The Drought

by Patricia Fulton

  The door jingled as he entered and the four customers occupying the dimly lit restaurant looked in his direction. They were what his mom described as “regulars.”

  Lavonne Miller, a plump woman in her mid fifties, occupied the stool at the far end of the counter; she always arrived at 10:00 a.m. and only drank hot tea. Vern and Anne Olsen sat at the table closest to the counter; taking full advantage of the café’s bottomless cup of coffee. Les McCollom was the fourth person, he sat in the third booth by the windows.

  Jar gave a slight nod of acknowledgement to each before sliding into a stool toward the center of the counter. He wasn’t sure if anyone noticed, but he tried not to sit in the same seat each time. The counter had eight seats. In front of each seat was a napkin, a spoon and a coffee cup. Every two seats shared a setup of condiments.

  When Jar sat down, Cathy looked over, snapped her gum and said, “Hey, hon.”

  Cathy called everyone hon. Jar lifted his spoon, angled it slightly and watched the reflection of the ceiling fan, rotating in his spoon.

  Cathy Boggs was nineteen, had married straight out of high school and was known to cheat on her husband. She was thin, had big breasts and bleached hair. When Barry came to the café with Jar, he always left saying the same thing. “Man I’d like to bang the hell out of that.” Jar would give him a shove and say, “Yeah like you even have a shot.”

  Jar made fun of Barry but the truth was he’d seen Cathy looking at Barry, and he half believed Barry did have a chance, all he had to do was ask. The thought of Barry banging the hell out of Cathy made his stomach flutter in a funny way and he squirmed in his seat.

  Cathy didn’t offer to get him anything, but she hollered out, “Hey Beth, your kid is here.” Then she went back to her whispered conversation with the cook.

  Jar rocked his chair from side to side, trying not to think about Barry and Cathy. His mom appeared a few minutes later carrying a tub of salad dressing and looking pale. He said, “Hey Mom, can I get a soda?” The café carried RC. It tasted like sweet bubble gum.

  She flashed him a tired smile, pointed at his red face and the sweat sliding down his neck and said, “How about some water?”

  He put up a token amount of resistance, understanding in advance it had already been determined he was drinking water. His objections didn’t faze her. She grabbed a Styrofoam cup, filled it with ice and water, capped it and placed it on the counter in front of him. Fishing inside of her apron, she withdrew a straw and a plastic baggy full of quarters and dimes.

  Jar took a drink, fiddled with the straw, took another drink. He wanted to tell her about what happened out by the clock, but he didn’t know how to say it without sounding insane. He settled for telling her the temperature. “Mom, did you know it’s already 109 degrees outside?” He waited to see her reaction, wondering if the high temperature would have any effect on her.

  She didn’t look scared, she just looked tired. “I know kiddo, I heard on the news this morning it might top 112 before the end of the day.” She leaned on the counter and spoke real low. “You okay?”

  He knew she was referring to Luke. The sewage company had come and gone with their long cable and had found nothing in the pipe. One of the engineers believed there might be a fissure somewhere inside, a large enough crevice where Luke’s body had fallen and gotten wedged. The search had officially gone from being a rescue to a recovery.

  He met her concerned gaze, “Don’t worry mom, I’m okay.” He grabbed the bag of coins and slid off the stool. He said, “You look kind of pale are you sure you’re okay?”

  She faked a smile. “Don’t you worry about me,” And somehow managed to hold back from touching his sweaty hair. She grabbed the styrofoam cup instead and refilled it with water.

  After Jared made his exit her smile faded back to fatigue and her right hand slid into her pocket searching for the bottle of Advil. She had already taken six and it was just coming up on eleven. If the pain didn’t ease up she was going to need something stronger to get through the day.

  Cathy came over after Jared left. “Wasn’t he there when the Casteel kid disappeared?”

  Beth responded with tired patience, “Yes.”

  “What happened to his cute friend, the one that always comes in with him? I heard he was involved somehow.”

  Beth’s eyes iced over. She too had noted the way Cathy watched Barry. Sizing him up, like she was wondering what it would be like to break in a young boy.

  Cathy, unaware of Beth’s icy glare, kept talking. “…to be there when one of your friends dies, I just can’t imagine…” Her voice had the ring of sincerity, it even sounded like there was compassion, too much compassion. Each word was coated with it. Cathy was digging for information. Beth was certain she just wanted an inside scoop, something to talk about to her friends and to her customers. If she could preface her comments with “Beth said,” it would give her story more credibility.

  Beth tightened her mouth, “Cathy, why don’t you go press your breasts against the counter, I think Leo is missing the view.” She grabbed a coffee pot and walked away without waiting for a response.

  *

  The Stop-N-Wash was located two blocks up from the diner on the other side of the street. It was a long rectangular box with a door on each end. Washers lined one side of the room, dryers the other and peach colored tables went down the center. The two dryers on the end ran a little hotter than the others and for this reason were usually taken.

  The laundry mat was empty when Jar rode up on his bike. It was the heat, of course. He would have bet money the evenings were packed. Three ceiling fans, coated with blue dust, cut lazily through the thick air. The doors were propped open to allow air to draft through the long, hot room. The air inside the laundry mat did not stir.

  Still sulking over laundry duty, Jar overloaded the darks into one machine, knowing his mom would have split it into two loads. He put the whites in another and all the towels into a third. He set all three washers on cold, added the detergent and stepped outside to catch a breath.

  The empty street looked like a scene out of the “Twilight Zone.” A fine layer of dust coated the parked cars and a golden haze floated in the air. While he sat in the shade chewing on a piece of ice, he saw Suzy walking down the deserted street.

  Suzy had just left Faces, the bar her dad liked to frequent. It wasn’t a good day for a walk, the sun prickled hot against her skin and the thick air made it hard to catch a decent breath, but sitting in the back booth of a bar, listening to her dad and his friends tell crude jokes, got old. She wasn’t planning on going far, and had little hope of running into anyone her age so when she saw Jar sitting by the wall of the Stop-N-Wash, her flushed face brightened. A tentative smile appeared only to disappear when she came closer and he didn’t acknowledge her.

  She muttered, “Hey,” stepped over his legs and walked into the laundry mat. She stopped in front of the Coke machine and pretended to contemplate the selection. She’d already had three glasses of coke at the bar. She checked her pocket, counting out the coins.

  She returned carrying two cokes. She handed one to Jar and sat down next to him, uninvited. Surprised, he said, “Thanks,” popped the lid and took a long drink. She held her can against her hot temple trying to cool off.

  They sat together, the silence between them as thick as the hot air, neither one willing to bring up what happened down at the swimming hole. Jar pretended to read the Auto trader he’d taken off the newspaper rack, while sipping the cola Suzy had bought him.

  Suzy finally broke the silence. “You seen Barry ’round?”

  Jar turned a page; his response barely audible. “No.”

  She went silent again. It had been two weeks since Luke disappeared. Everyone knew Barry’s dad was heavy handed with the belt, but Barry had never been absent for more than a few days. Even then, when he finally did make his appearance, he’d be all cocky and annoying, to the point where you started to think his dad should have hit him a f
ew more times. It was no secret she didn’t care much for Barry, but he was Jar’s best friend and she would have done anything to comfort Jar.

  She touched him lightly on the arm offering what little assurance she could muster. “I’m sure he’ll be around soon.”

  He just nodded, not bothering to look up. She thought about leaving, but the truth was, it was either go and sit in a smoke-filled bar and listen to Stevie Nicks sing Leather and Lace again or hang out here with Jar. The first scenario wasn’t very appealing but at least the bar had air-conditioning.

  She was teetering toward the air-conditioned bar when Jar finally spoke.

  “You think they’ll ever find him?”

  She wasn’t sure if he was talking about Barry or Luke.

  “Can you imagine how his mom feels? She doesn’t even have a body to bury.” His voice cracked, she looked away to give him a moment to recover, but he didn’t even try to wipe away the tears. Her own throat tightened in response.

  His lip trembled a little when he spoke. “Something’s not right. None of this makes sense. Luke’s gone. Hell, Barry’s probably dead too because of his goddamn father and that stupid ball... and today…” Jar stopped short. He was about to blurt out the bank clock had winked at him, had given him a little insider information. “It was gonna get mighty hot, mighty fuckin’ hot.” He looked over at Suzy who already looked worried and finished softly, “…and this heat…how can it be this goddamn hot?”

  She didn’t notice his long pause or the change in his tone. What she noticed was her own heart ached and more than anything she wanted to touch his face and somehow reassure him everything was going to be all right. There was nothing she could say about Luke. Everyone in town knew the rescue mission had been officially renamed “the recovery mission” and gossip at the bar indicated city council had voted against tearing up Flatrock Bridge. She said, “Come on, Barry will be back around soon. You know him, he’s as strong as a horse, his dad can’t break him… how many times has he tried?”

  Jar made eye contact for the first time. “I don’t think so. Not this time. I’ve got a bad feeling about Barry, I don’t think he’s anywhere near okay.”

  She settled back down against the wall. Jar’s conviction hit her stomach like a rock and she suddenly felt tired. “You think he’s dead, don’t you?”

  He shook his head, “No, somewhere close, maybe to the point he’s wishing it, but he’s not dead, not yet.”

  “What makes you so sure, Jar?”

  His eyes were intense almost feverish. “Promise you won’t laugh.”

  She crossed her heart, solemnly.

  “I keep dreaming about him. Only they’re not regular dreams, I just see flashes of images, like a big puzzle. I see him running through the house, he’s pale, and scared looking for a place to hide.”

  “What about the police? Why don’t we just call them, see if they’ll go up and take a look?”

  Jar threw her a look filled with scorn. “The chief didn’t even believe us about Luke. Now I’m supposed to tell him Barry’s in trouble and I know this because I keep having weird dreams?” He hadn’t even told his own mother about the dreams. They weren’t just about Barry, sometimes there were strange people more shadow than solid and there was a little girl scribbling furiously with a brown crayon. It was the reoccurring dream of the little girl with the haunted eyes that had him filling milk cartons with water.

  Suzy looked in the direction of Barry’s house. You couldn’t see it from the Stop-N-Wash but you could see the hill where it was built. “I’ve spent so much time wondering how it would be to have that kind of money. It never occurred to me what it would be like to have Griffin Tanner as a father.”

  “Barry doesn’t talk about it much.” Inside, the washing machines came to a stop. Jar got up and went inside to change out the load. She followed him and watched as he pulled a tangle of clothes free from an overloaded washer. She offered her opinion. “You know, they really don’t get clean if you overstuff the load like that.”

  He threw her a derisive look and for a moment he looked just like Barry. She put her unopened can of coke on a table and asked, “Can I help?” She didn’t wait for a response, instead she grabbed a rolling cart and moved it toward the second washer. She was about to open the lid when Jar yelled, “NO, not those!’

  She peeked inside and saw the whites. Realizing the source for his concern she said, “Don’t worry, I won’t look at your jockey shorts.”

  He reached over and slammed the lid down. He pointed at the third machine. “If you want to help, do the towels.”

  Trying to stifle her laughter, she unloaded the towels into the rolling cart and rolled them across the dirty, tiled floor. He was about to point out the last two dryers but she headed over to them on her own. “You know these last two run hotter, right?”

  He nodded and said, “Yeah.”

  She hung out while the clothes dried, chatting about the different teachers from the middle school. Before they knew it, they were pulling the clothes out of the dryer and starting to fold. They were finishing the last load when an ambulance screeched past.

  Suzy spoke the question on both of their minds. “Barry?”

  Jar waited, listening for the siren. In the distance they could still hear the faint warble. It wasn’t moving away, it had stopped. Jar looked at Suzy. “They stopped.” He folded another shirt, his head cocked to the side. “I don’t think it’s gone to Barry’s house. I don’t think you could hear the siren from here if it did.”

  Folding the last towel, she placed it on top of the stack and asked, “Is there any way we could check?”

  He looked at the pay phone by the door. She asked, “Do you have his phone number?” He gave her a look that was the equivalent of “duh,” then grabbed one of the quarters out of the baggy.

  “What if no one answers?”

  He tried to sound confident, “Someone will answer.” But he didn’t think so. He’d been trying to reach Barry for the past two weeks and each time the phone rang four times and for a heart stopping moment he would hear his friend’s voice, but it was always just the answering machine.

  Jar slid the quarter through the slot and punched in his friend’s number. On the other end the phone rang, once, twice, three times, then four. Jar waited, expecting the answering machine to click on. He could save the quarter if he hung up, but he wanted to hear his friend’s cocky voice even if it was just a recording. Suzy was watching him, mouthing the words, “Is he there?”

  Waving her away, Jar turned, and was about to cradle the receiver when someone picked up. Jar let out a deep breath and said, “Barry?”

  He could hear someone breathing on the other end. Jar gripped the hand piece harder, struggling to stay calm, “Barry please, just let me know you’re all right.”

  Whoever was on the other end let out a deep breath and whispered, “Is this Jar?”

  Jar’s eyes flew open. It wasn’t Barry, but it was someone in Barry’s room, talking on Barry’s phone. Trying to contain his excitement he responded, “Yes, yes it is.”

  Another ragged breath, like the person was struggling. To do the right thing?

  A low whisper, barely audible, “He’s alive. That’s all I can say.” There was a loud click, followed by dead air.

  Jar slowly moved the hand piece away from his ear. He was alive. He cradled the receiver, and sagged against the phone. Barry was alive.

  Chapter Seven

  Junction, Texas

  Maryanne Cook dropped the phone back into its cradle as if burned by the plastic. She looked at the doorway, expecting Mr. Tanner to be framed there, ready to reprimand her. “I heard what you said. You violated our agreement now please leave the premises immediately.” But the doorway remained empty, as it had for the past two weeks. Mr. Tanner had not once come to check on his son.

  She didn’t mind his absence, his presence and his complete lack of remorse made her uncomfortable. In her experience most abusive men cam
e to the door with hangdog expressions, wringing their hands, exuding remorse. She’d heard all manner of excuses, some admitted to the abuse, “I don’t know what came over me. It’s never happened before.” “I just lost control, it was like being possessed.” And some were outright liars, “She fell down the stairs.” “She tripped and hit the corner of the table.”

  Mostly it was men who called, high profile men in business or politics who didn’t want to answer questions in an emergency room. She’d go and patch up a bloody nose, stitch a cut under an eye, wrap broken ribs. Once in a complete turnabout she’d gotten a call from a councilwoman in San Antonio who had fairly knocked the shit out of her husband with a heavy ashtray. It shouldn’t have mattered but it felt nice stitching up a man for a change.

  Most of the time it went smooth but there were a few cases that threatened to derail her private practice, she’d had a distraught father call about a shaken baby—but that one didn’t go well, there’s no being discreet with a dead baby.

  They all called using the same phrase, “I heard you’re discreet.” She imagined it was like a prostitute turning her first trick. Once you got past the unpleasant thought of being bought, it all had a certain rational symmetry. A person in need; another person willing to provide a service, where was the harm?

  Outside of his initial phone call, inquiring about her ability to be discreet Mr. Tanner did not act like any of her other clients. When he came to the door he didn’t offer any explanations or any apologies, he escorted her briskly through the foyer and up the stairs, showing her to her room as if she were a houseguest and not a nurse phoned in the middle of the night to fix whatever mess he had left her. She prodded him with a condescending tone, “And the patient Mr. Tanner? Where would—she be?”