Jacqueline Druga - The Flu

“I’m not just proposing in front of these people. I want to marry you in front of these people. Reverend Bower is here, he’ll…”

“Mick,” Dylan cut him off. “What were you thinking?”

“Of getting married.”

“Where did this come from? Why would you put me on the spot like this?”

“The spot?” Mick snickered. “Dylan, yesterday in your kitchen you said…”

“I said nothing about marriage.” Dylan stared seriously at him. “Nothing. I’m not marrying you, Mick. I’m not.” Turning and saying no more, arms folded, Dylan stormed from the stage.

Mick’s eyes went from Dylan, to the microphone, then to the crowd. He stood there in silence, then he handed the microphone to Dexter. “Play something.” Microphone barely from his hand, Mick started to leave the stage. He paused only briefly when Dexter and the boys started to play ‘Love Hurts’.

It took all of his energy, and a lot of straining, but Jeff got the cough to produce enough sputum to free up his air passages. “That felt better.” He set down his spitting cup filled with the thick brown phlegm. “Darrell.”

Weakly, Darrell lifted his head. “They’re playing AC/DC again.”

“Sucks,” Jeff coughed. “They’re having a good time…” He paused to cough violently. “And we’re sick.”

Darrell could barely open his eyes. “You don’t think that doctor was right, do you? Do you think we have the flu?”

“No. We beat the flu…” Jeff’s eyes started to close. “It’s allergies.”

The clink of the chain and the creak of the old swing set carried to Mick as he walked into Dylan’s backyard. He could see her on the old set that was originally purchased for Dustin. Her back was to him and she glided slowly back and forth.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, walking up to her. “How come you came home?”

“I didn’t think it was a good idea to stay,” Dylan answered

“I ruined your good time, huh?” Mick crouched down before her.

“No,” she whispered.

“Are you mad at me?” Mick asked.

“No. Are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“Because I turned you down. Because I…” Dylan played with the links of the chain. “Because I embarrassed you.”

“I knew there was a possibility of you turning me down. It was a chance I took. And as far as embarrassing me goes. I’m not. Embarrassment is not turning me down. Embarrassment is the whole town knowing you had oral sex with Eunice Bender.”

Dylan quickly looked at him.

“Not me,” Mick lifted his hand.

“Then if you aren’t mad, or embarrassed, you feel bad.”

Mick nodded. “Yeah. I feel bad. Of course I do, you don’t want to marry me.”

“I do, Mick. Just not there. Not at that moment. Understand?”

“Really?” Mick smiled.

“Why do you look happy?”

“Because I am. Look…” He reached into his pocket. “I bought wedding rings. You know how cheap I am,” he tried to joke. “So you really will marry me?”

Dylan nodded. “If you still want to.”

“Absolutely.” Mick kissed her.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry you failed tonight, Mick.”

“I didn’t fail. You said you’ll marry me. It doesn’t matter if I have to wait or not. I got your word,” Mick said. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to marry you, Dylan. You just said ‘yes’. I didn’t fail tonight at all.”

September 27 th

The air in the trailer smelled like recently released bodily functions rather than stale death. And that told Lars that the FBI agents, Darrell and Jeff, had not long before met their deaths.

It was a typical death scene of the flu. Both men in beds, covers thrown half from them, sheets laced with blood, a visual display of violent demise.

He debated on whether to order the bodies removed from the trailer or to just let them go. The trailers, like everything else associated with fighting the flu, would see a flame within a few days. Feeling just a little guilty for not stopping by the previous day because of the festival, Lars started to leave the back bedroom.

He pushed aside the curtain and froze with revelation.

Like a tidal wave, the rush of anxiety-riddled blood filled his ears and Lars spun around as if searching for something.

“Oh my God.” He frantically raced about the trailer, panicked.

Getting his bearings together and calming down, Lars did another sweep of the trailer. Releasing yet, another ‘Oh my God’, he flew to the front door and flung it open.

Sgt. Dion stood there. “Everything all right, sir?” he asked.

“No,” Lars shook his head seemingly dazed. “No, it’s not.” With those words and a look of hysteria, Lars took off running.

His own home. His own bed. His own shower. And everything was clean, too. Mick was impressed with how well his mother had progressed over the years in handling her sloppiness.

It felt good to use his big bathroom and huge shower. It felt even better to sleep in his bed with–and Mick smiled at the thought–his wife.

Dylan married him.

It wasn’t much, shortly after midnight, in the church. The boys, Dylan’s parents, Rose, Lars, and Patrick were there for the “I do’s”. It was a small, short ceremony, but they got married.

Mick swore it was his single proudest accomplishment. For as long as he could remember, like an obsessed stalker, the entire emotional makeup of his soul was dedicated to being with Dylan. And the words “for the rest of our lives” were, for Mick, etched in stone, official, and whether Dylan liked it or not, he was never giving her up. Ever.

Adding the final touch to his Levis uniform, which consisted of his shoulder harness, Mick stared at Dylan sleeping in his bed.

He wished the wedding night could have been somewhere else. He wished they could have had a honeymoon. Disney World, perhaps; the boys would have liked that. But in Mick’s mind, someday they’d get around to it.

Mick wanted to let her sleep while he slipped out, but he couldn’t do that. All through his shower and coffee he had thought about the first morning. The first ‘face to face’ reaction to what had happened. He fantasized about the moment that he and Dylan gazed upon each other as husband and wife, a moment that he saw so much like a scene from a Lars Rayburn romance novel.

Thinking that he caught a glimpse of movement, Mick walked over to the side of the bed where he faced Dylan lying on her side. He crouched down quietly and ran his fingers lightly over her forehead, moving her hair out of her eyes. “Hey,” he said quietly.

Dylan groggily opened her eyes; they rolled slightly out of control before focusing. “Hey.”

“I’ve been, uh… waiting to say this.” He kissed her softly, smiled and spoke in a suavely romantic way. “Good morning, Mrs. Owens.”

The corner of Dylan’s mouth lifted as she stared at him, and then she laughed, grabbing her pillow. “Oh my God, are you corny.” She covered her face with the pillow and rolled the other way. “Go to work, Mick.”

“Hey.” He pulled the pillow from her. “Aren’t you gonna say, ‘Good morning, Mr. Owens.’”

“No!” Dylan snapped. “Go to work.”

“Now, that isn’t right. We’re supposed to be in awe of the fact we were married last night.”

“God, Mick.” Dylan looked over her shoulder at him.

“Come on, Dylan. Give this to me.”

For a few seconds Dylan looked at him then, as she rolled back over, she mumbled. “Morning, Mr. Owens.”

“What was that?”

“Go to work.”

With a “ha”, Mick leaned down and kissed her cheek. “You might want to get up and go home.” He smacked her backside before he walked across the room. “My mom is watching the boys. I grew up with her behavior over breakfast.”