You were going to call me?” I said to move her past the dinner menu.
“Two reasons. Our search for anything, I mean anything, about Joyce Doe, or Jane Joyce, has come up with a big, fat zero. If I hadn’t seen her in person, I’d swear she doesn’t exist. Her prints aren’t on file anywhere. Unless she lost 127 pounds in the last week and changed her skin color, she’s not the 215-pound mother of three who’s been reported missing in Moncks Corner. The TV stations ran her photo and we’ve received zero calls from anyone who has an inkling of who she is.”
“Cindy, a few of us had lunch at Loggerhead’s after church this morning. Joy came with Burl.”
“Good,” Cindy interrupted. “Burl will be a good influence. Better than some people I know.”
I let her comment go. “While we were there, she stopped paying attention to what was being said and looked at the bar. I asked her what was on her mind and she said that it looked familiar.”
“Familiar like she’d been there?”
“That’s what I asked. She said maybe.”
“Or it could be that any bar may look familiar, and it had nothing to do with Loggerhead’s.”
“Yes,” I said.
“So, it doesn’t tell us more than she’s seen a bar.”
“I agree. From what you said about not finding anything about a missing person fitting her description, or anyone calling about her photo on television, do you think she’s from outside the area?”
