A Man of Honor

by Loree Lough

  “She’ll start classes at the U of M in the fall.”

  “Fall, nothin’,” Kylie said, snapping her fingers. “More like Au-u-gust. I can’t believe how this summer has just gone by.”

  Dusty and Grace exchanged a knowing glance, and Kylie said, “What?”

  “Oh, nothing,” they said together. And when they laughed, Kylie said, “Oh, brother. I’m surrounded by mental illness.”

  “You know, the world is filled with crazy people,” Grace said.

  Dusty grabbed another cookie, and using it as a pointer, said, “Had a professor in college, and on the first day of class, do you know what he said?”

  “Are you Goofball or Doofus?” Kylie guessed.

  “No . . . but that’s funny.” He looked at Grace. “Who knew? The girl has a sense of humor!”

  “It’s the nice eyes,” Grace said, grinning.

  Kylie groaned. “So what did your professor say?”

  “He said, ‘Crazy people marry crazy people, and they have crazy kids, who grow up to marry crazy people, and they have—”

  Grace said, “Wait just a minute, here. How could you and Gavin have been in the same Psych class? Isn’t he, like, ten years older than you?”

  “Nine.” He frowned. “Why?”

  “Because he told me the same story.”

  Jesse walked into the room and helped himself to a cookie. “So what’s goin’ on?”

  “Nothing,” Kylie said, grinning. Then she grabbed Jesse’s hand. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour of the place.”

  Backsides leaning against the sink, Dusty and Grace stood side by side, munching cookies. This felt good. Felt right. Uncle Brock and Aunt Anita had enjoyed a relationship like this . . . comfortable enough in one another’s company that they didn’t feel the need to fill every silence with banter. They’d had a lot in common, the way he and Grace shared a genuine concern for the boys, and their faith in God, and a love for chocolate chip cookies.

  “So what do you think of Jesse?”

  “Well,” she said, “he has very nice eyes.”

  They were laughing uncontrollably when Mitch and the boys, and Kylie and Jesse joined them in the kitchen.

  26

  In the days since Jesse’s arrival, the hard edge of his personality had softened slightly, but there were still moments when he seemed wary and distant . . . except with Kylie. He got along well enough with the other boys that Dusty had Mitch help him move the boy’s things into the brothers’ room, just as Grace had suggested. A wise decision, as it turned out, since it didn’t look nearly as obvious when he took the boys back to Last Chance to pick up the mail . . . and to make sure Los Toros de Lidia hadn’t decided to use the siding as a canvas for gang graffiti.

  Today, right after breakfast, while Mitch took the others for their regular dental checkup, he and Jesse would drive to the old neighborhood. If things went the way Dusty hoped they would, fixing leaky faucets and oiling squeaky doors would give them the one-on-one bond they’d missed out on the night Jesse moved in.

  He’d balked when Dusty told him to strap on a helmet, and didn’t think much of riding the back of the chopper, but his attitude changed once Dusty opened her up, full throttle. There were miles of winding, hilly country roads that cut straight through Maryland horse country. Lush fields, dotted with sleek thoroughbreds and Black Angus cattle, stretched as far as the eye could see. It surprised Dusty a little that the boy who claimed to hail from bluegrass country behaved like he’d never seen anything bigger than a pit bull in his life. When Dusty threw down the kickstand beside the Last Chance garage, Jesse all but exploded with questions about horsepower and handbrakes and the cost of a motorcycle license. Dusty answered him honestly . . . avoiding the fact that the Harley was a big, powerful piece of equipment that, under certain conditions, required upper body strength, leg muscles, and clear-headedness. Ten years and fifty pounds from now, Jesse might grow into a machine like this, but right now, he was just a scrawny kid with unearned confidence and a bad attitude.

  If he showed some promise today, maybe he’d let him straddle the hog—while the engine idled—to get a feel for how much power he’d be expected to control. If he didn’t? Maybe wanting to would give him the incentive to exercise some responsibility.

  He put him to work in the upstairs hall, with instructions to take the tub faucet apart and replace the worn washers. It had only been a few weeks since his release from the hospital, so Dusty loosened things up to ensure Jesse wouldn’t pull a muscle or shatter a healing bone. “When you’re finished here,” he said, “you’ll find an oilcan under the kitchen sink. I’m hoping you’ll have better luck getting rid of that squeak in the back door than I did.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “And if you finish before I get back, you can give the mail box hinge a few squirts.”

  “Where you goin’?”

  “Out back, to mow the lawn,” he said. “And out front, unless I run out of gas first.”

  “Oh.”

  Something—Dusty couldn’t put his finger on it—didn’t feel right, and he gave a thought to letting the lawn go for another week so that he could work inside with the kid. But how would that look, so soon after his arrival, especially when he’d made slow but steady progress?

  “There’s water in the fridge and chips in the pantry,” he said from the doorway, “so make yourself at home.”

  “Right,” he heard Jesse say as he started down the stairs.

  What choice did he have but to trust him to the Lord?

  It took longer than usual to get the old mower revved up, and it started with a pop and a puff of smoke. That money from John would buy a new one, but Dusty wasn’t sure they’d be here next season.

  He cut on an angle, because when the job was done, it looked like a ball field. Once he’d stowed the mower in the garage and swept grass clippings from the walk and driveway, he headed for the kitchen. The door didn’t squeak when he opened it, Dusty noticed, smiling as he grabbed a soda from the fridge. He popped the tab and took a swig, then set it aside to splash water on his face and neck. The mailbox lid didn’t squeak, either. “Hey Jesse,” he called up the stairs. “Good job.”

  No answer.

  “How you coming with that faucet?”

  Nothing but the steady tick, tick, tick of the mantle clock.

  Dusty took the stairs two at a time. What if Jesse had re-injured himself somehow, or tripped on a loose tile, and hit his head on the tub?

  The tools were in there, right where he’d left them on the vanity beside the faucet washers, but Jesse wasn’t. Dusty looked into every room, in the closets, out the windows. Then he raced downstairs and did the same thing in every room on the first floor. “Jesse,” he hollered, “if you want to try your hand at driving the Harley, you’d better get in here. . . .”

  Still nothing.

  He ran next door, but old man Isaacs hadn’t seen him. Neither had Miller or Shipley. That left one possibility, and the thought of it made him sick to his stomach. It was stupid, going there alone, but what choice did he have?

  When he climbed the porch steps, Gonzo was rocking in a threadbare blue recliner, walking a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. Two of his soldiers were there, too, one straddling the railing, the other stretched out on the welcome mat, his face hidden under an iridescent baseball cap, matching high-tops crossed at the ankle.

  “Lose something, preacher?”

  “I brought a boy here. Fourteen, fifteen.” He held his hand parallel to the floor and level with his chest. “About this tall,” he said, “blond hair. He’s new, so he doesn’t know the area.”

  Gonzo removed the toothpick and inspected its pointy end. “If I see anybody looks like that, I’ll let you know.”

  The guy on the floor crossed his feet the other way, the heel of his shoe landing with a sudden thump that it startled Dusty.

  “A little jumpy today, are we?” Gonzo said, and flicked the toothpick so that it landed
at Dusty’s feet.

  He knew something. For all he knew, Jesse was inside, playing cards with Lenny and Quinton.

  “You got a cell phone, preacher?”

  Dusty nodded . . . about all he could do, under the circumstances.

  “You should report this new boy of yours as a runaway. Before he gets too far from home. You know?”

  Oh, he’d report something, all right. And when he came back with the cops, they’d have a search warrant.

  Fists clenching and unclenching, he turned to leave . . . and Gonzo got up, leaned casually on the post that supported the sagging porch roof. The guy who’d been sprawled across the welcome mat stood, too, and Dusty saw half a dozen faces lined up in the windows behind them.

  “Maybe you should pay more attention to your special deliveries, preacher . . .” He laughed, and so did the others. “. . . because next time I send you a message, it won’t be so subtle.”

  If he considered a brick through a window subtle, Dusty didn’t want to know what his definition of obvious looked like. He knew this much: Jesse had been here, might still be here, and if Dusty did anything the Los Toros de Lidia saw as a threat, the boy would pay the price. Much as he wanted to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off Gonzo’s face, he walked away.

  Head down, he ground his molars together and prayed, because if anything happened to Jesse at the hands of these gangsters, it would be on his head.

  27

  He’d been standing in that same spot for hours, staring silently out the window, as if he believed a miracle would happen, and Jesse would come walking up the drive. Grace pressed close to his side, rested her hand on his forearm. “Lunch is ready.”

  “Go ahead and eat without me. I’m not hungry.”

  “But the boys are waiting for you to say the blessing.”

  “I can’t, Grace. They’d see right through me.”

  She was afraid to ask what that meant.

  “I can’t wrap my mind around it. ‘Ask and you’ll receive.’ It’s a promise as old as those hills out there. I’ve asked ’til I’m hoarse. So when does the receiving part kick in, huh?”

  She’d never heard him talk this way—not when he spoke of losing loved ones, not even when he’d told her why he’d left the Marines and the police department—and Grace didn’t mind admitting how much it scared her. She squeezed between him and the windowsill and forced him to meet her eyes. “You can’t keep this up. It’s been three days, by my count, since you’ve had anything to eat. And you can’t tell me you’ve been sleeping, either, because those dark circles under your eyes keep getting darker.”

  Nodding, he looked over her shoulder. “Remember what Kylie said the night Jesse came to us, when I gave her a fit for staying up all night to work on her college essay?”

  For a moment, she envied little girls, who could stamp their feet and cry when things didn’t go right in their worlds. What in the world did something Kylie said a week ago have to do with Jesse, running away? “That she’d make up for lost time after she’d turned in her paperwork.”

  “Right.” His voice was a soft monotone. “Well, I’ll sleep when he comes home.”

  “Torturing yourself isn’t good for you or the boys. They’re worried sick about you. And scared, too.” She crossed both arms over her chest and said, “We’re all scared, and if you ask me, you’re being selfish.”

  Every muscle tensed as she waited for him to say he hadn’t asked her. Instead, he hung his head. “Don’t mean to be,” he ground out. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve done everything humanly possible to find that boy.” She counted on her fingers. “Reported him missing, called the police morning and night to see if there were any updates, walked and drove through every neighborhood between here and the Inner Harbor, asking questions, showing his picture, hanging flyers. . . .” She squeezed his arm, then gave it a shake. “Do you remember his first night here, and how concerned you were that he wouldn’t fit in . . . ?”

  Dusty exhaled a sad sigh.

  “. . . and how you kept saying, day after day that this kid was different, that something wasn’t right, and you didn’t know if you could reach this one?”

  “Never should have said those things. Never should have thought them. He deserved better than that from me. From us. After all he’d been through, he had a right to expect we’d reach him, no matter what it took. But you’re right . . . I had doubts, and Jesse wasn’t a dumb kid. He knew I didn’t have faith in him.”

  “Stop talking about him in the past tense. You don’t know that he’s dead!”

  He nodded again, more slowly this time. Because he agreed, at least a little bit?

  “I’m praying as hard as you are, just like those boys out there in the kitchen. We’re all hoping that he comes back, safe and sound, and soon. But if he doesn’t?” She gave his arm another shake. “If he doesn’t, well, it won’t be because you didn’t look hard enough for him. It’ll be because he doesn’t want to be found.”

  His eyes shone with unshed tears, and she could see that he was struggling to keep from breaking down. Eyes closed, he tilted his head toward the ceiling. Praying? she wondered. Or searching his mind for a gentle way to tell her to go away, butt out, leave him alone?

  “You’re wrong, Grace. I wish to God you weren’t, but you’re dead wrong.” Hands on her shoulders, he said, “If he doesn’t come back, it’s on me, because I put him out there, where . . . where. . . .” He bit off the rest of the sentence, as if unable to think the words, let alone say them.

  “He was easy pickings for those gangsters . . . young and naïve, and looking for someplace where he could feel he belonged. And I took him over there, and left him alone. And Gonzalez knew that. And like the scavenger he is, he swooped in and took him.”

  Was he even aware that he kept referring to Jesse in the past tense? What made him so certain that Jesse was dead? “You don’t know that. You can’t know that. Only God can—”

  “I know what I felt, standing in front of that maniac’s house.”

  He began to tremble, like a man who’d been carrying a too-heavy burden for far too long.

  She couldn’t stand to watch him suffer this way, especially for something that wasn’t his fault. “Come sit with me, okay?”

  He started to object, but she silenced him with a finger, pressed to his lips. “I didn’t ask for your sake,” she fibbed. “I’ve been on my feet all day, and my legs are about to give out.”

  Just as she’d expected, he complied. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a sandwich, a glass of water when she went looking for him, because maybe he’d eat something . . . if he believed it was for her benefit. More than one way to skin a cat, she thought.

  Grace let him get settled, and, standing beside him, said, “Don’t you dare move from there. I haven’t had anything to eat all day, and I’m famished.”

  Then she darted into the kitchen, where the boys were eating and talking quietly. She knew them well enough to believe they’d handle the truth more easily than empty “everything will be fine” promises, and brought them up to speed on Dusty’s state of mind. “I’m going to try and get some food into him,” she said, grabbing a sandwich from the platter in the middle of the table. “So pray like crazy that he snaps out of this, fast.”

  She read the concern on their faces . . . and the hope in their eyes. “And while you’re at it, pray for Jesse, too, okay?”

  A chorus of “you got it” and “count on us” echoed around the room as she grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, making her want to hug them all.

  So she did. “You’re the best,” she said, kissing cheeks and mussing hair. “Lord in heaven knows how much I love the lot of you!”

  Then she raced back to the living room. Thankfully, Dusty hadn’t moved, save to lean back against the sofa cushions, eyes closed. When she put the sandwich plate and water on the table, he said, “No need to be so quiet. I’m not asleep.”

  Grinning slightly, Grace climbed int
o his lap. “Now let’s see you go back to gawking out that window!”

  One side of his mouth lifted, ever so briefly. He looked so lost, so miserable that she wanted to absorb his pain. When she wrapped her arms around him, Dusty burrowed his face into the crook of her neck . . .

  . . . and quietly wept.

  He’d always been the strong one, the guy who knew exactly what to say and do in every situation. Friends, neighbors, the boys, and, yes, even Grace turned to Dusty for advice, for comfort and reassurance. Lord, she prayed, give me a glimpse into his heart, if only long enough to know what he needs to hear. She refused to spout empty platitudes, like “Please don’t worry” and “It’ll be all right” or “Put your faith God.” He deserved better than that. So much better than that!

  Faith. . . .

  Dusty had displayed more of it than anyone she’d ever known. He credited faith for getting him off the crooked path he’d once walked, and readily admitted faith was what kept him on the straight and narrow. If he stopped believing in that, what would become of him?

  Eyes closed, she held her breath. Every muscle tensed and every nerve end jangled as she waited, waited for divine guidance.

  But instead of the confidence-building Scriptures she’d expected God to whisper in her heart, Grace heard Dusty’s tortured, ragged voice, admitting that he’d never felt more helpless. Not on 9/11 when his unit got word that America was under attack. Not days later, when he found out his beloved uncle died in the North Tower. Not even when he realized he was stuck in a war zone, fighting for people who might be blood kin to the terrorists who’d turned the whole world upside down.

  “Don’t you get it, Grace?” he ranted. “If Jesse’s alive, he’s out there somewhere, feeling just like that. I was a grown man, a seasoned soldier when it happened to me. But Jesse . . . Jesse’s just a kid! A kid who believes he isn’t lovable, because in his whole short life, nobody ever showed him any love.”

  The fear and fury and guilt he’d been holding onto for so long poured out in the form of tears that soaked her shirt and sobs that wracked his body. Maybe, upon hearing her prayer, God had decided she was the one in need of guidance. This was a divine reminder that while Dusty’s heart had been true, right from the start, she’d judged him uncaring and cold, because he’d taught himself to cope with the ugliness of death and the pain of loss by hiding it, behind a rough exterior and gruff words.