When He Vanished

by T. J. Brearton

  “He works weekends, too, huh? Man that’s dedication. I always knew John had it in him, though. Even when we were kids he was always writing stories or drawing pictures in his notebook. I used to draw too, you know? Comic-book type stuff . . .” He’s following me in to the house as he talks and edges a bit closer to the table to address Russ. “You like Batman?”

  Russ answers with a mouthful of Frosted Flakes. “Yeah, Batman is great! I like Spider-Man, too, though. He’s my favorite.”

  “Spider-Man is cool. I would look at the comics, you know what I mean? I’d study them and try to get the muscles right. Muscles are hard to draw. Feet too, I was always terrible with feet and I’d try to hide them in a bush or something. You must be a good artist if John is your dad.”

  I haven’t left yet. Our sudden guest is gregarious, but he has a way with Russ, who’s beaming like Bruce Barnes is himself a superhero. Bruce looks John’s age, thirty-eight, though he’s losing a bit of hair. He could be a modern rancher or homesteader the way he’s filling out blue jeans, a crinkled button-down shirt, and thick work boots.

  He must catch me looking because he jerks back and points to his feet. “Oh, man — should I take these off?”

  “No, please — don’t worry about it. Snow is mostly gone and the ground is still frozen — no mud yet. Let me just go get John, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  I finally move down the hallway, listening to Bruce talk to the kids and realize in my haste that I never introduced them. Bruce does it. “So you must be Russ, right? And you’re Melody?”

  My son cackles. “No, I’m Russ and she’s Melody . . .”

  “How old are you?” Bruce asks. “Twenty-five?”

  “I’m seven!”

  I knock on the study door. “John?”

  “Just a minute . . .”

  “There’s someone here to see you. Bruce? He says he knows you from way back.”

  Behind the door, John’s chair squeaks as he gets up. I twist the knob and enter to see him peeking through the window blinds at the woods in the backyard. “What’s he doing here?” John says. Then he turns to face me and I feel the smile dwindle on my lips.

  John heads toward me, his brow dented, his mouth forming a grim line. He’s not particularly pleased to hear about our visitor; either Bruce isn’t a close friend or there’s something between them.

  I follow him into the living room.

  “Hey!” Bruce sounds ecstatic. “There he is!”

  “Hey, man.” John crosses his arms after a quick handshake. He takes a step back. “What are you doing here?” It’s a friendly question, but there’s an edge in John’s voice.

  “Well, we’re moving back up here. Me and Rainey.”

  John gives me a sidelong glance and speaks to Bruce. “Uh-huh. Wow. You, ah, missed the snow, huh?”

  “Nah — it’s a work thing.” Bruce catches my confusion. “I lived in Florida for the past eight years.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Very nice.”

  John remains uncomfortable, maybe a little nervous. When he glances at me again, something flickers in his eyes before he turns back to Bruce. “You were just outside Jacksonville or something. Is that right?”

  “Yeah, actually right in the city. But, ah, you know — Rainey’s family is up here, my family is up here. It’s all about family. We’re staying with them for a bit while we’re finding ourselves a place. Anyway, look at you, huh? Your two kids are growing up, your lovely wife . . . that’s just great, man.”

  John is silent as Bruce barrels on. “So I was just coming through, and I recognized your house from the pictures online. And your car. I thought, you know, give it a chance, maybe just pop in and say hi.”

  Over at the dining room table, Russ has lost interest now that the conversation is back in adult territory. He bends over and slurps up some spilled milk.

  “Russ.” Melody grimaces. “That’s gross.”

  “What? I’m not wasting it.”

  “You don’t have to conserve every drop.”

  “I’m the menstruation crustacean . . .” Russ slurps more.

  Melody grunts and takes her empty plate and glass into the kitchen. She’s five years older than her little brother — twelve going on twenty.

  My attention returns to our guest. “Bruce? Get you something?”

  “Probably too early for a cocktail, huh?” John flinches when Bruce claps him on the shoulder. “Ah, I’m just kidding. Just kidding — I’d love some coffee. If it’s not too much trouble? Don’t make a cup, I just mean if you have some or—”

  “Not a problem. I just made some. How do you like it?”

  “Extra milk, extra sugar.”

  I start to move away as Bruce puts both hands on his hips and looks between us. “You guys — you’re both the picture of health. I mean — I shouldn’t assume anything though, you never know. Everything okay with you? You heard what happened to Andy Potter?”

  Curiosity roots me to the spot as John nods. “Yeah, that was sudden.” He must see the question in my face. “Andy went to school with us. He, ah—”

  “He was a great guy,” Bruce cuts in. “Great guy. He passed away a few years ago. I mean, so young. Had a very rare thing. Very rare cancer I guess.”

  I’ve never heard John talk about Andy Potter before. A friend who suddenly died of cancer at a young age? Maybe they weren’t close either. I keep thinking about the way my husband seems affected by our sudden guest: tentative, the way he tends to be around new people. But Bruce isn’t exactly new, not if they shared a childhood. Bruce is a little taller, and he does look older, like life has been a little rougher on him. From this angle I can now see a tattoo poking up from his white shirt collar.

  Bruce shakes his head, still mourning the loss of their mutual acquaintance. “Yeah — just tells you . . . you gotta take life by the horns. You gotta live every day, you know? Carpe diem.” He snaps out of it and smiles broadly again. “Just like John. God, man, I am so proud of you. You really did it, you know?” He turns to me. “I don’t know how much this guy has told you, but we used to hang out a lot when we were kids. I always said to him, ‘You gotta put me in a book one day, right? Make me a character!’ And the fact that he went on and became a writer . . . We didn’t have a lot of kids in our graduating class — what was it, about a hundred and fifty?”

  John swallows. “Yeah, about that.”

  “And I’m not saying anything bad about anyone. I mean, everyone has their path and they’re on their own time clock. You can’t envy, you can’t mock. But — anyway, I’m rambling. I’m just proud of you, man.”

  Things get quiet again and I can feel my husband’s continued discomfort. “John, you want to show Bruce around while I get him that coffee?”

  His eyes alight on me and then he looks away. “Sure.”

  “Oh, that’d be great,” Bruce says. “Love to see where it all happens. Is that cool? Can I see the office? The man cave? The atelier?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Let me get that coffee for you.” I slip around the corner into the kitchen as they move down the hallway.

  Melody remains by the sink, wearing a frown. She keeps her voice low. “Mom? Who is that?”

  I grab a mug from the cabinet. “Just a friend of Daddy’s, apparently. What’s this thing about the menstrua—”

  “How long is he going to be here?”

  “Mel, don’t worry about it. Be nice.”

  Russ carries his bowl and spoon from the table and lobs them up into the sink where they crash against the other dishes. Melody jumps away from a splash of water. “Jeez! Russ! God you’re such a baby.”

  I put a hand on my daughter’s shoulder. “Mel, take it easy. What’s the matter?”

  “I’m going to my room.” She shrugs me off and strides out of the kitchen.

  Russ lingers, looking up at me. “Mom, can I have a snack?”

  “Can you have a snack? You just had breakfast, bud.”

  “I’m s
till hungry.”

  “Fine. Sit back down. I’ll make you some eggs.”

  “Can I have a snack instead?”

  “Russ . . . eggs or nothing.”

  He sighs and sulks his way back to the table, yanks out his chair and gives me a wounded look over his shoulder. First I fill the coffee, listening in as John and Bruce move through the house. They’ve gone down to John’s office, Bruce’s voice booming as he continues to praise John for all of his success. Then I add the milk and sugar and stir. “Just sit there,” I tell Russ. “I’ll be right back.”

  John’s door is halfway open, but I knock. “Here you go, Bruce.”

  He wheels around with that enormous grin and crosses the room. “Oh, thank you, thank you.” After taking a drink he nods with approval. “Perfect. Look at this place, huh? I’m sure you’re used to it by now. But, man. This is cool . . . this is cool. Hey, John, how do you work with all the windows? Does it distract you?”

  John’s study is a corner room of the house. What was once part of a large back porch has been weatherproofed and remodeled, but the big windows remain, overlooking the forest and the mountaintops beyond. The large blinds are closed now, morning light glowing around the seams.

  “Yeah, you know, I stare out sometimes.” John catches my gaze again. It’s evident he’s hoping this comes to an end soon. Poor John, my introvert. I give him a reassuring smile.

  Bruce sips the coffee and browses the bookshelves. One shelf displays John’s suspense novels. “So much that goes into these, huh? I gotta admit, man, I keep meaning to read your stuff but I just never get the chance. Which one should I start with, huh? Which one is your best one? Or is that always the one you’re working on now?”

  I start backing out of the room. “I’m going to go make Russ something else to eat — he’s going through a growth spurt, eating non-stop. You boys have fun.”

  “Man that kid is the spitting image of you, John,” Bruce says. “And Melody, too.”

  John and I share a quick, knowing look — Melody is not John’s biological child. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have introduced you . . .”

  “Oh yeah — no, that’s okay. They saw my ugly mug.”

  “Well — thank you — okay. Have fun.”

  Walking back to the kitchen, I figure Bruce can’t have been keeping very close tabs on his friend’s life after all if he thinks Melody resembles John.

  The thought is knocked aside — Russ has dumped the salt onto the table, where he swirls it around then sucks on his finger. “Russell, come on, buddy. What is it with you and eating off the table?”

  I lose track of the background conversation as the men move on from the study and go upstairs. They creak over the floorboards above my head while I cook the eggs and talk to Russ about making messes.

  John and Bruce thunder back down the stairs. “I’m going to show him the basement,” John says out of view.

  I plate the scrambled eggs and serve them to Russ and walk into Melody’s room. By the time I finish untangling some preteen drama about little brothers and not being allowed a cell phone, John and Bruce are back by the front door.

  “Well this has just been great,” he says. “Again, I’m so sorry to barge in. I just — you know — I get it from my mother. Big personality, right?” He gives John another swat on the back, then draws him into an awkward hug. “This guy . . . He’s always been the quiet one. Now you know, right? He was writing all these books in his head.”

  I smile, still trying to unpack whether John is merely put out by the intrusion or whether there’s something more to the way he seems to shrink against Bruce’s embrace. “So, Bruce, what do you do? Or what were you doing in Florida?”

  Bruce’s whole demeanor changes and his words take on a grave tone. “Oh, I was on the job down there, ma’am. Law enforcement.”

  “Wow. Okay. Is that what you’ll be doing up here?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. No . . .” He glances at John, defensiveness shading his eyes. “John doesn’t talk about me, huh? Well, I guess he’s just writing it all down.” He winks then suddenly lifts his shirt above his waist. “No, ma’am, I was shot.” There’s a gnarled scar on one side of his exposed abdomen.

  A clatter of cutlery, a thump, and pounding footfalls precede Russell’s arrival. “Oh, no way . . .” I catch him by the arms before he touches Bruce. “Holy crap! You were shot by a bullet?”

  “Russ,” John says. “Language.”

  Bruce nods somberly. “That’s right, little man. Took one right in the gut.” He tucks his shirt back in. “Yeah — that was it for me. I think, you know, you take your chips and you know when to leave the casino. You know what I mean? That’s as lucky as one guy’s gonna get, because it could’ve been a whole lot worse. I’m not going to tempt fate, no way. So . . .”

  The moment hangs suspended and no one seems to know where to look, except Russ, staring in awe at Bruce’s clothed stomach. I finally break the silence. “It was nice to have you stop by, Bruce. I hope you settle back into the area without too much trouble.”

  John snaps out of it. “Yeah, if you need anything, you know, don’t hesitate.”

  Bruce pumps John’s hand with a firm grip. “That’s great to hear. Look, I know it’s been a long time, but friends have to stick together. Right? Friends are like family, and we go back a long way.”

  John edges toward the door as Bruce takes one last look around, almost wistfully. “Well, so nice to meet you, Jane. And you, big man. And give my best to your daughter.”

  “I’ll walk you out.” John opens the door.

  “Sounds good, partner.”

  I see Bruce’s parka hanging from the coat rack and pluck it down. “Bruce . . .”

  “Oh! Jeez. My God — see? I’m still living by Florida standards. I don’t know how I’m going to get used to this again. At least the winter is ending, right? I’m getting here at just the right time. All part of the plan.” He smiles at me one more time and John shuts the door behind them.

  “He was shot! Mom, did you see that?”

  “Uh-huh . . .” I let Russ go and drift to the window to watch John and Bruce in the driveway. They reach the car and stand around and Bruce laughs about something. I wonder if Bruce picks up on John’s reticent behavior and decide probably not — he seems the type of person living in his own world, oblivious to certain social cues or maybe just ignoring them. Full of life, and like he said: big personality.

  After sliding into the driver’s seat, Bruce takes one last look at our house, and when I feel his eyes on me I almost jerk out of sight — but I wave and he waves back. Then he reverses the truck down our long driveway.

  John returns, rubbing his arms from the cold.

  “Well,” I say, “that was something.”

  “Yeah.” He removes his boots.

  “Dad!” Russ is still mooning over Bruce’s scar. “Your friend was shot with a bullet!”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How did it happen?”

  John clears his throat. “I don’t know, buddy.”

  He starts past us but I block his path, put my hands on his shoulders and look into his face. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Listen, I was right in the middle of a chapter so I’m going to try to get back to it before it’s lost. We can talk in a little bit, okay?”

  I know it’s best to let him be so I give him a quick kiss. He moves off down the hallway and I hear the door to his study close.

  Back beside the window I watch as Bruce pulls into the road and takes off. Something tells me it’s not the last we’ll be seeing of him, whether John likes it or not.

  CHAPTER TWO / THE PAST

  “He invited himself to dinner.”

  John’s elbows are on the table, his mouth pressed against his hands. It’s been two hours since Bruce’s visit.

  “What’s the story with you and this guy?” I sit down beside him.

  “What do you mean?”

  I give my husband a look o
ver the lip of my cup of coffee to convey how obtuse that is. “I mean, John — I don’t know. Is he a friend?”

  “I guess we were.”

  “Okay . . .”

  Maybe he’s not ready to talk after all — he avoids eye contact and chews on a knuckle. I get up after half a minute and saunter into the kitchen. “Melody has piano in an hour. I’m taking Russ grocery shopping so you can have some peace and quiet — make up for some of the time you lost this morning.” I peek in the refrigerator to remind myself how much butter is left.

  “What should we do?” John says.

  I lean against the fridge once I’ve closed the door. “Well, I mean, I think that’s up to you, babe. I don’t know this person and you don’t seem to want to talk about him. What did he say? How did he invite himself? ‘I’m coming to your house again for dinner, put the fucking kettle on?’”

  John cracks a smile that vanishes an instant later. “No. But this guy . . . you know he’s — he walked me into it. Said we should get together again . . . life is short . . . blah blah blah.”

  I move a little closer. My back has been bothering me lately so I brace against the kitchen counter for support. “When?”

  “Well — I was like — I thought about putting it off, saying, ‘Maybe next weekend.’ Then I could say we’re busy. But then he’d say, ‘Okay, how about the weekend after that?’ It will just keep going on and on.”

  “Just him?”

  “He said he wants Rainey to meet you, thinks you two would like each other.”

  “That’s his wife? Or girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know, honestly. Maybe they’re married — I think we just have to do it and get it over with.” He looks away. “You don’t know this guy.”

  “And you’re not helping in that department. So I’m not sure what to tell you. Unless you want to talk to me and tell me what’s going on. Otherwise I’m just going to roll with it.”

  John stares through the windows at an early spring snow, softly falling and clinging to the trees like wet sugar. Russ’s TV plays in his room, burbling cartoon voices. We debated at length whether or not to get our seven-year-old son a TV. I came down against it but John made the executive decision. Melody is still in her own room, brooding over who-knows-what.