Missing

by Bill Noel

  Heather said that she had an appointment with a client in a half hour, figured we would be in the gallery, and wanted to say hi. The gallery was between Millie’s and her small apartment in Mariner’s Breeze, a run-down former bed-and-breakfast that had been converted to a dilapidated boarding house.

  She eyed the refrigerator, so I asked if she wanted something to drink. Another thing that Heather and Charles had in common was a lack of motorized transportation. August was a brutal time to do much walking in the Low Country. She quickly said, “Something cold would be nice.”

  I told her to grab whatever she wanted. She picked a Diet Pepsi and joined us at the table. “Hear you’re on missing person patrol,” she said and then took a large sip—more accurately, a gulp.

  “Where’d you hear that?” I asked.

  Charles leaned forward and tapped the table. “She’s psychic.”

  Heather took another sip. “Not this time, Chucky,” she said. “Remember, I work in a beauty salon. Everybody there knows everything about everyone.” She nodded. “Don’t need no psychic talents to hear stuff.”

  I thought I’d try one more time before simply assuming that everyone on Folly knew about my alleged quest. “So who told you?”

  “Let me think.” She put her forefinger under her chin and closed her eyes. “I think it was Helen, who said she heard it from her mother Mable; I think Mable heard it from Roxanne, who heard it at the meat counter at the Pig.” She paused and looked at Charles and then back at me. “Or maybe Roxanne heard it from somebody else who heard it at the Pig.”

  “Never mind,” I said. By now it didn’t matter.

  Charles picked his cane off the floor and pointed it at me. “If you ask me—and I know you will, eventually—you’re heading on a wild flounder chase. Let me tell you, when I was Samuel’s age I was at my peak imagining things. I knew that Martians had invaded the next street over from my house. I knew I saw two of the little green men out behind the neighbor’s garage.”

  “What were they doing?” asked Heather.

  Charles had her attention, but I was still stuck on his statement that his imagination had peaked when he was a teen. I would have sworn that it was since we had met.

  “They weren’t really there, Heather. That’s my point. Fifteen-year-olds have a passel more fantasies than facts.”

  “Now, Chucky,” she said.

  I grinned. Heather was the only person who could get away with calling him Chucky. He insisted on being called Charles and even got riled when someone said Chuck or Charlie.

  “I think young Samuel saw a couple of college kids horsing around, nothing bad at all. It was dark and he’s fifteen,” said a confident Charles. “There you have it.”

  Heather finished her drink and carried the can to the trash can in the corner. “Now, Chucky,” she said again, “I don’t often disagree with you. You’re usually right even when you say some really stupid things.” She shook her head. “This time, I’m betting on some pretty strong psychic vibes. Yes, I am. They’re saying that this time you may be on the wrong side of right.”

  I leaned back in the chair, glanced over at Charles and then back at Heather, grinned, and repeated to myself what Heather had said about Charles being on the wrong side of right. That would make a great line in a song, if only she could sing.

  And then I wondered what side of right I was on.

  CHAPTER 11

  CHARLES INSISTED THAT WE ARRIVE AT THE Greyhound station an hour before the cryptic note said Aunt Melinda was to arrive. He was afraid we wouldn’t find her in the crowd. I pulled off I-26 and saw the station on the far side of a beige, six-story Clarion Inn. I grinned and knew that this would be one time Charles was wrong.

  The station was tiny and looked more like a deserted service station than the destination for bus-bound travelers to Charleston. There were three vehicles in the lot, the largest being a Honda Pilot. If we couldn’t find a little old relative of Charles when the bus arrived, I had serious doubts that we could find our way back to the beach. We waited in the car for the bus from Asheville.

  I asked Charles why he hadn’t mentioned picking up his aunt the day before when we were with Heather. He hemmed and hawed before saying that he wanted to see what he was dealing with before telling Heather. I asked what he meant, and for one of the few times since I’d known Charles, he said that he was uncomfortable, unsure what he could say to Aunt Melinda or what she would say to him. He was visibly ill at ease.

  “The last time I saw her she’d burned through three husbands,” said Charles as he stared at the tired-looking bus station. “She divorced two of them, and the third, God rest his soul, died after putting up with her for a dozen years.”

  “Any idea why she’s coming?”

  “Not really. She didn’t give many clues in her note.”

  The roar of a diesel engine startled me, and I looked in the rearview mirror. It was still fifteen minutes before the scheduled arrival of Melinda’s bus, but noticing the near-total lack of activity in the parking lot, I told Charles that it was probably a safe bet to assume the large vehicle with the dog logo on the side held the woman we were waiting for.

  “See how important it was that we get here early?” said Charles. He wasn’t about to concede that we didn’t need to arrive an hour ahead of time.

  “Sure do,” I said and smiled. “Don’t see how we could ever have found her if we weren’t already here.”

  The bus pulled close to the building. A whoosh of airbrakes and a whiff of diesel fuel announced its arrival. The door opened, and Charles and I slowly walked toward the exiting passengers. The first person off the bus was a tall, stocky, African American gentleman wearing what I called a ten-gallon hat when I was growing up. He looked around and then shook his head. He mouthed something and was clearly displeased about the reception he had not received.

  “Not her,” said Charles as if I would’ve thought it was.

  Ten-gallon man was followed by two kids who appeared to be twins; they were followed by their mother, who had a travelling bag over one arm and a green-and-red striped beach bag over the other.

  “Not her either?” I said.

  “Well, of course not,” he said. “Do I have to tell you everything?”

  There was a long pause, and I was afraid Aunt Melinda had either missed the bus or had played a prank on Charles.

  Charles was taking a step toward the Greyhound when I heard a loud, screeching voice from inside the vehicle. “There he is? There’s my nephew?” The voice lowered, but I heard her say, “He’s a lot older than I remember, Clarence.”

  I couldn’t catch the response, but it definitely came from the driver—Clarence, I surmised.

  Charles’s mouth forced a wide grin as he put his foot on the first step of the bus and extended his left hand. I stood out of the way but was anxious to see the reunion.

  “Get me in some gall-darned air-conditioning,” said the chipper, extremely thin, stooped-shouldered lady. Her hair’s jet black color either came from a bottle or was a wig. She was about five foot one but had been considerably taller in her heyday. She wore a faded blue blouse and black slacks that were two sizes too large. From the side she looked like a question mark without the dot at the bottom.

  Charles took his aunt by the elbow and escorted her toward my SUV. He stopped when he got to me and made the introductions.

  “How in heck did you find the enthusiasm to become friends with my good-for-nothing nephew? You a career bum?” she said with a straight face and then burst into laughter. Her sharp features softened, and I noticed her mischievous green eyes. She moved slowly, but I could tell that she was anything but slow mentally. She was bumping up against eighty and still attractive; she had been a stunner in her day.

  “An unusual convergence of events,” I said. I then explained that Charles had adopted me and showed me the ropes,
the characters, and the character of Folly Beach. Charles added that he felt sorry for me, being that I was new to “his” island and wasn’t nearly as sophisticated with the ways of the Low Country as her nephew. That got another laugh out of her before she told Charles to get his lazy posterior to the luggage compartment of the bus and grab her “worldly possessions.”

  Melinda had made a fan out of a week-old Wall Street Journal she said she stole from a homeless man at the last stop. She said it without expression, but I assumed—hoped—that she was teasing. I also hoped she was teasing when she said all her worldly possessions were on the bus. Charles returned to the SUV with a bright orange carry-on suitcase and a frown.

  “Is this it, Aunt M.?” he asked as he hefted the case into the hatch of my SUV.

  She squinted in his direction and then smiled. “The luggage cops said I couldn’t bring my apartment building.” She shook her head, frowned, and then broke into another knee-slapping laugh.

  She then looked around the interior. “I hope this thing rides better than that danged bus,” she said. “Shocks were so bad it nearly rattled my false teeth out every time it ran over a shadow.”

  I told her we could do better than that. Melinda and Charles proved that what scientists say about genetics is true. They definitely came from the same gene pool.

  “What brings you to this part of the country?” asked Charles, more subtle than usual.

  “Charles,” she said and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. “God gave you many talents, but when he got to P in the alphabet, he plum skipped over patience.” She turned and waved bye to the Greyhound bus and then back to her nephew. “Why, you’re my only living relative and it’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen you. Why shouldn’t I come a-callin’?”

  “Now, Aunt M., a few weeks?” said Charles. He had turned in the seat and was facing the visitor. “If my memory’s close to right, it’s been fifteen years since I heard from you. At fifty-two weeks a year, that’s about … about fifty-two times fifteen … about … well, about a whole bunch more than a few weeks.”

  She reached to the front seat and patted Charles on the top of his thinning hair. “You always were a stickler for detail.” She grinned. “Remember how I always told you not to learn so much, how it’d clutter up your brain so it couldn’t think about good stuff?”

  Charles took her hand from his head and squeezed it. “I do remember. You also taught me that work was something to be avoided at all cost. And that a good cuss word communicated more than any dozen words that were in a first-grade schoolbook.”

  “Ah, the good old days,” said Melinda. She pulled her hand out of Charles’s, patted him on the head again, and then sat back in the seat and adjusted her shoulder harness. “Charles, even when you were a small kid, you were my favorite relative. Now you’re my only relative—well, the only living one.” She looked out the window as we pulled on the ramp to I-26 heading toward Charleston and Folly Beach. “I’m not counting hubby number quarto. Think he’s still alive—shouldn’t be, that old buzzard.”

  Charles had told me that he’d known about three husbands, so there must have been at least one more since he’d escaped Detroit. He asked her what had happened with the fourth husband, and she reminded him about her advice not to clutter his brain and that her fourth—“and last, God is my witness”—husband wasn’t worth a single brain cell so she wouldn’t mention him again. Charles said something like, “guess it wasn’t an amicable parting,” and Melinda pounded her fist on Charles’s head. I was glad I hadn’t commented on her latest spouse.

  Charles then asked Melinda how long she planned to stay.

  That’s when things got interesting.

  CHAPTER 12

  OH,” SHE SAID AFTER CHARLES ASKED HER HOW LONG she was staying. “Maybe a few weeks, months. Could be a year. Depends?”

  “On what?” said Charles.

  “When I kick the proverbial bucket,” said Melinda as casually as if she was telling us how she enjoyed the bus ride.

  I gripped the steering wheel more tightly and glanced over at Charles. He took the highly unusual approach of not saying anything. But his head swiveled toward the backseat. He smiled, but it was strained. “So, you’re moving here?” he said. “Umm, that’s great.”

  She laughed. “You sound excited. Wondered how you’d take the news. Your reaction was so Charles-like.”

  “No,” said Charles. “I am excited. You surprised me.”

  I was still confused about “few weeks, months. Could be a year.” Fortunately, Charles never feared to tread where no man dared to go. “So, what’s that about a few weeks then?”

  “Didn’t want to spring it on you so soon, seeing that we haven’t laid eyes on each other in decades. But you did ask.” She reached out and put her arm on his shoulder. “It appears that I already have a big toe on the wormy side of the sod.”

  “Huh?” said Charles. He spoke for both of us.

  “Seems that I have a terminal case of the big C. The docs don’t think I’ll be seeing the Easter bunny hopping around in the spring.”

  Charles’s right foot nervously tapped the floorboard, and he reached around with his right hand and placed it on Melinda’s. I stared at the car in front of me and tried to focus on driving. Traffic was heavy, and I was nearing the exit that would lead us across Charleston to the road to Folly.

  “Are you sure?” asked Charles.

  “Heavens to Betsy,” she said and giggled. “I’m not sure of anything. I didn’t spend all those years in doctoring school. But my oncologist did, and he seemed serious, dead serious.”

  “Can’t they do anything?” I asked. I felt awkward, but she had started the conversation.

  “They say no. I’ve had some chemo, but they kept talking in circles about what good it would do. Other than throwing my hair out of my head and zapping my energy, it did zip.” She hesitated and then continued. “I told them whoa, stop the presses. Keep their chemicals. I was going to take my lovely black wig and my lovely orange suitcase and go to visit my favorite nephew.” She snapped her finger. “Oh yeah, and then die.”

  Charles had never been big on talking about family. He didn’t have siblings and was raised by his grandmother, but that was about it. He was devastated, but he wouldn’t let it show.

  Since neither Charles nor I said anything, Melinda continued the conversation. “Charles, now we’ve got all that depressing stuff out of the way, is your mansion large enough to hold an old, dying woman from Michigan?”

  Compared to Charles’s residence, a Volkswagen camper would be a mansion. His one-bedroom apartment was tiny by any standard. After he added the floor-to-ceiling wooden bookshelves on three of the walls in the living room, all four walls in the bedroom, two walls in the kitchen, and one wall in the bathroom, the feel of a small cave prevailed. He once told me, jokingly, I think, that it was so small that two mice moved out because “they didn’t have enough room and couldn’t read worth a lick.”

  “Aunt M.,” he said as he turned to face her, “my apartment is under renovation, so I was thinking of getting you a room at the Tides until we can figure out somewhere for you to stay. It’s a big hotel on the beach.” He nodded in her direction. “I wasn’t sure how long you’d be staying, so I didn’t make arrangements.”

  “Umm,” said Melinda, “I forgot my credit card. Think you’d be able to check me in?”

  Up until Charles and I had shared an unexpected inheritance from an acquaintance a year or so ago, he would have been able to afford a room at the Tides like I could afford to buy a hundred-foot yacht and stuff it with caviar. Fortunately, Aunt Melinda would not have to sleep on the beach.

  Charles turned toward me. I kept my eyes on the road but gave a slight nod. He turned toward the backseat. “Sure,” he said. “No problem.”

  Charles finally had enough money to carry him through the rest of hi
s life considering his thrifty lifestyle. Despite that, he didn’t have any credit cards.

  “Glad that’s out of the way,” she said and looked out the window at the eclectic variety of shops and stores along Folly Road. We were still about two miles from the island and home. “Think the bus ride wore me out. Could we head to that hotel place so I can get a nap before you take me to supper?”

  * * *

  I pulled in the parking lot of the Tides, slipped Charles my credit card, and waited in the car while he checked Melinda in.

  Charles returned to the SUV and slammed the door when he got in. He handed me back the credit card and said, “Damn!”

  “You okay?” I asked and pulled out of the lot and up Center Street.

  He ignored my question. “What are we going to do? My God, Chris, she’s dying.” He stared at me with a sad-puppy look.

  “We play it by ear. She’ll tell us more when she’s ready. Until then, you’ll need to be the kind, caring person that I know you are.” I shrugged. “Only time will tell.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess.” He grinned. “Know what she asked?”

  Of course I didn’t, so I simply shook my head and pulled in the gravel and shell parking lot of Charles’s building.

  “When’s happy hour?” He opened the door to get out. “Yep, that’s all she asked.”

  CHAPTER 13

  IT WAS NEARLY FOUR O’CLOCK BY THE TIME I LEFT Charles and pulled in my yard. A nap sounded good, but I saw a folded piece of lined tablet paper taped to my screen door. I looked around and didn’t see anyone. Carefully, I pulled the paper off the doorframe. The copy was sloppy but I think it said: “Mr. Landrum … Mr. Landrum. Call me, please hurry. This is my cell phone number.” A number was scrawled at the bottom, and the note was signed, “Samuel.” I wiped the sweat off my forehead, looked around one more time, and went inside.