M.I.A.

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “Where is it?”

  “Far end of the yard.”

  “You shut it off!”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bitch!”

  I just raised my eyebrows.

  He turned and stalked off, shaking his head, muttering, “It’ll never start.”

  I looked at Frank, who was laughing.

  He hadn’t laughed the first time I reparked someone’s truck. One of his senior drivers once had the bad habit of leaving his truck wherever he liked. I’d just been working for the company a month, but I was fed up with the delays he caused everyone. The day I caught him leaving it in the drive and asked him to move it, he just waved at me—annoyed—and kept on going. It made me mad, so mad I climbed in the cab and managed to get the truck in gear. I pulled it out the front gate and across the highway, and left it nosed into a farm field access drive. We’d had a very wet spring, so the driver wasn’t able to turn around in the field. He was forced to wait a long time for a break in traffic before he could back out. When he stormed in demanding that Frank fire me, Frank told him it would be a lot easier to replace him. “An’ don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”

  Now, I grinned at Frank and said, “Good morning.”

  “Mornin’, Rhiann.”

  Frank was preoccupied with something all morning. After lunch he got out a yellow legal pad and started composing a letter. Frank hated writing anything. Unless it was a personal letter, he’d tell me the gist and have me write it. Since he didn’t ask me to write this letter, I decided to leave him alone.

  He went through five or six drafts, tearing each up and pitching it into the wastebasket in frustration. In between tries, he’d stare into space; once I caught him staring at me.

  Just before quitting time, he came over to my desk and stood over me. “Rhiann…ah…er…”

  “Spit it out, Frank.”

  He took a deep breath and blurted, “Are you all right?”

  I must have looked as surprised as I felt because he added, “I mean, you got enough to get by on and all?”

  I was touched. “Yes, Frank. Mickey had insurance.”

  He seemed relieved. “You ever need anything, just ask.”

  I said, “Thank you.”

  He nodded again and stalked toward the door. “I’m goin’ home.”

  “Good night, Frank.”

  I wouldn’t have pried into his personal business, if he hadn’t missed the wastebasket with one of his failed drafts. I picked it up and couldn’t resist flattening out the pieces and fitting the puzzle together.

  The letter read:

  Dear Rhiann,

  I know I could never replace Mickey in your life, but I also know being left behind is lonely. If you ever get to the point when you’re ready to let another man in your life, I’d like to be the first in line to apply. I’m old but I love you. You know I could take care of you and leave you well off.

  I realized I was crying when my tears splashed on the paper. I swept the pieces up, crumpled them together, and threw them away. Then I put my head down on the desk and cried until I had no more tears.

  Later, I emptied the office wastepaper baskets into the dumpster so no one else would stumble onto Frank’s letters.

  John

  I first met Jimmy Fahey the day his ten-year-old Chevy Celebrity died in front of my drive. I watched from the porch as he tried to restart it, then struck the steering wheel in frustration. He got out and put the hood up, but didn’t seem to recognize the problem. At that point, I decided to intervene.

  “Need a hand?”

  He stiffened and came out from under the hood with a startled expression. He was tall enough to look me in the eye, and did.

  “I’m John Devlin,” I said. “Your new neighbor.”

  “Jimmy Fahey.” He stuck out his hand; I shook it. You can tell a lot about a man’s character by watching how his kids behave. I never met Mickey Fahey, but the fact that his son looked me in the eye and shook my hand told me a lot about the man. “Sorry about blocking your driveway,” Jimmy said.

  I shrugged. “What seems to be the problem?”

  He shook his head. “It just died.”

  “Mind if I have a look?”

  “No. Go ahead.”

  The Chevy was clean on the outside, but under the hood it looked as if it had never been serviced. “You got gas in it?”

  “Yeah. I put five bucks in yesterday.”

  The car had sounded to me as if it had a fuel problem. It wasn’t out of gas, so maybe the filter was clogged or a fuel line blocked or the carburetor gummed up.

  “Let me get a couple tools—”

  “I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

  I didn’t point out that having his car stalled in front of my drive was more of a nuisance than helping get it started.

  “No trouble.”

  The fuel filter seemed to be original equipment, and it was amazing anything had gotten through it in years. “When was the last time this thing had a tune-up?”

  “I dunno. My dad got it for me for my birthday. He showed me how to change the oil and filter, but he…We never—He died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He just shrugged.

  I could see he was fighting back tears. I changed the subject. “You could probably get it started without a fuel filter, but it won’t run for long.” I pulled the Jeep key out of my pocket and held it out to him. “Why don’t you run down to the auto parts store and get one. And get an air filter while you’re at it.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “Sure you can. Just drive over the grass. You won’t hurt it.”

  “I mean, I don’t have any cash.”

  “I have an account there. Tell Jake to charge it to Black’s. We can settle up later.”

  He thought about it for a good ten seconds. “Thanks, Mr. Devlin.”

  “Call me John.”

  The fuel filter did the trick, although the Chevy kept missing on at least two cylinders. I gave Jimmy my card: “BLACK’S AUTOMOTIVE, John Devlin, Prop.”

  “Why don’t you come over some day after school and we can tune it up. With new plugs and points and a set of wires it should run like new.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Devlin. John. How would I pay you?”

  “Well, you said you can change oil. You could work it off.”

  I thought he was going to refuse again, but he was a normal kid. And kids that age can’t resist the chance to tinker with cars.

  “Thanks, John. That would be cool.”

  Rhiann

  Late May—spring green and cloudless sky, not too hot. Perfect gardening weather. I was slathered in suntan lotion, incognito behind dark sunglasses. Saturday morning, I was weeding in the front beds and along the walk.

  I’d been sitting on my feet and they were killing me. I paused to stretch. I looked up. Overhead a hawk soared, and I followed its solo flight until I lost it against the sun. Was it lonely? Had its mate fallen to an idiot hunter or an electric wire? How did it go on alone? Oh, God, I miss Mickey!

  Tears seeped from beneath my lids.

  It was always like this. I’d be okay for a week or two. Then something’d bring Mickey to mind and I’d dissolve. Would I ever get through a month without tears?

  A shadow fell across the walk. I looked up into the sympathetic eyes of John Devlin. “Sorry to disturb you.”

  He could hardly time his visits to the lulls between my scattered bouts of grief.

  “You’re not disturbing me.” I took off my glasses and wiped my eyes on my sleeve. “My husband died in March. I haven’t quite recovered.”

  “I’d think that would be something from which you’d never quite recover.”

  I nodded. “He was a state police officer.”

  “The one killed in the traffic accident?”

  Nodding, I bit my lip and swallowed back my tears.

  “I’m sorry.”

  How many times had I heard that in t
he last few months? But he seemed sincere enough.

  “Actually, I’m getting better. I used to cry all the time.”

  He held up a book, Chilton’s Manual for Chevrolet Celebrity. “Your son wanted to borrow this.”

  He looked around at the flower beds. “How did you come by your green thumb?”

  “Mickey—my husband—gave me a Peace rose for Mother’s Day, when Jimmy was three. He said he was too cheap to buy flowers that would only last a week or two when for half as much he could give me flowers for a lifetime.” I smiled, remembering. “Of course I didn’t know the first thing about growing roses, so he bought me a book. By the time I finished reading it, I was hooked.”

  “Did you landscape this yourself?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “It’s terrific.”

  “Well, after fifteen years or so you learn to put the tall plants in the back and to save work by planting perennials.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  “It is, sort of. You plant everything that looks good to you, and whatever survives the season is what you get.”

  “I’ll have to try that.”

  “I have a book you can borrow…”

  Jimmy

  Ma’s always let me have a day off when I need it. Outside school, perfect attendance doesn’t count for much—maybe a gold watch when you retire and don’t need a watch anymore. Even though I’d already ditched five days since the funeral, she didn’t give me a hard time when I asked her to let me stay home again, just asked was I cutting any tests or quizzes.

  “Nah.”

  “Okay, but if you’re staying home, you’re staying home.”

  I offered her my keys.

  She looked at them for half a minute, then said, “Just give me your word.”

  After she left for work, I got myself a Coke and went up in the attic.

  The attic was where we kept a lotta shit. Lucky for me, Ma was pretty organized. Everything was in boxes marked on the outside with what was inside. Like “camping stuff” and “Christmas stuff” and “Jimmy’s old toys.” Things we never used were behind the shit we used once in a while, so I had to move a lot of boxes to find any that might hold Ma’s old letters or diaries. I found a box marked “Billy’s things” and dragged it under the light. There wasn’t much in it—a folded flag, a Swiss army knife, an old manila envelope, a chain with dog tags with the name WILLIAM WILDING, B+, and a number that must’ve been his army ID number. There was a framed picture of Ma and Billy, taken in a city. They looked happy. He was all cool in his army uniform; she was in a dress. Where they were was warm but windy. Ma was wearing a hat and gloves, holding her hat on with one hand and a bunch of flowers with the other. Her skirt was flapping up, showing her legs. That had to be their wedding picture.

  Another, smaller picture in the box was Ma between Billy and a guy I didn’t recognize. It must’ve been taken the same day as their wedding, ’cause Ma and Billy were wearing the same clothes.

  The manila envelope was full of pictures of people I didn’t recognize, including the mystery guy from the wedding, plus older people, a few kids, and a black and white dog. I put them all back in the envelope and put everything but the knife back in the box. Billy was my birth dad so I guess that gave me as much right to his knife as anyone.

  I hit the jackpot with the box marked “Rhiann’s stuff.” Beside the big bundle of letters addressed to Rhiann Reilly and Mrs. Billy Wilding, there were yearbooks and pictures and school stuff—programs, posters, excetera.

  Billy’s letters were mostly bullshit, him telling Ma about the army—basic training was like the summer camp from Hell, AIT (whatever that is) was more interesting but it seemed like “the NCOs” were trying to scare them all into going AWOL. One of the letters said, “Dear Rhi, If you see Smoke, tell him that book he gave me was as advertised. I’m passing it around to the other guys in my platoon.” Another letter, in a envelope postmarked May 18, 1969, said, “Dear Rhi, I may be home before you get this. My CO gave me a three-day pass to come to Mrs. Johnson’s funeral. I told him she was my aunt. That’s not too far from the truth since her son and me are blood brothers. Give Steve and Smoke a hug for me. Love, Billy.”

  I didn’t read all the other letters—later for that. Ma would be home from work soon and I didn’t want to get caught snooping. I bundled them back up and dug deeper into the box.

  I found a marriage certificate for William Wilding and Rhiann Reilly. It was dated September 10, 1969. I was born on February 7, 1970. I’m no wiz at biology, but I know it takes more than five months to make a baby. So, I must’ve got my start when my dad came home for Mrs. Johnson’s funeral.

  John

  Jimmy Fahey may only have known how to change oil, but the kid knew how to do it well. After letting him service my Jeep, I watched while he changed the oil in a customer’s car. He worked slowly but methodically, apologizing profusely for not being faster. “Good is better than fast,” I told him, echoing my old boss. He’d pick up speed as the job became autonomic and he got bored paying one-hundred-percent attention.

  I finished the carburetor I’d been rebuilding and reinstalled it. Jimmy watched me adjust and test it, then check everything else under the hood. He went along on the test drive, asking pretty intelligent questions: Did I test-drive everything? How could I tell if something was wrong? What would I do if it broke down during the test?

  “Do you always ask so many questions?”

  “My dad says—said—it’s the quickest way to find things out.”

  “Smart man, your dad.” The kid had nice manners, too, although I didn’t point that out. “What time do you have to be home for dinner?”

  “We usually eat around six-thirty.”

  “So we have time to tune that monster up.” I pointed at his car, parked just outside the service door.

  His eyes widened. “Don’t we need parts?”

  I indicated an auto parts box on the tool bench. “In the box.”

  He looked suspicious. “This is gonna cost me?”

  “At least four more oil changes.”

  “Deal.”

  “Pull her in here, then. Let’s get started.”

  With new wires, plugs, and points, a carburetor adjustment, and a small change in the timing, the kid’s old Chevy ran like new. He seemed as happy as a five-year-old at Christmas. And we were done by six.

  “When do you want me to do those oil changes?” he asked.

  “You busy Saturday?”

  “No. Can I bring my friend Finn?”

  “If you promise you won’t horse around.”

  “Swear to God.”

  Saturday, he showed up alone—his friend apparently had another engagement.

  Jimmy changed the oil in three customers’ cars, swept the shop, sorted the scrap metal from the reusable parts, took out the trash, and made a McDonald’s run.

  At the end of the day, I offered him a part-time job.

  Jimmy

  I was a couple blocks from home, coming from my new job, when red lights flashing in my rearview almost gave me a heart attack. I knew better than to hit the brakes—might as well sign a confession. I took my foot off the gas and put on my turn signal.

  I pulled over and put the car in park. I watched in my side mirror as the sheriff’s police cruiser stopped behind me. The deputy took his time getting out—must be checking my license plate with his dispatcher. He was as tall as my dad, but his gut hung out over his duty belt. He had on those mirror sunglasses the state troopers wear to look cool. They made this guy look sneaky. He was all red from too much sun and, as he walked up to the car, he was chewing gum with his mouth open. It made me think of a steer chewing its cud. The deputy spit his gum on the road and stood by my door with his fist on his gun and a thumb hooked under his belt.

  Dumb. I’d seen Dad make traffic stops. He always kept his hands in front of him, in case he needed to move them in a hurry.

  I rolled down the window and put my hands o
n the steering wheel.

  The deputy looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He said, “You know why I pulled you over?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How fast were you goin’?”

  “To be honest, I wasn’t paying attention.” A lie—I’d been twenty-five over, but I wasn’t gonna tell him that.

  “Ah-huhn.”

  Dad taught me to think of how a cop would see things: “You don’t want anything you do to be misunderstood—might get you shot.”

  I kept my hands on the wheel till the cop said, “See your license?”

  “It’s in my wallet. In my back pocket.”

  “Get it out.”

  I did and handed it to him.

  He looked at it. “You’re Mickey Fahey’s kid.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sorry about your dad. He was my best friend.”

  Not! I thought, but I didn’t say so.

  “I’m Rory Sinter, by the way.” He held out his hand.

  What could I do? I shook it.

  He said, “How’s your ma holdin’ up?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Hasn’t been anybody hangin’ around, botherin’ her, has there?”

  “No. Why would they? I mean, why’d anyone bother her?”

  “’Cause she’s a good-lookin’ woman with no man to take care of her.”

  Dad always said be polite if you’re pulled over. If it’s a bogus stop, you can get a lawyer and fight it later. I had to fight myself to keep from saying, “Bullshit!” What I did say was, “She can take care of herself. And she’s got me.”

  “An’ I’m sure that makes her safe.”

  How stupid did he think I was? Not stupid enough to disagree or argue.

  He handed my license back. “I ain’t gonna give Mickey’s kid a ticket. But watch yourself, ya hear?”

  I just said, “Yes, sir. Thanks.”

  I watched him in my rearview as he shut off his Mars lights and drove away.