M.I.A.

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

“Hi,” I said. “My name’s Rhiann. What can I get you today?”

  He looked past me, toward the empty end of the lunch counter. Or maybe at something farther away.

  “Sir? Earth to—”

  “Sorry. Coffee. Scrambled eggs and bacon. Biscuits and gravy.”

  I turned over the cup that was standard with the table setting, filled it, moved the cream and sugar closer. I repeated his order and added, “Coming right up.”

  “Thanks.” His smile never got to his eyes.

  He came in every morning after that, and sometimes for lunch or dinner. Eventually, he introduced himself—Mickey Fahey. After observing that a few other vets were served without a hassle, he admitted that he’d recently mustered out. Unlike his fellow vets, he didn’t complain about the country’s antiwar attitude or the hippies who hung around plotting their protests over endless cups of coffee. In fact, nothing seemed to get a rise out of him.

  Except Jimmy. Sunday mornings, when my ma went to Mass and other times when she couldn’t watch him, I’d bring him to work with me. He was a good kid, usually entertaining himself quietly in his playpen. Mickey Fahey seemed amused by him. When he thought no one was looking, he’d make faces at Jimmy, or play peek-a-boo.

  Mickey wouldn’t talk about himself—not even to say what he did for a living now that he was a civilian, but he was full of curiosity about my son. I was grateful for his interest.

  “You don’t have any kids yet?” I asked him.

  He just shook his head.

  One day he said, “It’s none of my business, but where’s his dad?”

  I fingered my wedding ring. “MIA.”

  “God! I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault.”

  He tried to make amends by leaving too large tips. And one day, when I was working by myself and Jimmy started screaming, by picking Jimmy up. Mickey sat him on the table in his booth and played with him until my ma showed up to claim him.

  After things slowed down, I brought Mickey a piece of blueberry pie.

  “I didn’t order this.”

  “But you’ll like it. And I owe you.”

  “No you don’t.”

  I gave him my don’t-mess-with-me look, and he laughed.

  “You ought to do that more often,” I told him.

  His smile faded.

  I said, “Let me know how you like the pie,” and went back to work.

  It was late September when Mickey first asked me out. Billy was still MIA, but no one had offered me any hope that I’d ever see him again. Jimmy was a blessing and a distraction, but I was burning out—every minute scheduled, work at home or at the diner.

  My second wedding anniversary rolled around. I didn’t consciously mark the date, but I was mourning Billy.

  Mickey came in for dinner and said, “What’s wrong, sunshine?”

  I thought about it, remembered the date, and burst into tears. He put his arms around me and held me until my sobbing ceased. I’m sure he waved Henry and Doris away. He sat me down in the back booth—his usual place—and got me a glass of water and some paper napkins to blow my nose on. Then he left me to pull myself together while he bussed tables and refilled everyone’s coffee. Henry didn’t try to stop him, just said, “I ain’t hirin’ you.”

  After I stopped crying and blew my nose, while I was trying to hide the damage with powder and fresh eyeliner, Mickey came and sat across from me. He didn’t speak for a while.

  Eventually, he said, “When was the last time you went out for a drink or a movie?”

  I shrugged. “Before Jimmy was born.”

  “Tell me about your husband.”

  I looked around. Henry was waiting on the last customer of the night, Doris cleaning the empty tables. I sniffed. “Maybe someday.”

  He put his hand over mine. “Not tonight, but sometime, you should do something fun.” He smiled. “Just for you.”

  I smiled back and patted his cheek. “You’re a nice man.”

  His smile faded. He got that faraway look on his face. “I’m trying.”

  I turned him down three times in the next three weeks. He came in every night for dinner, and once a week he’d ask me out for a drink.

  “I’m a married woman,” I told him the first time.

  “So. I’m not asking you for a date, just a drink.”

  I shook my head. “Thanks, but no.”

  The next time, I said, “Not tonight.”

  The third time, I begged off on account of Jimmy.

  “My mother’ll watch him. She can’t wait to be a grandma. It’ll be good practice for her.”

  How could I refuse? Especially since Mickey made a point to invite us to his mom’s for dinner a week ahead of time so Jimmy and “grandma” could get acquainted.

  Our first nondate was a Friday night, at a little country-western bar that had good beer and live music. Mickey knew the musicians. Just before last call, they made him sing—his choice, anything he liked. We’d been listening to the music for hours, nursing Leinenkugels. The lead singer came over and shoved his mike in Mickey’s hand and said, “Your turn.”

  Mickey tried to beg off, but the guy was adamant.

  Finally, Mickey said, “Okay. But only if you can play my song.”

  “Anything. We can play anything.”

  “‘You Are My Sunshine’?”

  “No sweat.”

  Mickey sang it to me.

  John

  The summer settled into a rhythm. When school let out, Jimmy Fahey came to work full-time. I paid him for forty hours and he always put in at least that many, though he came to me in mid-June and asked for weekends off.

  “To visit your girl?”

  He blushed. “Yeah, but don’t tell my ma.”

  “Well, if you can’t be good, be careful.”

  He turned bright red and said, “I gotta get this battery out.”

  When Jimmy told me about his grandfather Wilding, it was with a combination of fear and fascination. “You don’t seem surprised,” he concluded.

  I shrugged and quoted Shakespeare on the ages of man. “That’s life.”

  He told me that the Wildings had a library bigger than the Overlook Public Library. “All those books,” he said. “Mr. Wilding can’t read ’em and Mrs. Wilding won’t. Nobody reads ’em except Rosa.”

  “Rosa?”

  “She’s their maid. I think. They—Mrs. Wilding treats her like a slave, but it seems like she really runs the place.”

  “So you’ve mastered an important lesson on the nature of power.”

  I could see him thinking about that for a minute. Then he said, “What do I win?”

  I held up the part I’d just extracted from the Ford we were repairing. “The chance to rebuild this carburetor.”

  “You and my dad would’ve really hit it off. I mean my real dad. Not Billy Wilding.”

  Praise indeed.

  Jimmy

  The Greenville Animal Hospital was just east of town, between the highway and the river. There were four parking spaces out front and a driveway that went behind the building. When I got there, a big guy in a lab coat was helping an old lady get her hairy white dog in her car. After she and the dog drove away, the man walked over to my Chevy and said, “Help you?” The name on his coat was Dr. Pulaski.

  “I’m supposed to take Beth home.”

  “You her boyfriend?”

  “I wish.”

  He nodded. “She’ll be done shortly. You can drive around back and wait.”

  “Thanks.”

  I parked facing the building, with my car backed up to the river side of the rear lot. I sat on my back bumper to wait, and watched a dragonfly zoom over the water like a miniature helicopter. I lost track of time.

  I almost landed on my butt when someone jumped up and down on the front bumper, making the car rock like a boat. I whirled around to see Beth hide a laugh behind her hand as she balanced on the front of my car.

  God, she was beautiful! Her blond hair wa
s pulled back in a ponytail, but little wisps had gotten loose and made a halo around her face. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt made of some white stuff you could almost see through.

  I slapped my hands over my chest and said, “You tryna give me a heart attack?”

  She giggled. “Your heart’s not that weak.” She went to the passenger side and waited for me to open the door for her—like my ma always did when she was dressed for church.

  So I did.

  I got in, and before I started the car, I said, “What now?”

  “We go somewhere, and you tell me all about yourself. And I tell you enough about me so you’ll want to know me better.”

  “You want to get something to eat?”

  She sighed. “Only if you’re buying. I’m broke.”

  “’Course I’m buying. What do you want?”

  She shrugged.

  “Mickey D’s?”

  “What if—”

  “If the goons are there, we’ll go to DQ.”

  The goons weren’t at McDonald’s. So I bought us dinner. To go. And we drove to the library parking lot to eat it. The lot was empty since the library was closed. The weather wasn’t real hot, but after we finished, we took off our shoes and hung our feet out the car windows and traded life stories. Sort of.

  I told her about Ma and my dad. And my cousin Steve. Only I left out his last name. I didn’t tell her about the Wildings, either. I figured everybody in Greenville knew Mrs. Wilding—or at least, knew about her. And I didn’t want Beth to think I was crazy by birth.

  She told me she had two brothers and overprotective parents—overprotective of her. They let her brothers do whatever they liked. She said she’d lived in Greenville all her life and was a junior in high school—now that she’d passed her finals.

  I asked her about her job.

  “I love Dr. Pulaski,” she said. “He’s a great boss.”

  “Like, I’ll bet you had a lot of bosses to compare.”

  “Five. I’ll tell you about them when I know you better.”

  That was promising.

  “What’s your boss like?” she asked.

  “I like him. He never yells or swears, even if he slips with a wrench. When he has a cool repair problem, he makes everybody stop what they’re doing and watch how to fix it. And lots of times, when you ask him a question, he answers by asking you questions until you come up with the answer on your own.”

  “Where do you live?” she said.

  “Overlook—technically outside the city limits, on a bluff over the river. The town’s on a patch of ground above the high-water line. They built it more than a hundred years ago, where there used to be a ford, which was replaced by a ferry, then a railroad bridge, then a bridge for cars. Now we got a modern four-lane highway bridge with a sign that says HISTORIC ROUTE 66.”

  “How’d you know all that?”

  “Had to do a report on it in seventh grade. Mr. Ricci—my history teacher—wasn’t happy just making us learn dates and names, we had to know the reasons for things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like luck plays a big part in life. Like World War Two happened because Hitler was a shitty painter.”

  “That’s silly.”

  “No, really. If he’d been a decent painter, he never woulda gone into politics.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  We hooked up with Stephanie and her boyfriend, Nate, at the drive-in. Steph parked her car next to mine and we went back and forth during the coming attractions, with the girls giggling about stuff and me and Nate checking each other out.

  When the movie started, Beth and I got back in my Chevy and scrunched together in the front seat. Stephanie and Nate stayed where they were. By about halfway, though, I managed to get an arm around Beth without pissing her off. I looked over and saw Nate had passed first base and was closing on second.

  “How long have Steph and Nate been going together?” I asked.

  She looked annoyed, then confused, then said, “Since freshman year. Why?”

  “I just wondered.”

  I guess I’m not a good liar, because Beth looked over at the other car, then bit her lip. It was too dark to see, but I’d bet she turned red.

  “You want some popcorn?” I asked.

  “No. Er—Yes.” She glanced at the other car and said, “Maybe you should ask them.”

  “Thanks a bunch.”

  She giggled.

  I made sure I accidentally tapped the horn taking my arm from around her shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Stephanie and Nate straighten up and look around. It was too dark to tell, but I’d’ve bet they were both red, too.

  I leaned over and opened the glove box, and palmed a couple of Trojans from my stash.

  “What’s that?” Beth asked.

  “Guy stuff.” I got out quickly, so I didn’t have to show her, and tapped on the window of the other car. Nate was in the driver’s seat. He rolled the window down. “What?”

  I handed him the Trojans. “Get a room,” I said, softly, so Stephanie wouldn’t hear.

  “Fuck you.”

  “No, thanks.” Louder, I said, “You guys want some popcorn?”

  After the movie, the four of us went to the Dairy Queen to shoot the shit before Beth and Stephanie had to show up back at Steph’s house.

  It seemed like we barely had time to finish our ice cream and fries before Steph said, “We better go.”

  “Yeah,” Beth said, “before your mother comes looking for us.”

  We were on our way out the door, when Beth’s face got white as her shirt.

  I said, “What’s up?”

  She just pointed to a familiar car pulling into the DQ lot. The Greenville goon mobile.

  Nate said, “Oh, shit!”

  “What do we do?” Stephanie asked.

  “You and Beth get the hell outta here. I’ll create a diversion. Get ’em outta here!” I told Nate.

  “They’ll kill you,” Beth protested.

  I waved at the full parking lot. “Not in front of all these witnesses. You gonna be at the church tomorrow?”

  “No. I have to go to work.”

  “See you there.”

  “But—”

  “Go!”

  She left, with Steph and Nate pulling her along.

  I went out the door on the other side of the lobby—right into the middle of the Greenville goons.

  I had the element of surprise on my side, and years of studying the Fonz. I pulled out my comb and ran it through my hair. It got their attention; I was the only one who noticed Stephanie’s car pull out of the lot.

  I didn’t get too far into my impersonation before the head goon threw the first punch. I stepped back, but not before the other two moved in.

  “If it isn’t Fraidy Fahey,” the first goon said. “Where you gonna run to this time, chicken?”

  “He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day.” I took a quick step back.

  I wasn’t quick enough. One of them got me in a full nelson. He was big enough to be a linebacker, and his buddy started whaling on my rib cage.

  I tried to kick number two in the shins, which bought me a second to think.

  Dad taught me how to get out of a full nelson. I raised my arms as high as I could and pushed the backs of my hands against my forehead. Then squatted. Goon number two was strong, but not strong enough to hold a hundred seventy pounds out in front of him.

  I slipped out of his hold, rolling and kicking at goon number one. I connected with his ankle before his buddies got their game on and started using me for punting practice.

  I curled up, trying to protect my head and kidneys and the family jewels.

  Dad always said, “Getting the crap beat out of you isn’t brave or manly. It’s stupid. Don’t be afraid to call for backup when you’re outnumbered.”

  It was plain I needed help. I was about to start screaming like a girl,
when the DQ manager came running out with his Louisville slugger.

  I slipped onto a bar stool just before closing, figuring any cops who might bust me would be outside somewhere waiting to snag the drivers staggering out with their travelers. Steve was working on autopilot. He threw a coaster down in front of me and said “What’ll it be?” before he realized I was his underage cousin. When he actually looked at me, he said, “Jesus!”

  “You shoulda seen the other guy.”

  He glanced around at his customers, then dug into his ice chest and filled a bar rag with ice. As he handed it to me, he said, “You mess with somebody’s girlfriend?”

  “Somebody messed with mine.”

  “Two weeks ago you didn’t have a girlfriend. Fast work.”

  I didn’t have a comeback.

  He went around and collected the empties, emptied the ashtrays, and called last call. Then he settled everybody’s tab and escorted the stragglers to the door.

  Meanwhile, I made myself useful by putting the chairs up on the tables.

  “You looking to crash at my place?” Steve asked.

  “Can I?”

  “What if I said no?”

  “I guess I’d sleep in my car.”

  He didn’t say anything more. He filled the mop bucket with Spic and Span and handed me the mop. While I did the floor, he wiped the bar and washed the glasses and took out the trash. Then I helped him restock before he locked up.

  In the car he asked, “You gonna make this a regular gig?”

  “If it’s okay with you.”

  “What re you gonna tell your ma?”

  “That I got a Saturday job in Greenville.”

  “And a girlfriend?”

  I shrugged. “Sooner or later.”

  The next morning, I drove Steve to the Eat Well diner for breakfast. Carol gave my shiner and bruises a look, but didn’t say anything, so when we were finished, I left her a big tip. Then Steve and I went to the Stop & Save where we filled a cart with groceries.

  “I could get used to this,” he told me when we pulled back into his drive.

  “How do you usually get your stuff home?”

  “Five or six trips on my bike.”