Misisipi

by Michael Reilly

  “I had a pet dog once.”

  “Cool. Was it a Lab too?”

  “I guess. He was really small. His Mom, Jessie, was a pure Lab.”

  “What happened him?”

  “It was a lifetime ago, Josh. I wasn’t much older than you are. He’s gone a long time.”

  “Boomer can be yours too then. I know he’ll like you.”

  “That’s sweet. Can I ask you a question, Josh?”

  “Okie.”

  “You’re like, five, six?”

  “Six, I guess.”

  “Well, when is your birthday?”

  “Mmm… I guess it was…” Joshua screwed his lips, puzzled.

  “Do you remember having a party?”

  Joshua crooked his head. “I guess.”

  “Well,” Scott pressed, “was it in summer, like now? Or a while back? During school maybe?”

  “The other kids don’t like me. They don’t ever wanna play with me and Boomer.”

  “Really? Are they mean to you?”

  “They make jokes about my folks. They shout em out at night, when it’s too dark to see who’s outside.”

  “What do they say?”

  “Just goofy stuff, like…” Joshua’s voice deepened to a mock dumbass tone, “your old man’s shirts are always creased up cause your Mom used up all the hangers again.”

  Scott’s hands tightened on the wheel.

  Joshua blew dismissively. “I don’t get it. Cause it’s dumb, right?”

  Scott swallowed. “Yeah. I don’t get it either. Fuck their funny.”

  “Whoa! You totally cussed.”

  “Um, yeah. I guess I did. My bad.”

  “You can do it again. I won’t tell.”

  “How bout I try and be a role model? But, before I have to, you know that guy that said that to you is stupid, right?”

  “Major retard.”

  “Well, I dunno you should say that. He is so dumb though that…” Scott thought for a second, “so dumb he thinks a quarterback is change.”

  Joshua laughed.

  Scott tried another. “He’s so dumb he has to look 9-1-1 up in the phone book!”

  Joshua was curling into a ball in his seat, in the grip of what Scott called the Heehee-Peepee’s when he was the boy’s age.

  “He’s so dumb he thinks Taco Bell is the Mexican Phone Company,” Scott continued.

  “He’s so dumb,” Joshua began, “April Fools is his birthday!”

  “He’s so dumb he tried to bet on the rabbit at the dog track,” Scott raised him.

  Joshua saw him. “He’s so dumb he took his busted GI Joe to the plastic surgeon.”

  “He’s so dumb he failed the census.”

  “He’s so dumb his library card quit!”

  “He’s so dumb, when his computer got a virus, he put cough medicine in the keyboard.”

  “He's so dumb he thinks cheerios are doughnut seeds!”

  “He’s so dumb he asked for a refund cause his M’n Ms were all Ws.”

  “He’s so dumb he tried to drown the neighbor’s goldfish!”

  “Ok,” Scott wiped the wet from his eye. “You win.”

  SJ: I’m pretty sure it was around Nine. I don’t recall getting here any earlier. I don’t know what else to tell you.

  AP: Ok. Well, why don’t you tell me what you got up to when you arrived in Winchester.

  SJ: I walked downtown for a bit.

  AP: You talk to anyone?

  SJ: No. I just hung out, watching the crowds.

  AP: Then what?

  SJ: I decided to check out the museum. Never been in one before.

  AP: A museum? Ever?

  SJ: A Civil War museum. This is my first time in Virginia.

  AP: Go on.

  Scott found a spot on Boscawen Street. He shut the engine off and undid Joshua’s seatbelt. The boy had been quiet for some time now, detached. The earlier joviality had waned as they approached Winchester. Scott’s doubts and fears had crowded out his brief euphoria and the boy’s very appearance seemed to reflect this. He looked muted, his very vitality tuned to a weaker frequency.

  “Hey,” Scott brought him round, “wanna play hookie with the old man?”

  “You’re not old, Silly!” Joshua laughed and put his hand on Scott’s cheek. “Old people are crinkly. You’re smooth.”

  Scott embraced him. He pulled the boy into a clasp so tight that his force with it frightened himself and he released Joshua quickly, recognizing the point beyond which he might not ever be made to let go.

  “Are you ok?” Joshua asked.

  “Yeah. Yeah. I just wanted to give you a hug. While there was still time.”

  “Time for what?”

  Scott tussled Joshua’s hair. “Time for hugs, Silly. Ok. Let’s see what’s going on up there.”

  People milled along the length of Loundon Street, Winchester’s pedestrianized main thoroughfare. Some of the men wore Civil War garb, with handlebar moustaches or impressively full beards falling over their button-up tunic collars. They loitered beneath the trees and awnings on the mall and chatted amiably with the curious tourists and history-buffs. Antique Springfield and Enfield rifles leaned at their sides or got lifted, examined, and admired by fellow reenactors. Some participants turned out as gentlemen or gentle ladies of the period, amid much fussing and adjusting of tails and tall hats and ballooning skirts. The street was a living canvas of Winchester’s history, past and present. A parade was coming together. Until it did, a Confederate rifleman was permitted a Starbuck’s Strawberry Frappuccino as part of his field rations.

  Scott and Joshua stopped at the path leading to the colonnade façade of the Old Court House. Joshua stared at the black statue of an infantryman where it stood on a dais out front.

  “Can we go in there?” he asked.

  “It’s just a museum, Bud. Don’t you want to go get an ice-cream or something?” Scott tried to coax him farther up the street.

  Joshua stood firm, statue-like himself. “It’s got loads of cool war stuff. I wanna see it.”

  “Ok. Let’s take a look.”

  At the welcome desk, Scott paid with a twenty and ignored the teller when she reminded him to take his change. Joshua had rushed on ahead and Scott pushed through the glass entrance doors in pursuit. He followed the narrow aisle along the outer display cases and turned at the back of the room. Halfway-down, a large forest scene was painted on the back wall, where an open tableau of Confederate battle-dressed mannequins stood in the foreground in a ready poise. Joshua was standing before the figure of a boy soldier heading the group, his drum rested between his legs.

  Scott came alongside. “Looks like his uniform’d almost fit you,” he remarked.

  Joshua stared at the boy soldier’s alabaster face, into the painted eyes beneath the frayed peak of his cap. To Scott, the pair of them formed an eerie simpatico.

  Joshua said, “We’re not allowed. He died wearing this. It’s his.”

  “Where does it say that?”

  “Says him.”

  “Joshua, that’s not funny. Stop kidding around.”

  “It happened in an orchard in Belle Grove. His name is Ambrose Riley.”

  “Stop it. You’re making that up.”

  “No I’m not. A cannonball made the trees explode. A piece of wood hit him. He was running away. He was scared. He just wanted to go home.”

  Scott went down on one knee beside Joshua. “Making up stories is the same as lying.”

  “It’s not a story. It’s real. You’re the liar.”

  “Joshua. Keep your voice down.”

  “You are too! You know you are!”

  “What did I lie about?”

  “You know what. You lied about Boomer.”

  “You said he ran off.”

  “No. You said he ran off. But you just made that up.”

  “Why would I make that up?”

  “Because of what really happened.”

  “Nothing happened.”
/>   “Yes it did. Why won’t you say it?” Joshua was shrieking now. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Yes I did.”

  “What? What didn’t you do?”

  “I didn’t watch him close enough.”

  “When… when Jessie… when she rolled on him? In the box?”

  “I should have gone to check. I could hear her barking. I knew something was wrong, but I was too scared Mom would hear me. She told me to stop fussing about the new litter, that Jessie was their mom and that she knew how to take care of them.”

  “And you lay in bed but you couldn’t go to sleep.”

  “I knew something was wrong. I had to go and see.”

  “And you snuck down and checked to see if they were ok.”

  “I counted and there were only five and I couldn’t see where the black one—Boomer—had got too. He was always the loudest since they were born, always wailing and yelping.”

  “And Jessie was too heavy and she was laid out with the rest feeding and you couldn’t get her to move.”

  “She snapped at me when I put my hand under her and felt around. She never ever did that to me, ever.”

  “And you found Boomer pressed against the back of the box.”

  “He was so small and his body was shaped funny, like the flat side of the box. He was still warm but he didn’t make any noise like he used to”

  “and you tried to put him back with them but he wouldn’t feed so”

  “I got some milk from the refrigerator and put drops of it on the tip of my finger and put it to his mouth but”

  “he wouldn’t take it and he wouldn’t wake up. And you did that until it got bright and then you decided that”

  “he was dead and that I ought to bury him. So I got some tissue paper and I carried him out into the yard and it had been raining and the ground was soft and I made a small hole. It didn’t have to be big. When it was ready, I wrapped Boomer up in the paper and I lay him in the hole. I was so tired, too tired to be sad but I said a prayer and then”

  “you scooped up the earth and just as you went to put it back on top of him you heard the tissue move and you know it wasn’t the rain cause it had stopped raining and there was no wind and you still had the dirt in your hands but you heard it and you thought you saw it move and”

  “I couldn’t go through it again, all that waiting and hoping and trying to save him. So I dropped the dirt in the hole and I kept piling it in until it was done.”

  “And you pressed it down.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want him to suffer. I didn’t want him to be in pain any more.”

  “But every day you wonder, ‘What if I’d taken him back in? What if I’d kept going?’”

  “Is that so bad to think that?”

  Joshua nodded. “Yes. Boomer died. I died.”

  “Not to me!”

  “Mom hurt me. She didn’t want me so she hurt me. She hurt you too.”

  “I know she didn’t mean it. I know she’s sorry. She’d take it back if she could, I know she would.”

  “And you hurt her.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  “Why did she send me away?”

  “I don’t know, Bud. I think she was sad and she didn’t want you to be around in case she made you sad too.”

  “I wish I could see her. If she was sad, I bet I’d make her happy if she just saw me now, like you do.”

  “I know she would. If only she could see you like I see you.”

  “Will you tell her I love her, when you see her?”

  “I promise. I’m sorry I said about you making stuff up. I didn’t mean it.”

  “It’s true. It’s his story. Look if you don’t believe me.”

  “I do. It’s ok.”

  “It’s inside his shirt. At the back. Where they put their names. I want you to look.”

  Joshua stared at Scott with hard pleading hurt. His complexion was almost as white as the boy mannequin’s now. Even his brown eyes were a washed-out imitation of their earlier dark hue.

  Scott leaned around the mannequin and tried to peel the jacket collar back but it was buttoned tight on. He checked the still-quiet aisles of the museum and quickly popped the buttons down the front of the jacket. He carefully slid it off the shoulders and down the rigid straight arms of the model, handing it to Joshua. He tried to turn the model around but found it secured to the floor at its feet so he leaned in again and looked at the back of the shirt. A square of yellowing white cloth was sewn onto the fabric of the shirt beneath the collar. The charcoal-scrawled writing was faded and difficult to read upside-down. But, beneath an identification number, Scott made out the name A Riley. Harper’s Ferry. West V. Beneath the shoulder blades of the shirt, a large gash had been stitched with heavy string.

  “Excuse me!”

  Scott bolted upright and looked. The ticket attendant stood at the corner of the room, looking down the aisle at him.

  “You can’t do that to the exhibits,” she snapped, starting down toward Scott.

  Scott wheeled and sought out Joshua. The aisle was empty.

  “Where did he go?”

  “Who?” the attendant replied.

  “The boy who was with me. My son.”

  “What boy? You’re the only person who’s come in since we opened.”

  “Shit!” Scott brushed past her and headed for the entrance.

  “Hey. Come back here,” the attendant cried. “Where’s the jacket for this display?”

  Scott pushed through the main doors and dashed outside.

  AP: Can you walk me through what happened on Loundon Street?

  SJ: I made a mistake.

  AP: You went where exactly after you left the museum?

  Scott bounded down the Court House steps onto the front path. He glanced every-which-way around the quadrangle.

  Three teen girls in cut-off tops sat on a side bench. No!

  A reenactment couple stood under the statue. Shit!

  A line of Yankee soldiers on the curb blocked his view beyond. Scott dashed down the path and around them. Loundon Street was crowded now. A constant stream of figures, modern and period dress, thronged the pedestrian thoroughfare. He circled on the spot, darting stares at the nearest families and gangs of kids.

  No. No. No! No! Dammit!

  “Josh! Joshua!”

  Some of the Yankee troupe turned Scott’s way.

  “You see a small boy come this way just now?” he asked them. “So high, wearing a shirt and chinos?”

  The men shook their heads.

  “He came outta there,” Scott pleaded, pointing to the Court House. “You been right here!”

  “No, Sir,” one replied. “Ain’t seen no one like you describe.”

  Scott snapped his hand dismissively at the man. He surveyed the street.

  The car!

  He sprinted the short stretch to the corner and looked to where the BMW sat, half-way up the side street.

  “Joshua!”

  About to head down to check closer, Scott glanced up the line of storefronts on that side of Loundon. Between the criss-cross of bodies entering and exiting doorways, he briefly caught a clear sight to a small figure, way up by the fountain; nose pressed against a store window, cupped hands obscuring the boy’s face. The figure wore a grey Yankee jacket, like the drummer boy’s, and tan chinos. Scott marched toward him.

  “Joshua?” he barked as he closed in. The face, beguiled by something beyond the glass, didn’t respond.

  “Dammit, Josh,” Scott snapped, his flustered stride quickening as he came.

  A tall gangly teen walked backward out of the store entrance. Not looking, occupied in chitchat with the couple following him out, the teen moseyed between Scott and his goal. Without breaking stride, Scott lifted him by the elbows and planted him roughly out of his way.

  “Hey!” the teen protested.

  Scott ignored him as he stood over the figure at the w
indow. “Hey Joshua, for God’s sake,” he hissed.

  The boy was still transfixed by the view through the glass. Scott grabbed his shoulder and ripped him away from it.

  “Joshua. Don’t run off like that!” he barked.

  The boy lifted his startled face to Scott. He had a fuller face than Joshua, equally jet-black hair. He was similarly dressed but it wasn’t Joshua.

  The boy squirmed his scrawny shoulder where it was still bunched under Scott’s grip. “Owww!” he yelped.

  Scott was about to release him when he felt himself wrenched backward. He flailed with both arms and was grabbing at air right up to the moment when he hit the ground. Shooting pain erupted from his palms as he broke his tumble to the cobblestones. He was still on his toes but barely. His shoes scrambled under him and he drunkenly regained his stance like an eight-counted boxer.

  Everyone was looking his way.

  “What’s the big idea, Buddy?” The unseen yell came a second before fast hands seized Scott’s lapels. Before he could focus on their owner, Scott was on his back. His head jarred on the cobbles and his vision clouded over where he lay, seeing the boy now flanked by the gangly teen and a middle-aged woman.

  His assailant pushed his face into Scott’s, brow-to-sweaty brow. “What the fuck you think you’re doing?” he bellowed, eyes blazing, his spittle flecking on Scott. “That’s my son, you prick!”

  Scott tried to stammer a response but the man had his full weight on him. The first blow caught Scott in the kisser and he raised his arms to deflect the others. He kept them tight to his face even after someone pulled the man off. When he dared to lower them he saw the boy, his mother hugging him fully. Scott couldn’t see his face but he could hear him crying freely against her.

  The father, held back now, was still screaming bloody murder.

  So much confusion. Scott closed his eyes and spread his arms open on the pavement. There was a siren closing in from somewhere and it drew him to its urgent soothing rhythm.

  AP: Mister Jameson? Are you ok?

  SJ: Do you have kids?

  AP: A boy and a girl.

  SJ: I had a son. He died.

  AP: Maybe we should take a break. Would you like me to fetch the station physician?

  SJ: It’s hard, you know. I see him, every day. I try not to but I can’t help it.