“Pretty nice of you,” I suggest.
“What?”
“Fixing Dickey’s car.”
“I had nothing to do with it,” he denies, but then winks.
“Right, but if you had, it would have been a nice gesture.”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” he declares, heading inside.
When the Banks go under, the factory closes, and half the people in town lose everything. Several of the houses on our street are foreclosed on. The Piggly Wiggly closes for a week, but then opens when some out of towner tosses enough money at it to keep it going. Without the pharmacy and groceries, it provides, people would be forced to drive over an hour to get supplies.
A bank named Lehman Brothers files for bankruptcy on my sixteenth birthday, creating a pall about town and pretty much everywhere but our little cul-de-sac. Graham and his people could care less about the ongoing financial meltdown; as a matter of fact, Cain contends it made them money. My special day is basically overwritten by the headlines. Not like I am used to big parties anyway.
When I arrive home from school the day after my birthday, Graham and Izzy are sitting around the big table watching Fox News and eating what’s left of my birthday cake. A small flat screen television has been moved from the kitchen, where my mother watches it, to the table. A blonde woman on Fox is interviewing Nancy Pelosi, who is blaming everyone but herself. This is a strange occurrence as Graham generally only comes over on Sundays. Outside of an odd visit once or twice, I have never arrived home from school to find any of them here. When Graham notices me they are drawn from the flickering screen.
“Afternoon,” Graham greets me, sliding his feet off the chair next to his.
“What’s up?”
“Hiding,” Izzy grumbles, then puts her head down on the table and pretends to pound it up and down.
“From what?” I shrug, tossing my book bag down and pulling up a chair.
“Our group is working on a construction project West of here,” he starts, but then winds up watching Izzy. They share a laugh, then he finishes his thought. “Our group is working on a construction project West of here. We will be shuttling back and forth a bit.”
“What sort of construction?” I ask, picking at the left over cake with a plastic fork.
“Huge complex, Lance will be staying out there every other week. Probably T-Buc and the others will go out now and then.”
“And you?” I mumble through a mouth full of cake.
“I’ll be here.”
“You and Mr. Dibble,” I poke at him.
“Yes with Mr. Dibble,” he acknowledges, frowning at me.
“And me,” Izzy groans, before hoping up and stomping to the kitchen. “I can’t possibly be allowed to go anywhere.”
“What gives?”
“She and Lance had a huge fight,” he whispers. “She wanted to take her turn out at the construction site, but he won’t let her go.”
“So she’s over here at my place?”
“I got in between them and thought cake might calm her down.”
“Why don’t you go out to the site, or whatever it is?” I ask, licking my fork.
“Because the Fail Safe can’t go anywhere,” Izzy complains as she passes back through the dining area towards the front door. “I might as well have volunteered for Fail Safe since I’m basically a captive,” she growls, going out the front door and letting the screen bang behind her.
I hold out my hands and shrug, having no idea what has just occurred. Graham leans back in his chair and pulls the curtain forward just a bit. He wobbles there peeking out for a full minute then drops the curtain and returns his gaze to the table.
“Women,” he shrugs.
“What’s the Fail Safe?” I ask, sticking the fork in the top of the last hunk of cake and pushing myself back from the table.
A worried look passes over his face, but is quickly replaced by a smile. Watching him, I get the feeling the smile is well practiced. What is he not telling me?
“It’s nothing, he assures me, dismissing my question with a wave. “She and I go back a long way.”
Pondering the situation, the only thing that seems plausible is that Graham may be Izzy’s fall back guy. Maybe when she and Lance fight, she runs back to Graham. All sorts of scenarios run through my mind, but none that seem to explain this odd conversation. Although, I wouldn’t mind being her fall back guy.
“You into Izzy?” I suggest nodding in the direction of the door. “So what, join the club.”
“Oh boy,” he snorts. “Best not to open that can of worms.”
“Why not?”
He stares at me across the table then his posture softens. “You into Izzy?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows as he waits for an answer.
“Of course not,” I blurt out quickly, but to be honest I cannot imagine why any man would not be into her. My face feels flushed just thinking these words. Ah, but were I a little older.
“Right, well don’t be,” he warns.
Before I can muster a reply, shouting can be heard from the street. Graham hops up and peeks out the window. Seeing something he doesn’t like, he moves to the door and heads out. Pulling the curtains back I glimpse Izzy and Lance shouting at each other as they stand in their own front lawn. Before Graham can get to them, Lance grabs her by the throat and stops her yelling. Her hands come up to her neck, but he backs her up slowly. The look on his face is terrifying.
I flash back to a myriad of memories where Jarod beat up on my mother and feel sick. My stomach turns and cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. When Graham arrives Lance holds out a finger in his direction which stops him from interceding on Izzy’s behalf. Why doesn’t he get Lance off her? He certainly didn’t pause when Jarrod hit my Mom.
Determined to stop this, I head out to the porch, and arrive in time see Lance release her neck. Gasping, Izzy drops into the grass holding her throat. She snarls at Lance, who frowns and goes back in the house. Graham bends down to comfort Izzy, who buries her face into his shoulder and appears to cry. I freeze on the porch steps, not wanting to interrupt their private huddle.
“What’s going on?” my mother asks quietly from inside the door.
“Nothing,” I blurt, not wanting her to see any domestic violence. I have spent enough time trying to re-integrate her back into society after her brush with Jarrod. I don’t need her seeing this and regressing back to whispering everything.
“Sounded like something?”
“Nope, nothing to see here,” I remark, turning her by the arm in the direction of the dining area. “What should we do about this lonely piece of cake?”
…
Dickey’s mother passes away a week before Christmas. My mother, while able to speak aloud, still fears leaving the house. Izzy and Graham go with me to the funeral. T-Buck and Graham have a verbal altercation before we leave, but after some loud words he doesn’t try to stop Graham from accompanying me. I am surprised T-Buck doesn’t want to go along, but with Lance out at the construction site this week he stays home to watch over the flock.
I had never met Dickey’s mother, thus the stark face of her corpse has little or no effect on me. I do feel bad for her son, who stands by the door shaking hands as people leave. It is surprising how many people attend. There have to be seventy people milling about the Saint Catherine Catholic Church downtown. It would seat twice as many, but since his mother never left the house it feels like a good turnout.
Dickey wears a worn black suit jacket a size too small for him. The sleeves are several inches from his wrists and the one button he managed to get buttoned looks like it may pop at any moment. No dress pants, just black jeans and his work boots. I imagine him wearing this jacket as a child and try to picture his life with both parents and a bright future. How old is Dickey? The plant has been closed since September and I am not sure what he’s doing for an income. I imagine him delivering pizzas, but doubt many of the towns folk can afford one these days.
> My mother is hosting a wake after the funeral, so we all head out in advance of Dickey. It’s dark when we pull up the street, but notice Lance’s car sitting in his driveway. Graham and Izzy share a whisper, but neither speaks to me. We pile out of Grahams truck and head inside to discover Lance already sitting at the round table drinking a beer. A half dozen other guests are milling about as well. Izzy ignores Lance and goes into the kitchen with my mother. Graham joins Lance in a beer at the table.
My mother instructs me to grab a seat on the porch and greet people as they arrive. There are only thirty or so actual attendees to the gathering, but the house feels crowded and full of life. After a half hour Dickey pulls up. He looks sullen as one would expect. Lighting up a cigarette, he stands out on the front lawn in silence. I assume he will go inside and make an appearance, but after a second smoke he starts back to his car without saying a word.
“Suh, suh, say thanks to Missy for me.”
Before I can answer, Lance comes out the door holding up a hand. Izzy and Graham follow, but hang back. Lance looks odd in dress slacks and a white shirt as he always wears his cargo pants and leather jacket. His man-bun has been replaced by a pony tail on this special occasion. To me, he also seems a bit inebriated. He catches up to Dickey in the yard and puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Should we do something?” I whisper to Izzy.
She shrugs and frowns, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Sorry about your mom Dickey,” Lance offers a bit too cheerfully.
Dickey nods. Choosing not to speak in these situations is a self-defense mechanism with him. If it can be answered by a nod or a head shake use that. No reason to advertise your handicap if you don’t have to.
“Got a smoke?” Lance inquires.
Looking confused, Dickey hands one over and lights it. Once he does, Lance blows smoke out the side of his mouth. Does Lance smoke? He doesn’t look like he needs to cough or anything? Most people who try to fake it cough like crazy, but not Lance.
“Heard the plant shut down,” Lance states, pointing the cigarette in the direction of the town. “That’s where you were working wasn’t it?”
Dickey nods.
“With your mom’s passing, I’d imagine you’re probably going to lose her benefit checks,” he suggests in a blunt way, using his cigarette to highlight the points of emphasis.
“Leave him alone,” Izzy begs, stepping off the porch and pulling on his sleeve.
“Just wait a minute,” he mutters drunkenly, pulling his arm out of her grasp.
“It, it, it’s okay Miss.”
“What I meant to ask was if you were seeking employment?”
“Aye, aye, I gotta find something,” he shrugs, looking at his work boots as he talks.
“As it turns out, I am looking for someone,” Lance announces a hand tapping Dickeys shoulder. “I need a courier to go between here and my job site.”
“Cah, cah, curry, what?”
“Courier,” Lance repeats slowly. “A driver to shuttle packages between here and my jobsite. It’s a long drive, but I’d pay well for the right man.”
Dickey stares blankly at Lance. It’s like watching the Big Bad Wolf standing over Eeyore.
“Are you the right man Dickey?”
I’m sharing glances with Graham and it appears he may have known what Lance was planning to ask. I doubt this was Graham’s idea, but he is signaling me to go along. Izzy backs up the steps and joins us once again. The scent of lavender floats in the air around me as she stands nearby. I enjoy it, but try not to appear as if I am sniffing her.
“Suh, suh, so I do what?” Dickey demands, shaking his head as if his hair was wet. “Just drive all the time?”
“Yes, you’d have to be available around the clock. What did they pay you over at the cement place?”
“That’s not relevant to this,” Izzy barks, drawing a nasty glare from Lance. “Just make the kid an offer.”
“Fine,” Lance growls, but then puts on a happy car salesman face. “What say you to a grand a week?”
There is a pause while we wait to hear Dickey’s reply. I’d imagine that’s twice what he was making before and he won’t be paying taxes on this. Izzy starts to speak, but Graham taps her arm from behind and shakes his head. What’s with all the silent gestures here?
“Thuh, thuh, that with me paying for the gas or you?” he challenges, surprising us with such an astute question.
“You buy the gas and I’ll give you a car,” Lance counters, “and an extra fifty per round-trip.”
“Oh, I, Oh,” he replies, but verbally falters. “Guh, guh, got me a car already, but you could toss in for some tires, we’d be square.”
“T-Buck can get you anything you need.”
“Thuh, thuh, then we got a deal,” he agrees, putting out a hand.
Lance shakes it and glances back at Izzy with a look of disapproval. Izzy wipes the side of her nose with her middle finger and pushes past me back inside the party. I look to Graham for some context, but he just shrugs and rolls his eyes. These people are a soap opera.
“You will have to stay in your mother’s house,” Lance stipulates. “I need you close by.”
“Thuh, thuh, that,” Dickey stammers through a toothy smile. “That’s okay. With this fancy driver job I outta be able to fight off the bank.”
“Come see me tomorrow and I’ll get you paid up front for the first week,” Lance orders. “Nice having you onboard Dickey.”
“Yuh, yuh, yessir,” Dickey answers enthusiastically.
Lance grins and smokes, flicking his ash to one side. He looks pleased at Dickey using the words Yes Sir. I imagine he likes to feel in charge of everyone. Dickey seems confused now. He’s happy at the outcome, but at a lost for a direction. I assume he was going to go home and sit alone to ponder his misfortune. That’s what I would have done. In this case, he pats Lance on the shoulder and heads inside.
“Sup, sup, suppose I should go in and make an appearance,” he whispers to me as he passes. “Besides I am powerful hungry.”
Once he’s gone, it leaves just Graham and myself with Lance. It’s full on dark now, the only light is the yellowish glow from several street lights that circle the cul-de-sac. Lance finishes smoking and tosses the butt in the grass.
“Since when does the Fail Safe just wander off when I’m not here?” Lance demands. “How was the funeral by the way?”
“Let’s not do this here,” Graham snaps. “In front of the kid.”
“We are on his front porch now aren’t we,” an inebriated Lance argues. “Can’t just order him to leave?”
“I’ll go,” I whisper to Graham.
“No, that’s fine Don,” Lance blusters, waving us off with both hands.
“It’s Dylan,” I correct him.
“Right, Dylan, sorry” he mumbles. “Just get back to me on that Graham. You signed up to be the guy. So let me know. Are you the frigging guy or not?”
I want to yell something back, but Graham puts up a hand. Lance stumbles to his own house and disappears inside, lights coming on in the windows as he moves about.
“Go back inside and find Izzy,” Graham orders me. “Get her a glass of wine and don’t let her go home right away.”
“What’s with this Fail Safe thing again?” I demand as he turns me by the arm, shoving me back inside.
“Find Izzy, give her wine, keep her here until Lance falls asleep,” he repeats his instructions.
“Where are you going?” I argue while being guided back through the door.
“To check on Mr. Dibble and stay away from Lance,” he chuckles. “Do me one favor though.”
“Yeah,” I pout, looking through the screen door. “What?”
“After you ply her with drink don’t forget to send her home.”
“Right.”
I watch him trudge across the lawns between our homes and let himself inside. His door is always locked. The garage light is on, meaning Mr. Dibble is hard at wor
k. There are several large machines inside with white plastic hanging everywhere. I wonder what the mysterious Mr. Dibble is working on tonight.
“They leave?” Izzy whispers in my ear causing me to bang my head on the door frame.
“Crap, you scared me half to death,” I blurt out.
The scent of lavender wafts around my head for the second time tonight, leaving me somewhat preoccupied. Izzy always smells nice, but up close its intoxicating. Girls remain partially a mystery for the time being. Turning, I see Izzy grinning in a way that indicates she senses my awkwardness.
“Sorry, why don’t you bring the living half of you in here and join the party,” she whispers, pulling me by the arm.
…
The front door creaks open revealing Graham. From my perch at a small table in the kitchen I can see him before he sees me. It’s not uncommon for him to turn up here looking for a cup of coffee and some chat in the morning. I drop my IPad, a gift from him on my recent 18th birthday and wave a hand.
“In here,” I whistle.
“Morning,” he whispers, stepping in and heading straight for the coffee pot. “No school for you today?”
“Teacher in-service.”
“On a Wednesday?” he remarks, adding an obscene amount of sugar to his coffee.
He leans on the counter facing me, periodically blowing on his coffee. I hadn’t noticed till now but Graham and his people drink a ton of coffee. They must never sleep. Graham looks worn out in my estimation. Mr. Dibble often works into the wee hours of the morning and it must keep him up. Dark bags circle the bottoms of his eyes as he sips the hot coffee wearing a pained expression.
“Mr. Dibble keeping you up?”
“Yup,” he nods, then points at the IPad. “What’s new in the world?”
“They got those miners out last night.”
“No kidding,” he yawns. “Peru?”
“Chile.”
“I’ll be,” he shrugs. “Say Dylan, speaking of being trapped, how many days you got left in High School jail?”
Tourists of the Apocalypse Page 6