{"id":433,"date":"2019-12-17T12:14:30","date_gmt":"2019-12-17T17:14:30","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/?p=433"},"modified":"2019-12-17T12:14:30","modified_gmt":"2019-12-17T17:14:30","slug":"missing","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/missing\/","title":{"rendered":"Missing"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

            \u201cWhat do you mean, by missing?\u201d\nFrancis snapped back at her sister Lenora on the phone.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cJust that. He\u2019s missing,\u201d Lenora\nsniffed.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            This was the last thing she needed,\nFrancis thought. She had a houseful of guests who had just sat down to a very\nlate Thanksgiving dinner with dried-out turkey because her daughter, Faye-Lynn\ngot stuck in traffic from the airport. Life was stressful enough, what with\nkids in college, her untenured professorship, essays to correct and a sulky\nhusband who had recently lost his job. She was not in the mood for Lenora\u2019s\nsniveling ineptness.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cOh stop being such a drama queen,\nLenora. Of course he\u2019s not missing. He probably just went out to the store or\nsomething.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cNo. You don\u2019t understand. We\nfinished up dinner about 3:00\nand he didn\u2019t want dessert. He never turns down dessert, you know how he is,\nbut he insisted that he was too tired and wanted to get home before dark.  We\u2019ve been trying to get him to give up\ndriving, but you know how stubborn he can be. Well, about 5:00, we brought some pumpkin pie out to the\nfarm, and, well, his car wasn\u2019t there. I didn\u2019t think anything of it at first,\nbut the lights hadn\u2019t even been turned on, and I thought, well, if he\u2019d run out\nto the store, the lights would have been on, and it was the funniest thing. The\ndoor was locked.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cWhat?\u201d Francis interrupted, \u201cWhat\ndo you mean the door was locked? That door hasn\u2019t been locked in years. Not\neven when we were growing up as kids. Does he even have a key to the door?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cWell, that\u2019s just it,\u201d Lenora\ntreaded careful here, \u201cyou see, Rusty put in a lock for him just a month ago. There\nhave been some break-ins, you know, especially out Hadley way where the farms\nare far apart and mostly abandoned. We thought he should start locking up.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cHuh,\u201d Francis snorted as she lit up\na cigarette, \u201cthat must\u2019ve gone over well.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cHe wasn\u2019t too happy about it, but\nthen we got Harold Krider to talk some sense into him. Harold lost his farm a\nyear ago, after his wife died. A bunch of hoodlum punks broke in while he was\nat the IGA and set fire to the place. \nThe house was gone before Harold got home, and he lost everything. He\nsaid he didn\u2019t much care about the house, but the hardest part was losing\nMary\u2019s photographs. He says he can\u2019t recall his wife\u2019s face anymore. He\u2019s\nliving with his daughter, now, down near Flint\nsomewhere. Says folks down there wouldn\u2019t think of stepping into the backyard\nwithout locking up the house. Dad \u2013 he didn\u2019t like the idea, but he said he\u2019d\nrather lock up the house than be forced to move in with us. Or even worse \u2013\nwith you,\u201d Lenora chuckled.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            Francis was only slightly annoyed by\nLenora\u2019s dig. She had learned to block out half of what her sister said years\nago, finding the country cadence of her voice and the Midwestern accent a\ntedious reminder of her own small town roots.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cGet to the point, will you? We\u2019re\nin the middle of dinner, and I have to go.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cDinner this late? My, aren\u2019t we\nhoity-toity eating dinner at 10:00,\u201d\nLenora teased.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

She had shifted with ease from the sniveling trepidation of having to\ninform her sister that their father had gone missing, into a subtle kind of condescension\ncloaked in good humor.  Lenora sounded\njust like their mother, a God-fearing conservative Baptist who could twist the\nknife of judgment into your gut with a smile, as if she were serving up a tray\nof brownies.  Lenora did not appreciate\nor understand her sister\u2019s cosmopolitan lifestyle. Whoever heard of serving\nThanksgiving dinner at 10:00\nat night? Their mother would be rolling in her grave.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Francis heard the shift in Lenora\u2019s tone. She knew what it meant. It\nwas the same driveshaft that turned the loud clucking of women\u2019s tongues which had\nreverberated throughout her childhood. Girl posses, arms folded over slightly\nbudding breasts excluding her because she made honors or didn\u2019t wear the right\nshoes; the clucking of her mother, finger wagging in her face with admonitions\nthat she was too smart for her own good, and how she\u2019d never get a husband; Clusters\nof farm wives at church who clucked and shook their heads because she didn\u2019t\nstick around to help when her mother took ill. All that internalized women\u2019s\noppression resting on her shoulders. No wonder she ended up teaching women\u2019s\nstudies. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI told you, Fay-Lynn was late,\u201d Francis rolled her eyes at the\nreceiver of the phone. \u201cWe were supposed to eat at 8:00. Anyway, how do you know he\u2019s missing? Maybe he just\nstopped by Floyd\u2019s place for a game of pinochle.  Maybe he lost his key and was headed back to\nyour place. You probably passed each other on the highway, for\ncrying-out-loud.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, that\u2019s not it,\u201d Lenora stalled not wanting to get back to match\npoint in the sister game; \u201cWhen we got out to the farm there wasn\u2019t any sign\nthat he had been home. It snowed out here this morning. Just a few inches after\ndad arrived for dinner. It was done by the time he left. There was no sign that\na car had been up the driveway.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, did you call Floyd, or Harold? Maybe he stopped by for dessert\nwith some of his old friends,\u201d Francis offered.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNobody\u2019s seen him. We did call the police, but they won\u2019t activate a\nmissing person\u2019s report for 48 hours. I think you should come out here,\u201d Lenora\nadded.     <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

There. She\u2019d said it, the dreaded thing. She braced herself for the\nstorm.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you crazy?! I can\u2019t just pick up and leave in the middle of\nThanksgiving! It\u2019s a 14-hour drive, for Christ sake. I haven\u2019t seen Fay-Lynn\nsince she left for college, and she\u2019s brought this boyfriend with her\u2026oh, for\nGod\u2019s sake. I have 52 essays to correct by Monday. I can\u2019t just take time off \u2013\nI don\u2019t have personal days \u2013 I don\u2019t have tenure. You think my life is easy.\nYou think I have money and freedom, but I have nothing. I mean \u2013 what have you\ngot on your agenda \u2013 an apple pie for the church supper? Jesus, Lenora. Step up\nfor a change. Call me when you know more.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Francis slammed the receiver on the phone. That was another thing. Why\nthe Christ couldn\u2019t Lenora call her on her cell phone. She\u2019d given her the\nnumber a gazillion times. She was lucky they still kept a land line at all.\nAnyone in their right mind would get a cell phone, send a text message, or an\ne-mail if they lived in the right century, but not Lenora. A cellphone was too\ncomplicated for her, a modern contraption that stole your money. Lenora called\nregularly with updates and anecdotes about dad, but she waited until the rates\nwent down on weekends, or called after 10:00\n P.M. when Francis was more than likely not home or in bed.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Francis pictured her sister who was two years younger and twenty years\nolder. In her mind, Lenora wore the same bib aprons their mother had worn when\nthey were children. House dresses, clunky shoes and bobby pins. Lenora lived\nseveral miles away from their dad. She\u2019d married her high school sweetheart and\nmoved into a small house on his family farm. She had no ambition for bigger\nthings. She was content to live the same life her mother had lived: church on\nSunday, harvest parties, peaches to can and plenty of pies to bake. Just the thought\nof such a small life turned Francis\u2019s stomach and an unbearable weight pressed\ndown upon her chest. She knew it wasn\u2019t a heart attack. It was a familiar\noppression she had born throughout her life. It was a weight that carried the\nimage of women who were burned as witches or crushed beneath stones for stepping\noutside their prescript roles. Her sister would always be the good one. She\nwould always be a witch.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Francis poured herself a fresh glass of pino noir and joined the family\nat the table. The turkey slumped in the middle of the table and the\nconversation prattled on without her. Her daughter played footsies with the\nboyfriend under the table. What was his name? Skip pretended to be interested\nin his children and everyone \u2013 damn it \u2013 everyone had an i-phone next to their\nplates. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

In between bites of a meal that had taken her twelve hours to make,\nincluding the cleaning and cooking, totally irrelevant text messages bounced\naround the world. No need for adolescent body language anymore, eye-rolling,\nsighs of exasperation. Francis imagined some of their texts like they were tiny\nspears being driven into her heart. OMG\nthis is boring, <\/em>or can\u2019t wait to get\nout of here.<\/em> And she didn\u2019t even want to imagine what Skip was doing. Was\nhe having an affair? Who the hell was he texting, anyway? Suddenly, Francis\nfelt an unbearable pounding in her right temple. Another migraine coming on,\nshe supposed. And those essays sat in a black leather bag in her study, the\nones she would never correct. She excused herself before dessert. Just like her\ndad.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan\u2019t see a God damned thing,\u201d he mumbled out loud while trying to\nwipe the condensation from the windshield. \u201cShould have gotten that cataract\nsurgery.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The windshield wipers squeaked and thumped across the ice mist that was\nforming in the lowlands. Omar drove with hands tight on the steering wheel,\nbent forward, eyes squinting, as if getting closer to the windshield could\nimprove his vision. Dusk was closing in fast, a dark-winged angel lifting him from\nthe burden of the ordinary to which he had been chained. The nose of his Detroit-made\nChrysler was pointed east. But not for long.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

With the shroud of darkness came a levity Omar had not felt in years.\nHow long had it been? Esther had been gone so long now, he\u2019d lost count. When was\nit that he\u2019d lost his autonomy – his independence? He knew his daughters saw\nhim as a stubborn old coot because he refused to give up the farm and at\neighty-nine he still drove his own car. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sometimes he wondered about his daughters. They were like aliens to him\n\u2013 weeds he couldn\u2019t possibly have sown from his loins, like corn that cross\npollinated downwind and just showed up one day in the middle of your soybeans.\nThey belonged to Esther. It was her fault. He was too busy on the farm when\nthey were young, then traveling round the country for Monsanto. She kept him\naway from them, and they from him, as if he would devour them in the way a hog is\napt to devour its young if you\u2019re not careful to separate them. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lenora was weak. Too weak to bear her own seed and easily scattered\nwhichever way the wind blew. She didn\u2019t know her own mind. Easily frazzled.\nOlder than her years as if she were a throwback to his own mother\u2019s generation,\nhair pulled back in that stringy bun, flat chested and skinny as a rail beneath\nthose baggy dresses. Stuck out on that farm, baking pies. Just like Esther, all\nwrapped up in the church. Too pious and a little too quick to judge Just like\nher mother.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then there was the other one. He didn\u2019t know what to make of her.  She never took root \u2013 always an outsider.\nEven in the family. Never fit in at the school, or church, though he didn\u2019t\ncare about it as much as Esther had. Had her sights somewhere else her whole\nlife. Flew away like a goddamned milkweed soon as she graduated. Hasn\u2019t stopped\nmoving since, though Boston\nhad been the longest she\u2019d lived anywhere. He was downright surprised that\nshe\u2019d settled down and married, started producing children. They must be full\ngrown by now. Hadn\u2019t seen them in what \u2013 six or seven years? He heard she was a\nprofessor up there. Lenora gloated when Skip lost his job, soured by her own\nlimitations, sweetened by the hardships of others. What was it Francis taught?\nWas it history? No, that wasn\u2019t it. It was some new fangled subject that he\u2019d\nnever heard of and had no use for. He couldn\u2019t keep up with everything \u2013 all\nthe changes in the family, the world going to hell in a hand basket. How long\nhad Esther been gone?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

BAM!<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

What the hell was that! Omar\u2019s hands tightened on the wheel.  The Chrysler shimmied as he pulled onto the\nshoulder. Good thing he was only going thirty. Must have been a deer. His heart\nwas pounding. He sat for awhile, trembling until he was able to uncurl his\nfingers from the steering wheel. It couldn\u2019t have been a very big deer. He\nwasn\u2019t jolted around from the impact, even though he didn\u2019t wear a seatbelt and\nnever would until his dying day no matter what the government said. He\nremembered the time he\u2019d hit that moose on a trip to the Upper\n Peninsula. It was the first time he and Esther had gone away\nwithout the girls. They\u2019d rented a cabin. Where was that?  Christ, his memory was getting weak. Was it\non a lake? Where\u2019d he hit that moose? Good thing they had the truck. It was\nlike driving a tank. That moose barely made a dent in the fender. He\u2019d pulled\nthe fender out with the wench and they went on their merry way. Funny, he\ncouldn\u2019t remember anything else about that weekend with Esther. Just the moose.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar was startled out of his reverie by a fierce knocking on the driver\nside window. It nearly made him jump out of his skin. He\u2019d just gotten his\ndamned heart to stop pounding, and there it went again. He\u2019d been having\ntrouble with that. Once his heart got to pounding he had the dickens of a time\ntrying to calm it down again.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jesus Christ, it was a kid! There was a kid banging on his window. A\nkid with a bloody gash in his \u2013 no, maybe her head.  He rolled the window down.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat the heck! You just hit me with your car! I wasn\u2019t even walking in\nthe road \u2013 I was way over on the side! What \u2013 are you blind, old man?\nAhhh!  It hurts! I \u2013 I think I\u2019m going to\nfaint,\u201d and she did.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar was shaking like a leaf. He managed to open the door, but the kid\nwas blocking the door.  He leaned out the\nwindow.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou alright?  Hey!  You! \nYou alright?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He pushed the door and the body rolled over flat on the ground so he\nwas able to open the door and step out over it. .Gingerly, he kicked the kid\nwho was barely visible, wrapped up in an oversized red plaid hunting jacket\nthat looked like something he would have worn back in the thirties.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOw! Don\u2019t touch me!\u201d the kid sat up on elbows and squinted up at Omar.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar still couldn\u2019t figure out if it was a girl or a boy. The child\ncouldn\u2019t have been more than thirteen or fourteen. Hard to tell at that age. These\ndays, anyway. They all dressed alike, girls and boys. He held out his hand,\nthick and calloused from years of farming. He was shocked by the slender\nbone-like fingers, cold as ice that clawed at his own gnarled and arthritic\ntalon. He pulled upwards and the child rose up from the dead, stumbling\nforward. He put his arm around the waif-like shoulders and brought her\/him\naround to the passenger door.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

They sat for awhile, two trembling birds in the dark of night. He kept\nthe engine running and turned the heat up. The kid slumped down into the wool\ncoat that must have been five sizes too big and belonged to some old geezer\nrelative.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou alright? Can I give you a ride somewheres? You want to go to the\nhospital or something?\u201d Omar wished he had packed some water or food in the\ntrunk. He was so careful to pack his bags before he left for Lenora\u2019s knowing\nthat it would buy him some time for the get-away if he didn\u2019t have to go back\nto the house after dinner. The kid didn\u2019t reply.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was something about the way the kid sulked. The high forehead\nplastered with curly black bangs. \u201cYou know, you kind of remind me of my older\ndaughter when she was about your age. What are you, thirteen? Fourteen? She had\nhair like that. No matter how short she cut it, she still had those wild black\ncurls that stuck to her forehead,\u201d Omar paused, waiting for a response.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He remembered something strange just then. Francis was a handful when\nshe hit her teenage years. It was the late sixties, maybe early seventies. He\nseemed to remember something about her running away around Thanksgiving. She\u2019d\ngotten pissed at her mother about something or other, probably had enough of\nbaking pies. It was cold out. They were expecting Esther\u2019s parents, her brother\nand his wife to come out from Minnesota.\nThey were due to arrive any minute. Must\u2019ve been the night before \u2013 that\nwould\u2019ve been Wednesday. Anyway, Francis took off on her bicycle about dusk,\nand after a couple of hours, Esther began to fret. He wasn\u2019t too worried about\nit, himself, knowing that she\u2019d get hungry and come home, but he had to keep\nthe peace, so he hopped in the truck and drove up and down those long, lonely\nroads looking for her. He had the deer-jacking lights on top of the cab. It was\nlike driving under a flood light. Then, about two miles away from the farm, he\nsaw her walking her bike along the side of the road. There she was head\nhunkered down inside that big old wool jacket that belonged to his father\u2026.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar looked over at the kid, \u201cHuh,\u201d he grunted. \u201cIsn\u2019t that something?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d the kid snapped.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, that coat you\u2019re wearing, it looks almost identical to one that\nbelonged to my dad, way back when. I was just remembering my daughter running\naway in that coat. Same old red and black plaid like we used to wear for\nwoodcutting. Had a hat that matched. Might even have had mittens and britches at\none point.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not a girl,\u201d the kid sulked.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, don\u2019t worry about it. I can\u2019t tell anymore. You young folk all\nlook alike after awhile,\u201d Omar put his left blinker on and pulled off the\ngravel shoulder and onto the road, contemplating turning around back toward\nHadley.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere to then? You want a lift home?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo!\u201d the kid snarled, \u201cHome\u2019s the last place I want to go. Just drop\nme off in Flint,\nif you\u2019re going that far.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar sighed. He didn\u2019t know if he had enough patience left in him to\nput up with a sulking kid, and he had no intention of driving down to Flint. His intent was to\ndrive up north and find that cabin he and Esther had rented that time he hit\nthe moose. Was that where he was going? What road was this, anyway?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo, where\u2019re you coming from, son?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

 Omar liked the way the word son<\/em> had pried itself loose from his\nlips. That was something he\u2019d always wanted to be able to say, the word \u201cson\u201d\nin that grandfatherly way \u2013 the way his own father would have used it when they\nsat down to have a heart-to-heart talk. But he hadn\u2019t been dealt such a hand.\nHe had been saddled with daughters and trapped in a house of women his whole\nlife. It seemed to him, just now as he thought back on it, that he had been\nliving in a petticoat prison. First tied up in his mother\u2019s apron strings, his\nsisters tying the knot even tighter with their clutching ways, always coddling\nhim, forcing him to stay on the farm, which, when you come right down to it,\nwas just another woman tying you down. Then the wife and his own daughters who were\nnothing more than jail keepers shackling him in their good intentions. His only\nescape from the harshness of that soft and feminine world had been the war.\nHe\u2019d trade driving a tank through France and being shot at by Germans\nany day for the quiet desperation of a so-called life metered out in years by a\nwoman\u2019s hand. The shrapnel in his left knee was the only reminder that he had\nonce tasted freedom. For six months on the front line he had felt alive.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not your son. And it\u2019s none of your business,\u201d the clenched-teeth  monotone reply was so well practiced, Omar\nknew that the kid must have said it a thousand times to someone else in his\nlife, practiced it in the mirror, grunted it into his pillow at night, sneered\nthe words as he slammed the door to do his chores in the morning.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Who did the kid remind him of, he wondered. It wasn\u2019t really Francis,\nbut someone close. The way he held his jaw, jutting forward so that his lower\nlip protruded into an Indian pout; eyes narrowed like little slits cut out in a\nfreckled mask.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou know, I\u2019m not going anywhere\u2019s near Flint. I was headed up north, to tell the\ntruth,\u201d Omar tried to explain.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t care,\u201d the kid mumbled, \u201cI\u2019ll go wherever. Just away.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar wondered what could have happened to set the kid off that way.\nWhat terrible thing had riled him up enough to leave his home? Did he have a\nmother? A deer-jacking father who was patrolling back roads at this very moment?\nHe didn\u2019t want to pry, but he did know from experience that a kid doesn\u2019t just\nup and leave home for no reason. Hadn\u2019t he run away once? When was that? What\nreason would he have had to leave\u2026?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou can drop me off wherever you want,\u201d the kid yawned and tucked his\nhead further down into the jacket, using it as a pillow to lean against the\nwindow.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar settled into the road, the pitch black night broken up by a thin\nwhite line, an occasional flurry of snow, the windshield wiper \u2013 squeak, thump\n\u2013 squeak, thump. It was hypnotic, that dry heat of the car and the purr of the\nengine. He remembered a similar drive. Only the car was an old model-T and the\nheat \u2013 well there was none. The transmission whined like an old mare, and the\nroad was rough, still unpaved. He sat in the passenger seat. An old man had\npicked him up hitchhiking. It was colder than hell \u2013 must\u2019ve been the same time\nof year. He was about fourteen years old, and \u2013 yes \u2013 he\u2019d run away. He\u2019d had a\nfight with his father over some damned thing, and his father\u2019d lit into him.\nKnocked out his front tooth. What were they fighting about? What could have\nbeen so important? <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He thought of his daughter Francis, the one that got away. The one who\nescaped as he had tried to do so long ago. That old man in the model-T had\nturned around and brought Omar home. He guessed it turned out alright. He got\nhis tooth fixed, anyway. Never had harsh words with his father again. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He tried to imagine Francis living in Boston and what her life was like. He\u2019d never\nbeen out to visit her. He couldn\u2019t remember what she looked like now. All he\ncould remember was Francis hunkered down in that old coat next to him, lower\nlip puckered out, black curls plastered to her forehead\u2026just like the kid\nsitting there now.  Why had he fought\nwith his dad?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar thought back on the dull walls of his old farmhouse with its brown\nand gray wallpaper and mixed up patterns in the curtains. It was a crazy quilt,\nthat house. One without color. The air was always too close, thick and heavy\nwith a curtain of smoke from his father\u2019s pipe. The piano. That was it. He\ncould see the old upright in the corner of the parlor where his mother gave\npiano lessons to countless children from town. They paraded out to the farm for\nhalf-hour lessons once a week, their thick-calved mothers clutching purses and\nsitting on the bench in the hall. When he was too young to be pushed outside to\nplay in the yard, Omar would sit on the hooked rug on the floor playing with\nblocks of wood. Eventually, he\u2019d sit in his mother\u2019s lap and finger the keys\nuntil he was three years old and she taught him the scales and then how to read\nthe little notes that danced across the page so hopefully. He remembered that\ntiny glimmer of hope, how the strings of notes beckoned him away as if they\nwere little pixie girls come to save him from the awful silence of the house\nand the farm being so far out, and away from town. Sometimes he imagined the\nblack and white keys were a railroad track. His fingers the train. Someday.\nSomeday that train would come and he would head east and never look back.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Was that what they\u2019d fought about \u2013 that Thanksgiving he ran away? It\nmust have been after that music teacher from the school came out to visit. What\nwas her name \u2013 Miss Herbert? She\u2019d stopped by to inform his parents there was a\nscholarship available to a music school back East. She hoped that in a few\nyears, they would consider the application process. She said he was very\ntalented and that his mother had taught him well, and that he could go places.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHuh,\u201d Omar mumbled, \u201cgo places, my foot.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He remembered kneeling on the floor in his room upstairs, ear to the\nheat grate so he could hear the conversation in the kitchen. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then his father\u2019s words, \u201cHe don\u2019t need to be running off to music\nschool. That\u2019s no life for a boy. We need him on the farm. He\u2019s the only one.\nThe rest are daughters. Who\u2019ll run the place?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

And his mother\u2019s apologetic concession, \u201cI\u2019m sure he can continue his\nmusic from home, play for the choir, and give lessons like I do.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

That was the day the music stopped. It no longer danced across the page\nwith its fragile little banner of hope. The train that ran through his fingers\non the keys just up and froze. Run out of steam. No sense in following a track\nto nowhere.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He remembered now, how he came down the back stairs, heavy footed as if\ngravity would pull him through the cracked linoleum in the kitchen and down\ninto the cellar. How he glared at his father and pointed his finger at him and\nscreamed.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou have no right! You have no right to choose my destiny! What makes\nyou think I want to be a stupid farmer, like you!\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s when his father up and hit him with a left hook. Spitting his\nfront tooth onto the floor, he grabbed his father\u2019s wool coat and left the\nhouse. He could still hear the storm door slam behind him, and feel the\nscratchiness of the wool in that coat that was two sizes too big for him. The\nred and black plaid coat his father wore for cutting wood\u2026<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t feel so good,\u201d the kid was stirring in the passenger seat.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar had forgotten about his passenger as he tried to wend his way\nbetween the past and the present.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStop the car! I\u2019ve got to throw up!\u201d The kid seemed to be in a panic.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar put on his blinker and poked his way over to the right shoulder\nand stopped just in the nick of time before the kid bolted from the car and\nbegan puking on the side of the road. Hands shaking, Omar managed to put the\ncar in park and waited patiently for the kid to finish up and crawl back into\nthe passenger seat.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy head really hurts,\u201d the kid whined as he fastened his seatbelt and\ncovered himself with that old red plaid hunting jacket.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Francis made her way up to the bedroom. It was cool in the back of the\nhouse, away from the heat of the kitchen and the gas fireplace. She suddenly\nfelt a chill of body and soul, thinking about her dad and wondering where he\nmight be this late at night in the middle of God knows where snowy Michigan.  Why hadn\u2019t he taken her up on the offer to\nmove in with them? Surely, she was more capable than Lenora in looking after\nhim. He had no business living by himself out on that old run down farm. If\nhe\u2019d moved out east before Skip lost his job, she could have set him up in\nassisted living, gotten his veteran benefits in order. She could have given him\nthe life he deserved in his dotage years. She reached into the back of her\ncloset and pulled out the old plaid hunting jacket her dad used to wear, and\ncurled up on the bed. Her head was pounding.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lenora shivered as she stood in the middle of the kitchen. She reached\nfor dad\u2019s old hunting jacket, but it was missing from the peg where it had hung\never since she could remember. Funny, she hadn\u2019t thought of it in years. Dad\nmust have put it away somewhere.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know why he keeps the house so cold. He\u2019s got a full tank of\noil, and the woodstove in the kitchen. You\u2019d think he\u2019d want some heat at his\nage,\u201d she shook her head and went into the parlor to turn up the thermostat.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHuh. That\u2019s odd,\u201d she called out to Rusty who was still in the\nkitchen.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d he asked.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere\u2019s music on the piano,\u201d she whispered as she turned on the lamp.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

There hadn\u2019t been music on that piano for almost her whole life. No one\nplayed the piano. It had belonged to her grandmother and hadn\u2019t been touched\nsince gram had passed away. The piano had sat like a dry heap of bones in the\ncorner ever since she could remember. Her father wouldn\u2019t let anyone open it up\nand play it. More than once he\u2019d threatened to chop it up for firewood.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lenora fingered the brittle yellow pages with their thick notes dancing\nacross taped edges. She couldn\u2019t imagine who would have been playing the piano.\nSurely it was out of tune. She gently pressed down on one of the black keys and\nit twanged like an old saloon gal. She remembered her grandmother, bent with\nage and barely able to reach the pedals and how she would play those funny old\nsongs and everyone except Dad would gather round and sing.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was Faye-Lynn who found her. She and Skip had just cleared the table\nfor dessert when they noticed that Francis wasn\u2019t in the kitchen. She went to\nher mom\u2019s room, and there she was \u2013 all curled up in an old red and black plaid\ncoat.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere\u2019d she find that old thing?\u201d she laughed to herself.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

She went over to the bed and bent over her mother, giving her a little\nnudge to wake her up. But something was wrong. She seemed odd, her body limp\nand her doughy skin cold to the touch.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMom?\u201d another little shake, \u201cMom?\u201d a little louder.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was too late for resuscitation. She\u2019d gone quickly. They said it was\nan aneurism. Time of death 12:02 A.M.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar heard piano music rattling around in his head. It was some\nconcerto, Chopin? Tchaikovsky?  Funny, he\nhadn\u2019t put the radio on, and he never listened to classical music anymore. The\ncar radio was permanently fixed to the country station. In the distance, above\nthe notes of the piano that now sounded like shattering glass, he heard the\nkid\u2019s voice call out in alarm.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey Mister! Hey! You alright? Watch where you\u2019re going! Hey!\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then blackness and silence except for his daughter\u2019s voice. Was it\nFrancis?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDad?  Dad?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

They found the car out on 390, headed north. There\u2019d been a deer, an\nicy patch, a crash, but the cause of death was the heart. He was wearing his\nold hunting britches and cap \u2013 the ones that were red and black plaid which\nhadn\u2019t been worn in years. They smelled of moth balls. Oddly, there was a\nmatching jacket on the passenger seat; identical to the one Francis was wrapped\nup in, only with a blood stain from an unknown source. Time of death: 12:02\nA.M. <\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

            \u201cWhat do you mean, by missing?\u201d Francis snapped back at her sister Lenora on the phone.             \u201cJust that. He\u2019s missing,\u201d Lenora sniffed.             This was the last thing she needed, Francis thought. She had a houseful of guests who had just sat down to a very late Thanksgiving dinner with dried-out turkey because … <\/p>\n

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