Tourists of the Apocalypse (9 page)

“What?” I utter, putting my hands up.

“You should stay here and take care of Missy.”

“Graham promised to look after her.”

“What’s the commitment?”

“Huh?”

“How long did you sign up for?” she recites slowly.

“Three years.”

Izzy holds up a hand and counts to herself. She taps her thumb on her fingers one at a time to aid her math. As she stares past me deep in thought I return to day dreaming about her smudged makeup, but this time on my own sheets. She puffs air up again to clear her bangs. She’d be comical if she wasn’t so cute.
This girl couldn’t look bad if she tried.

“So back by what?” she ponders aloud. “Fall 2013.”

“Unless I re-enlist.”

“How long would that be?” she demands. “If you re-upped?”

“I don’t know. I’m not even in yet. Why is this important?”

“Just don’t commit past 2015,” she orders, seeming to have not heard my last statement. “Promise you will talk to me before you sign anything else.”

“Yes Mom.”

“Don’t call me that,” she frowns, pulling her knees up tight to her chest. “I’m not old enough to be your Mum.”

“How old are you?” I inquire, sure she’s at least seven or eight years older than me at minimum.

“You can’t ask a girl that.”

“Fine, then what’s so important about 2015?”

“Nothing,” she snips defensively, slipping off the chair to re-fill her mug. “It’s 2016 that’s going to be dicey.”

“Huh?”

“Never you mind,” she lectures, wagging a finger at me. “Just talk to me before you sign anything.”

With this, she walks around behind my chair and gives me a halfway hug trying not spill her mug. Lavender and burnt coffee smells linger in my nostrils. I feel her kiss me on the head and then she scoots to the door, turning as she pulls the screen open.

“I’ll return the cup.”

“You hug like my mother.”

“I’m not old enough,” she remarks defensively, turning and heading out over the lawn.

I rise and lean on the door frame watching her through the screen. Izzy shuffles along, her pajama bottoms dragging in the wet grass. T-Buck comes down his driveway and the two converse. He glances back in my direction, then she waves him off and marches back to her place. T-Buck watches me as he goes back into his garage. Stepping out on my porch, I can see the door is all the way up. Peering out from inside are a pair of headlights. The red stripped hood is up, but I can’t make out what sort of car it is. As I step closer to that side of the porch for a better view, the door begins to roll down.

“This street is like an episode of the
Twilight Zone
.”

Mr. Dibble has a bad cold, although it could be the flu. I come home on leave from the Army to find him in my room. A physician I have never met, but claims to be local, is there on a house call. After a few minutes spent hugging my mother, I step outside for some fresh air. It’s quiet on Oakmont Street for late afternoon, at least as I recall it. It’s been a year since I left for boot camp. I could have come home any number of times, but waited as long as possible. It’s not that I don’t like being here, but the constant pressure to stay home and not enlist got to be a bit daunting.
I had the strangest feeling I was letting everyone down.

Dickey’s car is sitting in his driveway four houses down, so I walk along the sidewalk to see if he’s around.
He has to be here doesn’t he?
If Dickey’s car is here, then he can’t be far away. Reaching his drive, I can see some serious upgrades to the Mustang. Extra wide low profile tires mounted on honeycomb rims glint in the late afternoon sun. In front, there is what I can only describe as a chrome push bar in front of the bumper. It hangs off two posts that pass through the fascia to either side of the grill. Two giant fog lights at least a foot in diameter are mounted on it. A bright chrome mesh screen protects each of them. The only thing un-changed seems to be the sun backed silver paint and the dings from being backed into things. No attempt has been made to sort out the body, but she looks different with all the accoutrements.

“He’s not here,” Izzy surprises me from behind.

“Sneak up on people much?”

“I called out, but you were already walking away.”

I can’t imagine this is true, but there is no point in belaboring it. One thing you learn in the military is not to argue. Izzy looks good. She wearing skin tight jeans and a red track jacket with two white stripes up the sleeves, topped off by a Texas A&M visor. Her pony tail pokes out of the top, surprising me with how long it has gotten in my absence. She rushes me and has me in a bear hug before I can say anything. She holds on tight; smothering me in her perfume until it starts to feel odd, and she releases me. When she steps back she’s wearing a smile from ear to ear, a look that’s unfortunately rare for her. For some reason I say the worst possible thing. I watch the words float between us like letters from alphabet soup, but can’t grab them back.

“Where’s Lance?”

Hands on her hips, the smile fades away, replaced by a frown.
I am such an idiot.

“I’m fine thanks,” she remarks sarcastically. “Nasty sinus infection last winter, but I feel great now.”

“Sorry,” I plead, hands up in front of me. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“He’s out at the site,” she sighs, her smile only partially returning. “How long ya here for?”

“Three days, I have to be back on base by Tuesday night.”

“Just Labor Day weekend then?” she mumbles a hand on her chin. “Why not come back next week for your birthday?”

“Ask Uncle Sam. Where’s Dickey gone without his car?”

“He’s driving one of T-Bucks creations now. The temporary road into the site is pretty rough and there are some places where it washes out in the rain. He needed something with more ground clearance.”

“How’s he doing?” I ask, curious how he fits in with Lance’s crew.

“He seems good. He’s out there most of the time, but when I see him, he’s seems happy.”

“Who’s the doctor at my place and why is Mr. Dibble in my bed?” I ask, watching her lean her butt on the car and cross her arms.

“Luke Barnes, he’s got an office on the far side of town. Lance didn’t want Mr. Dibble to go to the clinic and as you know, no one’s allowed inside the houses.”

“So you took him over to mine?” I shrug, annoyed. “Where am I supposed to sleep?”

This causes a dramatic pause in our conversation. Arms crossed, she eyes me wrinkling her nose and waiting for me to either rephrase or go first. Rather than come up with different wording, I spend a moment running the possibilities through my mind. I tossed out all the living room furniture years ago to make room for the
Round Table
so that’s a nonstarter, not that the couch we had was very inviting.
Cushions were probably full of Jarod’s beer farts
.

“Hotel,” I utter, more thinking out loud than choosing.

“Sixty miles down the highway,” she points out, arms still crossed and staring. “I didn’t see a car in your driveway.”

“Stop enjoying yourself,” I groan, which brings laughter from her.

“Let’s have a drink,” she suggests, pushing herself off the car. “They teach you how to drink in the Army?”

The answer to that question is a resounding yes. One thing nineteen-year-old privates learn to do is drink. While I am not technically yet twenty-one, I doubt she is suggesting we go out. Since I can’t go inside her place, I assume this means back to mine. I wonder what my mother will think of me drinking. After Jarrod’s drunken tirades, I hesitate to inflict that worry on her. Before I can explain my concern to Izzy, she’s walks past me, taking my hand. Up the front steps to Dickey’s front door we go. She fishes around the top door trim until she comes back with a lone key. It unlocks the knob and the deadbolt. She winks at me and replaces it above the door.

“You’ve been here before,” I suggest with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah,” she jokes. “I’m Dickeys
love muffin
, but keep that on the down low.”

I choke a bit trying not to laugh too loudly. She pulls me in and shuts the door, flipping the dead bolt. The curtains are all pulled, leaving us in darkness. Izzy walks away, her steps creating a soft shuffling sound on dusty wood floor. As my eyes adjust I am greeted with a time warp. There’s a fireplace with a huge oaken mantle and a Queen Anne style couch under a clear plastic sheet. As a matter of fact, all the places one might sit down are likewise covered.

Izzy flips on the lights, which are akin to carriage lights you might see mounted on exterior walls near a front door. There are identical fixtures scattered around the living room. On the mantle there are framed pictures. One couple I take to be his parents, but there are several older looking black and whites that have to predate his folks. Over the fireplace hangs an oval gold frame with curved glass on its face. Very old portraits were curved to give them depth that the photographic technology of their time could not. The glass is also bowed out in a similar fashion. The face staring back is like a scary gothic nightmare. A woman, with hair pulled up tight wearing a scowl.
Why would anyone take a picture like that?
Izzy points at the portrait with a hand holding the necks of two beer bottles.

“Make a good book cover for a ghost story?”

“Be nice or she’ll haunt you.”

“For that she’ll have to wait awhile,” Izzy grumbles cryptically and takes my hand, leading me through the kitchen.

We come out onto a back porch with two wooden Adirondack lawn chairs. There are supposed to be flowery cushions on the seats, but the padding is nowhere to be seen. Handing me a beer she flops into one sideways with her legs dangling over the arm. I sit, but can’t get the top off my
Lone Star
beer.

“You bring an opener?”

She shakes her head and places the lip of the cap on the arm of the chair. Raising her hand, she slaps the top of the bottle, popping the cap off. After taking a sip she points at me to try. The first time I whack my hand but the cap remains. It takes three more tries to get it, after which I receive fake applause and rolled eyes.

“It’s like a museum in there?” I comment, wagging a thumb over one shoulder.

“I don’t think he’s moved one thing since she passed.”

“Covered everything in plastic to boot,” I add, sipping my beer and making a face. “This is warm.”

“Yeah the fridge doesn’t work too well,” she admits drinking hers without the scowl. “And he didn’t cover up anything, that’s how it was.”

I have heard about people who have a second living room with furniture under plastic, but never suspected that Dickey came from such a family.
What did I expect to find?
I’m thinking on this when the whine of an engine echo’s across the backyard. Like most blocks in small towns, you can see the next street over if you look between the houses behind yours. I catch only a flash of yellow, but then recognize the noise.

“Violet,” I mutter.

“Huh?”

“That’s Violets’ Porsche,” I mumble, standing and watching it pass between another set of houses.

“The hooker?” Izzy balks. “Graham’s hooker is named Violet?”

“Excuse you?”

“The tall, dark and leggy hooker that Graham had over here last night,” she remarks. “You know her?”

My initial desire is to defend Violet, but as I listen to her car pass by the front of the house I realize the obvious.
Violet is a call girl.
This gives me a pit in my stomach. I can’t be sure if it’s worry for her or the idea that I was so naive at thirteen? It had never occurred to me then or any time since. I want to run out front and say something to her, but the idea that she might be embarrassed now that I am older gives me pause.

“Earth to Dylan,” Izzy blusters. “Are you a client or an acquaintance?”

“Just a friend,” I clarify tipping up my beer. “Ah, Mr. Dibble is at my place.”

“Yes, Graham’s got a hall pass until he recovers.”

I nod, recalling how much fun it was listening to them talk. Their snarky banter seemed very high brow to a kid watching from his porch.
When I was younger Violet was the girl of my dreams.

“You should go say hi,” she whines. “Maybe there’s a two for one deal.”

“Very funny,” I groan, setting my beer on the arm of the chair. “Is there more beer?”

“Yeah, grab me one,” she begs, holding hers out and wiggling it back and forth for me to take.

Standing, I lean over to take it, but slip and have to catch myself on the arm of her chair. With her lying between the arms we wind up face to face. A tense moment passes as the offhanded idea that I should kiss her crosses my mind. She smells not of lavender so much today, but some sort of flowery soap overwhelmed by the oppressive scent of beer. It’s perfume to my nose, but before I can act on my idea she plants a hand in the middle of my chest and groans.

“Get off me you big oaf.”

“Sorry,” I stutter, backing away.

“Beer,” she demands, twirling her finger and then pointing at the back door.

I nod and turn to go. In the reflection of the kitchen window I see her put a hand to her forehead and puff a breath to clear her bangs. I can’t make out if this is a
get off me
reaction or some sort of frustration that I didn’t kiss her? I stand with one hand on the refrigerator door thinking. Stepping to one side I peek out and see her still slung across the chair. She rakes one hand through her hair and looks blank eyed into the backyard.
I should have kissed her.

Pulling open the fridge I see a six pack of Rolling Rock sitting alone on the top shelf. It’s the only item in the entire space. The light flickers and I am hit with a burst of cold air. This fridge seems to work just fine.
Why did she say it was messed up?
Retrieving two beers I can tell they are a bit colder than my first, but not remotely the same temp as the inside of the fridge. I spin and scan the kitchen. Running finger down the lip of the sink I come back with thick dust. A flash of light and the epiphany of the century washes over me. Dickey isn’t staying here anymore. She must have put the beers in the fridge when she saw my taxi pull up.
She brought me here on purpose.
Before I can get back to the porch and try to re-write the history of the last five minutes, Izzy plows through the door, pulling a beer out of my hand.