Dad walked from the car to the garage, and stood next to the toolbox. I felt his eyes on each tool I wiped down. It made me think of this scene from a movie Susan and I watched one time about King Arthur. The king watched his knights get suited up for battle in one part. I’d gotten goose bumps watching this look he gave one of them, especially as the guy sharpened and oiled his sword. It was almost like jealousy.
“So, will you? Talk to her, I mean. Maybe make her see some sense?” dad asked.
“I’ll see, dad. I’ll see what I can do,” I agreed without looking up.
He nodded, and walked back inside the house.
Coming back in the door, mom appeared out of thin air. “Mikey, dear, could you maybe go into town and get a few more things for dinner?”
“Yeah,” I said, wishing there was a reason to say no, “do you have a list written down?”
“Yes,” she said, and handed it to me. My eyebrows came together, then crept slowly apart. “Are you done with the car?”
“Yeah. Good as new again,” I said and expected—I don’t know what I expected, really. A thank you, some interest in what I’d done; I don’t know. Susan had always at least come and acted interested as I did things on the car for her. Mom nodded and went back to the kitchen. The smell of the turkey beginning to cook was powerful. I wanted to follow it, but then I thought that if I was alone with mom, she might ask me to talk to Sarah. I squirmed a bit, thinking about how hard it would be to not make some sort of commitment to her if she asked. I walked to the living room, instead.
Dad was parked in front of a pre-football game show. I checked the clock on the wall; I didn’t know they started this early. The ex-quarterbacks all looked clean and scrubbed raw in dark suits and matching ties.
“Did your mother give you her list?” When I’d nodded, he’d gone back to watching the television. I stood there for a few minutes, then left. I didn’t say it, but I thought, what didn’t I get last night?
Mom’s car ran a lot better. I felt a small surge of—I don’t know: something. I had correctly identified the problem and then corrected it, as Dr. Bledsoe would say. I wanted to call him and tell him. For some reason, though, thinking that made me mad.
It was the same anytime I’d have dinner with Susan. We’d both work on something; her the mashed potatoes and me the pork chops, or whatever we were having that day. I’d worry over ‘is there too much garlic?’ or ‘is the heat too high?’ When we actually had it on the table, she’d always say something like “These are great, Mikey,” then immediately, “I think the potatoes really set them off well.” I wouldn’t tell her, but it felt like she was saying something more than maybe what she was. Like I wasn’t anything without her. I’d never asked Dr. Bledsoe about it. I knew he’d tell me I was being silly and over-sensitive.
The streets were deserted. Every house I drove past, though, was cluttered with cars. It looked like a used car lot all through the neighborhoods. I drove to the end of the street, turned onto the main road, and made it to the store very fast. Inside, I looked for Alvin, but he wasn’t there. The store was empty of all the usual things for a thanksgiving. It looked like those pictures they show just before a natural disaster: empty shelves, empty aisles. It felt spooky, like a horror movie. I kept expecting someone to jump out from behind something and get me. I went to the customer service desk and asked to use the phone. After six rings, the phone picked up and it was Sarah.
“Jesus, am I the only one who has a set of ears around here?” she asked, “hello?”
“Sarah,” I said.
“Michael,” she responded.
“Umm, mom sent me to the store for some stuff, and they’re out of it. I have to ask her—,” I started.
“Yeah, hold on,” she said. I heard a hand muffle the phone and mumbling in the background. I watched an old woman buy groceries; she brought out one coupon at a time, each coming out of the purse in the exact order the thing was on the conveyor belt.
“Michael?” Susan asked, “she says to ask Miriam to get the things from behind the counter.”
“What?” I asked, trying to get my eyes away from the scene. The old woman looked so sad.
“She says she has a standing order for Thanksgiving day. They know to set the stuff aside for her. It’s with Miriam behind the service counter.”
It sounded so odd. “Hang on,” I said. The girl behind the counter was busy pulling packs of cigarettes from the cartons and putting them up on the shelves. “Excuse me,” I said and she turned around. Her name tag said ‘Miriam’. “Is there an order here for Kendall?”
She brightened, “Are you Miss Susannah’s boy?” the girl asked. I nodded, and she smiled. She opened a cupboard and brought out a bag of groceries. “These are already on her account, sweetie.”
I blinked and shook my head, “Okay. I got the stuff. I’ll be home in a minute,” I said, and hung up.
“Normally, we deliver these for her, but Jerry’s sick today, so we’re not making deliveries,” Miriam said, “happy Thanksgiving.” With that, she walked away. I shook my head again. I thought, if this was a movie, what would the point of this scene be?
On the way we passed the McPherson house. I hadn’t thought about it since I’d returned, but there it was on my left. Without thinking much about it, I slowed the car down to get a look. The grass had gotten very high before starting to die off this fall; it looked like some jungle from a science fiction movie. The car, an old station wagon, the same one she’d picked Randy up in so long ago, sat at the top of the driveway, missing three tires. Mr. McPherson had built a small roof over the side porch the year before Randy disappeared. I remembered walking Randy home all that summer, waiting at the bottom of the driveway to make sure his key worked. He’d unlock the door, walk in, then turn around and wave to me.
To this day I couldn’t tell you why I stopped the car just then, put it in reverse, and pulled into that driveway. I hadn’t been to visit Pete McPherson in the last few visits. I found myself trying to remember how long it’d been since the last time I’d been to see him and it hit me—not since Randy had disappeared. I hadn’t visited in close to a decade. I have no idea what made me go up the path to the door, or knock. Mr. McPherson answered the door, though. Too fast, I thought, things are happening too fast.
He seemed drunk. The smell of smoke came off of him, and behind him, the television was too loud. His face seemed sunken, withered. His eyes were dull brown.
“Hello?” he asked, squinting.
“Pete?” I asked, even though I knew who he was. I looked toward the car, then back at him.
“Yeah?”
“Hi. It’s me, Mikey Kendall,” I said.
His head moved back on his shoulders some, but his eyes re-appeared. He seemed like he was about to call me a liar. Then he smiled, and looked down at my shoes. His gaze came all the way up to meet my eyes again.
“Mikey?” he asked. I nodded. His smile got bigger. “How are you?” he asked, coming forward with his arms out. He hugged me. I don’t know how to describe what that felt like; I hadn’t been hugged by anyone except Susan in a long time. I hadn’t been hugged by another man since I was twelve. In fact, thinking back on it, I think it was Pete at the funeral. My mind started to drift back to that funeral, but I stopped it. Pete let go of the hug, and with one arm still on my shoulders, said “Come in, come in.” He and I walked into the house.