Girl Gone Missing

by Marcie Rendon

  “Prostitution?” Cash couldn’t resist asking.

  “Nah.” Wheaton looked quickly over at the waitress, embarrassed again. “With a college degree, you can see the world. Not be stuck in some little town like Twin Valley here, eating pie and talking crimes with an old man, just passing time. You can see the world. Maybe go overseas. Go to Europe.”

  Now it was Cash’s turn to squirm. She had no desire to leave the safety of the Valley, the life she knew. The steady change of seasons, the planting and growing of one crop after the other, the easy friendships she had with the guys she worked with, the guys who treated her as one of them. They didn’t make any demands on her other than that she show up on time and work as hard as they worked. Get as dirty in the fields as they got. She liked shooting pool. Drinking beer. It was the world she had grown up in.

  And after the constant change of homes, after the years of abuse and loneliness, the steady rhythm of life in the Valley was all she needed. She didn’t need to know if the Cities existed. She was content imagining them in her mind like Superman’s Metropolis. Shoot. She hadn’t told Wheaton about the writing award.

  Hanging her head, hands cupped around the coffee cup in front of her, she said in a lowered voice. “I got nominated for some state award.”

  “What?”

  “When I was testing out of English, I had to write an essay. The professor turned it in to some award thing and I guess I’m a finalist to get it. I’m supposed to meet him next Saturday and go down to the Cities.”

  Wheaton smiled. Cash had never seen him look so happy. In his job as county sheriff, he always looked busy. Or concerned. Even when he was off duty. There were permanent horizontal worry lines between his eyes. Always looking out for the next incident, the next speeder, the next kid in trouble.

  Now he just grinned at her. “I knew it. I knew it.” The waitress pretended not to look up.

  Now it was Cash’s turn to blush. “It was nothing. I just wrote what I thought. Something about Shakespeare and Langston Hughes.”

  “I’ve heard of Shakespeare but not that Hughes guy.”

  “About a poem of his I like.”

  “And?”

  “Nothin’. It’s nothing. The English professor wants me to go to the Cities. I don’t want to ride with him. He might try to sell me into prostitution.” Cash smirked.

  “Don’t be silly. This is a good thing. Of course you have to go. You could drive yourself down, right? Or take the train.”

  “That’s what I told him, that I’d drive. Take the train? The only time I ever was on a train was one time with the social worker. She took me up to Crookston for a chest X-ray. Did you know my mom had TB?”

  Wheaton ignored her question.

  “Well, the train goes to the Cities too.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “A lot more traffic than around these parts.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

  “I’m proud of you, Cash.”

  “Let’s go. Your dog is probably eating the left slipper right now.”

  Wheaton laughed. He pushed himself out of the booth and went up to the waitress and handed her some bills. Cash waited by the door. Watched a car drive by, its headlights reflected on the shop windows across the street. She could also see herself mirrored in the door and Wheaton as he turned from the waitress. He stopped to get a toothpick. He put it in his mouth, something to chew on. Cash opened the door and stepped outside. When Wheaton got to his cruiser, he stood with the door open and said again, “I’m proud of you, Cash. Real proud.”

  “Probably get some frost tonight,” Cash said. She hopped into the Ranchero before he could say anything else. She waited until he backed the cruiser out and turned to head for Ada before she followed him.

  When they got to Ada, Cash flicked her brights once at Wheaton to say goodnight. She didn’t like drinking in the bars in Ada. They seemed to be frequented by boys she had gone to school with who were now men who had inherited their daddy’s farms. By this time of the night Arnie’s in Halstad would be slow, the only folks left in the bar would be the old-time bachelor farmers who had no one to go home to.

  She drove the forty-three miles to Fargo and pulled in front of the Casbah just short of closing time. Her body relaxed. The blinking Hamm’s beer and Grainbelt signs in the Casbah’s window looked like fine art to her. She could hear the twang of an old country-western song being played on the jukebox inside. George Jones was rock-a-billying the joys of white lightning: shhhhh—white lightning. She breathed in the crisp fall air.

  Home, she thought to herself as she pushed open the door that swung shut behind her on a spring mechanism. The smell of stale beer and cigarettes immediately calmed her nerves. After driving beet truck for weeks, after days sitting in hard desks at school, Cash was happy to be in her element.

  Shorty reached under the bar and set two bottles of Budweiser on the wooden bar. Longtime barstool warmers, brothers Ole and Carl, tipped their frothy beer glasses in her direction. Ol’ man Willie was slumped over a half-finished glass of beer in the back booth, a cigarette burning in the ashtray, the smoke surrounded his greasy head like a broken halo.

  At the pool tables she saw her brother, Mo, playing against Jim, her tournament partner—maybe now her ex-tournament partner since she’d been 86’d from the Flame. Mo was dressed in Army fatigues, Jim in regular farmer gear: blue jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt. Mo was short and wiry, his movements spring-action taut. Jim in contrast, lumbered around the table, farmer slow and plodding. And Jim wasn’t a lumbering type of guy—he was also on the thin side, but compared to Mo, he moved like molasses that had been stored in the refrigerator.

  Cash stood at the bar watching them before she moved over and set her beers in the booth, her cigarette in the ashtray. She put some quarters on the table. “I’ll play the winner.”

  There was a hoot of Watch out, boys from over by the bar. Mo beat Jim. Cash inserted her quarters and racked up for a game. Mo showed no mercy and ran the table. Some of his shots were smooth and easy, others just jagged-luck shots. The most impressive ones were shots where the cue ball glided in slow motion across the green and, without a sound, nicked a ball—just enough—to send it dropping soundlessly into a pocket. Cash had shot a lot of pool, watched a lot of games, heck, won a lot of bar tournaments, but she had never seen someone cut shots the way Mo was doing. When he sank the 8-ball, calling last pocket even though he didn’t need to, Cash just shook her head in amazement.

  “Well, that was some beaucoup luck,” he said, killing a beer. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he asked, “Rack ’em up. Who’s next?” looking around at the folks gathered around the pool table. “Who wants to play partners against my sister and me? Don’t be shy, that was just some crazy luck there.”

  Jim pointed his cue at one of the other regulars and pushed his quarters into the pool table. Mo motioned for Cash to break. She used a bar cue and then switched to her own stick after a solid dropped. She made two more balls before scratching on a side pocket shot. Mo draped an arm over her shoulders and said quietly, “If you can see the pocket anywhere behind a ball, you can cut it in. Don’t try doing a straight in. You do that, you scratch like you did. Cut it in and the ball won’t follow it. Hit it soft. Just graze it.”

  They played partners ’til closing time. The games were fast. No one in the bar, not even Jim and his partner, were up to taking on the Cash and Mo team. The guys playing them would only play for beers no matter how bad Mo teased them, trying to get them to play for dollars.

  When Shorty called, “Closing time. Drink it up,” Cash and Mo had four beers each lined up on the booth table. And that didn’t include the ones they were drinking. Cash gave one to Jim and the other two to Ole and Carl. She watched in amazement as Mo drank two and tucked one in the back of his jeans, the bulge of it covered by the flak jacket he was wearing. The other he tucked in an inside pocket of the jacket. As Cash was putting away her cue, he
said, “I’m gonna go drive around. See you back at the pad.”

  Cash left with Jim tagging behind. “I’ll meet you at the apartment.” He tapped her shoulder gently. Cash drove her Ranchero around the block and into the parking spot in front of her place. By the time she opened the door, Jim was pulling up beside her. They climbed the wooden stairs, feet clomping simultaneously, the dull thud echoing down the street.

  Cash flipped on the kitchen light. Jim looked around as if he’d never seen the place. He eyed Mo’s makeshift bed on the floor. A neat pile of Army green. He flicked open the sheet hanging across the room where Cash slept. He looked at her. Cash shrugged and got two beers out of the fridge, handed one to him and popped the top on the other. She undressed quickly and crawled between the sheets, plumping the pillows behind her back so she could sit up, drink her beer and have a cigarette.

  Jim came in. He sat cautiously on the bed, drinking his beer, staring at the sheet hanging over the doorway. “How long is your brother staying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When’s he coming back tonight?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Cash snuggled down into the bed, curving her body around Jim’s skinny back. “Get undressed. Come on. What are you waiting for?”

  Jim swigged beer.

  “What if he comes back?”

  “I imagine he is. You better hurry.” Cash snuggled closer, lifting up the back of Jim’s shirt, running her hand up his spine.

  “Uh, I don’t know. Just don’t feel right. What if he walks in on us?”

  Cash pushed away, almost shoving Jim off the bed. He quickly scooted back on the mattress and took another drink of beer.

  Cash sat back up against the headboard, pulling the sheet up to cover her breasts. “Doesn’t feel right?” she asked, taking a swig of beer. “I have a brother sleeping on my kitchen floor, a brother I haven’t seen in years, and it doesn’t feel right?”

  “What if he walks in on us?”

  “Better him than your wife,” Cash responded sarcastically, finishing her beer and throwing herself back down under the covers, pulling them tight up under her chin. “Lock the door on your way out. Don’t let the screen door hit your ass.”

  “Ah, Cash, come on. Don’t be like that.” Jim leaned over her, kissing her hairline.

  “Go on. Leave. Before you really piss me off. Go on!” Cash pulled the pillow over her head. Jim shifted on the bed, took a drink of his beer. Set the bottle on the dresser. The bed creaked as he stood up. Cash could feel him looking at her.

  “I’m sorry, Cash. Just makes me uncomfortable. Maybe see you tomorrow night at the bar?”

  No answer.

  Jim went out the front door, pulled it shut behind him, thudded down the stairs. He started up his truck. She threw the pillow off her head and got out of bed naked. She peeked out of the makeshift curtain, then stepped into the kitchen and grabbed another beer out of the fridge. She crawled back into bed, lit a cigarette, shut off the lamp. In the dark she drank the beer and smoked two cigarettes. She smashed out the last butt, took the last drink of beer, and lay down. Then quickly jumped up, felt around in the dark through a pile of clothes on the floor. She pulled on the closest T-shirt and undies she could find and crawled back into bed. Damn brother, ruining my sex life, were her last thoughts as she drifted off.

  Cash pulled herself up and out of her window. Her heart beat in her ears and she shivered uncontrollably. Her eyes darted left and right as she ran barefoot across the damp ground. She reached the plowed field. Her foot sank into the cold, damp dirt. When she tried to pull her foot up, her front leg sank farther into the earth. She threw herself forward, clawing with bare hands, hearing the heavy, labored breathing of the person chasing her. Fear forced her from her body so that she was soon flying above herself. She looked down to see her body stretched out in the mud below, buried to her knees, arms flailing, hair catching in her hands. Instantly, the body in the field changed from herself struggling to two paler, longer-legged, blonde women. The young women looked up at Cash. They mouthed, “Help me. Help me.”

  She jerked up. Mo stood at the end of her bed. His hair was disheveled, his face contorted in pain. Cash glanced over at her bedroom window, which was wide open, the screen ripped. She looked back at Mo. He was holding what looked like a broom handle sharpened into a spear. From the streetlight shining in the window, Cash could see a dark liquid on the end of the spear.

  She jumped out of bed, frantic to find the jeans she knew were on the floor. “What the hell have you done?” she asked. “Did you kill someone?”

  Mo looked at the spear. His entire body was trembling. “No, I ran into an ambush. They stabbed me in the leg with this punji stick. I fought them off. Took the damn thing away from them. The perimeter is safe. I crawled the wall rather than risk leading them in the front way.”

  Cash reached behind her toward the lamp. With catlike reflexes he jumped her, pinning her to the floor. “Don’t,” he hissed. “Don’t give away our position.”

  Cash was scared. She didn’t move. He had stopped shaking. He was holding her down, but it was as if he was providing her coverage. He kept shushing her. Finally he rolled off her, soundlessly, and belly crawled under the sheet into the kitchen. Cash lay still, afraid to move. She had heard stories of vets coming back and entering this dark zone. Clearly, she was in the middle of a trip back to ’Nam.

  Mo came crawling back. Sidled over to the window, stood, favoring his left leg, which Cash could see was bleeding. He peered out, standing flat against the wall. The punji stick was stuck in his waistband like a sword. With only his one arm visible, he reached out and closed the window as quietly as possible. He pulled the thin curtains firmly shut against the streetlight’s glare. He hung some shirts over the curtains, shutting out even more of the light, never putting his body fully in front of the window. When light still shone through, he silently pulled the top blanket off her bed and used it to cover the window fully. Cash rolled over and crawled on her belly closer to him. “Mo, you’re injured,” she whispered. “You need a medic.”

  He looked at her blankly, “I am the medic of this squad.”

  “Well, why don’t you let me fix you up? No good having an injured medic.”

  Mo sat down heavily in the stuffed chair Cash used as a dresser/laundry basket. “Only the good die young, soldier. You ain’t gotta worry about me.”

  He pulled one of Cash’s T-shirts out from under himself and ripped it, barehanded. Then tore it into narrow strips. In the dark, he wrapped the cloth strips around his leg, across the gash, across the tear clearly visible in his green Army pants.

  And he began talking, sitting in the overstuffed chair, brandishing the broomstick punji stick whenever a car drove by. He rambled about the Viet Cong and his buddy still out on patrol. Cash lay on the floor, afraid to move. He didn’t really know her. She didn’t really know him. What if his mind shifted gears and started to think she was the enemy? When he reached behind his ear and pulled out a joint, she didn’t say a word. The pungent smoke filled the small room. She said a soft no when he offered her a toke. She rolled on her side and leaned up to try get a look at the clock on the dresser. It might have said 4:30. She said quietly, “How about if I crawl out there and bring you back a beer?”

  “Good thinkin’, soldier. I’ll take point. You follow.” He crushed the roach out with his bare fingers and dropped to the floor to belly crawl to the doorway. He peered under the sheet, looking left and right, then signaled with his right hand for Cash to crawl forward. Cash mimicked his forearm, forearm, hip-slide, hip-slide crawl to the fridge. Once there, she hesitated, remembering that when she opened the door the light would come on. She calculated exactly where the beers were in the fridge. In one rapid movement she opened the door, grabbed two beers and shut the door back up.

  In that moment, Mo rose from the floor and sprinted across the kitchen to the door leading outside, slid himself upright against the doorframe, blend
ing seamlessly into the wall. He peered out into the night through the door window, punji stick clasped at his side.

  Cash belly crawled back into the bedroom as fast as she could, both beers in her hand. Thank god she had a church key on the dresser. She reached up and grabbed it. She opened one beer silently. The second one, the cap flew off and hit the floor on the other side of the room. Mo instantly appeared. He was a silent apparition inside the sheet curtain, a dusky shadow along the doorframe. Cash held the beer bottle up in his direction. He moved soundlessly back to the overstuffed chair and sat down, taking the beer from her outstretched arm on his way. Cash marveled at his quietness.

  They drank their beers. Still afraid to move too fast or too far, Cash reached up on the bed and pulled down a pillow and sheet. She wrapped the sheet around her on the cold floor and rested her head on the pillow. She watched Mo light a cigarette one-handed, a move she herself had learned from a Viet Nam vet home on furlough. He cupped the cigarette in his hand as he smoked to hide the burning tip. About halfway through the cigarette, he put the still lit cigarette between his ring and middle finger at the base of the knuckles. He leaned back on the chair, seemed to be sleeping. After a few moments, with the cigarette burning shorter and shorter, Cash said softly, “Mo?”

  “Just checkin’ my eyelids for holes, soldier.” He stayed completely still.

  Cash watched the cigarette burn down to the filter. It was the last thing she remembered as she drifted off to sleep.

  She woke to the smell of bacon frying. Some guy with a baritone voice was singing. Her brother sang along off key, “I’m going home, my tour is done…”

  She got up off the cold floor, her legs stiff and cold, and threw the pillow back on the bed and crawled into it, wrapping herself tightly in the sheet. Her blanket still hung over the window.

  The baritone sang in measured beats, “I’m going home, I’m a lucky one…”

  “I’m a lucky one,” her brother repeated, banging out the beat with a spatula against the metal stove.