Center of Gravity

by Laura McNeill

  “Yes, Dr. Bennett . . .” My chin falls, and I press my fingers to my forehead, squinting at my shoes. Then I stop, realizing what he’d said. “Wait, did Mitchell tell you?”

  “Are you kidding?” Graham asks. “I was delivering homework for my nephew. I heard Mitchell talking, so I hid behind that huge saltwater tank in the lobby.” He punctuates the story with a few gory details of the run-in.

  “Now I’ve heard everything.” I groan.

  “Hey,” Graham exclaims. “I defended your honor. Told those women in the office not to believe everything they heard.”

  My chest warms with a twinge of satisfaction. “Must have been quite the speech.”

  “Ha. Mitchell made it clear he was going to call you about Jack. I heard him say it. That the secretaries shouldn’t bother trying to reach you.”

  “He had no intention of telling me.” Of course.

  “Nope.”

  I close my eyes and hold my breath. Getting angry won’t do any good. I focus on what I have to tell him. “Graham?”

  “Yep?”

  “Mitchell’s father is alive.”

  “I’ll be dammed!” He exclaims.

  “Thursday afternoon I found Will Harris, who, by the way, was not that thrilled to see me. But he told me to talk to Frank Carson.” I pause and shake my head. “I’m still in shock.”

  Graham laughs. “Ah! Our golden boy is beginning to look more like Pinocchio. Good work.”

  I flush with pleasure. “Mitchell’s dad is living in Moulton, just north of Cullman. To think, after all these years . . .”

  “Just a few hours away,” Graham finishes my thought.

  As I stare out the window, my thoughts turn. They’re already on the winding stretch between here and there.

  “I’m going to go find him.”

  CHAPTER 42

  AVA

  SATURDAY, APRIL 24

  As I pass through Cullman and travel northwest, the Jeep rattles, making my water bottle jump and slosh. The scent of burned wood permeates the air, and the occasional jet screams overhead, leaving contrail wisps in the painted-blue sky.

  Moulton itself is tiny and well cared for, population just over three thousand. There are stately brick churches, newer homes with landscaped lots, and a plethora of fast-food restaurants. As I pass through and turn off onto a small street on the outskirts of the city, I enter a strikingly different world.

  This neighborhood contains small one-story homes, front porches decorated with sagging flowered sofas, broken bicycles, and rusted soda cans. An occasional resident of the community stares, sleepy-eyed, suspicious. Mangy dogs glare at empty water bowls; skeleton-thin, skittish cats hide in tall grass. I double-check my GPS and turn right.

  The house sits close to the road. The roof appears relatively new; the yard is cut short, and an American flag flutters in a gust of warm air. While not pristine, the home is obviously in better shape than the rest on the street. This alone makes me feel slightly better, though I’d feel safer with a canister of Mace.

  The mailbox, dented silver, bears no markings, no name. A late-model turquoise Buick spans the entire driveway. Long and sleek, fins, whitewall tires. Stop admiring and procrastinating. You won’t find anything sitting inside the Jeep. I silence the lecture in my head and step out into a blanket of humidity. Rusted hinges protest with a loud squawk as I push open the gate. Next door, a barely bathrobed woman in pink curlers blows gray puffs of cigarette smoke. I wave, but she sits, her dark arm moving to her full lips, then away, watching.

  Fine. I knock twice with my knuckles, firm. Nothing. Again, harder. I peer through the glass, but it’s covered with curtains.

  “Mr. Carson,” I finally call out, my mouth inches from the door.

  A rough voice answers. “I don’t want any. Go away or I’ll call the cops.”

  Okay. At least I’ve got the right place.

  “Mr. Carson, please. I’m not selling anything.” A trickle of sweat runs down the small of my back. April is not supposed to be this hot. If I stand here much longer, I’ll faint or melt away, and he won’t have to face me. Maybe that’s his plan.

  “Don’t you understand English? Get out of here.” A gruff command. A soldier’s order.

  “Sir, I just need a moment.” I rack my brain, rub at the beads of perspiration on my neck.

  Silence. “It’s about Jack,” I finally say. “And your son, Mitchell.”

  Another few minutes tick by. I walk away from the door, check my cell phone, and pace across the wooden planks. The lady next door hasn’t moved.

  But then, something or someone rolls near the front door. I hear a lock click, and the door swings open a few inches. A thick-linked chain snaps tight. I turn and step toward the door. The end of a pistol stares back at me.

  “Wait, hold on,” I exclaim and hold up my hands, fingers spread.

  “Name,” he barks.

  “Ava. Ava Carson. I’m married to your son.” For good measure, I give him Mitchell’s birth date. I rattle off our home address. “And Jack’s middle name is Franklin.”

  This seems to convince him I’m not on his doorstep to rob him blind or steal his TV. He studies me like a scientist, as if I’m a bloodstain under a microscope.

  “We’re . . . we’re having some problems. I was hoping you might—”

  “First of all, get in here.” He reaches a gnarled hand and unlatches the chain. “Standing out there on my porch isn’t the best idea.”

  I step inside the dark room and let my eyes adjust to the light. It’s thirty degrees cooler, the air-conditioner hums in the corner. The place, sparsely furnished, is neat and clean. No photos. A few books, magazines. The Cullman Times lies open on the table.

  Mitchell’s father stares back at me from his wheelchair. “I’d offer you a cold drink, but all I have is tap water. Don’t get out much.”

  “I’ll take some.”

  He doesn’t move. “Help yourself, young lady. The kitchen’s that way.”

  “Thank you.” It’s four steps to the sink. I find a clean glass, gulp greedily.

  When I turn, he’s behind me. I jump.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I tend to move quietly, even in this old thing.” He gestures to the wheels. “So, you’re a ways from home, I take it?”

  I nod. “Four hours. We’re in Mobile. It’s quiet. Relatively safe.” I glance down at the pistol in his hand.

  It occurs to me that Mitchell has one just like it. I look closer. Exactly like it. My stomach flip-flops.

  Frank puts the gun away. “It’s for protection. Neighborhood’s gone downhill. Used to be nice, back in the day. Real fine.” He glances wistfully away from me. “After ’Nam, everything changed.”

  “Yes, sir,” I agree. “I’m sure a lot’s changed.”

  “Have a seat.” He gestures to a chair. “Tell me why you’ve come all this way to see an old man. Something wrong with my son? He sick?”

  “Mr. Carson, when was the last time you saw Mitchell?”

  He rubs his head. His gray hair is cut military style, high and tight. “Nearly five years ago, I reckon.” He adjusts his wheelchair. “Not since the accident. I take it you know about Karen.”

  “A little bit.”

  “She was a good girl. Quiet. Didn’t deserve to have those seizures.”

  Everything stops. I hold up a hand and stop Frank. “Wait. Seizures? As in epilepsy?”

  Seizures. Epilepsy. The accident?

  Frank shakes his head. “When they lived close or she’d visit, I’d remind her to take her medicine. She’d hassle me about taking mine. Damned blood pressure. It was our running joke for years. Both of us with our little yellow pills. We laughed about that.” He chuckles.

  “Was she very ill?”

  “Not until the last few weeks before her book tour. She was tired. Working a lot. It was like her body wouldn’t cooperate.”

  “And then she had the accident?”

  Frank nods. “Police never did really f
igure out what happened. We had a real nice service for Karen. Then, six months later, Mitchell dropped out of sight. Like damn Charlie.” He heaves a sigh. “I called; he changed his number. A buddy drove me up to his house. It was sold. No forwarding address, no nothing.”

  “And you haven’t tried to get in touch since? Find him?”

  “I’m thinking he doesn’t want to be found. My vision’s crap, especially at night. Can’t hit the broad side of a barn, even with my .45. A few friends who used to stop over and pick me up, they’ve died off. The rest of the folks in these parts, well, they’re not so friendly. No one wants to adopt an old white guy, if you know what I mean.” He grimaces and taps his leg. “Damn thing. Spent thirty years in the service—most of it across the pond—and get hit by a drunk driver less than a mile from home.”

  I take another sip of water. “I’m sorry. So, why? Why would Mitchell disappear?” The question escapes before I can stop myself.

  Frank tugs his ear. “Don’t know for sure. Folks got curious, asked a lot of questions about Karen. Wanted to know what happened. Told him how sorry they were. They were just being kind. But all of the attention made Mitchell really uncomfortable and jumpy. Nervous all of the time. Even I asked him why he was acting so strange.”

  “Did he tell you?”

  He grimaces. “Nah, wouldn’t talk about it. So he took off with Jack. I guess he thought . . . other people left him . . . why shouldn’t he leave?”

  “Do you mean when you deployed? Changed duty stations?”

  “Sure, that was part of it when he was younger. We traveled some. But once I came home from ’Nam in ’72, I struck a deal with the wife.”

  “Which was?”

  “She and Mitchell stayed put. We stayed married. I went where the army told me to go. Lasted about five years.”

  “When his mother . . .” I can’t make myself say suicide.

  Frank nodded. “She’d finally had enough. Of me being gone. Of the army. Of life. He’d already run away once or twice.” Frank sighed. “I think to get his mother’s attention, which didn’t work. She began drinking. In secret, of course. Mitchell never said a word. She sure didn’t tell me. And I’d come home and collapse for a few days, run around, see buddies, play a few rounds of golf. Then the army’d send me somewhere else.”

  I ran a finger around my glass, listening.

  “Depression, that’s what it was with my wife. I found out later from the neighbors that she wouldn’t leave the house, wouldn’t see friends, refused to answer the damn phone. But back then, no one talked about it. You sucked it up, did your job. The separation was part of it. The army wives had each other, or so I thought.” He rolls over to the edge of the counter, pulls out a small photo album, flips to the front page. In black-and-white, there’s Mitchell as a child, his mother, serious and serene, and Frank. “She left us in ’77. Killed herself on Christmas Eve.”

  My heart twists.

  “That’s when Mitchell ran away again. For a good long time. Finally found him in Phoenix, Arizona, of all places. He was just a kid, tall for his age. Talked some lady into buying him a Greyhound bus ticket. I brought him home after three weeks of searching. He was never the same.”

  “Was he the one . . . Did he find his mother?”

  Frank nods and frowns. He makes the shape of a gun with his thumb and forefinger and places it under his chin.

  “We never talked about it. Not once. Mitchell went off to Alabama, made perfect grades. Met Karen, moved up the ladder fast at these schools where he worked. Karen was good for him. And I thought Mitchell was even better when Jack came along. I miss that boy so much. I bet he’s huge. Do you have a photo?”

  “In the Jeep. I’ll grab it before I leave.” That seems to satisfy him. I hesitate to press too much, but he seems to like the company. “Were they having any problems?”

  Frank brushes a piece of lint off his pant leg. “Not according to my son. He wasn’t one to admit defeat of any kind. But to answer your question, the usual, I guess. Karen never talked about it much.”

  “She was pretty. I saw a picture.”

  “Must have been a book signing, or some announcement. She never mentioned it unless someone asked,” Frank muses. “I do know all of her success seemed to bother Mitchell a bit.”

  “Because . . .?”

  Frank chuckles. “Mitchell always had to be top dog. He was the head of this and that, on such and such committee, awarded some thing or the other. He didn’t share the spotlight well. And he was jealous. Imagined things more than once. I guess you might know a little about that.”

  “A little,” I agree. The doorbell rings. My chest tightens. I need more time.

  “Um, Mitchell . . . was he involved with Jack’s activities? After school—”

  Ring! Ring! The person at the door isn’t very patient.

  Frank smiles, checks his watch. “Ah, right on time. My dear old ball and chain.” He wheels to the front of the house and opens the lock. “Where’ve you been all my life, darling?”

  A stocky young woman stands in the doorway. “Don’t give me no lip, Mr. Frank.” She wears purple nursing scrubs, an ID from a home-health agency, and carries a huge canvas bag. “How’s your sugar? You takin’ your blood pressure pills?”

  “Why don’t you come here and find out?” Franks scoots his wheelchair back and winks.

  “You no account dirty dog. I’ll string you up with my hand tied behind my back if you don’t—” One hand on her hip, the woman steps into the living room and almost faints when she sees me. “Oh! Mr. Frank, why didn’t you tell me you had company?”

  I stand up. “Daughter-in-law.” I shake hands.

  “Evangeline.” She sizes me up. “Didn’t know Frank had family ’round here. I come to check on his diabetes, his blood pressure, and to see whether he’s taking the rest of his medicine.” She shoots him an evil look, then grins.

  “I’m Ava. Nice to meet you.”

  “Same here. We are going to be awhile,” she says pointedly, glancing down at her watch and back up at me.

  I swallow, digest this, and give Evangeline a small smile. “Oh, I was just leaving.” Reluctantly, I kiss Frank’s rough cheek and whisper in his ear. “If you think of anything else, here’s how you can reach me.” I dash off my cell number on a scrap of paper. “Can I have yours?”

  Frank nods and lists off the number.

  When I finish writing, my father-in-law is still studying me. “Say hello to Jack, would you?” he asks. “It’s been forever. Bring him next time?”

  “I’ll sure try.”

  There’s no good way to explain—in front of his nurse—why I don’t have his number. Or that I didn’t even know he was alive until a few days ago.

  “Bye now, honey. Drive safe,” Evangeline says and busies herself around Frank, clucking and talking under her breath. “Got to get to work here.”

  My hand on the doorknob, I hesitate. I didn’t have a chance to tell him about Sam. It’ll have to wait. Along with so many questions. So many things I want to ask. With a deep breath, I look at Frank one last time, wave, and close the door behind me.

  Before I head for Mobile, I dig through my bag, find Jack’s most recent school picture.

  For good measure, I scribble my cell phone number on the back and tuck the photo inside the screen door where Evangeline is sure to find it.

  See you soon. I promise.

  CHAPTER 43

  JACK

  SUNDAY, APRIL 25

  The cinnamon roll scent wafts out of Miss Beulah’s, sweet enough to bring the Incredible Hulk to his knees. I float in, stomach grumbling, in a frosting-filled haze. Dad’s dreamed up this idea of guys’ Sunday brunch. I think everyone in Mobile has the same plan. There’s barely room to sit down.

  We need to “bond,” he explains. Except I’m too hungry to care, and Sam won’t keep still. As Dad goes to order, I settle my brother the best I can in the coffee shop’s wooden high chair. When I push him close to the t
able, he grabs at forks, spoons, and napkins, knocking them to the ground. The silverware hits the floor, clattering and clanging, bouncing in every direction. Head down, I pick up every piece and place them out of reach.

  Sam screws up his face, his pouty bottom lip sticking out an inch. His small fists find both eyes, digging and twisting, and he lets out a huge yawn. I want to remind Dad that he’s been up for hours, since before dawn, and will only get crankier if he doesn’t get a nap.

  I dig in the diaper bag, searching for a book, a toy, or his fuzzy brown bear that he loves so much. But there’s nothing. A few diapers. Wipes. A tube of tacky white rash cream that smells like cod-liver oil. I wrinkle my nose.

  When I sit up, empty-handed, Sam’s slapping at the table, content for the moment because he’s flirting with one of the baristas. While she plays peekaboo, Dad comes back, and I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. Even though I don’t have to go, getting up may help the pain in my gut disappear. So I make a beeline for the back, keep my head down.

  The owner, Mo’s mom, with her twisted-up blonde hair and swingy silver earrings, almost runs me over. She balances a tray of something sweet and gooey above my head.

  “Hey, Jack,” she laughs. “Watch out. You’ll be wearing this next time.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Is Mo around?”

  She shakes her head. “Still sleeping, hon.”

  “Okay,” I mumble and squeeze by as best I can.

  I can only imagine what Dad would do to me if I came back covered with white icing. Guaranteed way to get in trouble, whether or not it was my fault.

  Safe inside the confines of the men’s room, I wash my hands, dry them, and stare into the mirror. My reflection stares back, but I imagine I’m Dr. Bruce Banner, one of the smartest people on earth. Banner is Hulk’s real identity. He’s a total brainiac, PhD in nuclear physics, expert in biology, chemistry, and engineering. Calm, cool, collected. Until a gamma bomb he invented explodes. If he just wasn’t quite so curious . . .

  A shrill cry interrupts my daydream. It’s Sam, I’m sure.