By the time I’d finished eating and forced myself under a cold shower, it was nearly two in the morning. My back was sore, the side of my head where I’d been punched was throbbing and my hands still ached. Rather than think about how old and out of shape I felt at that moment, I did my best to enjoy the brief break from the humidity the cool water provided.
I emerged to find that things had quieted the way things do in towns—even big towns—after midnight. I stood at the foot of the bed and looked at the rumpled sheets for a while. I’d been unable to sleep in it since Toni left.
I wrapped a towel around my waist, went into the den and settled down onto the couch, certain I’d be unable to sleep. Within minutes, I had slipped off.
I awakened in the morning to the realization that I’d had the dream again. This time, in addition to Bernard and the strange people accompanying him, Mama Toots was there too, wiggling fat bloody fingers at me and grinning demonically with her grimy teeth.
My body was stiff and sore, and although I had slept, I didn’t feel rested at all, and wondered if I’d ever be able to totally relax again. I rubbed my eyes, stood up and shuffled to the bathroom.
While I dressed all I could think about was the bar and everything that had happened there. The events continued to replay in my mind despite my attempts to concentrate on other things, and I felt confronted by a strange fusion of satisfaction and anxiety.
I dressed in a pair of jeans, sneakers and t-shirt, then went to the bedroom closet and pulled a large lockbox from the top shelf. It contained several holsters, my 9mm, a box of ammo and two clips. I checked the weapon over, laid it on the bed then turned to the holsters and selected one that attached to my belt. Grabbing a clip of ammo, I shut the box, locked it and returned it to the shelf.
Because of my job I was licensed to carry a concealed firearm, but the only time I ever did was during periodic work details that required me to do so. I felt strange strapping on a gun outside of work, but I had no idea what might be waiting for me out there this time. Wading through the dark alone was bad enough; I didn’t intend to do it empty-handed as well.
I secured the holster and gun to the back of my belt and pulled my t-shirt down over it. Studying myself in the mirror, I stretched the shirt out a bit until it hung looser and the bulge was less noticeable. Sweat had already formed across my forehead and down the back of my neck. It was a little after eight o’clock, so I knew if the humidity was already this high we were in for another scorcher. Strange to see a heat wave this early in the season, I thought. But then again, everything else had gone haywire, why not weather patterns too?
On the nearby bureau one of our wedding pictures distracted me. We looked impossibly young, happy and unaware, the two us sitting at the head table, Toni in her gown and me in my tuxedo, arms entwined while sipping champagne from each other’s glasses.
Bells from a church about a mile up the street chimed, echoed beautifully in the distance, reminding me today was Sunday.
I reached out and gently laid the photograph face down.
Milner Avenue was an old, nearly forgotten stretch of desolate road not far from the airport. At the very end of the road sat the shell of an ancient mill that was slowly crumbling from years of neglect. Most of the outer walls were covered in graffiti, and the grass around the property was badly overgrown and unkempt. Garbage littered the area. Amidst the brush and vacant sand lots an occasional ramshackle cottage emerged, remnants of the inexpensive housing provided decades earlier for some of the workers employed by the then thriving mill. Most of the tenements were condemned and boarded shut.
I drove the four-mile length of Milner so I’d know where it came out, and found that beyond the old mill was a dirt road that eventually led to an intersecting paved boulevard. Less than a mile from there, I came across an onramp back to the state highway.
Comfortable with the way in and out, I circled around and this time paid closer attention to the tachometer from the moment I pulled onto the avenue.
A little more than a mile in, in the middle of a dirt lot horseshoed by an expanse of brush and dead trees, I saw a small cottage off by itself just as Mama had described. It was set atop cinder blocks and in horrible shape, but still looked somewhat livable. There were no cars parked alongside the cottage, but there was an old mailbox at the edge of the lot closest to the road. I checked my watch. It was nearly nine o’clock.
I continued on a ways, then turned around and came back again. Diagonally across from the cottage I pulled over to the side and dropped the car into Park. The far-off rumblings of a slowly awakening city battled with the hum of the engine. The desolation of this empty and forgotten corridor on the outskirts of the city made me uncomfortable. It was the kind of place where you could scream, and even if anyone in the distance was able to hear you, odds are, no one would care. I leaned back against the seat and felt my gun press into the small of my back. Although I had never drawn or fired it except at the range, the reminder of its presence gave me a slight sense of security nonetheless.
After watching the house for a few minutes, I climbed from the car and slowly approached the property.
Dulled by the haze of humidity, just over the span of brush and dead trees, the sun hung low but fierce in the sky. I moved across the dirt lot until the shade of the cottage itself blocked the rays. I gave a quick look around. The building was in rough shape, and the screen door and screens on the front windows were old and battered. A filthy bare bulb sat in a socket above the front door and an ancient welcome mat had been thrown down before it. I knocked and waited. Nothing. I knocked again. More nothing.
After a moment I stepped over to the window to the left of the door and leaned into it, cupping my hands on either side of my head so I might see the interior of the cottage. The screen was hard to see through however, and the window itself was so dirty it blurred all that lay beyond it. I backed away, knocked a third time.
I could hear cars rushing along the highway in the distance. Slowly, I walked around the side of the house and peered into the area behind it. An old picnic table that looked like it hadn’t been used in ages was propped against the back of the house and there were two small trash cans parked along the far corner. Another short stretch of dirt led to the beginnings of the brush at the rear of the property, and I noticed a clothesline had been strung from the back left corner of the house to a thin pole several feet away that had been planted there for that specific purpose. The clothesline was bare, and I began to wonder if anyone lived here after all.
Carefully, I walked behind the cottage to the trashcans. Flies buzzed about noisily, and when I pulled the lid free of the first can I realized I still couldn’t be sure if someone was residing here because the garbage was mostly frozen dinner boxes and food, and most of it looked anything but fresh. The smell in this heat was gripping, so I replaced the lid and continued back around the corner of the house until I’d again reached the front door. I looked back across the way. But for my car, it was empty.
I went next to the mailbox near the road. There were two pieces of mail inside. I looked around again then reached in and pulled them free. One was a light bill and the other was an advertising flyer for a department store. The postmark on the light bill was less than a week old, so I knew it had been delivered within the last day or two. I slid them back into the box and closed it.
Once back at the car I hesitated before getting behind the wheel. Maybe this was a mistake, I thought. Maybe it’s just as well she isn’t here. But just as I slid my sunglasses on to combat the glare of the sun, something near the mangle of dead trees caught my attention.