The Missing Piece (Inspirational Love Story)

by Carol McCormick

  Everything had to come out. The mops and brooms were first to go. Then he dragged out boxes of yellowed papers, broken picture frames and crumpled plastic flowers. Behind them, he found more boxes containing torn sheet music, faded robes, and dusty books. Most of the stuff looked older than the building itself.

  Pastor Jacobson happened by, and Dylan stopped him to ask about the contents of the boxes. “Is there anything here that you want to keep? Most of it looks like it’s seen better days.”

  “See? I knew you were capable of making wise decisions.” The pastor smiled. “You know junk when you see it.” He picked up a dusty plastic flower and tossed it back into the box. “Go ahead. Get rid of it all.”

  When the pastor said such wonderful things to him, Dylan saw the man's light shining out as a beacon of hope to his heart. The man of God believed in him. He believed that he was worthy and that his opinion mattered. He treated Dylan with dignity, as though he was an important person. When the pastor treated him with such regard, Dylan felt the tightly wound spring in his heart ever so slightly uncoil.

  As Dylan walked home at the end of the day, he closed his eyes for a moment to savor the sweet evening breeze. He felt lighter in his step and more hopeful for his future, now that he had a steady job. With that small glimmer of hope shining on his horizon, his thoughts turned to Lorraine and how he would win her back. His meager offering when they had married was a bounty compared to what he had now, but that didn’t matter. He would work hard and right the wrongs, and make better choices from now on to create a new life for them.

  He walked up the dirt road that led to his home and when he arrived, he noticed that the screen door was slightly ajar. Dylan curled his hand around his keys to keep them from jingling as he slowly walked up the stairs, testing each step, while listening for creaks, or possible intruders who may be lurking about inside of his house. He glanced in the windows and surveyed the porch before he made his ascent, but no one appeared to be near, so he cautiously trod the remaining stairs and then breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a wicker basket propped between the two doors.

  The basket felt heavy when he picked it up and took it inside to examine. He lifted the lid and carefully removed the plaid cloth covering and was pleasantly surprised to find all types of delicious smelling food. There was a crock of hot chili and a slice of corn bread next to a bit of butter in a small dish. He found a wedge of cheese all wrapped in plastic, a thermos of coffee, and a thick slice of cake in a clear acrylic container. Dylan lifted the lid and stuck his finger into the cake and when he tasted the sweet, creamy frosting, he closed his eyes and exhaled a soft moan.

  The sight of the meal nearly brought him to tears, as he couldn’t imagine anyone being so kind to him. He hadn't seen, nor eaten anything this wonderful since Lorraine lived here with him. And as he mused over the remarkable meal, he spied an ivory-colored envelope tucked to one side in the basket. He picked it up and turned it over to find his name written on the outside.

  Dylan walked to the counter and pulled open a drawer. He drew out a knife, slipped it under the flap and then slit the envelope open, while closing the drawer with his hip. The card inside was also ivory with tiny pink rosebuds on the front. When he opened the card, he read: Dear Dylan, Welcome to our church. Please accept this meal as a token of appreciation for accepting the custodial job. Warmly, Doug, Linda and Beth Baker.

  Appreciation for accepting the job? Why he’s the one who should be baking pies of appreciation and leaving them on people’s doorsteps. What is it with these people? The pastor, Denise and now the Baker family, all being so kind to him.

  Dylan didn’t know what to make of it all, but it certainly was nice of them. He set out a bowl and arranged a cup and silverware for his elegant supper. He ladled the chili into the bowl and then buttered the slice of cornbread. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee before setting down to relax and enjoy the first home-cooked meal that he’d eaten in a very long time.

  He let out a sigh and leaned over the bowl and then spooned one bite after another into his mouth, almost inhaling the meal as though starving to death, while pausing only to breathe. When he finished all that he could with the spoon, he tipped the bowl up and wiped the inside with a piece of cornbread, and then set the dish down as he swallowed the last bite.

  “Now that’s a meal,” he said to himself, while leaning back and patting his stomach with both hands. The past two days felt like a long exhalation after holding his breath for so long to keep from drowning. He felt like a raging storm had been drenching his life and ripping it full of holes. He wanted to beat the air and fight the force that pressed so hard against him, but he couldn’t see his enemy. The struggle seemed as futile as blocking out a rainstorm with a screen door. And after awhile, you give up trying until someone comes along and throws you a life preserver, or shows you a sturdy door, or makes your life a bit more bearable by a small act of kindness like a bowl of chili and a wedge of cornbread.

  Dylan wiped his mouth and pushed away from the table. He picked up his coffee and toed off his shoes, and as he walked into the living room, he poked through an ashtray to find a decent-sized cigarette stub. After he found one and lit it, he collapsed into his chair and propped his feet upon a stool. He sat motionless for a few moments, barely breathing while gazing down at the cigarette nub. He rolled the filter back and forth between his finger and thumb, as he contemplated the emptiness of his life. He had no purpose. No meaning. Every day was a struggle, and for what? The one person who mattered to him was gone, and he hadn't realized how important she was, until it was too late.

  He really loved Lorraine, but he didn't blame her for leaving. He probably would have left too, if he were in her shoes. His heart hurt when he thought of her, but tonight he’d feel the pain.

  The day Lorraine turned sixteen years-old, he showed up at her door to ask permission to date her. Though proper in his request, her parents were livid to think that their little girl would even consider seeing a man such as Dylan. Lorraine's pristine life was squeaky clean from nose-to-toes, an honor student destined for college in two years. The Crawford coterie had seen to all the details of their pampered princess's future, so they were vehemently against the relationship.

  “Nothing personal, Dylan,” they'd say while holding the phone in one hand and a finger on the keypad to call the police with the other. “It's the age difference, that's all.” To them, Dylan was the downfall of all their hopes and dreams for their little girl, but that didn't matter to him. He was crazy about Lorraine. Borderline obsessed was more like it. He’d hitchhike home throughout the night on a weekend pass to see her. A ten-hour ride if he was lucky. Some generous drivers shared a bottle of booze they’d kept hidden under the seat. They'd swap stories and tell jokes then promise to keep in touch, but never did.

  Others were less friendly, but picked servicemen up out of patriotic obligation. During those trips, he'd doze off with his head propped against the window as the low drone of the radio and the steady hum of the tires hypnotically lulled him to sleep.

  If he made it back in the middle of the night, he'd hop fences and outrun dogs then softly call Lorraine’s name while tossing pebbles at her bedroom window. She'd climb down the trellis, and he'd pluck her off while she hugged his neck and buried her face on his chest with soft sobs, because she’d missed him so much. He’d carry her to the wooden swing where they'd whisper their wishes and dreams between melancholy kisses, under twinkling stars until dawn. And then when he went back to the base, she'd write him the lyrics to her favorite love songs, and circle the tear stains on the page while awaiting his return.

  His stint in the service ended the summer she graduated from high school. By then, she had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, and although he was passionately attracted to her, it was her innocent, childlike qualities that made him fall in love with her. She cried over sad movies and dead parakeets and talked baby-talk to her cat Taffy. And when she pouted to get her own way,
he usually gave in to grant her request. Her vulnerability brought out his chivalrous nature, and her tenderness soothed him like a velvet blanket to warm and soften his heart of clay.

  Yet, she also had a feisty streak. When he suggested that they live together, she lit up like a jukebox and smacked him so hard his teeth rattled. She’d have no part of living together. “Free love is never free. There’s always a cost involved and it’s usually the girl who pays the price.” So they married that June before a Justice-of-the-Peace, against her parents' wishes.

  Oh, and then at night when she came to him, all perfumed and powdered, with her hair in a golden halo around her blushing face, he thought he'd seen an angel. She had incredible eyes at midnight by candlelight, where they turned to pools of melted chocolate—sweet, liquid, addictive—and he thought he'd drown a sweet death.

  Dylan’s eyes moistened with the memory. He squeezed them closed and a mournful moan rumbled in his throat. The choking sound startled him, so he sat up straighter, thinking that would distract him from the ecstasy of the memory and the agony of his loss. His stomach was full but his heart was empty and he didn't know how to fill it up. Lorraine reached the tender spot inside of him that no one knew was there. For the past year-and-a half, he racked his brain every night, asking himself, why? Why didn’t he try harder? Why didn't he go after her? Why didn't he do something with his sorry self? He was a bumbling idiot. A clod. A full-fledged jerk, that's why. He never should have been so lax about their relationship. He took her love for granted and now he was paying for it dearly.

  Sometimes when the loneliness seemed unbearable, he thought a swan dive off the roof of the Russo Building would put him out of his misery, but the thought only crossed his mind for a moment. He'd never check out of life like his father did, not as long as Lorraine was alive anyway. She was his motivating force to keep on keeping on. As long as there was the slightest thread of hope that someday she'd come home to him, his life was still worth living.

  The darkness of night enveloped him like a shroud as he undressed and rumpled back the sheet to sleep. He laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the rain as it pelted the roof.

  Where are you, Lorraine?

  A bolt of lightening flashed, and tree shadows danced on the wall as the windows rattled with each thunderclap. He listened to the steady rain pattering on the roof when a burst of lightening flashed again, followed by a crack of thunder. The lights and noise reminded him of the fireworks Dunkirk set off at the pier each year. Dylan turned to his side and punched his pillow into a more comfortable position, but sleep eluded him as thoughts of Lorraine consumed him.

  “Mom, will you come here and take a picture of Dylan and me?”

  Mrs. Crawford set the tray of silverware on the picnic table then took the camera from her daughter’s hand. Lorraine slipped her arm around Dylan’s waist and then looked up at him with adoring eyes, and whispered, “Happy Fourth of July, Dylan.” Mrs. Crawford snapped the photo then handed the camera back to Lorraine. “Thank you, Mother,” she said with a smile.

  “You’re most welcome, dear daughter,” Mrs. Crawford teased, as she picked up the tray and headed for the food table to set the utensils in place for lunch.

  Dylan had never seen anything like this before in his entire life. He and his buddies usually threw a few hotdogs and burgers on a charcoal grill, opened a can of beans and a bag of chips, and brought their own beer for their cookouts. Then the guys would sit around telling crazy stories or throw someone into the swimming pool or start a fist-fight over something stupid like one of the crazy stories or being thrown into the pool.

  None of that was going on at this family’s picnic. Dylan was now married to the daughter of a man who was pretty well-off and showing-it-off to at least two dozen people by giving them their choice of grilled steak, chicken, or lobster for lunch. And to top it all off, there were steamed clams and fancy salads with fancier names that he’d never heard of until today. All of the food had names you’d read on a restaurant menu where they add descriptive words before the actual food’s name. Corn-on-the-cob and chicken in this family wasn’t just corn or chicken, it was seasoned corn and blackened chicken, served on breakable plates. There wasn’t a Styrofoam cup or plastic dish anywhere in sight. They even had a mini-fridge on the patio stocked with fine wines and pale ales or flavored waters and soft drinks for those who didn’t imbibe.

  Mr. Crawford was making sure that everyone worked up a hearty appetite by organizing and supervising the picnic games. He managed to motivate most of his guests to play kickball in the blistering sun, and if that wasn’t enough to sweat off a few pounds, he instructed everyone on how to properly hop in a burlap sack, to race eighty-feet in ninety-degree weather. Dylan not only felt silly playing the game, but he thought he’d pass-out from heat stroke before it was all over.

  In the beginning, he didn’t want to upset Lorraine, so he played the games for her sake, but he was reaching his limit on how much embarrassment and heat he could take. He felt like one of those giant thermometers you’d see in old cartoons, where the temperature gets so hot that the red fluid shoots up and over the top like a geyser and sprays out everywhere.

  Someone announced that the next game was about to begin. Lorraine trotted over and pulled Dylan’s arm, coaxing him onto the section of lawn where people were gathering for the balloon toss. Mr. Crawford was giving detailed instructions on how the game was played in case anyone forgot from their childhood. Dylan found this whole picnic very peculiar with its ritzy food, grown-up drinks, and children’s games. All he could think of right now was that he needed a drink to cool off, and since Lorraine’s father was still carrying on with his balloon-tossing monologue, Dylan slipped from the line and headed for the fridge.

  He no sooner turned away and took a few steps when a water-balloon smacked him in the back of the head and burst. Lorraine screamed with laughter when he flinched from the impact that soaked his head and neck, but then she stopped and covered her mouth as though suddenly unsure if Dylan thought the incident was funny too.

  Lorraine donned a serious demeanor with a lowered head and pouty lip while looking up through her lashes at him, which actually made her look more adorable than usual as she tried to hide her laughter beneath the somber guise. “You were supposed to catch the balloon, Dylan!” Lorraine teasingly scolded, “Why’d you turn away?”

  “It’s too hot in this sun, Lori. I have to sit this game out. Anyway, it’s supposed to be a water-balloon toss, not baseball,” he said, as he wiped the dampness from his neck, “and why were you aiming for my head?”

  “I didn’t mean to,” she said with smirk. “I was just practicing before the game started. Anyway, you must be cooler now, so come back and play with me.” Lorraine smiled at him and when she did, her whole face lit up like the dawning of the morning sun. Dylan walked toward her and cupped her head in both of his hands then kissed her full on the lips. He slowly pulled away and looked her straight in the eyes, and said, “I will play later, Lorraine.” And with that, he strode over to the patio fridge and twisted open a bottle of pale ale.

  The memory seemed like yesterday, but it was still so vivid that even now, he could feel the warmth of her soft skin and smell her sweet perfume, and hear the tremble in her voice two weeks later, when she told him she was pregnant.

  A low whimper sounded outside Dylan’s window and it broke him from the memory. He thought that he'd imagined it at first, but then he heard it again. The faint noise was barely a squeak, so he propped himself up on his elbow and then cocked his head to one side, to pinpoint the exact source of the sound. The pattering rain muffled the sound, making it difficult to know where the noise originated, but it seemed to be coming from outside. So he rose from his bed and walked to the window and then braced his hands on each side of the pane. As he looked outside, he waited for another flash of lightening to shine and light the yard. The rain spat and streamed down the glass, as he wondered w
ho or what would be out on such a horrible night like this.

  Suddenly, the sky lit up and there it was.

  Dylan yanked on a pair of jeans and grabbed a flashlight then stepped into the downpour. The summer rain stung his bare skin like needle pricks, and by the time he reached the kitten, it had crawled behind a loose slat along the foundation of the house. He could hear it crying behind the board as he knelt down in the mud and reached his arm inside to pull it out, but the kitten swiped his hand.

  “Hey!” He drew back with a shake and almost swore, but didn't. He felt compelled to rescue the helpless creature, which surprised even him. “Come on, little puss. I just want to help you.” He shined a beam of light into the cubbyhole, as the kitten hissed and arched its back while cowering further into the corner. Dylan could see its eyes glow as he reached inside again. The kitten growled and gave him three quick swats.

  Dylan drew his arm out and began to wonder if the animal was worth the trouble after all. His hands were scratched, his pants were muddy and soaking wet, and his knees were beginning to ache. “Okay, puss, this is your last chance. I can't offer you much, but I do have a dry home.” He reached inside the opening again with his face pressed against the slat and his hand grasping in the dark.

  “Gotcha!” he said, pulling the kitten out by the scruff of the neck. The frightened kitten clawed its way up Dylan's bare skin as though its tail was on fire. He quickly lifted and plucked the cat's claws from his chest with much moaning and meowing on his part, and then he cupped the kitten close to his heart with the palm of his hand to hold it firmly in place.

  The storm had subsided to a misty rain as male and feline walked into the house, dripping water across the kitchen floor. Dylan set the kitten down and peeled off his wet pants and then threw them into the bathtub with a thud. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants that were hanging behind the bathroom door and pulled them on. When he passed the mirror he did a double take. His chest had so many red perforations that he looked like he’d fallen into a thorn bush. He dabbed peroxide on the scratches, and then went back into the kitchen where he found the tiny cat shivering in the corner.