Timothy Johnston - The Current

“I think just about anybody who isn’t his mother is gonna think there’s only one way in hell that boy comes up with this pocket ten years later.”

She watched him. “Is that what you think, Gordon?”

He didn’t answer. Looking into her eyes. Then he looked away, toward the window, as if he’d heard something, and she looked too, and listened, and for just a moment she heard them: The kids, chasing each other in the snow. Laughing, shouting. Any second now a snowball would thud against the house, trying to get them to come to the window, come to the porch, watch us, notice us!

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Gordon said, and she turned back to him.

“Of course it does.”

“Not to the law it doesn’t.”

A panic began to rise in her. She had the urge to swipe up the cloth and hold it in her fist.

“Gordon—” She had to swallow. “Gordon… you sound like you don’t even want to try.”

He shook his head. “It isn’t that. I don’t want anything more in this world than to know the truth. It’s just… God damn it, Rachel.”

“What?”

“What if the truth isn’t what you want it to be?”

She looked at him. Was it possible this was the same man who’d held her as she sobbed against his chest? Who’d built the fire and thawed the ground and dug up the earth so she could bury the dog?

Then she saw her own hand moving slowly toward the square of cloth. Palming it up, replacing it in the folded stationery, fitting the stationery back into the envelope, and the envelope back into her purse.

“I’m going to the sheriff with or without you,” she said, her voice trembling.

Gordon nodded. “I know it,” he said. “I know it, Rachel. And I’d do the same, I were you.”

HE DIDN’T CALL. 4:50 and he didn’t call.

5:00 and he didn’t.

Mr. Wabash was in the front office closing out the register, putting the cash and the checks into a zipper bag for the bank. Jeff had pulled the Impala out and was backing it into a tight spot. Marky stood watching through the glass.

“You OK there, Marky?”

“I’m OK Mister Wabash.”

Mr. Wabash looking at him, and Marky looking out the glass, watching for his mother’s car to pull in. Finally Mr. Wabash zipped the bag shut and said, “OK then,” and turned and went back into the garage.

Marky zipped up his jacket and stepped outside and stood in the cold wind. It was not dark yet because it was almost March and the days were getting longer, but everything still looked like winter. Smelled like winter. Jeff came back from parking the Impala, hurrying to get back inside, but then stopped next to Marky and stuffed his hands in his pockets and stood as if he would wait too.

“She’s running late, huh.”

“She’s running late Jeff.”

They watched. Jeff shivered and said, “Well,” and at that moment the wagon turned into the lot, and Jeff said, “I’ll see ya, Big Man,” and Marky said, “OK seeya Jeff,” and he got into the car, so warm and smelling like his mother—“Hi Momma”—and he shut the door and pulled the seatbelt across him, but then they just sat there.

“Momma?”

She seemed to be watching Jeff as he stepped back into the office.

“Yes?”

“Are we going?”

She turned to him, but it was another second or two before she really saw him, and he knew she hadn’t talked to him—to Danny—just as she knew he hadn’t talked to him either, because he would’ve told her already, he would’ve called her right away like he promised, but of course she had to ask anyway, and he had to tell her, “No Momma he didn’t call,” and she looked at him then for a long time, just looking at him, before she faced forward again and took her foot off the brake. And it was the longest drive home. Or not the longest because that was the drive home from the hospital after Poppa died, just the three of you now… and there was that drive out to the farmhouse after Danny had gone away the first time and you had to move and it was just you and Momma and Wyatt in the car, and this was like that again only without Wyatt, and the two of you just staying in your own heads and not saying anything, and it’s worse than if she just said Marky I know you’re not telling me something, I know Danny told you something , because that’s what she’s thinking but won’t say it because she doesn’t want you lying to her again… and you not saying what you know is just as bad as lying, but if you tell her, if you tell her everything then you break your promise to Danny and that’s even worse, isn’t it? And they were almost home before he looked at her again—he would say something, he didn’t know what, just say her name—“Momma…”

But she wouldn’t turn to look at him—she was looking straight ahead and she was looking at something more than just the road, and when he looked he saw it too: a white SUV parked in the driveway near the farmhouse, and he knew the SUV because it was the sheriff’s 2014 Chevy Tahoe.

“Oh God,” she said.

“It’s OK Momma.”

She turned into the drive and pulled up behind the SUV and put the car in park and cut the engine. They could see the sheriff looking at them in his rearview. Then the sheriff stepped out, putting his hat on, and walked toward them, and Rachel opened her own door and got to her feet and stood holding on to the door.

“Evening, folks,” the sheriff said, nodding to her and then to Marky, who stood behind her now, somehow, a presence felt more than seen, his breaths blowing by in white clouds. “Mrs. Young?” the sheriff said, and she tried to say yes but all of her attention was on his hand, watching to see if he would raise it to his hatbrim and remove the hat from his head. He didn’t do it. But neither did he give her any indication that he’d not driven out here to rip her heart from her chest.

He said, “Hey, Marky,” and Marky said, “Hey Sheriff Halsey,” and the sheriff began to say how sorry he was to just show up like this but he’d tried to call and—

“Sheriff,” she said. “What’s happened?”

“Well, ma’am, that’s a good question. All I know is I’ve got an abandoned vehicle about a half-mile mile shy of the Mississippi with plates that are registered to Daniel Paul Young of Amarillo Texas, whom I believe is your son. Your other son.”

“What kind of vehicle Sheriff Halsey?” said Marky.

The sheriff looked at him, and Rachel said, “He asked what kind of vehicle.”

“A dark-blue Ford F-150, two thousand and one.”

“XLT?” said Marky.

“Yes, sir.”

“Four-by-four?” said Marky.

“Yes, sir, I believe that’s right.”

“That’s Danny’s truck Momma.”

She was holding on to the door, but the door too began to sway and she stepped back until she felt her son’s chest against her and she found his hand and gripped it and he gripped back.

“What else, Sheriff?” she said.

“Well, I was hoping you might tell me. The keys were in the truck and it started right up, hadn’t run out of gas or anything like that. No flat tires.” The sheriff glanced down, then looked up again. “Mrs. Young, when did your son get back in town?”

She had to think a moment. “A week ago?” she said, looking at Marky.

“Eight days ago Sheriff it was Sunday night he was here when we came home.”

Rachel repeated this, and the sheriff nodded. “And did either of you notice anything about the condition of his truck then?”

“The condition of his truck?”

“Any, ah, holes in it, that you saw?”

“Holes, Sheriff?” Her heart was crashing. “More than one—?”

He looked at her. “You know about that, ma’am?”