Craving Country

by Gorman, A.

  She quickly finishes her conversation with one of the uniformed cops and keeps her gaze focused on me. I feel my throat closing as she approaches. She feels like the grim reaper, a messenger of bad news.

  “Any news?” I ask hopefully.

  “Not yet. The search party has extended, which is good. The more ground we cover, the better chance we have.”

  I study Detective Petree’s face—she looks tired, but even though there are dark circles under her eyes and she clutches a flask of coffee close to her chest as if her life depends on it, there is still a youthful glow to her skin, a sparkle in her eyes telling me she is a determined woman—this gives me comfort.

  “Y’all find the boys, won’t you?” My question finally bursts free; I can’t keep it concealed any longer. She inhales a deep breath and then looks at me firmly in the eyes.

  “We are doing all we can.”

  Chapter Two

  Him

  Day Two

  In crisis, they unite.

  Where were they when I needed help?

  A so-called hard-working member of the community, they once called me, until I fell on hard times.

  They expect a broken man to rise from the ashes without any help.

  In my darkest hour, they denied me.

  They must pay and, the boys who laughed at me, I will teach them a lesson they will never forget. The people of the town I once called home only have themselves to blame. They are the ones who have blood on their hands…

  The deed has been carried out. I expected to feel more than I do—at the very least, satisfied. The musky smell of damp gets caught in my throat, and I can’t stop coughing: what now? I hadn’t planned this far ahead. I’d done the hard part, days of watching their movements, waiting in the wings for the perfect opportunity to swiftly strike. Unseen. Un-heard. Untraceable. I slumped down, poking my fingers in the cigarette-burned holes on the shabby sofa. An untouched tuna sandwich sat in front of me on the stained table, the crusts of the bread hard and stale. My mouth parched, I reached for a quart of milk, but before my lips touched the brim of the glass, the foul stench of sourness made me heave. It had been days since I’d been able to afford fresh milk, days since I’d eaten properly.

  When the plant first shut down, Jimmy Beaven took pity on me and gave me breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day at the diner for a week. He’d serve me up his famous tar-black coffee—sludgy but warm; bacon, eggs, and grits—it was enough to keep me going. After every serving, I always offered to wash up, help out in the kitchen, my way of expressing gratitude, but he waved his fat hand in my face and told me to pay him back when I was back on my feet. On a hot Sunday afternoon, tired and hungry, I walked into Jimmy’s, desperate for a cool drink. The church-goers had emptied out of the chapel and spilled into the diner; they sat at tables like gaggles of geese talking and laughing—until they noticed me come through the door. You could’ve heard a pin drop. Time stood still, my once white t-shirt now stained and clinging to my unwashed skin. I tried to make eye contact with Penny Jones, the local butcher’s wife, who’d always stopped for friendly chit-chat on my way home from work—but she quickly averted her gaze, staring down at her half-eaten plate of French toast. Tammy, blonde and fat, with her cheeks circled pink with too much rouge, stepped forward, ushering me to the corner of the diner.

  “Ewww, that man stinks.” I turned toward the voice; it belonged to a boy, his thin lips curled into a smile, his friends nudging one another, pointing at me like an animal in a zoo.

  “I’m sorry; you can’t be here right now,” Tammy whispered.

  “I just need a cold drink is all. I promise I’ll be out of here—please, just one drink.”

  For a moment, I thought she’d take pity on me, at the very least take me out back with an ice-cold bottle of water and send me on my way. I could look past the humiliation if she just gave me a darn drink.

  “Jimmy has been kind to you, but I’m afraid you’ve taken his generosity too far. We’re not a soup kitchen. We all got to make a living too, can’t be handing you out freebies day in, day out.” I survey the diner, feeling my cheeks burn, hoping one of these God-fearing people would take pity on me, but not one of them look at me, not a single one.

  “Didn’t y’all just come from church?” I’ve nothing more to lose, but I have plenty left to say. I grab one of the light blue wooden chairs and scrape the legs along the floor. I stand on top of the chair so I am in full view; I refuse not to be seen, not to be heard.

  “Whoever oppresses a poor man insults his maker, but he who is generous to the needy honors him, Proverbs 14:31. I’m sure you wonderful God-fearing folks should know the verse, don’t you? Or maybe you know it but choose not to practice what you preach?” Once again, I am met with silence and people awkwardly shuffling in their seats. I survey the room, hoping at least one person will stand with me. Breaking the silence, I hear a snigger, the same group of boys mocking me when I came in. I’ve said my piece, but my actions will speak volumes louder than my words.

  Day Five

  The disappearance of the boys had now leaked out of the local news and hit national. The town had come together, united in finding Colebrook’s lost children. People assume there is so much humble honesty in small southern towns; it’s as if nothing bad could ever or should ever happen. Like every corner of the planet, no place is ever perfect, no place is ever truly safe. Everyone has secrets: I remember the cops cuffing Coach Rogers during a high-profile football game, his face in the ground, spitting dirt, burly officers pinning him down—Coach Rogers, a pillar of the community, upstanding citizen, was part of a drug ring; did folks really think he lived in his million-dollar mansion by coaching high school football?

  Or the preacher’s wife—lovely lady—always perfectly kept, polite, but behind her smile was a broken woman, hiding her house of pain. The secrets she kept finally reached a boiling point. Cracks began to show when she started missing church on Sundays, and then one day she took a bottle to the back of the preacher’s head. She calmly told the 911 dispatcher, “He deserved it.” Years of abuse and beatings can indeed drive a person to insanity. I was a beaten man. I’d played by the rules, given my all to this town. The preacher’s wife killed a man, and yet she was forgiven by the community, because she had justification, reason. The humiliation of the day in the diner is what sent me over the edge; goodwill had run out. I was not looked at as a man in desperate need of help, I was the town’s problem, and it was made clear I should go away. Just sweep the problem under the carpet and forget about it, then we can all go on living our lives in our happy utopia, perfect small town. I wasn’t going to be a bit of dirt they could sweep under the carpet; this is what I’ll tell them when they finally catch up with me. “Those kids deserve what I did. Let it be a lesson to you all.”

  Chapter Three

  Pamela

  Day Five

  I waited until midday before I call Tammy; I wanted to give her long enough to sleep the Bourbon off. She offered me a glass several times last night, but I don’t want to numb the pain by drinking alcohol. I want the pain to go away by having Brent back home safe. I don’t judge her for it; we are both mothers of missing children. I see I have several missed calls on my cell and several messages. I listen to them one by one, feeling my blood start to boil as I reach the last well-wisher’s voicemail. None of those messages are from the police. It’s now the fifth day, and the only progress in the case is of the boys’ disappearance hitting national news. I feel like a ghost, waiting in the shadows. Soon I’m due at a press conference with the other parents; it’s being held at the church hall. The police have ransacked each of our houses looking for clues, asking us all invasive questions about our lives, our parenting choices. Primary suspects always seem to fall on parents. I have nothing to hide, and I couldn’t care less if the police want to go through my underwear drawer. Nothing else matters but Brent and the other boys. I sit in his room, holding one of his sweaters close to my face. Silence ca
n be quite the opposite of quiet; it can be a deafening reminder of loneliness, of emptiness. There were days I had wished for quiet, needed a little time for myself, but now all I want is the loud clatter of a bike being hauled through the front door, corny songs blaring out from the TV speakers, and his voice shouting down from his room asking when dinner will be ready. I’m sitting on the bed, a towel wrapped around me. I stare into my wardrobe. I need to pick an outfit, but what am I supposed to wear to a press conference? The world will be watching. The world will be judging. I need the world to be on my side, to help me bring my little boy home safe and sound. Will the color of my blouse really make a difference to how people see me and this dire situation I have found myself in? I don’t want to wear black; it looks like I am mourning. I don’t want to wear pink, much too happy, and it might tell the world I don’t care. So I go with grey, the color of uncertainty—a grey area, neither black nor white, but somewhere in between. The police offered me a ride to the town hall, but I declined. I wanted to hold onto some sense of normality. Maybe if I act normal, normal will return? After I finally dress myself, I slip into the car; I grip the steering wheel and take in a long shaky breath, the familiar pulsing headache returns to my temples, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut. I had planned to head to the police station first; I wanted to speak to them in private before falling under the eye of the media. I drive down Main Street, pass the beauty parlor and a hardware store called Nuts-and-Bolts, a clothing store called Shellie’s, which caters to older ladies who once paraded in beauty pageants back in their youth. These are stores I’ve passed a million times before, running errands in a town I call home. Its familiarly was like a warm blanket on a freezing cold day. Even after my husband left, walking around this town still gave me a sense of belonging, a community of people who supported me, even when life didn’t. Today, I don’t feel connected to the town; everything looks the same, but nothing feels the same. It’s as if I am having an out-of-body experience. A nightmare from which I cannot wake up, but I keep telling myself, “It’s a dream, Pamela. It’s not real.” I don’t feel connected to myself, because as his mama, I should know where he is. My instincts should lead me to him. I grew him in my belly for nine months, I knew his every little kick, his every roll and punch, and when he was born, I knew what each pitch of his cry meant, what he needed. How can he be eight years old and be so disconnected from me?

  How can I not know where my own child is?

  What kind of a mother am I?

  I used to think I was a good one, but not now. I park a street away from the police station and look up at a group of blackened clouds beginning to fury together. A lump rises in my throat: Brent and his friends, out in the stormy weather. I keep repeating the same mantra to myself over and over, telling myself they are all fine, and this press conference will give them the exposure they need to be found. I’m taken out of my thoughts by a gentle tap on the window. I bolt upright, startled, and it takes me a second to identify Tammy. Her usually loose blonde hair is slicked away from her face, and she’s wearing more make up than usual, but even under the thick layer of orange foundation and over-applied pink rouge, the thick dark circles under her eyes still penetrate through.

  She moves round to the passenger side and slides in next to me. I instantly smell cigarettes, and the stench clings to her clothes like a putrid old ashtray in a bar.

  “I didn’t think it would come to this…” Tammy says. Her voice quivers; she’s breathless. Her hands are placed on her lap, and I see them shake…I wonder how much she’s drank in the last couple of days.

  “I know why we’re here,” Tammy continues. “I know the reason is to tell the world. The more eyes we have, the better chance we have of finding them, but…”

  The word but hangs in the air. I don’t want her to finish her sentence; but is a bullet of doubt, and I know it will penetrate fast and furiously though my peaceful mantras of hope. My gaze is fixed on her, and it’s evident she too does not want to openly admit how scared she really is, neither of us do, but there is no doubt we are the most afraid we have ever been in our entire lives. Nothing could possibly compare to this—nothing.

  “Jimmy and I have been fighting. Last night I threw an empty coffee cup at his head. It missed. We should be united right now, but I need somebody to blame.”

  “For what it’s worth, I blame Howard. If he hadn’t left, maybe Brent would not always feel the need to venture away. I blame myself too, because I haven’t given him the boundaries I should at his age.”

  “I’m so scared, Pam.”

  I reach across to her hand, offering her comfort for a fear we both share, a comfort we both need. Our boys are so close; it seems impossible we are sitting here waiting to tell the world they are missing. Tammy takes the back of her hand and wipes her tears away; her make-up has already streaked long white lines, a reminder her mask cannot shield the pain of a grieving mother.

  Tammy clears her throat and straightens herself. “Where is Howard?”

  “He’s on his way. He’s in New York. Said he was catching the first flight out, but that was two days ago. Flights to Georgia are pretty scarce, you know!”

  “Are you mad?”

  “No, I’m not mad. I’m too worried to be mad. I guess if I had to express my feelings toward Howard, hurt is the word I’d use. Brent thinks the sun shines out of that man’s back-side, he’s the one who left, and I’m the one who had to deal with a broken-hearted child. I’m the one who’s carried the burden of blame.”

  “Pam, the police…have they?”

  “The boys are not with Howard; the police have checked.”

  “What do you think about the police handling the case?” Tammy asks.

  I manage a weary smile and shake my head. Time is ticking on, and right now we should be inside the town hall. It will no doubt be crammed now, sweltering bodies of all the local people pushed together.

  “I don’t know what to think.” I mean it, too.

  Tammy and I enter the town hall. I try not to make eye contact with all the glassy, pity-filled eyes boring into me, surveying me for my deepest emotions, which I try desperately to conceal. I know they’re all here to help, all here to bring the boys back home safe, but I can’t help but wonder how many people are here just for the show. We pass a sea of journalists, climbing over one another to get the best shot. I climb onto the wooden stage. Set across its length are several rectangular tables wedged together and several microphones wired up from the floor like black snakes. Cameras flash like lightning, the clicks going off simultaneously. I fold my arms in front of me; it’s the only barrier I can give myself. I glance across at Tammy. A camera flash illuminates her face, her chin begins to quiver, and her hand shoots up to her mouth quickly—she’s desperate to hold it together.

  A low boom bursts through the speakers, and the chatter of the hall comes to an immediate silence, with the exception of a few hushed whispers. An immaculately dressed police officer steps onto center stage. I vaguely recognize him, but I can’t quite place where I’ve seen him before—I’m confused as to why he is here. Why haven’t I met him?

  I can feel my chest start to tighten. In a straight line we all sit, parents of missing children, the boys so close and yet I don’t really know their parents too well, with the expectation of Tammy. Everyone had always been polite enough, we spoke only for our boys, and I know some of them held dinner parties, but I’d never once been invited. Howard never included himself with the people in the town. He always made it clear he was onto bigger and better things; I just never bothered to push myself on people where I felt I wasn’t welcome. Not being part of a few parties never made me feel I wasn’t at home in Colebrook. After a few moments, the uniformed police officer took a microphone and held it close to his burly chest. My breath caught itself in my throat—a lump I tried desperately to swallow away. I look up; tears stinging my eyes, my body begins to rock back and forth. A long black camera lens points toward me like a black tunnel wanting t
o swallow me whole. I hear the click, capturing my painful moment.

  “Five days ago, four boys—Justin Pinkman, Dirk Miller, Brent Sharpe, and Darryl Brenner—were reported missing. They waved goodbye to their parents in the morning, but when they left school, they never returned to their homes.”

  I feel as though I’m having one of those dreams where I’m waiting to wake up. The reality of my situation scares me. The town hall was a place I’d been so familiar with over the years. I could never imagine in a million years I’d be sitting on stage, appealing to the public to find my baby.