M.I.A.

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  Rhiann

  Sunday morning, Jimmy and I went to church, then he went to “hang” with Finn. I took my newspaper out to read on the front porch. The day was brilliant, with jet trails scrawled across the sky like chalk lines on a pale blue slate. The grass was green enough to hurt your eyes. Snowdrift crabs along the parkway bloomed like banks of clouds fallen over neon-yellow dandelions and blood-red tulips.

  Around eleven A.M., my new neighbor got out his lawn tractor and started cutting his grass. He was wearing Levi’s, a navy T-shirt, and a straw cowboy hat like the landscapers wear. It was warm. Soaked with sweat, his shirt clung to his thin frame, making him look frail and undernourished. He drove as if he wanted to get done quickly.

  Watching him made me feel hot and thirsty, and I went inside for something cool and wet.

  John had finished his lawn by the time I came back out, with a plate of chocolate chip cookies and glasses of lemonade. I waved him over.

  He drove the tractor to the edge of my drive and shut the engine off. “As long as I have this out would you like me to cut your grass?”

  “No, thanks. My husband never liked us to mow on Sunday. I’ll get it tomorrow after work.”

  He nodded.

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  He accepted lemonade and a cookie and said, “I hope you don’t mind that I offered your son a job?”

  The phrase “better to ask forgiveness than permission” came to mind but I hid my annoyance. “Doing what?”

  “Working on cars. He brought his Chevy in for a tune-up. He’s working off the parts. But he’s a natural. I’d like to keep him on.”

  “Where?”

  “Black’s Automotive.”

  “You’re the manager?”

  “The owner. I bought Black out when he retired to Florida last year.”

  I wondered why Jimmy hadn’t told me about his car. He’d been sullen and secretive since Mickey died. Changed. Maybe he’d just turned into a teenager.

  I hoped.

  “Your son’s a credit to his parents,” John was saying.

  I wondered what sort of influence he’d be. I’d have to ask around about him. Meanwhile, if Jimmy were kept busy…

  “To my husband.”

  He nodded. “How’d you meet?”

  “When he came back from Vietnam, he used to eat at the restaurant where I worked, and he seemed so sad I’d try to cheer him up. We got to be friends.”

  I wondered why I was telling this to a virtual stranger.

  Maybe because he seemed as lonely and alone as Mickey had been when he came home from Nam. And John was a good listener.

  A meadowlark staked his claim to the yard with song. We sat and sipped our lemonade, enjoying the scent of fresh-cut grass. What I didn’t tell him was that when the army reclassified Billy as KIA, and I became a widow, Mickey had started courting me. And sometimes, when I couldn’t get a sitter and had to bring Jimmy to work with me, Mickey played with him and kept him quiet when things got busy. And when Mickey finally told me that he loved me, and asked me to marry him, I had said yes.

  I didn’t want to keep thinking about Mickey; I’d start crying again. So I finished my lemonade and said, “How ’bout you? Any family?”

  John shook his head. “My parents are dead. And I was an only child.”

  “No wife?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Have you always been a mechanic?”

  “No, but it’s a living. I like running the shop better.” He helped himself to another cookie. “What do you do?”

  “I run a shop, too. I’m girl Friday for a trucking company.”

  “You happy there?”

  “Most of the time.”

  He nodded, then drained his glass and put it down. “Thanks.”

  I had a feeling that I’d lived this moment before. Déjà vu. The feeling passed. John was different from the men in my life—more reserved, maybe more thoughtful.

  He stood up, pulled his glasses back over his eyes and replaced his hat, then restarted his mower and drove it away.

  John

  Jimmy was using his pocketknife to scrape the carbon off a spark plug one afternoon, when the knife slipped and dropped and went skittering across the floor. It came to rest against the wheel of my toolbox. I picked it up—an old Swiss army knife—and handed it back.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “It looks like it has a lot of years on it.”

  “It belonged to my birth father. The army returned it with his stuff after he died.” He said it matter-of-factly, without the emotion he’d tried so hard to suppress when he told me about Mickey Fahey’s death.

  I pretended not to notice, pretended I didn’t know the pain his birth father’s death must’ve caused his friends and family.

  “Every guy had one when I was a kid,” I said. “My mother gave me one for Christmas when I was twelve.”

  “You still have it?”

  “Nah. Haven’t seen it in a donkey’s age.”

  He nodded, put the knife in his pocket, and went back to work.

  Jimmy

  Two weeks before school let out, I had the sports section of the paper spread out on the kitchen island while Ma was getting dinner. She had out her cutting board, the big wooden salad bowl, and veggies—carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers, and a head of lettuce. She started tearing the lettuce into the bowl.

  I folded up the paper and said, “Ma, were you ever a hippie?”

  She sorta froze for a minute, then said, “Define ‘hippie’.”

  “You know, like in the movie Hair. Did you burn your bra or draft card?”

  “Girls didn’t have draft cards. And burning my bra would make as much sense as taking the springs and shocks off my car.”

  “Well, did you go to love-ins?”

  She gave me her don’t-be-a-smart-ass look.

  “How ’bout concerts?”

  “A few.”

  “With Billy?”

  “Ye-es.”

  Ma always told the truth or said, “None of your business,” so I knew she wasn’t lying. But the way she said “yes” made me wonder if she was telling the whole truth.

  “Ever smoke pot?” I asked.

  “I plead the fifth.”

  I laughed. “Protest marches?”

  “No. I didn’t know what there was to protest before Billy enlisted. Afterwards, I would’ve felt disloyal.”

  “You never told me he enlisted.”

  “You never asked!” We said it together; it was a family joke. We both laughed, then went quiet because it reminded us of Dad.

  “Why’d he enlist?” I asked after a while. I was a little afraid my birth father would turn out to be one of those gung-ho GI Joe types.

  “To spite his father,” Ma said. “Or maybe just to get away from him. He lied about his age so he could sign up when he was seventeen.”

  “How come you never told me any of this before?” I pointed my finger at her. “Don’t say ’cause I never asked.”

  She thought a minute. “Your birth father loved me and gave me the greatest gift a man could give a woman—you. But it makes me sad to think he isn’t coming back, and that he’ll never know his son. So I tend not to think of him too often.

  “Anyway, we were both happy with your dad, so why bring up the past?”

  “But don’t I have any Wilding relatives?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “They always hated me. And after Billy was reclassified KIA, Mrs. Wilding tried to have me declared an unfit mother.”

  Ma grabbed a carrot and started to chop it up like she was really pissed at it.

  “But she didn’t,” I said. “Succeed, I mean.”

  “Only because your dad got me a killer lawyer. I haven’t spoken to any of the Wildings in fifteen years.” She put down the knife and scooped the carrots into the big salad bowl.

  “Do you think they hate me, too?”

  “I don’
t see how they could. They don’t know you.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Billy’s parents had money. They lived in the best neighborhood, went to the right church, knew the people in town who ‘counted.’ They had two sons—Billy and his older brother, Bobby.

  “Bobby was a football player and a bully.

  “Billy was a sweetheart. He hung out with me and my cousin, and another guy his parents didn’t approve of. We were married—Billy and I—when he came home on leave, just before he was sent to Vietnam.”

  I got the feeling there was a whole lot to the story that Ma wouldn’t tell me, even if I pushed. It made me more curious than ever, but I didn’t ask. There was always the stuff in the attic. And I had all summer to snoop.

  Rhiann

  There are people like Mickey who light up a room when they come into it, who make you feel good just by showing up. And others—perfect examples of “what’s the use?”—who make you feel depressed. Rory Sinter was one of the others.

  It was a beautiful mid-May afternoon. I was weeding around my roses when he pulled his cruiser down the drive and stopped next to where I was working. He got out and left the motor running. I couldn’t bring myself to say, “Good afternoon.” I said, “Rory.”

  He leaned his back against the side of the car and crossed his arms. Crossed one ankle over the other, too. Stupid. He’d trip himself if he had to move fast—Mickey’d taught me that. But that was Rory.

  I kept pulling weeds. The soil was just damp enough to let go of the roots, and I was making headway against the dandelions and creeping charlie.

  Rory’d positioned himself with the afternoon sun behind him. He wasn’t considerate enough to block the light with his shadow, so I had to squint to look up at him.

  He said, “How’s things?”

  “Okay.” I wondered if he’d timed his visit to when I’d be close enough to the driveway so he could talk to me without having to go far from his car. Was he smart enough to plan that carefully? I didn’t have to wonder what he wanted—he kept licking his lips.

  I picked up my trowel and stabbed it in the ground next to a huge dandelion. I wiggled the tool, then tugged on the weed until its huge root broke free. I tossed it on the weed pile and sat back on my heels in Rory’s shade.

  “This a social call?”

  His face was beaded with sweat. It wasn’t hot; Rory was just fat. Before he answered, he took off his Smoky-bear hat and wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve.

  “Could say that,” he told me, finally.

  I waited.

  “Might wanna tell that son of yours to ease up on the gas.”

  “You caught him speeding?”

  “Clocked him doing sixty in a thirty-five.”

  “And what did you do about it?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I ain’t gonna give Mickey Fahey’s kid a ticket.”

  I waited.

  “I give him a warnin’.”

  “Next time, give him a ticket.”

  He blinked. Slowly. “You want me to give your kid a ticket?”

  “If he breaks the law. Isn’t that your job?”

  “Yeah.” He shook his head as if I was a hopeless case and pushed off from the cruiser. He’d opened the door and was about to put a foot in when he stopped and turned around. “Almost forgot.”

  I waited.

  “Sheriff cleaned out Mickey’s locker.” A locker the sheriff let him use when he was working out of Rory’s substation on the Joint Police Task Force. “He’s got some of Mickey’s things, ’cludin’ his backup gun. I could run ’em by if you want.”

  “Thanks anyway. I have to talk to the sheriff. I’ll pick them up.”

  “Suit yourself. You got a firearms card?”

  “I do.”

  He nodded. He got into the cruiser and put on his mirror sunglasses. He stared at me for quite a long time before he put the car into gear and backed away.

  As soon as he moved, I could see that John Devlin had pulled into his own drive and parked his Jeep parallel to Rory’s car. John stood next to the Jeep, watching Rory pull away.

  John’s expression gave no hint of what he was thinking, but I had that feeling again of déjà vu.

  When the deputy finally disappeared, John noticed me. He smiled and nodded, then went in his house.

  John

  Fathers make all the difference in a man’s life. Good or bad. I know. Mine was the worst. Which is why Horace Black made such an impression on me. He never had any children of his own, but he fostered several generations of young men. His garage was a magnet for motor heads. Black let them hang around, and gave them work or advice—mechanical and philosophical—as long as they behaved. He had a way of making you want to impress him, and do better than you had. He never passed up the chance to put in a word on the evils of smoking or drugs or unsafe sex. In fact he kept a box of Trojans in his toolbox and let it be known that they were necessary and free.

  I was beyond boyhood when I came to Black’s but sorely in need of a father. And he obliged. He listened to me—even when I wasn’t talking. He gave me work, encouragement, and praise. He taught me to channel anger into hard work, and passion into productivity. His patience and affection neutralized the rage eating like acid at my insides. He gave me choices—for the first time in my life.

  So when he retired and sold his shop to me, I felt I owed him my soul. “How can I repay—?”

  He held his hand up to stop me. “You don’t repay love, John. Just do well. And pass it on.”

  I don’t have all Black’s gifts, but I’ve continued some of his traditions. I let kids hang around the shop. I don’t let them smoke or horse around. I listen. I give advice when asked. And keep a box of Trojans in my Jeep. I encourage them to “Take a few for your glovebox because the condom in your wallet is sure to be worn out before it’s unwrapped.” All of which is why when Jimmy Fahey confided that he’d been adopted, I didn’t change the subject.

  “Did you just find that out?” I asked.

  “No. I’ve always known.”

  “So, why is it an issue now?” I knew the answer. A loved one’s death can bring back earlier, unresolved losses. But he needed to figure that out on his own.

  “Who says it’s an issue?” he demanded.

  “You brought it up.”

  He thought about that for a few minutes, then said, “I want to learn more about my birth father’s family, but Ma won’t talk about them.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Yeah. She says she’s got her reasons, but she won’t give me details. Or about my birth father, either.”

  “Maybe it’s too painful.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  It took a while for him to get it out. “I had an argument with my dad just before he was killed. I can’t even remember what about. I do remember saying, ‘You’re just jealous because you’re not my real father.’ He looked like I sucker punched him, but I was too pissed off to say ‘I’m sorry.’”

  I said, “Your real father’s the one who raised you, cheered at Little League games, sat in the ER when you broke something, went to PTA meetings at your school, and taught you how to throw a curve ball and change your oil.”

  “I know. I just wish I would’ve told him. And that I loved him.”

  “Do you believe in heaven?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Then tell him. If there’s a hereafter, he’ll know. If there’s not, you’ll still know.”

  “I still need to know about my birth father.”

  “You might want to be careful. Remember what happened to Oedipus.”

  “Who’s Oedipus?”

  “Long story. And we’ve got a job to finish. Next time you’re at the library, look him up.”

  Jimmy

  I spent a lotta time in the attic the next couple days, reading Billy’s letters. I felt like
I was getting to know him pretty well. He had neat handwriting and a great sense of humor. He didn’t get along with his family, but he loved my ma. I also learned that Billy grew up in Greenville with a couple of guys named Steve and Smoke that he loved “better than brothers,” and that army life switched off between scary and boring as hell.

  I went to the library with Finn, and he helped me find the Wildings’ address and phone number. “What are you gonna do with this?” he asked.

  “Reach out and touch someone.”

  “What if they won’t talk to you?” I’d told him what Ma said about not talking to the Wildings for fifteen years. “Maybe you should write to them first.”

  “Nah. Dad always said it’s harder for people to turn you down in person.”

  We looked up Oedipus, too.

  “John’s crazy,” I told him. “This doesn’t have anything to do with me. I’m not a orphan and my birth father died before I was even born.”

  “Yeah, an’ you’d never even think about marrying your—Yech!”

  One Friday after school, I gassed up my car and left a note for Ma: “Going to stay with a friend for the weekend. Love, J.”

  It took me an hour and a half to get to Greenville, even though it’s only fifty miles, because I didn’t know where I was going.

  When I topped off at a Shell station outside town, a guy gave me directions: “On the corner of Elm and Main, across from the park. Big sucker. White. Can’t miss it.”

  Rhiann

  Our house rule has always been, if you’re going to be away, leave a note to say where. So Friday afternoon, I wasn’t surprised to find a message from Jimmy: “Ma, going to stay with a friend for the weekend. Love, J.”

  What friend? Where? Obviously he didn’t want me to know so I couldn’t veto his plans.

  I called his buddy, Finn, and got the answering machine. I hung up and called Finn’s mother. She put Finn right on the line.

  He said, “Hello,” as if he knew he was in trouble.