I take another sip of water. “I'm sorry. So, why? Why would Mitchell disappear?” The question escapes before I can stop myself.
Frank tugs his ear. “Don't know for sure. Folks got curious, asked a lot of questions about Karen. Wanted to know what happened. Told him how sorry they were. They were just being kind. But all of the attention made Mitchell really uncomfortable and jumpy. Nervous all of the time. Even
I
asked him why he was acting so strange.”
“Did he tell you?”
He grimaces. “Nah, wouldn't talk about it. So he took off with Jack. I guess he thought . . . other people left him . . . why shouldn't he leave?”
“Do you mean when you deployed? Changed duty stations?”
“Sure, that was part of it when he was younger. We traveled some. But once I came home from 'Nam in '72, I struck a deal with the wife.”
“Which was?”
“She and Mitchell stayed put. We stayed married. I went where the army told me to go. Lasted about five years.”
“When his mother . . .” I can't make myself say suicide.
Frank nodded. “She'd finally had enough. Of me being gone. Of the army. Of life. He'd already run away once or twice.” Frank sighed. “I think to get his mother's attention, which didn't work. She began drinking. In secret, of course. Mitchell never said a word. She sure didn't tell me. And I'd come home and collapse for a few days, run around, see buddies, play a few rounds of golf. Then the army'd send me somewhere else.”
I ran a finger around my glass, listening.
“Depression, that's what it was with my wife. I found out later from the neighbors that she wouldn't leave the house, wouldn't see
friends, refused to answer the damn phone. But back then, no one talked about it. You sucked it up, did your job. The separation was part of it. The army wives had each other, or so I thought.” He rolls over to the edge of the counter, pulls out a small photo album, flips to the front page. In black-and-white, there's Mitchell as a child, his mother, serious and serene, and Frank. “She left us in '77. Killed herself on Christmas Eve.”
My heart twists.
“That's when Mitchell ran away again. For a good long time. Finally found him in Phoenix, Arizona, of all places. He was just a kid, tall for his age. Talked some lady into buying him a Greyhound bus ticket. I brought him home after three weeks of searching. He was never the same.”
“Was he the one . . . Did he find his mother?”
Frank nods and frowns. He makes the shape of a gun with his thumb and forefinger and places it under his chin.
“We never talked about it. Not once. Mitchell went off to Alabama, made perfect grades. Met Karen, moved up the ladder fast at these schools where he worked. Karen was good for him. And I thought Mitchell was even better when Jack came along. I miss that boy so much. I bet he's huge. Do you have a photo?”
“In the Jeep. I'll grab it before I leave.” That seems to satisfy him. I hesitate to press too much, but he seems to like the company. “Were they having any problems?”
Frank brushes a piece of lint off his pant leg. “Not according to my son. He wasn't one to admit defeat of any kind. But to answer your question, the usual, I guess. Karen never talked about it much.”
“She was pretty. I saw a picture.”
“Must have been a book signing, or some announcement. She never mentioned it unless someone asked,” Frank muses. “I do know all of her success seemed to bother Mitchell a bit.”
“Because . . .?”
Frank chuckles. “Mitchell always had to be top dog. He was the head of this and that, on such and such committee, awarded some thing or the other. He didn't share the spotlight well. And he was jealous. Imagined things more than once. I guess you might know a little about that.”
“A little,” I agree. The doorbell rings. My chest tightens.
I need more time.
“Um, Mitchell . . . was he involved with Jack's activities? After schoolâ”
Ring! Ring!
The person at the door isn't very patient.
Frank smiles, checks his watch. “Ah, right on time. My dear old ball and chain.” He wheels to the front of the house and opens the lock. “Where've you been all my life, darling?”
A stocky young woman stands in the doorway. “Don't give me no lip, Mr. Frank.” She wears purple nursing scrubs, an ID from a home-health agency, and carries a huge canvas bag. “How's your sugar? You takin' your blood pressure pills?”
“Why don't you come here and find out?” Franks scoots his wheelchair back and winks.
“You no account dirty dog. I'll string you up with my hand tied behind my back if you don'tâ” One hand on her hip, the woman steps into the living room and almost faints when she sees me. “Oh! Mr. Frank, why didn't you tell me you had company?”
I stand up. “Daughter-in-law.” I shake hands.
“Evangeline.” She sizes me up. “Didn't know Frank had family 'round here. I come to check on his diabetes, his blood pressure, and to see whether he's taking the rest of his medicine.” She shoots him an evil look, then grins.
“I'm Ava. Nice to meet you.”
“Same here. We are going to be awhile,” she says pointedly, glancing down at her watch and back up at me.
I swallow, digest this, and give Evangeline a small smile. “Oh, I
was just leaving.” Reluctantly, I kiss Frank's rough cheek and whisper in his ear. “If you think of anything else, here's how you can reach me.” I dash off my cell number on a scrap of paper. “Can I have yours?”
Frank nods and lists off the number.
When I finish writing, my father-in-law is still studying me. “Say hello to Jack, would you?” he asks. “It's been forever. Bring him next time?”
“I'll sure try.”
There's no good way to explainâin front of his nurseâwhy I don't have his number. Or that I didn't even know he was alive until a few days ago.
“Bye now, honey. Drive safe,” Evangeline says and busies herself around Frank, clucking and talking under her breath. “Got to get to work here.”
My hand on the doorknob, I hesitate.
I didn't have a chance to tell him about Sam.
It'll have to wait. Along with so many questions. So many things I want to ask. With a deep breath, I look at Frank one last time, wave, and close the door behind me.
Before I head for Mobile, I dig through my bag, find Jack's most recent school picture.
For good measure, I scribble my cell phone number on the back and tuck the photo inside the screen door where Evangeline is sure to find it.
See you soon. I promise.
SUNDAY, APRIL 25
The cinnamon roll scent wafts out of Miss Beulah's, sweet enough to bring the Incredible Hulk to his knees. I float in, stomach grumbling, in a frosting-filled haze. Dad's dreamed up this idea of guys' Sunday brunch. I think everyone in Mobile has the same plan. There's barely room to sit down.
We need to “bond,” he explains. Except I'm too hungry to care, and Sam won't keep still. As Dad goes to order, I settle my brother the best I can in the coffee shop's wooden high chair. When I push him close to the table, he grabs at forks, spoons, and napkins, knocking them to the ground. The silverware hits the floor, clattering and clanging, bouncing in every direction. Head down, I pick up every piece and place them out of reach.
Sam screws up his face, his pouty bottom lip sticking out an inch. His small fists find both eyes, digging and twisting, and he lets out a huge yawn. I want to remind Dad that he's been up for hours, since before dawn, and will only get crankier if he doesn't get a nap.
I dig in the diaper bag, searching for a book, a toy, or his fuzzy brown bear that he loves so much. But there's nothing. A few diapers. Wipes. A tube of tacky white rash cream that smells like cod-liver oil. I wrinkle my nose.
When I sit up, empty-handed, Sam's slapping at the table, content for the moment because he's flirting with one of the baristas. While she plays peekaboo, Dad comes back, and I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. Even though I don't have to go, getting up may help the pain in my gut disappear. So I make a beeline for the back, keep my head down.
The owner, Mo's mom, with her twisted-up blonde hair and swingy silver earrings, almost runs me over. She balances a tray of something sweet and gooey above my head.
“Hey, Jack,” she laughs. “Watch out. You'll be wearing this next time.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Is Mo around?”
She shakes her head. “Still sleeping, hon.”
“Okay,” I mumble and squeeze by as best I can.
I can only imagine what Dad would do to me if I came back covered with white icing. Guaranteed way to get in trouble, whether or not it was my fault.
Safe inside the confines of the men's room, I wash my hands, dry them, and stare into the mirror. My reflection stares back, but I imagine I'm Dr. Bruce Banner, one of the smartest people on earth. Banner is Hulk's real identity. He's a total brainiac, PhD in nuclear physics, expert in biology, chemistry, and engineering. Calm, cool, collected. Until a gamma bomb he invented explodes. If he just wasn't quite so curious . . .
A shrill cry interrupts my daydream. It's Sam, I'm sure.
Back at the table, my brother's twisted himself into a total meltdown. Red-faced, crying, he's yelling “Mama!” as loud as anyone I've ever heard.
“Where have you been?” My father snaps. He's dialing the phone with one hand, patting Sam's back with the other.
I can't form the words over the screams. Or tell my dad what to do. He won't want to hear about fuzzy bear or taking a nap. Or that he really needs Ava. I clamp my mouth shut and try desperately to distract Sam with funny faces.
“Where's Isabel?” Dad mutters, redialing.
Mo's mom attempts to distract Sam with a muffin. He knocks it to the floor and bangs on the table. Tears stream down his cheeks. “Mama! Mama!”
My father finally gives up. He hangs up, hoists my baby brother to his shoulder, and throws a twenty on the table.
Then I see the reason why Sam's freaking out. In the corner, a woman with her back to us looks amazingly like Ava. It's not her. I can tell. But to Sam, there's no difference.
“He thinks she's Ava.” I point and try to tell Dad.
He frowns and scans the room.
“Sam thinks that's his mom,” I repeat.
All of a sudden, it's Dad, not me, that turns into the Incredible Hulk. There's no stepping into a phone booth like Superman or fast costume changes in the Bat Cave. His skin doesn't turn green. But somehow my dad has turned into a monster.
He puts a hand on my neck. We storm through Miss Beulah's and burst to the outside. So much for male bonding. Dad's got us buckled in and gone before the next traffic light change. Jaw set, he calls Isabel again. This time she picks up. By the time we reach the apartment, Sam's still red-faced but ten times calmer after we've bumped along in the Range Rover for a few minutes. Live oak trees, with their curling arms full of green leaves, wave as we roll by. The sunlight winks through the branches.
I take off my brother's shoes and rub his feet, which he seems to like. After another mile, Dad clicks the radio on. Soft melody, just instruments, no singing, floats into the backseat. Sam kicks his legs, toes wiggling with the notes. Phew. Music.
I fall back against the seat, exhausted. My head pounds. But Sam's okay. And my dad's turned back into a human being again. Like the Hulk, deep inside, maybe he wants to be normal. He just can't figure out how.
SUNDAY, APRIL 25
I'm looking at the staircase in my house. It's everything I imagined, stately, imposing, with wide, smooth planks of dark wood with even grain. I run a hand over the glossy finish, and my palm races down the railing.
The warm, raw scent of sawdust lingers, mingling with the smell of dinnerâfreshly cracked pepper, earthy beef juices, and sweet caramelized onions. I hear her chopping vegetables in the kitchen, picture the knife blade slicing through crisp orange carrots, dicing firm Yukon gold potatoes. She'll add tender peas that burst in your mouth and tangy sweet creamed corn.
Earlier I'd parked on the road, behind a grove of trees. And waited. When I was ready, I walked, picking my way over branches, pushing aside brush. I'd slid my key into the lock and turned. The locks hadn't been changed, almost if Ava was expecting me to come home.
My hands run along bookshelves, caress the walls, and finger the matching satin shades topping each lamp. I pluck a pillow from the sofa and bring it to my nose, deeply inhaling. Everything reminds me of Ava.
My shelves. My space. My house. Pausing, I close my eyes and
picture my fingers around her slender, white neck. Squeezing the tendons, crushing tender vocal cords. Stopping the blood from pumping.
I step into the kitchen. “Hello, Ava.”
She whirls around and drops a carton of eggs.
Ker-plunk!
Cracked white half-shells roll every which way. Yellow goo seeps into cracks in the ceramic tile. Her lips part into a small oval.
“Where have you been?” I challenge her.
She swallows and grips the counter, balancing there as if the slab of granite is all that will keep her from falling.
“You can't be here,” Ava says, lifting her chin. The voice she summons is strong and defiant.
I ignore her question and step closer, enjoying that despite the attempt at bravado, her body begins to quake. “Where were you?”
Ava makes a sweeping motion at the yolky mess on the ground. “It's no secret, Mitchell. The grocery store. And now I'll have to go back.”
“Don't play games,” I snap. “I'm talking about yesterday. You were gone all day.”
My wife shakes her head. “That's none of your business, Mitchell.”