Fiction
An ‘Almost’ Experience
Kait Burton
The seat beneath him rattled with vibrations from the engine. The old truck rumbled a slow growl and the comforting smell of burning gasoline filled his nose. Both hands on the wheel, he fought to keep his eyes open. The headlights of the truck illuminated the road ahead. In the dim grey half-light of early morning, he glanced at his brother sleeping in the passenger seat. His partner in crime, life, and business let out an elegant snore. Benny smiled, it was almost a shame he’d have to wake Autry up for his turn to drive soon.
The pair had left Foil a little after five o’clock the day before, pulling a 1957 Oldsmobile Fiesta behind them. The 20 hour drive to North Carolina was taking them through places Benny had never been and had never planned to be. They hadn’t stopped for any sight-seeing. This was a money-making expedition. Out of the blue, they had gotten a call from a buyer on the East Coast, looking for a specific car model from a specific year. The model was popular; the same car could have been found in any scrap yard in Oklahoma. It was a rarity on the East Coast, however, where the salt air assaulted the fragile steel bodies, pitting and rusting the once strong frames. The buyer promised more money than the Leach Brothers Scrap Yard would usually see in a month if they delivered the car by five today.
Benny blinked at the sun as it came up over the peaks of the Appalachian Mountains, the curves of the road and the blinding glare conspiring to prevent him from seeing what lay ahead. As it rose higher, he finally got a look at the surroundings he’d been driving through in darkness. The scenery really was beautiful. Trees rose up on either side of the road, stretching their limbs to the sky as if they’d grab the angels Benny’s grandpa swore he saw before they put him in the hospital. The trees were taller here than in Oklahoma, older. The history here went back much further than that of the car he pulled behind him, as old as it was, and would continue long after it had rusted away.
The trees gave way to the main street of a small highway town. Benny passed a pharmacy, a mechanic’s shop, and a post office before spotting a gas station on the edge of town. The fuel gage had fallen precariously close to ‘E’ and Benny glanced at the watch on his left wrist. It was almost time to wake up Autry. Pulling into the gas station, he was glad to see that it had already opened for the day. Despite the lack of traffic, the front door stood propped open, taking advantage of the cool misty morning and slight breeze before the heat of the day stifled the occupants. Throwing the truck into park, Benny reached over and shook Autry’s shoulder roughly.
Autry started awake with a swinging fist and unhappy grumble, “God-dammit, Benny Joe!”
Benny avoided the swing deftly. Going inside the gas station, he filled two cups with black coffee and payed the clerk for them and the gas. Sipping his coffee as he left the store, he handed Autry the second cup silently. The bitter heady taste filled his mouth and warmth radiated through his body, shaking off the chill of the damp morning. Climbing into the passenger side of the truck, he swung the heavy door shut behind him and pillowed his head against the window pointedly. It was his turn to nap.
The truck bumped along. Benny could feel every pot hole and rock in the road. His head banged uncomfortably on the cold glass window. He closed his eyes, let the bumping become a rocking, and drifted off, back into the darkness of the morning.
Opening his eyes sometime later, the windows of the truck had been rolled down, the sun was high in the sky, and the heat of the day was cooking the inside of the cab. The air rushing into Benny’s face provided some relief, a gentle pressure running fingers through his hair. There was a chill to it—moisture. Then the smell of salt hit him. Though he’d never smelled it before, instinctively Benny knew he was smelling the ocean. He sat up straight to peer over the dash, but there was no water in sight. The wind coming from his left carried the smell. The truck continued straight.
After delivering the Fiesta to the buyer, both Benny and Autry were exhausted. Drained and content with their pay-off, they drove home wanting nothing more than to drop into a two-day sleep in their own beds. They took turns driving through the next day and arrived back in Oklahoma tired and smelling of sweat and sea salt.
Years later Benny sat with his daughter and grandchildren in his living room in Foil. His oldest granddaughter was about to go off to college. She was going to be one of the first in their family. “Make money,” Benny’s daughter told her. “Oh, I will,” she answered. “So that I can see things, like the ocean.” Benny paused. “Have you ever seen the ocean, Papa?” she asked.
“Almost,” Benny answered. “I got close once. So close I could smell it.”
Kait Burton
The seat beneath him rattled with vibrations from the engine. The old truck rumbled a slow growl and the comforting smell of burning gasoline filled his nose. Both hands on the wheel, he fought to keep his eyes open. The headlights of the truck illuminated the road ahead. In the dim grey half-light of early morning, he glanced at his brother sleeping in the passenger seat. His partner in crime, life, and business let out an elegant snore. Benny smiled, it was almost a shame he’d have to wake Autry up for his turn to drive soon.
The pair had left Foil a little after five o’clock the day before, pulling a 1957 Oldsmobile Fiesta behind them. The 20 hour drive to North Carolina was taking them through places Benny had never been and had never planned to be. They hadn’t stopped for any sight-seeing. This was a money-making expedition. Out of the blue, they had gotten a call from a buyer on the East Coast, looking for a specific car model from a specific year. The model was popular; the same car could have been found in any scrap yard in Oklahoma. It was a rarity on the East Coast, however, where the salt air assaulted the fragile steel bodies, pitting and rusting the once strong frames. The buyer promised more money than the Leach Brothers Scrap Yard would usually see in a month if they delivered the car by five today.
Benny blinked at the sun as it came up over the peaks of the Appalachian Mountains, the curves of the road and the blinding glare conspiring to prevent him from seeing what lay ahead. As it rose higher, he finally got a look at the surroundings he’d been driving through in darkness. The scenery really was beautiful. Trees rose up on either side of the road, stretching their limbs to the sky as if they’d grab the angels Benny’s grandpa swore he saw before they put him in the hospital. The trees were taller here than in Oklahoma, older. The history here went back much further than that of the car he pulled behind him, as old as it was, and would continue long after it had rusted away.
The trees gave way to the main street of a small highway town. Benny passed a pharmacy, a mechanic’s shop, and a post office before spotting a gas station on the edge of town. The fuel gage had fallen precariously close to ‘E’ and Benny glanced at the watch on his left wrist. It was almost time to wake up Autry. Pulling into the gas station, he was glad to see that it had already opened for the day. Despite the lack of traffic, the front door stood propped open, taking advantage of the cool misty morning and slight breeze before the heat of the day stifled the occupants. Throwing the truck into park, Benny reached over and shook Autry’s shoulder roughly.
Autry started awake with a swinging fist and unhappy grumble, “God-dammit, Benny Joe!”
Benny avoided the swing deftly. Going inside the gas station, he filled two cups with black coffee and payed the clerk for them and the gas. Sipping his coffee as he left the store, he handed Autry the second cup silently. The bitter heady taste filled his mouth and warmth radiated through his body, shaking off the chill of the damp morning. Climbing into the passenger side of the truck, he swung the heavy door shut behind him and pillowed his head against the window pointedly. It was his turn to nap.
The truck bumped along. Benny could feel every pot hole and rock in the road. His head banged uncomfortably on the cold glass window. He closed his eyes, let the bumping become a rocking, and drifted off, back into the darkness of the morning.
Opening his eyes sometime later, the windows of the truck had been rolled down, the sun was high in the sky, and the heat of the day was cooking the inside of the cab. The air rushing into Benny’s face provided some relief, a gentle pressure running fingers through his hair. There was a chill to it—moisture. Then the smell of salt hit him. Though he’d never smelled it before, instinctively Benny knew he was smelling the ocean. He sat up straight to peer over the dash, but there was no water in sight. The wind coming from his left carried the smell. The truck continued straight.
After delivering the Fiesta to the buyer, both Benny and Autry were exhausted. Drained and content with their pay-off, they drove home wanting nothing more than to drop into a two-day sleep in their own beds. They took turns driving through the next day and arrived back in Oklahoma tired and smelling of sweat and sea salt.
Years later Benny sat with his daughter and grandchildren in his living room in Foil. His oldest granddaughter was about to go off to college. She was going to be one of the first in their family. “Make money,” Benny’s daughter told her. “Oh, I will,” she answered. “So that I can see things, like the ocean.” Benny paused. “Have you ever seen the ocean, Papa?” she asked.
“Almost,” Benny answered. “I got close once. So close I could smell it.”
All That’s Left
(After the Fields Took the Rest)
Taylor Watts
It was a sweltering early August afternoon when Jim Cavanaugh got the call that his mother had died.
He’d been out in the field, feeding the geese that mill around the small pond on his property. It was his favorite thing to do to clear his mind after a hard day’s work. He had just finished putting out hay for the livestock, and now he sat in the grass near the pond and enjoyed the slight breeze that rolled across the murky surface. He dipped his hands into the water and splashed some onto the back of his neck.
Phone reception was spotty on Jim’s land, and it wasn’t until he got back inside his doublewide trailer that he realized he had a missed call from his father.
He wondered if he was dreaming for a long moment, as he hadn’t spoken to his father in over fifteen years. In a way, they had kept in contact through Jim’s mother. She would call, and she’d pass along any news and well wishes from the both of them. But the two men had not spoken directly to one another in a very long time.
He looked at the phone in his hand, and he remembered something he’d heard once about how to determine if you’re in a dream or not by looking at your hands. They looked normal to him, slightly scarred and callused from decades of physical labor. He reckoned it was a safe assumption that he was awake.
(After the Fields Took the Rest)
Taylor Watts
It was a sweltering early August afternoon when Jim Cavanaugh got the call that his mother had died.
He’d been out in the field, feeding the geese that mill around the small pond on his property. It was his favorite thing to do to clear his mind after a hard day’s work. He had just finished putting out hay for the livestock, and now he sat in the grass near the pond and enjoyed the slight breeze that rolled across the murky surface. He dipped his hands into the water and splashed some onto the back of his neck.
Phone reception was spotty on Jim’s land, and it wasn’t until he got back inside his doublewide trailer that he realized he had a missed call from his father.
He wondered if he was dreaming for a long moment, as he hadn’t spoken to his father in over fifteen years. In a way, they had kept in contact through Jim’s mother. She would call, and she’d pass along any news and well wishes from the both of them. But the two men had not spoken directly to one another in a very long time.
He looked at the phone in his hand, and he remembered something he’d heard once about how to determine if you’re in a dream or not by looking at your hands. They looked normal to him, slightly scarred and callused from decades of physical labor. He reckoned it was a safe assumption that he was awake.
***
It was over a nine-hour drive from Pawhuska to Bayou Vista. Jim loaded up his truck with his old blue heeler, Gus, and a duffel bag of clothes and toiletries. The funeral was tomorrow, but he would go down a day early to help take care of any arrangements. He’d left his cows and horses with plenty of feed and hay, and if they got low there was enough grass for them to eat until he got back. He asked his friend Eddie, an older man who lived down the road a ways, to come by and fill up the water troughs every day while he was gone.
After all of that was squared away, Jim pulled out of his driveway and began his journey south.
He had several hours before he would be anywhere near his hometown, but his stomach was already churning with dread, making him nauseous. He lit up a cigarette to calm his nerves, smoking with one hand and steering with the other. Gus squirmed in the passenger seat.
The quickest route to Bayou Vista was the Interstate Highway 45 that spread across east Texas, connecting Dallas to Houston (a stretch known as the Pi) and Houston to Galveston (The Gulf Freeway). Despite its name, the entire route was located within the state of Texas. About a mile west of the Gulf Free rested a 20-acre patch of land they called the Killing Fields.
Jim hadn’t driven by the Fields in almost twenty years, but he could remember the distinct chill that would seep into his bones as a kid whenever he was in close proximity. When he was growing up, every kid in the area knew about the Killing Fields, a vast stretch of land where murderers would take young girls and women out into the wilderness, assault, and butcher them. His older sister, Rosalind, had told him stories about the Killing Fields when he was little to scare him.
And he had been scared, but like most children there had been a hint of fun in the fear. They were too young to know the whole truth about the Fields, about the dozens of bodies that had been found there since the ‘70s, the multitudes of unsolved disappearances from towns near the area. The Internet then was not what it was now. For kids, the stories were like chanting Bloody Mary in a dark bathroom with your friends, or secretly watching unrated horror films that your mother told you not to.
For Jim, though, this childish fun ended in October of 1994, when Rosalind went missing. She, like so many girls who disappeared in towns near the Killing Fields, was never found. She was sixteen years old. He’d been twelve.
After that, the Fields took on a whole new meaning for Jim. He became obsessed. He went to every nearby library, scouring article after article he could find about the victims who had been found there, as well as suspected victims whose remains had not been discovered. Everything he read discouraged him further. He learned that the vast majority of cases remained unsolved.
After all of that was squared away, Jim pulled out of his driveway and began his journey south.
He had several hours before he would be anywhere near his hometown, but his stomach was already churning with dread, making him nauseous. He lit up a cigarette to calm his nerves, smoking with one hand and steering with the other. Gus squirmed in the passenger seat.
The quickest route to Bayou Vista was the Interstate Highway 45 that spread across east Texas, connecting Dallas to Houston (a stretch known as the Pi) and Houston to Galveston (The Gulf Freeway). Despite its name, the entire route was located within the state of Texas. About a mile west of the Gulf Free rested a 20-acre patch of land they called the Killing Fields.
Jim hadn’t driven by the Fields in almost twenty years, but he could remember the distinct chill that would seep into his bones as a kid whenever he was in close proximity. When he was growing up, every kid in the area knew about the Killing Fields, a vast stretch of land where murderers would take young girls and women out into the wilderness, assault, and butcher them. His older sister, Rosalind, had told him stories about the Killing Fields when he was little to scare him.
And he had been scared, but like most children there had been a hint of fun in the fear. They were too young to know the whole truth about the Fields, about the dozens of bodies that had been found there since the ‘70s, the multitudes of unsolved disappearances from towns near the area. The Internet then was not what it was now. For kids, the stories were like chanting Bloody Mary in a dark bathroom with your friends, or secretly watching unrated horror films that your mother told you not to.
For Jim, though, this childish fun ended in October of 1994, when Rosalind went missing. She, like so many girls who disappeared in towns near the Killing Fields, was never found. She was sixteen years old. He’d been twelve.
After that, the Fields took on a whole new meaning for Jim. He became obsessed. He went to every nearby library, scouring article after article he could find about the victims who had been found there, as well as suspected victims whose remains had not been discovered. Everything he read discouraged him further. He learned that the vast majority of cases remained unsolved.
***
He’d been driving almost an hour when he decided to stop for a coffee and some gas. He pulled into a station near Sperry, Oklahoma. He left the truck running so that Gus could stay cool. Near the entrance sat a teenage girl. She was alone and looked a little lost, like she was waiting on someone. He stepped around her to go inside.
After placing a granola bar and a Styrofoam cup of black coffee on the counter, Jim pulled out his wallet. “And forty on pump thr—”
His word were cut off by a series of loud clunking and grinding noises outside, and through the window he saw his own truck sputtering away, lunging a few yards at a time before stalling out. Abandoning his breakfast, he ran outside to see the girl who had been sitting near the door scrambling out of the driver’s side door. He chased her down quickly, grabbed her by the arm and spun her around to face him.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” she spat as she struggled to get out of his grasp.
“You think you can steal my fucking truck?” he yelled, brimming with rage. Apparently she hadn’t known how to drive a stick, but if she had she’d be making off now with his truck, his clothes, as well as his dog, and he’d be stranded.
Still grasping her arm tightly in one large hand, he pulled out his cellphone with the other. Her tone changed immediately.
“Please don’t call the police. I’m sorry,” she pleaded. “I didn’t know what else to do. I’m pregnant, and I got nowhere to go. Please.”
The last word came out as a whimper. Tears were filling the girl’s eyes, making her dark eye makeup run. He looked at her for a moment, trying to gauge whether these were crocodile tears. She looked really upset. And she was just a kid.
He told her he wouldn’t call the cops so long as she didn’t run, and he loosened his grip on her arm slightly. He wasn’t sure if she was really pregnant, as it certainly wasn’t visible. She was as thin as a beanpole. Even so, he told her to take a seat in the passenger seat and cool down for a second. Then he asked her to tell him her situation, and they’d see where to go from there.
“You can start by telling me your name and how you ended up here.”
Her voice was clear and defiant, but he could tell by the way she kept her eyes on the ground that she was embarrassed.
“Evan. And my boyfriend run off and left me here. Sent me inside to get snacks while he filled up, and when I came out he was gone.”
“And why’d he go and do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know. We were ‘sposed to run away together. He said he had some family down in Tishomingo that would take us in.”
“And what about your family? Hell, you look about fifteen.”
“I’m eighteen,” she snapped. “And my family would kick me out soon as they find out about the baby. They never liked Rod, said he’s too old for me. They think he’s a loser, but he’s not. He’s got ambitions.”
“Well, darling, I think your family might be on to something, seeing as you’re stranded at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. You from around here? How about you let me take you back home.”
“A couple towns over. But no way in hell I’m going back there. Mama and Daddy are real religious, the Southern Baptist kind. I don’t wanna hear their judgements.”
He ran his hand through his hair, and leaned against the side of the truck.
“Well, kid. Where are you going to go, then?” he asked her.
She picked at her chipped nail polish. “I dunno,” she mumbled. “I was scared of hitchhiking, on account of those true crime shows they show late at night. But I figure it’s my best bet now. Until I can find somewhere I can stay.”
A large part of Jim did not want anything to do with this girl. She was a thief, and he didn’t know if he could trust a word she said. But he pictured her out hitching. Skinny little thing like her on the side of the road. Strange men slowing down, looking her over in the rearview mirror. That nauseated feeling was returning.
“You can ride with me,” he said, with a sigh. “I got places to be, though, and it’s real important. I can’t go out of my way. I’m headed down to east Texas, near Galveston.”
She eyed him suspiciously.
“Why would you take me anywhere? I just tried to steal your truck, after all.”
He laughed. “Yeah, and you made a real shitshow of it. I think I’ll take my chances.”
He hoped he wouldn’t regret the decision later, if she cleaned him out of his money and possessions when his guard was down. But he thought of Rosalind. He always suspected that she was dead. But if she hadn’t been taken, if she’d run away voluntarily for some reason that a twelve-year-old boy couldn’t comprehend, he hoped that someone would have shown her a similar kindness.
After placing a granola bar and a Styrofoam cup of black coffee on the counter, Jim pulled out his wallet. “And forty on pump thr—”
His word were cut off by a series of loud clunking and grinding noises outside, and through the window he saw his own truck sputtering away, lunging a few yards at a time before stalling out. Abandoning his breakfast, he ran outside to see the girl who had been sitting near the door scrambling out of the driver’s side door. He chased her down quickly, grabbed her by the arm and spun her around to face him.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” she spat as she struggled to get out of his grasp.
“You think you can steal my fucking truck?” he yelled, brimming with rage. Apparently she hadn’t known how to drive a stick, but if she had she’d be making off now with his truck, his clothes, as well as his dog, and he’d be stranded.
Still grasping her arm tightly in one large hand, he pulled out his cellphone with the other. Her tone changed immediately.
“Please don’t call the police. I’m sorry,” she pleaded. “I didn’t know what else to do. I’m pregnant, and I got nowhere to go. Please.”
The last word came out as a whimper. Tears were filling the girl’s eyes, making her dark eye makeup run. He looked at her for a moment, trying to gauge whether these were crocodile tears. She looked really upset. And she was just a kid.
He told her he wouldn’t call the cops so long as she didn’t run, and he loosened his grip on her arm slightly. He wasn’t sure if she was really pregnant, as it certainly wasn’t visible. She was as thin as a beanpole. Even so, he told her to take a seat in the passenger seat and cool down for a second. Then he asked her to tell him her situation, and they’d see where to go from there.
“You can start by telling me your name and how you ended up here.”
Her voice was clear and defiant, but he could tell by the way she kept her eyes on the ground that she was embarrassed.
“Evan. And my boyfriend run off and left me here. Sent me inside to get snacks while he filled up, and when I came out he was gone.”
“And why’d he go and do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know. We were ‘sposed to run away together. He said he had some family down in Tishomingo that would take us in.”
“And what about your family? Hell, you look about fifteen.”
“I’m eighteen,” she snapped. “And my family would kick me out soon as they find out about the baby. They never liked Rod, said he’s too old for me. They think he’s a loser, but he’s not. He’s got ambitions.”
“Well, darling, I think your family might be on to something, seeing as you’re stranded at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. You from around here? How about you let me take you back home.”
“A couple towns over. But no way in hell I’m going back there. Mama and Daddy are real religious, the Southern Baptist kind. I don’t wanna hear their judgements.”
He ran his hand through his hair, and leaned against the side of the truck.
“Well, kid. Where are you going to go, then?” he asked her.
She picked at her chipped nail polish. “I dunno,” she mumbled. “I was scared of hitchhiking, on account of those true crime shows they show late at night. But I figure it’s my best bet now. Until I can find somewhere I can stay.”
A large part of Jim did not want anything to do with this girl. She was a thief, and he didn’t know if he could trust a word she said. But he pictured her out hitching. Skinny little thing like her on the side of the road. Strange men slowing down, looking her over in the rearview mirror. That nauseated feeling was returning.
“You can ride with me,” he said, with a sigh. “I got places to be, though, and it’s real important. I can’t go out of my way. I’m headed down to east Texas, near Galveston.”
She eyed him suspiciously.
“Why would you take me anywhere? I just tried to steal your truck, after all.”
He laughed. “Yeah, and you made a real shitshow of it. I think I’ll take my chances.”
He hoped he wouldn’t regret the decision later, if she cleaned him out of his money and possessions when his guard was down. But he thought of Rosalind. He always suspected that she was dead. But if she hadn’t been taken, if she’d run away voluntarily for some reason that a twelve-year-old boy couldn’t comprehend, he hoped that someone would have shown her a similar kindness.
***
It was about 6pm when they reached Dallas. Jim figured the girl must have been waiting at that gas station for a long time, because she’d fallen asleep almost immediately after he’d started driving, and she hadn’t stirred once in the past five hours. He drove straight through, only stopping to let Gus out to relieve himself from time to time, and once more for gas.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything since that morning. He didn’t want to stop in Dallas because it was too crowded for his liking, but he pulled over at a roadside diner just outside the city.
He softly nudged her awake. She looked around sleepily, like she didn’t remember where she was at first.
“Dinner,” he told her, cracking the window for Gus before getting out of the truck.
They sat across from each other at a booth. He told her to get whatever she wanted. She ordered a chicken fried steak. He got the pulled pork sandwich.
They sat quietly at first. For the first time, he got a good look at her up close. Her face was framed with thick auburn hair. Her eyes were dark and swampy. Way too much makeup for a girl her age. Like a kid playing dress-up. And she was so damn small, short and skinny, her flesh taut over her bones. Birdlike is the word that came to mind.
“Never heard of a girl called Evan,” he remarked between bites.
“It’s Evangeline. But I hate it. Sounds like a grandma or a pilgrim or something.”
“I dunno, it’s kinda pretty. Although admittedly, it doesn’t suit you much.”
He didn’t mean it as an insult, although it kind of sounded like one.
She just shrugged and turned her attention back to her food.
“So where are we going, anyway?” she asked.
“I told you. Galveston area.”
“No, I got that. I mean your ‘places to be, very important.’ All that.”
A stray bit of meat fell out of the bun. He picked at it with a fork, swabbing it around in the barbecue sauce on his plate.
“I’m going to a funeral tomorrow. My mother’s.”
She was quiet for moment, took a sip of her sweet tea. “How did she die?”
“Heart attack.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That must be awful for you.”
He guessed it was, in a way. He loved his mother dearly when he was young. But they’d barely spoken in his adult years. It was his fault, mainly. He knew that. He was the one who moved away to Oklahoma at age seventeen to work as a ranch-hand to an older couple, and never looked back. People seemed to think that you need a reason to fall out of touch with your family. But sometimes life just happened that way.
He wondered if Rosalind would have stayed close with their parents if she hadn’t disappeared. They used to be close, the four of them. He was sure of it, although those memories feel more like home videos that he’d watched once that belonged to somebody else. After Rosalind was gone, he was convinced that not a single instance of value occurred in their household.
He knew his own actions had helped to drive the wedge between them, afterwards. Digging up old unsolved murders. Constantly bringing home books and articles about missing or dead girls. That must have been hell for them, he realized later. They never wanted to talk about her. Her pictures remained on the fireplace mantle, and adorning the walls of the main hall—baby pictures, varsity basketball, homecoming. There were no prom pictures; she hadn’t made it that far. Her dark hair was long in all of them. She’d cut it short the week before, but their mom had hated it, and there were no photographs to preserve it, and Jim didn’t remember her that way.
“Do you want to come with me?” he blurted. “To the funeral I mean. To my old home. I know it’s kind of weird, and you don’t have to, I can just drop you off wherever you want. But if you don’t have anywhere else to go... you can stay with me for awhile.”
She nodded and told him that’d be fine.
After dinner, they went across the street to a dollar store. She waited in the truck while he went inside. He kept the keys with him this time. He grabbed a few things for her, toiletries and a large T-shirt to wear. He threw in a bottle of vitamins too. They weren’t the kind specifically for pregnancy, but it was all the store had.
They rode once more without speaking for several hours. She was awake this time, softly stroking the fur around Gus’s neck. He seemed to like it.
When she did speak, it was unprompted.
“I loved him,” she said quietly, her face turned away from him.
He’d been in love exactly once. He’d been married once, too. Unfortunately, the two events did not coincide. Feeling he was in no position to give advice or solace, he said nothing.
“Could I bum one?” she asked. She was eyeing his box of cigarettes, which was in the cup holder of the center console.
“I thought you were pregnant?”
She shrugged. “I mean, barely. The thing can’t be bigger than a walnut right now. I won’t even smoke the whole thing.”
“Absolutely not.”
She held out her hand expectantly, like she didn’t believe him. He shook his head.
“I’m serious. Sorry, but no.”
She said nothing, and turned back to look out the window.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything since that morning. He didn’t want to stop in Dallas because it was too crowded for his liking, but he pulled over at a roadside diner just outside the city.
He softly nudged her awake. She looked around sleepily, like she didn’t remember where she was at first.
“Dinner,” he told her, cracking the window for Gus before getting out of the truck.
They sat across from each other at a booth. He told her to get whatever she wanted. She ordered a chicken fried steak. He got the pulled pork sandwich.
They sat quietly at first. For the first time, he got a good look at her up close. Her face was framed with thick auburn hair. Her eyes were dark and swampy. Way too much makeup for a girl her age. Like a kid playing dress-up. And she was so damn small, short and skinny, her flesh taut over her bones. Birdlike is the word that came to mind.
“Never heard of a girl called Evan,” he remarked between bites.
“It’s Evangeline. But I hate it. Sounds like a grandma or a pilgrim or something.”
“I dunno, it’s kinda pretty. Although admittedly, it doesn’t suit you much.”
He didn’t mean it as an insult, although it kind of sounded like one.
She just shrugged and turned her attention back to her food.
“So where are we going, anyway?” she asked.
“I told you. Galveston area.”
“No, I got that. I mean your ‘places to be, very important.’ All that.”
A stray bit of meat fell out of the bun. He picked at it with a fork, swabbing it around in the barbecue sauce on his plate.
“I’m going to a funeral tomorrow. My mother’s.”
She was quiet for moment, took a sip of her sweet tea. “How did she die?”
“Heart attack.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That must be awful for you.”
He guessed it was, in a way. He loved his mother dearly when he was young. But they’d barely spoken in his adult years. It was his fault, mainly. He knew that. He was the one who moved away to Oklahoma at age seventeen to work as a ranch-hand to an older couple, and never looked back. People seemed to think that you need a reason to fall out of touch with your family. But sometimes life just happened that way.
He wondered if Rosalind would have stayed close with their parents if she hadn’t disappeared. They used to be close, the four of them. He was sure of it, although those memories feel more like home videos that he’d watched once that belonged to somebody else. After Rosalind was gone, he was convinced that not a single instance of value occurred in their household.
He knew his own actions had helped to drive the wedge between them, afterwards. Digging up old unsolved murders. Constantly bringing home books and articles about missing or dead girls. That must have been hell for them, he realized later. They never wanted to talk about her. Her pictures remained on the fireplace mantle, and adorning the walls of the main hall—baby pictures, varsity basketball, homecoming. There were no prom pictures; she hadn’t made it that far. Her dark hair was long in all of them. She’d cut it short the week before, but their mom had hated it, and there were no photographs to preserve it, and Jim didn’t remember her that way.
“Do you want to come with me?” he blurted. “To the funeral I mean. To my old home. I know it’s kind of weird, and you don’t have to, I can just drop you off wherever you want. But if you don’t have anywhere else to go... you can stay with me for awhile.”
She nodded and told him that’d be fine.
After dinner, they went across the street to a dollar store. She waited in the truck while he went inside. He kept the keys with him this time. He grabbed a few things for her, toiletries and a large T-shirt to wear. He threw in a bottle of vitamins too. They weren’t the kind specifically for pregnancy, but it was all the store had.
They rode once more without speaking for several hours. She was awake this time, softly stroking the fur around Gus’s neck. He seemed to like it.
When she did speak, it was unprompted.
“I loved him,” she said quietly, her face turned away from him.
He’d been in love exactly once. He’d been married once, too. Unfortunately, the two events did not coincide. Feeling he was in no position to give advice or solace, he said nothing.
“Could I bum one?” she asked. She was eyeing his box of cigarettes, which was in the cup holder of the center console.
“I thought you were pregnant?”
She shrugged. “I mean, barely. The thing can’t be bigger than a walnut right now. I won’t even smoke the whole thing.”
“Absolutely not.”
She held out her hand expectantly, like she didn’t believe him. He shook his head.
“I’m serious. Sorry, but no.”
She said nothing, and turned back to look out the window.
***
The setting sun painted the sky slaughterhouse red as Jim’s truck coasted along the Gulf Freeway.
For the first time he became aware of the radio, which had been playing softy in the background the entire drive. A haunting folk melody croaked out of the truck’s outdated speakers.
Don’t go whistlin’ Dixie on Missionary Ridge,
Don’t call to arm those poltergeists, open up the casket lid.
He quickly changed the station.
Once, when he was fifteen, Jim had even braved to venture into the Fields. He told his parents he was staying over at a friend’s house, and he’d caught a bus to League City. At early dusk, he found himself standing amidst lush foliage and screaming cicadas. Never before, nor since, had he experienced such an irreconcilable loneliness and a suffocating presence at the same time. He was lost in a tide of spectral ambiance, and he had no way of knowing if his sister was among him, her spirit in the breeze, her decayed corpse hidden just out of sight. He still had dreams about that moment sometimes. It was as if no time had passed at all, the wounds were fresh and the cicadas still screaming. And then he’d look at his hands.
A few years back, a film was made about the Killing Fields. Not a documentary, but a real Hollywood movie with big name stars. Jim hadn’t watched it. He wasn’t much for movies anyway, but he had read an interview with the director, who had visited the sites where some of the bodies had been discovered before filming. "You could actually see the refineries that are in the south end of League City,” he’d said. “You could see the I-45. But if you yelled, no one would necessarily hear you. And if you ran, there wouldn't necessarily be anywhere to go.”
Jim hadn’t known how long he’d been holding his breath, but he released it abruptly, startling Evan. She gave him a questioning look, but he ignored it. He didn’t want to think about any of this, and he damned sure didn’t want to talk about it.
It was surreal, entering his hometown after so long, passing the familiar sign that read “BAYOU VISTA – WHERE LIVING ON THE WATER IS A WAY OF LIFE.” This referred to the series of canals that ran through the town. Many houses had a street on one side, and a canal on the other by which they could travel by boat. He had not been to Bayou Vista after the occurrence of Hurricane Ike ten years ago. He hadn’t thought about the devastation that might remain. There were several decrepit buildings that were heavily damaged and had never been repaired.
Jim’s parents’ house, however, had been fortunate enough to remain untouched by the storm. It looked exactly as he remembered it when he pulled into the driveway: light blue, with white trim and a shingled roof.
Jim parked on the street in front of the house. His father’s grey car was parked in the driveway. Jim slung his duffel bag over his shoulder, Evan and Gus following behind him as he made his way across the small yard to the front door. He rapped his knuckles on the wooden door.
Jim knew that his father would be much older than the last time he’d seen him, of course, but he hadn’t been prepared for the sight before him. The elder Cavanaugh had deep-set wrinkles, sunken eyes, and a sour expression. For a man in his mid-sixties, he still had most of his hair, which was coal black just like Jim’s, only streaked with bits of silver near the temples, and he sported a Burt Reynolds-esque mustache.
In lieu of a greeting, Jim’s father sniffed loudly. The two men appraised each other briefly, then Jim’s father pulled him in for a stiff, one-armed hug, and for the first time since he’d heard the news, Jim let himself feel sad that his mother was dead.
“Dad,” Jim said, nodding curtly after his father took a step back.
His father looked at him, and then behind him, and Jim remembered Evan’s existence.
“Uh, Dad. This is Evangeline. She’s a... friend,” Jim said. He didn’t know why he used her full name then. He lacked the energy for a proper explanation, and the truth felt unnecessary in this moment anyway.
Jim’s father nodded warily, but said nothing.
The inside of the home was exactly the same as well. Jim carried in his bag and took it to his old bedroom. When they were kids, Jim and Rosalind were never allowed to have indoor pets, but his father did not protest when Gus followed Jim into the house.
It was because Mom was allergic, he remembered.
Evan slept in Rosalind’s room, across the hall. Jim still couldn’t bring himself to even look at that room.
At 4 a.m., Jim gave up on the idea of sleep. He was driving himself crazy looking around the unfamiliar room. He’d thought his parents would have kept his room the same as when he’d left, which he realized now was absurd. The Dallas Cowboys trim had long been ripped off, and the walls were a neutral taupe. His parents had made the room into a guest bedroom, although he couldn’t imagine them entertaining guests, as neither of Jim’s parents had living siblings or particularly close friends or relatives. The room seemed even more of a cruel joke now that Jim’s father was the house’s sole occupant. Three bedrooms for one withering old man.
Jim slid out of bed and made his way to the kitchen. In the hall, he passed the pictures of Rosalind, as well as pictures from his own youth. At the very end of the hall, there was the family’s last Christmas photo. They wore matching sweaters, Jim and his father in green argyle vests, the women with red bows in their hair.
Maybe it had been a sign, the haircut. That’s what a policeman had said, when he’d asked Jim’s parents for a recent photograph. Sometimes a drastic physical change could be a cry for attention. Jim knew his mother felt guilty then, because all she’d done was tell Rosalind that boys prefer girls with long hair.
Jim turned on the kitchen light, and was surprised to find his father sitting at the kitchen table. In front of him, a bottle of bourbon and an empty glass.
“What are you doing just sitting there in the dark?” Jim asked.
“Your eyes adjust,” his father replied, as if that somehow answered Jim’s question.
Rather than press the issue, Jim turned the light back off and felt around in the dark until he had taken a seat at the table. Not the one beside his father, but the next one over.
“You can have the glass,” his father said after a pause. “I ain’t using it.”
He took a long pull from the bottle before sliding it down the table towards Jim.
Jim palmed the glass, then poured. It was already going to be a long day, and he’d take strength where he could find it.
His father’s voice was clear and deep in the darkness, like he was speaking directly into Jim’s ear.
“So what exactly were you thinking, bringing your teenaged girlfriend to your mother’s funeral? You trying to start a fuss?”
Jim choked on the first sip. He felt the whiskey on his chin, felt it wet the front of his thin t-shirt.
“It ain’t like that. She’s in some trouble. Was hitchhiking. I’m just helping her out. Figured it was better I pick her up than someone else. I’m gonna take her home after.”
He knew he sounded too defensive, even though he was speaking the truth. Well, he wasn’t sure if the last part was true, but he told himself it had to be. He didn’t know where else he would take her if not back to the safety of her family. He doubted if she knew yet either.
Jim’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark, and he realized that his father made a little more sense than he’d thought. There was a comfort in sitting there, in the familiar kitchen, with just enough sight to have your bearings, but not enough to bring up painful associations. In the dark, the stove was a vague box-like shape. It did not force him to imagine his mother in her Sunday afternoon overalls, prodding at a pan of simmering chicken. And he couldn’t see the bright yellow wallpaper, which would remind him of the sunflower pendant that Rosalind wore around her neck every day until the chain broke and she cried. Their mother had offered to get her a new chain to replace it, but Rosalind never wore it again.
Jim raised the glass to his lips just to discover it was empty, and there was the residual burning in the back of his throat. There was a faint glow outside the kitchen window, the rising sun threatening to break over the horizon and disrupt the comfort the dark provided. Sleep didn’t seem so far away after all.
For the first time he became aware of the radio, which had been playing softy in the background the entire drive. A haunting folk melody croaked out of the truck’s outdated speakers.
Don’t go whistlin’ Dixie on Missionary Ridge,
Don’t call to arm those poltergeists, open up the casket lid.
He quickly changed the station.
Once, when he was fifteen, Jim had even braved to venture into the Fields. He told his parents he was staying over at a friend’s house, and he’d caught a bus to League City. At early dusk, he found himself standing amidst lush foliage and screaming cicadas. Never before, nor since, had he experienced such an irreconcilable loneliness and a suffocating presence at the same time. He was lost in a tide of spectral ambiance, and he had no way of knowing if his sister was among him, her spirit in the breeze, her decayed corpse hidden just out of sight. He still had dreams about that moment sometimes. It was as if no time had passed at all, the wounds were fresh and the cicadas still screaming. And then he’d look at his hands.
A few years back, a film was made about the Killing Fields. Not a documentary, but a real Hollywood movie with big name stars. Jim hadn’t watched it. He wasn’t much for movies anyway, but he had read an interview with the director, who had visited the sites where some of the bodies had been discovered before filming. "You could actually see the refineries that are in the south end of League City,” he’d said. “You could see the I-45. But if you yelled, no one would necessarily hear you. And if you ran, there wouldn't necessarily be anywhere to go.”
Jim hadn’t known how long he’d been holding his breath, but he released it abruptly, startling Evan. She gave him a questioning look, but he ignored it. He didn’t want to think about any of this, and he damned sure didn’t want to talk about it.
It was surreal, entering his hometown after so long, passing the familiar sign that read “BAYOU VISTA – WHERE LIVING ON THE WATER IS A WAY OF LIFE.” This referred to the series of canals that ran through the town. Many houses had a street on one side, and a canal on the other by which they could travel by boat. He had not been to Bayou Vista after the occurrence of Hurricane Ike ten years ago. He hadn’t thought about the devastation that might remain. There were several decrepit buildings that were heavily damaged and had never been repaired.
Jim’s parents’ house, however, had been fortunate enough to remain untouched by the storm. It looked exactly as he remembered it when he pulled into the driveway: light blue, with white trim and a shingled roof.
Jim parked on the street in front of the house. His father’s grey car was parked in the driveway. Jim slung his duffel bag over his shoulder, Evan and Gus following behind him as he made his way across the small yard to the front door. He rapped his knuckles on the wooden door.
Jim knew that his father would be much older than the last time he’d seen him, of course, but he hadn’t been prepared for the sight before him. The elder Cavanaugh had deep-set wrinkles, sunken eyes, and a sour expression. For a man in his mid-sixties, he still had most of his hair, which was coal black just like Jim’s, only streaked with bits of silver near the temples, and he sported a Burt Reynolds-esque mustache.
In lieu of a greeting, Jim’s father sniffed loudly. The two men appraised each other briefly, then Jim’s father pulled him in for a stiff, one-armed hug, and for the first time since he’d heard the news, Jim let himself feel sad that his mother was dead.
“Dad,” Jim said, nodding curtly after his father took a step back.
His father looked at him, and then behind him, and Jim remembered Evan’s existence.
“Uh, Dad. This is Evangeline. She’s a... friend,” Jim said. He didn’t know why he used her full name then. He lacked the energy for a proper explanation, and the truth felt unnecessary in this moment anyway.
Jim’s father nodded warily, but said nothing.
The inside of the home was exactly the same as well. Jim carried in his bag and took it to his old bedroom. When they were kids, Jim and Rosalind were never allowed to have indoor pets, but his father did not protest when Gus followed Jim into the house.
It was because Mom was allergic, he remembered.
Evan slept in Rosalind’s room, across the hall. Jim still couldn’t bring himself to even look at that room.
At 4 a.m., Jim gave up on the idea of sleep. He was driving himself crazy looking around the unfamiliar room. He’d thought his parents would have kept his room the same as when he’d left, which he realized now was absurd. The Dallas Cowboys trim had long been ripped off, and the walls were a neutral taupe. His parents had made the room into a guest bedroom, although he couldn’t imagine them entertaining guests, as neither of Jim’s parents had living siblings or particularly close friends or relatives. The room seemed even more of a cruel joke now that Jim’s father was the house’s sole occupant. Three bedrooms for one withering old man.
Jim slid out of bed and made his way to the kitchen. In the hall, he passed the pictures of Rosalind, as well as pictures from his own youth. At the very end of the hall, there was the family’s last Christmas photo. They wore matching sweaters, Jim and his father in green argyle vests, the women with red bows in their hair.
Maybe it had been a sign, the haircut. That’s what a policeman had said, when he’d asked Jim’s parents for a recent photograph. Sometimes a drastic physical change could be a cry for attention. Jim knew his mother felt guilty then, because all she’d done was tell Rosalind that boys prefer girls with long hair.
Jim turned on the kitchen light, and was surprised to find his father sitting at the kitchen table. In front of him, a bottle of bourbon and an empty glass.
“What are you doing just sitting there in the dark?” Jim asked.
“Your eyes adjust,” his father replied, as if that somehow answered Jim’s question.
Rather than press the issue, Jim turned the light back off and felt around in the dark until he had taken a seat at the table. Not the one beside his father, but the next one over.
“You can have the glass,” his father said after a pause. “I ain’t using it.”
He took a long pull from the bottle before sliding it down the table towards Jim.
Jim palmed the glass, then poured. It was already going to be a long day, and he’d take strength where he could find it.
His father’s voice was clear and deep in the darkness, like he was speaking directly into Jim’s ear.
“So what exactly were you thinking, bringing your teenaged girlfriend to your mother’s funeral? You trying to start a fuss?”
Jim choked on the first sip. He felt the whiskey on his chin, felt it wet the front of his thin t-shirt.
“It ain’t like that. She’s in some trouble. Was hitchhiking. I’m just helping her out. Figured it was better I pick her up than someone else. I’m gonna take her home after.”
He knew he sounded too defensive, even though he was speaking the truth. Well, he wasn’t sure if the last part was true, but he told himself it had to be. He didn’t know where else he would take her if not back to the safety of her family. He doubted if she knew yet either.
Jim’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark, and he realized that his father made a little more sense than he’d thought. There was a comfort in sitting there, in the familiar kitchen, with just enough sight to have your bearings, but not enough to bring up painful associations. In the dark, the stove was a vague box-like shape. It did not force him to imagine his mother in her Sunday afternoon overalls, prodding at a pan of simmering chicken. And he couldn’t see the bright yellow wallpaper, which would remind him of the sunflower pendant that Rosalind wore around her neck every day until the chain broke and she cried. Their mother had offered to get her a new chain to replace it, but Rosalind never wore it again.
Jim raised the glass to his lips just to discover it was empty, and there was the residual burning in the back of his throat. There was a faint glow outside the kitchen window, the rising sun threatening to break over the horizon and disrupt the comfort the dark provided. Sleep didn’t seem so far away after all.
***
The next morning, Jim glanced up to see Rosalind coming down the hallway.
He did a double-take. Of course, it was not Rosalind. It was Evan, dressed in one of Rosalind’s favorite old dresses. It was cream-colored chiffon, with tiny soft pink roses adorning it.
She must have seen his shocked expression, as she began to explain.
“I didn’t have anything to wear to a funeral. Your father told me I could wear this. He said it was your sister’s, but that he knew she wouldn’t mind.”
She rubbed one foot against the carpet uncertainly. “Is she getting here later?”
She looked like a completely different girl than the one who tried to steal Jim’s truck just the day before. She had washed off her smudged make-up. She stood barefooted and barefaced, dark hair tumbling down to her waist. Maybe it was simply due to the pregnancy, but her freckled skin was flushed pink.
“No, she won’t be coming,” he said. “But Dad’s right, she’d want you to have it.”
The funeral was standard. Organ music, flowers, and uncomfortable church pews. A seemingly never-ending line of distant relatives and old friends to shake your hand and say, “My God, Jimmy? Is that you? It’s been so long.”
The funeral was standard in that it was a coming together of people to remember a deceased loved one—honor their memory and then to lay them to rest. They’d had a symbolic funeral for Rosalind, one year after she disappeared. There had been no body to bury, of course. No confirmation that she was even dead. But the town had come together to hold a memorial service, and they’d all spoken about her in the past tense.
After Jim’s mother’s funeral, many from the funeral party had caravanned to a local restaurant called Bayou Bistro. They rented out the whole outside patio section. String lights illuminated the darkening evening sky. One of Jim’s cousins, who was a moderately famous folk singer from Austin, brought his guitar and was crooning on the small stage.
Jim was sitting at a table, sipping on a beer and watching the people around him. Evan sat at the opposite end of the table, picking at a dinner roll. Jim’s father made his way over to the table and took a seat across from him. He sighed heavily, clearly exhausted from the day’s events. Probably exhausted by a lot more than that.
He leveled his eyes at Jim. “You know, boy. We’re all that’s left now.” Jim grunted in acknowledgement. They were mirror images of one another, though one was aged by thirty years. They had only each other, and they barely had that. They didn’t even know how to speak to one another anymore. Two men standing in a field. They could see the people around them, hear the music and hear the chatter from other tables, but they were alone. They could yell, but nobody would necessarily hear them.
He did a double-take. Of course, it was not Rosalind. It was Evan, dressed in one of Rosalind’s favorite old dresses. It was cream-colored chiffon, with tiny soft pink roses adorning it.
She must have seen his shocked expression, as she began to explain.
“I didn’t have anything to wear to a funeral. Your father told me I could wear this. He said it was your sister’s, but that he knew she wouldn’t mind.”
She rubbed one foot against the carpet uncertainly. “Is she getting here later?”
She looked like a completely different girl than the one who tried to steal Jim’s truck just the day before. She had washed off her smudged make-up. She stood barefooted and barefaced, dark hair tumbling down to her waist. Maybe it was simply due to the pregnancy, but her freckled skin was flushed pink.
“No, she won’t be coming,” he said. “But Dad’s right, she’d want you to have it.”
The funeral was standard. Organ music, flowers, and uncomfortable church pews. A seemingly never-ending line of distant relatives and old friends to shake your hand and say, “My God, Jimmy? Is that you? It’s been so long.”
The funeral was standard in that it was a coming together of people to remember a deceased loved one—honor their memory and then to lay them to rest. They’d had a symbolic funeral for Rosalind, one year after she disappeared. There had been no body to bury, of course. No confirmation that she was even dead. But the town had come together to hold a memorial service, and they’d all spoken about her in the past tense.
After Jim’s mother’s funeral, many from the funeral party had caravanned to a local restaurant called Bayou Bistro. They rented out the whole outside patio section. String lights illuminated the darkening evening sky. One of Jim’s cousins, who was a moderately famous folk singer from Austin, brought his guitar and was crooning on the small stage.
Jim was sitting at a table, sipping on a beer and watching the people around him. Evan sat at the opposite end of the table, picking at a dinner roll. Jim’s father made his way over to the table and took a seat across from him. He sighed heavily, clearly exhausted from the day’s events. Probably exhausted by a lot more than that.
He leveled his eyes at Jim. “You know, boy. We’re all that’s left now.” Jim grunted in acknowledgement. They were mirror images of one another, though one was aged by thirty years. They had only each other, and they barely had that. They didn’t even know how to speak to one another anymore. Two men standing in a field. They could see the people around them, hear the music and hear the chatter from other tables, but they were alone. They could yell, but nobody would necessarily hear them.
***
“I want to go home,” she admitted.
They were standing in front of Jim’s childhood home. The truck was packed and running, Gus contently napping in the backseat. Jim was finishing a last cigarette before they hit the road. He asked her what made her change her mind. She shrugged. “It’s just... don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want to be forty years old without a family. Seeing you with your dad. The way you were like strangers. It scared me. I don’t want that. And I don’t want that for my kid.”
“Hey, I’m only thirty-six,” he said, putting out the cigarette on the bottom of his boot. But he was glad she was making the right decision.
It was a quiet drive back to Oklahoma. They chatted idly, and listened to the radio. He learned that she liked to paint, portraits mostly. She wanted to go to art school after graduation, but she didn’t have the money. He told her about his geese and how he was looking forward to getting back to them.
It was late afternoon when they reached her hometown. She gave him directions and he was almost sad when she said her family’s home was approaching on the left. Their time together was coming to an end, and he didn’t intend to ever see her again. He turned and followed the long gravel driveway that led to a pleasant two-story farmhouse. She got out of the truck, grabbing the bag of supplies that he bought for her. She was still wearing Rosalind’s dress. He’d told her to keep it. She lingered for a moment, looking at him, like she was trying to find the right words.
“You take care, kid,” he said.
She smiled warmly and nodded at him before closing the door of the truck. Jim waited to see a woman, Evan’s mother, flinging the front door wide open and throwing her arms around Evan, overjoyed. He was several yards away, but there were unmistakable tears streaming down the woman’s face.
From that distance, wearing that dress, Evan could have been Rosalind, and her mother could have been his own. In a way, Jim felt like maybe he was glimpsing into the afterlife—behind the veil that separates life and death—and witnessing the two women reunited at last. As he peeled out of the driveway, he thought about his father, alone in a house of memories and photographs. He probably wouldn’t live much longer, Jim figured. We’re all that’s left. That’s what he’d said. Maybe Jim would try to call him more often. He imagined inviting his dad to come visit him for Christmas this year. Maybe they would sit out near the pond in cheap folding chairs, feeding the geese. They wouldn’t even have to talk. That time of year, the cicadas would be dead. The two men could be alone together in the crisp Midwestern winter, enjoying a respite from the screaming, if only for a while.
They were standing in front of Jim’s childhood home. The truck was packed and running, Gus contently napping in the backseat. Jim was finishing a last cigarette before they hit the road. He asked her what made her change her mind. She shrugged. “It’s just... don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want to be forty years old without a family. Seeing you with your dad. The way you were like strangers. It scared me. I don’t want that. And I don’t want that for my kid.”
“Hey, I’m only thirty-six,” he said, putting out the cigarette on the bottom of his boot. But he was glad she was making the right decision.
It was a quiet drive back to Oklahoma. They chatted idly, and listened to the radio. He learned that she liked to paint, portraits mostly. She wanted to go to art school after graduation, but she didn’t have the money. He told her about his geese and how he was looking forward to getting back to them.
It was late afternoon when they reached her hometown. She gave him directions and he was almost sad when she said her family’s home was approaching on the left. Their time together was coming to an end, and he didn’t intend to ever see her again. He turned and followed the long gravel driveway that led to a pleasant two-story farmhouse. She got out of the truck, grabbing the bag of supplies that he bought for her. She was still wearing Rosalind’s dress. He’d told her to keep it. She lingered for a moment, looking at him, like she was trying to find the right words.
“You take care, kid,” he said.
She smiled warmly and nodded at him before closing the door of the truck. Jim waited to see a woman, Evan’s mother, flinging the front door wide open and throwing her arms around Evan, overjoyed. He was several yards away, but there were unmistakable tears streaming down the woman’s face.
From that distance, wearing that dress, Evan could have been Rosalind, and her mother could have been his own. In a way, Jim felt like maybe he was glimpsing into the afterlife—behind the veil that separates life and death—and witnessing the two women reunited at last. As he peeled out of the driveway, he thought about his father, alone in a house of memories and photographs. He probably wouldn’t live much longer, Jim figured. We’re all that’s left. That’s what he’d said. Maybe Jim would try to call him more often. He imagined inviting his dad to come visit him for Christmas this year. Maybe they would sit out near the pond in cheap folding chairs, feeding the geese. They wouldn’t even have to talk. That time of year, the cicadas would be dead. The two men could be alone together in the crisp Midwestern winter, enjoying a respite from the screaming, if only for a while.