“You’re probably right,” she admits, dropping into the opposite chair.
“How you been?”
“Not bad. Graham says you’re out for good.”
“Yes, discharged.”
“Honorably?” she muses, looking at me while she tips up her bottle.
I nod.
“And what’s next?” she inquires, turning sideways and pulling her legs underneath her, careful to fold the hem of her dress under one knee. “Coming back here maybe?”
“Not sure, I get the impression Graham would prefer I didn’t.”
“You always do what he tells you?”
“Up to now,” I answer, sitting up and sliding to the front of my chair.
“I’d have thought you got enough of doing what you’re told in the Army?”
I nod.
She sips on her beer, staring back at me. I rise, tipping up my beer and finishing it in a long chug. When I look back she points at the door, indicating there is more inside. I wiggle a finger at hers, but she shakes her head slowly, holding it up to show me it’s still half full.
“I’m good,” she winks.
Pulling open the screen, I slip inside. The light in the fridge doesn’t come on when I open it. Warm musty air flows out like a fog. It’s unplugged or the powers out. I wait a moment for my eyes to adjust, but there isn’t anything inside. I try the freezer door above, but find it likewise devoid of beer. Behind me the screen door announces her entrance. When I turn she’s leaning her back on the counter behind me pointing at a brown bag sitting in front of an old wooden bread box. The box is white with primary colored polka dots. The words WONDER BREAD are emblazoned on the top.
“Icebox doesn’t work,” she whispers.
“Right.”
Moving slowly, I go to her, stopping a bit too close for good taste. I dig for a beer with my right hand, while putting the other on the counter past her left hip. Before I can pull out a bottle, she sets hers behind her back and tosses both arms around my neck. Caught off guard, I am still fishing for a bottle when she pushes herself up on her tip toes and whispers in my ear.
“Are you really that thirsty?”
“Ah, no,” I stammer, my nerve suddenly gone.
She remains poised there, her lips only inches from mine. My blood runs cold and I hesitate. I have kissed my share of girls, but for some reason my body won’t move. Dropping from her tip toes, she wrinkles her nose. Her hands slide off my neck to my shoulders.
“Don’t you want to kiss me?”
I nod, still at a loss for words.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” she pouts, her hands coming down.
I lean forward and kiss her before she can pull completely away. At first she allows this, but doesn’t join in fully. After a half minute she seems to get over my indecision, tossing her arms over my shoulders and pulling herself up by my neck. Caught up in the moment I pick her up by the waist, sitting her on the counter. We make out for several minutes and then she pulls her head back, taking a deep breath. I settle my forehead on hers and wait, my arms tingling.
“Glad we got that out of the way,” she mutters, out of breath.
“Absolutely,” I exhale.
“So other than me needing more lip gloss,” she sighs running her tongue over her lips slowly. “What now?”
Having no good answer to this question, I put both hands on her thighs, squeezing them and kiss her again. She jumps a bit, a muffled sigh escaping her lips. For whatever reason my timid reaction from earlier is gone, leaving me free to enjoy the moment. Lowering my hands to her knees, I put my thumbs under the hem of her dress and slide it up. Her body stiffens, her lips pulling away just a bit. Is this a no response?
“Dylan,” she utters, but I press my lips to hers before she can say anymore.
I continue to push her dress until it reaches her hips, the fact she’s sitting on it causing it to pull tight against my hands. Her thighs are warm and the hem of her dress pops a seam from the pressure. Her knees try desperately to pull closed, but she doesn’t stop kissing me. We remain in this will she or won’t she struggle for several minutes. At some point her knees relax, releasing the death grip on my forearms. I am just about to pick her up and look for a better place to continue, when the roar of a diesel engine moves past the front of the house. Bright lights cut across the living room, tossing a single blade of light at us when it passes.
“Crap,” she mumbles, pulling her lips away from mine and pressing her knees together.
“What,” I groan, keeping her pinned to the counter.
“Let me go,” she complains, putting her hands on my chest and pushing me back.
At first I don’t back up, but there is a troubled look on her face that shakes me out of my daze. I stumble backwards, getting a clear view of how far I had her dress pushed up. She looks flushed and worried, making me feel like a rapist. Hopping off the counter, she brushes her dress down and shuffles into the living room populated by the shrink wrapped furniture. Peeking out through closed blinds she leans over an end table, teetering there.
“What is it?” I exhale hard, joining her.
“T-Buck,” she whispers over her shoulder. “Missy is cooking a big dinner tomorrow. Everyone’s going to be there.”
The roar of another engine, this one not a diesel, moves down the street. Pulling my own blind I see Dickey’s Mustang fly past. I’m panicked, as I assume he will stop here, but he keeps going to the end of the street.
“Shoot,” she blurts out, running a hand down her dress and finding a ripped seam.
“Oh gawd, I am so sorry.”
“Stay here,” she orders, pushing her dress down and smoothing it out.
“What?”
“Sit on the porch and have a few beers, then go home the way you came,” she lectures. “We can’t go wandering out there together.”
“Right,” I agree, my head spinning.
“Get a grip,” she reprimands me. “I have to get back. Lance will come out and then notice I’m not home. I’ll see you at dinner tomorrow.”
I nod, confused and excited at the same time. Following her to the back door, I watch as she tips up the beer she left on the counter and finishes it. Turning to me, her eyes soften.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, still feeling like a masher.
“For what?”
“You know,” I mumble, glancing over at the counter.
“Stop it,” she snorts, leaning up and pecking me on the lips. “I’m a big girl. When I want you to stop you’ll know it.”
“Kinda felt like you did.”
“You were ripping my dress,” she advises in a serious tone, then winks.
“I’m still sorry.”
“Nonsense,” she shakes her head. “You just caught me off guard this time.”
“This time? Meaning this is to be continued?”
“I don’t know,” she sighs, moving away and putting her backside on the door. “That’s up to you.”
“How so?”
She wrinkles her nose at me, moving it from side to side. We share a longing glance, and then she slips out the door. I remain frozen for several minutes in thought. Did this really happen? Grabbing the bag with the beer roughly, I go out to the porch and have a seat. I take another divot out the arm of the chair opening a bottle and then lean back. If it’s up to me, then TO BE CONTINED is guaranteed.
…
Thanksgiving Day goes on forever. Everyone except Cain and Abel is in attendance, even Mr. Dibble. Beginning just after 9 AM, the house is full of parade watchers nibbling on all sorts of snacks provided by my mother. Izzy and Lance don’t show up till around one, when a huge turkey dinner is served. My Mother and Roberta act as wait staff for all four courses. Izzy is back to jeans and a hoodie. She sticks pretty close to Lance, offering only brief glances in my direction. Lance, for his part, spends a lot of time watching me. Does he know?
After the main meal everyone sits around watching the football game. I am a
sked about my plans by Roberta and this starts the ball rolling downhill. Claiming to be unsure what I might do now, my mother blurts out the question I knew would come up. She asks Lance if he might be able to use me out at the site. She would prefer I came home to stay, completely unaware of the growing tension over Izzy. Graham tries to defuse this question, suggesting that might not be what I want, but Lance jumps in before he can finish.
Leaving nothing to misinterpretation, he explains that he won’t be in need of anyone else. He goes so far as to infer he may need to let some people go, causing Jerry and Dickey to eye the floor silently. Lance ends by pretending he wished things were different, but his point is made. Make yourself scarce Dylan. Stay away from Izzy. I have no intension of doing anything of the sort, but keep this to myself.
A round of pumpkin pie ends the day and by dusk everyone has migrated home. Izzy and Lance left abruptly after pie was served. I received only a slight glance, before she was swept out the door with Lance’s hand wrapped around her upper arm to make sure no hugs were offered. Roberta and my mother mill around the kitchen, while Jerry and I sit at the table watching the final football game of the day. The Carolina Panthers have crushed the Cowboy’s, leaving Jerry annoyed. He used to drink too much, but hasn’t had a beer all day. Working for Lance has cleaned him right up.
“So what goes on out there anyway?” I ask, changing the subject from the post-game wrap-up.
“Nothing.”
“Come on,” I press. “You gotta give me more than that.”
“Sorry, I can’t. Ask Graham if you want to know, but I am not supposed to talk about it.”
I find this odd. While I have never really had any interest in what they are up to out there it surprises me that it would be a secret. I widen an eye at Jerry, but he just shrugs and watches the highlights. Excusing myself, I give my mom a hug and slip out the back door. Cutting through the backyards, I come out on Dickey’s back porch and slip in the back door, which is still open.
I don’t see anyone, but when I lean into the living room I notice Graham lying on the couch. He’s watching me and the plastic crinkles loudly as he turns his head in my direction.
“Looking for someone?”
“No point in answering that now is there?” I sigh, sitting on the arm of a chair.
“None,” he agrees, putting his arms behind his head.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, and then a diesel engine rattles to life down the street. I glance in that direction, even though the curtains are closed. Graham watches me as I go to the window. T-Buck’s big truck jerks into gear down the street and turns slowly in the cul-de-sac. Once it makes the complete turn and starts my way, Lance’s car backs out of his garage and into the street. It follows T-Buck and they both pass Dickey’s house and disappear into the oncoming night. When I look back to Graham he shakes his head.
“I’ll assume she was with him,” I sneer.
“They will probably be out there most of the time between now and next spring.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It is actually. Now you’re free to stay here and be with your mom,” he points out. “You’re welcome.”
I ball up both hands into fists and grit my teeth. The urge to hit something washes over me like a wave, but it’s offset by a heavy feeling in my stomach. I waffle between breaking a lamp and throwing up, but can’t decide. In the end, I let myself out the front door and leave Graham behind. Screw this, I’m not doing this all over again. I march back to my house to pack my things.
There isn’t any way to leave on Thanksgiving, so I lay awake most of the night. It’s one of those nights where you wish you could just fall asleep, but wind up watching the numbers change on the clock. When I finally slip into sleep it’s nearly dawn. I wind up dozing until noon as a result. I’m sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee when Graham slips in the front door and joins me. Mother offers him a cup, but he declines. He stares at my duffle bag on the floor. It’s bursting at the seams, and he seems preoccupied with it.
“What do you want?” I demand.
“Where ya going?”
“Away,” I snap back. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t, but do yourself a favor and come back before the Fourth of July.”
This is a very cryptic request and I watch him over my coffee cup. It brings to mind a conversation I had with Izzy about avoiding any long commitments in in the military. Don’t sign anything that takes you beyond 2015 she had indicated. Setting my coffee cup down, I lean back in the chair and shrug.
“Why?”
“Just don’t.”
“Why should I do what you tell me?”
“Remember when we first met?” he asks.
“I do.”
“This place was a hot mess,” he lectures me, pointing a hand around the house. “That idiot Jarrod was terrorizing you and your mom—,” he’s saying when I cut him off.
“Until you killed him,” I interject, looking him right in the eye. “You did kill him didn’t you? I mean, they never found the body, but I always assumed you killed him.”
This puts a perplexed look on his face. I have spent a lot of time thinking about what became of Jarrod. The police did eventually contact me about him, but in regard to a dispute over his mother’s estate, not his disappearance. Long nights spent standing watch in the service gave me plenty of time to put two and two together. Jarrod just up and disappeared the day after he roughed up my mom. The officer who contacted me about the estate assured me no one had talked to, or seen him alive, after that day.
“You would have preferred he came back and hurt you or Missy?”
I shake my head.
“Thought so,” he grunts. “You’re welcome.”
“You were about to explain why I need to be back here by the Fourth?”
He appears to run out of the desire to argue at this point. It’s seems my putting Jarrod’s murder out on the table has taken the wind out of him. He slides a white envelope across the table, leaving it beside my coffee cup. After a pause and a loud exhale, he gets up and goes, stopping to hug my mom on the way. Once he’s gone, I pick up the envelope. Running it under my nose it smells of Izzy. It’s a fresh, almost soapy scent that gives me goosebumps. It’s lavender.
“Dylan,” my mother calls out from the kitchen. “Did you call a taxi?”
“I did,” I shout back, turning the envelope over in my fingertips.
“Well it just pulled up. Where ya going?”
Choosing not to answer, I stare at the envelope. What fresh hell is this? Good or bad, I’m not in the mood at present. I slip it in a pocket on the green duffle bag. After lots of lying and an equal amount of hugging, I escape my mother and toss my duffle in the trunk of the taxi.
“Dispatch say you want go to airport?” the driver mutters in a thick Eastern European accent.
“That’s correct.”
“Is long ride,” he warns me. “Cost you a couple hundred at least.”
“I’m aware. It’s not a problem.”
He shrugs and we roll down the street. Passing Dickey’s house, I see his Mustang in the drive. I should have asked Dickey about what they are doing out there. I bet he would have told me.
…
The construction company I work for in Tallahassee closes down at noon on Saturday. My two Army buddies and I shoot home to shower then expect to make the two and half hour drive to Pensacola. The plan is to grab a room at this cheap motel we used to frequent when we were in the service, then hang out at the beach for a few days. The Fourth of July falls on a Monday so I don’t have to be back at work until Wednesday.
At our shared apartment, I toss some clothes in a backpack and look around for my sunglasses. The bowl by the door has a half dozen pairs, but most are the cheap knock offs we wear at work. I’m in the bedroom closet digging for my good ones when Derrick pokes me in the back. He’s skinny and pale with a choppy short hairstyle we call the Bieber.
�
�What?” I complain turning to face him in the walk in closet.
“Some guy,” he shrugs, wagging a thumb over his shoulder. “The lights flashing on your antique message thing.”
“Some guy?”
“I’m not your secretary,” he huffs. “Get your stuff and let’s hit it.”
Finishing my search and finding my prize, I slip back into the living room and see the blinking light on the answering machine. I bought it at a yard sale a few months back. I don’t have a cell phone, so for me it actually serves a purpose. Derrick calls it backwards-compatible in a snide way.
The front doors hangs open leaving a clear view of Derrick and Randall tossing stuff in the back of a yellow Jeep by the curb. Randall is of Indian decent. By that, I mean American Indian, not the turban kind. He’s stocky and muscular compared to Derrick. I pause then hit the play button.
You have six messages… Playing first message… Dylan, this is Graham. Coming up on the Fourth and was wondering when we can expect you? Give me a call and let me know? 555-656-1212.
There is a loud beep, then another.
Playing second message… Dylan, Graham, 555-656-1212, pick up the phone or call me back.
I push down the stop button and then hold it. Three beeps precede a flashing zero that replaces a six that indicated the number of messages. I find deleting them satisfying, but am still annoyed my mother caved and gave Graham my number. Snatching up my bag, I head for the Jeep. I have enjoyed weekly phone calls with my mother, but otherwise have shared this number with no one. Without a cell or a laptop, I am basically a ghost in a world of instant connectivity. Both my buddies have cell phones so I can always borrow one in a pinch.
I climb into the back of Randall’s Jeep and the engine roars to life. Two hours to the beach, then two days to do nothing. More importantly there is no chance of Graham interrupting me there. Once we hit US-10 the wind whistles over the tonneau cover and I crack a beer, thinking about Graham. This leads to thoughts of Izzy, which in turn leads to me chugging my beer and cracking another. Why is he so insistent that I come home now?
Act Three
Tourists of the Apocalypse Page 9