Elizabeth Wrenn - Last Known Address

When he got home, there was Keppie, waiting for him, right there on the airstrip at Quad City, her black-gloved fingers laced through the chain-link fence like it was the only thing holding her up. She was plainly dressed in a gray blouse and darker gray skirt, her hair pulled back, her only makeup a face full of both fear and hope.

Marrying her had seemed the thing to do. But they’d made it work okay, over the years. No great sparks or anything, but when the PTSD had taken hold of him, Keppie had stuck with him, held on, gotten him help. He was infinitely grateful to her, for her. But he’d often doubted that what he felt was love, as he was sure she had from time to time. But his doubt was erased seven months ago. Holding her in his arms, there on the floor behind the bar where she’d collapsed, her hands clutching her shoulder, he’d felt his own heart under attack. All he could think–he knew it was stupid, but still–all he could think was that it should be him; he was the fat one. How could tough, sturdy, bantam-weight Keppie be having a heart attack? But he knew that’s what it was right away, even though there’d never been a single warning sign, other than she’d said she felt a mite under the weather that morning. The flu, she thought. And when she’d dropped to the floor, and he’d gathered her up, her back warm against his knees, her shoulder blades sharp against his arm, he couldn’t imagine her leaving him, couldn’t imagine life without her. That’s when the flashbacks started again. A body in his arms. His wife, so small, nearly the same size as the South Vietnamese woman he’d carried from the burning village. And just as then, he’d felt her leave him the very moment she passed, despite his begging her to hold on.

Keppie never did smile too much. But he would never forget the way she smiled–really smiled–at him before her body let go of this life, and he felt some part of her float upward, and away.

Purdy tapped his arms, the trick he’d learned in therapy to bring him back. He took a deep breath and looked at C.C. again, sitting with her friends and Mick, all of them petting that little dog, and laughing about something else now, and he smiled. He was here. Mick glanced over at him, eyes searching. Purdy knew Mick could not delay putting in that alternator too much longer. And when he did, the women were going to leave, and he’d never see C.C. again, never hear that laugh again, never know if her skin was as soft as it looked. He had to think of something. Cort Smith was right. In youth it was hormones that made a man act; now it was the heart itself having a deeper knowledge of time.

As Mick stood up and excused himself from the table, Purdy pretended to rub the bar down again. As his son walked by him, pulling on his cap, he said out of the corner of his mouth: ‘Now or never, Dad. Now or never.’

Shelly and Meg stood up, and Shelly said, louder than necessary, ‘We’re going to the room to finish packing. C.C., you take the dog for a little walk.’ The two women left the restaurant.

Purdy tried to calm himself. C.C. was slowly scooting herself to the end of the bench seat with one hand, the other carefully protecting the dog in her lap. He grabbed the towel and turned away, leaning against the bar, dabbing at his forehead and upper lip. He could see himself in the mirror, above the reflection of the tops of liquor bottles. A pale, bald, fat guy. He turned back and glanced her way; she was standing now, the little dog in her arms. Lucky dog. He turned back around, dabbed the towel on his upper lip again.

‘Thank you for that great breakfast.’

He spun around. She was slipping her purse strap onto her shoulder, the dog was snug against her bosom, casually held with her other arm, like a girl might carry her books, like she’d carried that little dog that way for years. He noticed the dog wasn’t shaking anymore. He nodded, smiled dumbly. ‘We just left the money on the table. Is that all right?’ He nodded, even more dumbly.

He watched her walk out of the restaurant, with not a word from him. He stepped around the cash register to watch her. He put his hand over his thumping heart, tried to swallow.

Outside, she stopped in the sun, gave the dog a kiss on its head, then set it on the ground, holding the end of the twine leash. She began rummaging in her purse.

Go out there! He paced back behind the bar. His hand suddenly shot to the squat bottle of brandy at the end of the row of bottles. He grabbed a highball glass from the towel-covered shelf. He wouldn’t let himself look at the clock. The neck of the bottle clattered noisily against the glass edge as he poured. He had not had a drink since before Keppie had died. He’d never had a breakfast drink. He was an occasional social drinker, was all. Even after Nam, when lots of guys turned to the bottle, he hadn’t. Keppie had made sure of that. He took a deep breath and threw the swallow of brandy down his throat. The burn felt good, like it would hold him to consciousness. Social. That’s all he needed to be, was social .

He headed out the door, suddenly aware of the bar towel on his shoulder. But the damn bell had rung and she was already looking his way, so it was too late to do anything about it. He stopped in his tracks, a happy realization: instead of scaring him, the bell had made him angry. Fitz would say that was an improvement.

‘Hello,’ he said weakly. She smiled at him, waiting. ‘Um,’ he said, trying to find his bearings with his voice. He pulled the towel off his shoulder, twisted it in his hands.

She looked concerned. ‘Did we leave enough money?’

‘Oh!’ he said, suddenly pained that he’d caused her concern. ‘Plenty! I’m sure. Fine, fine!’ He was nodding like a spring had gone loose in his neck somewhere. He felt ridiculous. But he felt good. He was feeling .

‘Okay. Good.’ She smiled, still waiting.

He threw the towel over his shoulder again and jammed his hands in his pockets, nervously scratching his legs with his pocket-covered fingers, till he realized it might appear as though he was doing something else entirely. He quickly pulled his hands out again, pulling a pocket lining out. He shoved it back down, feeling his face redden.

‘Well, I’m going to take M.J. for a little walk,’ she said finally. He desperately wanted to ask if he could come, but his tongue, vocal cords, lungs–everything–seemed to be locked up. Damn brandy hadn’t helped. She took a step.

‘Wait!’ he said.

She stopped suddenly, turned, again looking concerned.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’ Well, that was a switch. Him startling someone else. ‘Uh, mind if I join you on your walk? I…I usually take a little stroll about now anyway. For exercise.’ He pulled in his big stomach, hoping to look like someone who’d ever taken an early morning walk, just for the exercise. Much less usually .

‘Uh, no. Of course not. You’d be welcome, right, M.J.?’ She glanced at the dog. Then she looked past him, over his shoulder. ‘But who’ll mind the restaurant?’

‘Oh, no one. No one in there anyway. If anyone comes in, they’ll just help themselves to whatever.’

She nodded warily.

‘Mostly regulars around here.’ He forced himself to smile.

He marveled at how, when she smiled, her whole face seemed to sparkle. ‘Well, sure then. Do you know how long it will take your son to put in the new part?’

‘Uh, I’m guessing not more than an hour.’ He glanced at his watch. Nearly 7.30. Mick could have it done in fifteen minutes, since it was basically already in; he knew Mick could stall only a little longer for him. ‘Maybe less.’

She chuckled softly. ‘Well, I don’t think either one of us would last walking for an hour.’ Then she quickly added, ‘The dog or me, I mean.’ She was blushing, and he couldn’t imagine anything nicer.