M.I.A.

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “What do you do in the winter?”

  “Hitchhike. And eat out a lot.”

  “You ever gonna get your license back?”

  He shrugged. “You plannin’ on coming every weekend?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then we better stop at the hardware and get you a key.”

  Sunday morning, I dropped Steve off at the Wildings’ and headed to the animal hospital. It was closed, but Dr. Pulaski was there to check his patients, and Beth to feed them and clean their cages. I knocked on the back door.

  When Beth opened it, she turned white. “What happened?”

  I’d forgotten about stopping the goons’ boots with my face. “You should see the door,” I said.

  “What?” She looked like she thought I was crazy.

  “I ran into a door. Pretty lame, huhn?”

  “I knew we shouldn’t have left you.”

  “I’ll live. Are you ready to go for a drive?”

  “No, I’ve got sixteen dogs and three cats to take care of.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  By the time we finished, it was too late to go anywhere if I wanted to get Beth home before her folks got suspicious. Dr. Pulaski seemed fine with me driving her—it meant he didn’t have to. He locked up and took off.

  Beth and I sat on the riverbank for a while and dangled our feet in the water because neither of us wanted to say goodbye. I told her about being rescued by the DQ guy; she told me she’d lectured Stephanie about going too far with Nate. I didn’t mention the Trojans. We skipped stones across the river. Little bluegills swam up to our feet, then darted away. I kissed her cheek.

  “Your dad ever gonna let you date?” I asked.

  “Maybe when I’m twenty-one.”

  “In five years?”

  She punched my arm playfully. “How old are you, Methuselah?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “What’re we going to do?”

  “How ’bout you leave your window unlocked, and I’ll sneak in after dark?”

  “My father would catch you and beat you to death.”

  We sat there with our feet in the water, letting the fish nibble our toes.

  Then Beth said, “I know! I’ll tell my mother I’ve got a regular Friday-night babysitting job. You can pick me up at work and drop me off at home after dark.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  Rhiann

  “Did you stay with your grandparents?” I asked Jimmy when he got home Sunday night. I was putting the clean dishes away.

  Jimmy plopped down on a stool at the island counter. He crossed his arms and rested his elbows on the countertop. “Nah,” he said. “With Steve.”

  “He has a drinking problem.”

  “He doesn’t have any booze in his house.”

  “You checked?”

  “Well, I noticed.”

  “Are you planning to go back this weekend?”

  “I kinda thought I would. Something wrong with that?”

  “The house is so empty.”

  I knew I sounded lonely because he said, “I could fix you up with someone.”

  “Like who?”

  “How ’bout my boss?”

  “Don’t be silly.” Too much, I realized. “What makes you think he even likes me?”

  “I’ve seen him look at you the way Finn and me look at Meg Ryan.”

  I blushed and changed the subject. “How is Steve?”

  Before he called to say he’d met Jimmy in Greenville, I hadn’t thought of my cousin Steve in years. He hadn’t come to Mickey’s funeral. Maybe he didn’t know. But I’d called my parents and they’d called his. My aunt and uncle sent flowers and a Mass card with their condolences. Not a word from Steve.

  Steve and Billy had been best friends long before I moved to Greenville. Then they and I and Smoke had been inseparable through junior high and high school. Till Billy joined the army and Smoke disappeared.

  Steve stayed home with me. But since I’d made it clear my heart was taken, he’d just been a good friend. Good enough to stand up for us when Billy and I tied the knot. Good enough to hang around and help with Jimmy until Mickey came on the scene.

  Then Steve drifted away—into drink and bad company. When I tried to stand by him, he’d told me to “fuck off.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” I asked.

  “I always wondered if you kissed me would I turn into a prince.” He was a little drunk. Happy drunk. “I knew I didn’t have a chance with Smoke and Billy around, but they’re gone…”

  “You’re too much like a brother.” I kissed him on the cheek. “And you’re already a prince.”

  He made his eyes go wide and spread his fingers out. He peered down at one hand, then the other. Then looked at his feet. Then he gave a little smile and shook his head. “Still a frog.”

  I laughed.

  “You better marry the Mick. It’s plain he worships you. And he’ll be a good example for the kid.”

  “Are you giving me your blessing?”

  “Yeah. But don’t ask me to stand up for you at the wedding.”

  “Will you come?”

  “Sure. I’ll sit in back and cry.”

  Strange that Steve would meet up with Jimmy after all these years.

  Thursday afternoon, Jimmy was peeling potatoes for me while I cut up the beef for stew.

  “Hey, Ma,” he said. “When you were growing up with Billy, did you know Rosa?”

  “Sure. But I called her ‘Mrs. Jefferson.’”

  “Mrs. Wilding told me to call her ‘Rosa.’”

  “Didn’t she also tell you to call her ‘Grandmother’?”

  He grinned and swept the peels into the covered bucket we used for compost.

  I said, “Could you empty that for me?”

  “What do I get?”

  “The privilege of taking out the trash.”

  “Cute, Ma.” He grabbed the trash bag by the door and took it and the compost out. When he returned, he said, “Ma, remember that creepy deputy sheriff that always sits in the front row at church?”

  “Rory Sinter.”

  “Yeah, him. Why’s he watching our house?”

  “I don’t know, but next time I see him, I’ll ask.”

  John

  With Jimmy gone on weekends and business booming, I saw less of Rhiann Fahey. Probably just as well. I felt like a teenager around her, putting my foot in my mouth and tripping over my tongue. As a countermeasure, I’d clam up, and there’d be awkward silences.

  Occasionally, during the week, she’d invite me to join her and Jimmy for barbecue in the backyard. I went out and bought a Weber so I could reciprocate.

  Fourth of July, the three of us sat on my porch roof and watched the fireworks blossom over the river below the cemetery.

  Rhiann and I did go to an amateur theater production in Alva. Our Town. And out to dinner afterward. She sounded sincere when she said she’d had a good time, but on the porch, she didn’t drag out her “good night” into an invitation.

  Just before she closed the door, she said, “I’m sorry, John. I’m just not ready to move on.”

  Rhiann

  The sheriff’s office was on my way home from work but—in spite of Rory’s reminders—I’d passed it every day without remembering to collect Mickey’s gun. After Jimmy told me about Rory hanging around, I stopped in to get it.

  Sheriff Linden had been a real friend of Mickey’s, so I was surprised when he didn’t take my complaint about Rory seriously. “He’s just lookin’ out for his friend’s widow, is all.”

  “I don’t need to be looked out for.”

  “Rory told me about Devlin—did time for killin’ a man.”

  “He deserves a second chance.”

  “To kill somebody?”

  I scowled.

  “Look, Rhiann, Mickey told me you were a Christian woman. An’ I know forgiveness is a Christian virtue. But blind trust isn’t.”

  I just shook my head
and said, “Can I have Mickey’s gun?”

  “You got a firearms card?”

  I took my wallet from my purse and dug out my FOID card.

  The sheriff glanced at it, then got Mickey’s gun from a drawer in his desk, broke it open, and handed it to me. Then he pushed a box of shells across the desk. “I don’t guess I have to tell you to be careful.”

  Jimmy

  By the middle of July, I had the summer thing down pat. Monday through Friday, I worked for John. Friday afternoon, I drove to Greenville and helped Beth finish up at the animal hospital—Dr. Pulaski broke down and hired me. Then we’d get something to eat and go for a drive or go bowling or to the drive-in. Sometimes we’d double-date with Stephanie and Nate. Others we’d just go somewhere and talk. Saturdays, we’d work at the animal hospital and go out after work. On Sunday, if she worked, I did, too. If it was Beth’s week to go to church with her family, I’d help Steve close up Hannigan’s Saturday night and head home after dropping him off. Or I’d stay over and go home early in the morning.

  I was ready to kiss Beth the first time we met, and every day I saw her after. But I had a hunch she wasn’t ready. And we had Nate and Stephanie’s example to warn us about how fast you could get in over your head if you weren’t careful. They were really into each other, going through half a dozen condoms a week—which Nate got from my glove compartment. At least they were being careful, but I was the one supplying the protection. Me and John.

  One Saturday night in mid-July, Beth and I went to see this movie—Summer School—about a bunch of losers who end up making it because of a coach that gets drafted to be their summer school teacher. We went to the early show ’cause Beth had to be home. We were just coming out of the theater when the Greenville goons pulled up in front, heading west—the same way we had to go to get back to my car.

  Beth saw them first. “Now what do we do?”

  At that point, one of the goons spotted us and shouted. The driver braked hard. Too hard.

  An old guy following them in his Cadillac didn’t brake fast enough. There was a screech and the crunch of metal crumpling as the Caddy folded up the goon mobile’s rear end.

  I took Beth’s arm and headed her east. “Plan A.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hang on to your hat and run like hell!”

  Before I took Beth home, we stopped at the Eat Well diner. I was amazed she’d never been there before. “You do live in this town?”

  “Yeah. My dad’s kind of a snob. He said this place is a dump.”

  “Has he ever eaten here?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I’ll bet the goons never come in here, either. But if you like we could go someplace else.”

  “Oh, no. This is perfect.”

  It was Beth’s church-with-the-family weekend, so after I dropped her off, I stopped at Hannigan’s to say good-bye to Steve.

  There was this big guy nursing a beer at the bar. He had an empty shot glass and a pile of dollar bills in front of him. He chugged the rest of his beer and slammed the glass down. “Bartender, set me up again.”

  “Sorry, pal,” Steve said. “We already had last call.”

  The guy looked around. Other guys were still shooting pool. A couple that was dancing stopped to put another quarter in the jukebox. The night-shift cop who was packing away a cheeseburger lifted his coffee mug, and Steve took the pot over to refill it.

  When Steve got back behind the bar, he put out a couple drink trays. I took one and started collecting empties.

  “Fuck you, asshole,” the boilermaker drunk told Steve. “I want another setup.”

  Steve said, “Sorry. No can do.” He grabbed a bar rag and started away from the guy, polishing the bar as he went. And he started whistling—“Bad Moon Rising.”

  The drunk got up and followed him along the customers’ side. When Steve ran out of bar, the guy grabbed his shirt and tried to pull him across the bar.

  “Hey!” Steve yelled.

  Everybody in the room stared.

  The drunk let go.

  Steve held up his hands. “You’ve had enough, sir.” He was talking loud enough for everybody to hear.

  The drunk swayed a little and said, “I’ll decide when I’ve had enough.”

  The cop sighed and got up and put on his hat.

  The drunk threw himself on the bar and rolled over it to trap Steve against the kitchen door. As he drew back for a punch, Steve grabbed a drink tray and held it over his stomach—just before the drunk’s fist connected.

  The guy howled and shook his hand.

  Steve held the tray up like a shield.

  When the drunk drew back to hit him again, the night-shift cop grabbed the guy’s wrist and snapped handcuffs around it.

  It seemed like everybody had to deal with bullies, even Ma. When I turned onto my street the next morning, I noticed that creep Sinter watching the house again. He wasn’t even pretending he was doing radar—he had his dome light on. He saw me and sneered. At least, I thought he did.

  And I wondered what it would take to get him to leave my ma alone.

  Rhiann

  Jimmy was pretty well housebroken for a teenaged boy. He emptied and took out the trash and took his turn cutting the grass without being asked—most of the time. He usually did his own laundry.

  But as the summer went on, he seemed to be more and more pressed for time. I suspected that he’d met a girl, though he never mentioned one. Things started piling up in his room.

  So one evening, when I needed to make up a full load of laundry, I gathered up everything on his bedroom floor. There were some heavy items in the pockets of his Levi’s. I went through them and found a small wrench, a spark plug, and an Eisenhower dollar. I had to stop and sit down when I found the Swiss army knife because a sudden sense of loss echoed through me like a timid “miserére” in an empty church. I knew the knife. The sight of it reminded me that Mickey was gone, although—to my knowledge—Mickey had never seen the knife. I hadn’t seen it myself since the day Billy was declared KIA.

  They came on a Sunday. They were waiting on the street, in their government-issue car, when we pulled into the drive after Mass. Two soldiers in dress greens. A young one—still in his teens—and an older man with the same thousand-yard stare Mickey had brought home from Vietnam.

  Dad noticed them first. He didn’t say anything, but his look clued my mother, and she said, “Oh, no!”

  I was taking Jimmy out of the car seat. At my mother’s words, I got a queasy feeling. The September sunlight lost its warmth. Jimmy picked up on my distress and started fussing as we watched the soldiers get out of their car.

  My parents took positions like sentries on either side of us.

  The sergeant stopped in front of me and took off his hat. “Mrs. Wilding?”

  I nodded. I don’t remember the rest of his words. I remember my mother taking Jimmy, my dad putting his hands on my arms, holding me up when the sergeant held the knife up, along with Billy’s dog tags.

  I must have confirmed that the knife was really Billy’s. He put it and the dog tags in the box he was carrying. Billy’s stuff. He offered the box to me.

  I couldn’t take it. My father steered me to the porch steps and sat me down before talking to the soldiers and taking the box off their hands. I told him to throw it away, but he’d said, “Maybe Jimmy will want it someday.”

  Seems he was right.

  Now, I put the knife with the other pocket junk on Jimmy’s dresser, then gathered up the clothes and fled the room.

  John

  In school, my best friend was a poor rich kid whose father was a self-made millionaire. I was white trash. I think that’s part of what drew my friend to me. I was definitely someone of whom his father would disapprove.

  We had other things in common. We both hated his brother for one. “You must’ve been switched at birth,” my friend told me. “He’s as mean as your old man.”

  My friend and I both loved t
he same girl, but we never competed for her. I think she favored me, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings. So we hung around with her together; and neither of us made a move.

  Then he joined the army. I got drunk and killed a man. I went to jail and did five years.

  You can read a lot of books in five years. I cultivated the prison librarian, and he adopted me. He gave me Gideon’s Bible and the Koran. Shakespeare. Mark Twain. Joseph Campbell and Joseph Heller. Tolstoy. Just to name a few. I learned a trade, discovered I had a talent, earned a GED.

  I wasn’t without remorse but I’d served my time.

  By then my friend was dead. The girl had married someone else.

  My life went on without women and with few friends.

  Then I moved to Overlook. I bought my first house. And after Rhiann Fahey took me to the church supper, I started going to services. I’d sit in back and watch her pray, or sometimes grieve. And watch Rory Sinter ogling her.

  It didn’t take a Ph.D. in psychology to read her body language. Sinter irritated her, sometimes made her mad. She wasn’t intimidated. And he didn’t seem to pose a threat, so I stayed out of it. I waited. Watched. Was ready to intervene if intervention was required.

  It wasn’t just at church. Sinter did radar on our street, though fewer than five cars passed by on any given day. I never saw him make a stop. I made a point to travel slowly.

  One day he stopped me anyway. A hot afternoon in late July. Sinter was sweating behind his mirror shades. I kept my hands on the wheel until he said, “Get out of the car.”

  I got out.

  He shoved me up against the Jeep and frisked me. “License and registration?”

  “License is in my wallet; registration’s on the visor.”

  He pointed to my back pocket. “Take it out.”

  I handed him the license.

  He studied it carefully. Looking for signs it was a fake? Or something out of order?