Missing Dixie(71)

My mom’s shrieking reaches an inaudible level of hysteria as she rambles on about having nowhere else to go and how she’s not safe.

“Not safe from what, Mom?” I break in. “Calm down and breathe and tell me what you aren’t safe from.”

“Carl,” she chokes out. “No one is safe from Carl. They took his son away, said you and your friend reported him and some other stuff. He asked me where to find you and nearly strangled me to death until I told him.”

Jesus.

“Where are you? And where did you tell him to look?”

She coughs her typical smoker’s wheeze loudly into the phone before answering me.

“Mom. Fucking tell me where you are and where you told him I’d be.”

“I-I wasn’t sure,” she stammers out. “I told him you work at that bar we saw you at and that sometimes you hang out at that Korean store by the truck stop. I didn’t tell him anything else, I swear.”

She told him enough.

“Where are you right now?”

She coughs again. “I’m at his place. At Carl’s. But he’s not here; he left when they called and told him he couldn’t have his son back. He said he was going to find you and your friend and teach you a lesson about interfering in other people’s private business.”

“Great, Mom. That’s great. Thanks.”

“Baby, I’m sorry,” she pleads. “I—he’s—you’re not . . . He’s not a good man, Gavin. If he wants to hurt you, he will.”

I breathe through my nose.

Violence.

It always finds me.

But I’ll be damned if it comes anywhere near my Bluebird.

The thing about my world is that it’s typically bathed in darkness regardless. People like Carl and my mother will find the darkened corners even in the bright of day. It’s where they thrive.

I text Dallas that I have to check on something and that if I don’t make it back in time to go on without me. He and Dixie can perform her original song acoustic-style and it will still be amazing.

I practically jog to Mr. Kyung’s store, breaking into a full-out sprint when I see the flames. The scent of ash and destruction swirl in the air around me.

What the f*ck?

Mr. Kyung and his wife are outside and he’s shouting into the phone. I pray it’s to 911 or the fire department. I run around the side of the building and grab the garden hose, pulling it as close as it will reach.

Carl set the truck on fire. The truck that I use sometimes.

It’s a message. A warning. One I don’t plan to heed. Within a few minutes the fire department arrives and begins battling the flames with much more success than I did.

I comfort Mr. Kyung and his wife, promising them both I will replace the truck and handle any damage that insurance doesn’t cover. I don’t know how, but I will. This is my mess to clean up.

The thought of Carl going to the Tavern and doing something similar with Dixie inside floods my mind. Mental images have me literally shaking with rage as I run as fast as I can to his house.

Once I arrive, I catch my breath and storm inside. A few junkies litter the floor in the front room and my mother sits slouched over a makeshift kitchen table made of cinder blocks and plywood.

“Mom,” I say as loud as I can. “Mom, look at me.” I wait until she does.

Both of her eyes are swollen and she’s likely battered and high at the moment.

“Where is he?”

She’s dazed, staring at me as if I’m a stranger speaking a foreign language.

“Mom,” I repeat slowly. “Where is Carl? Carl, you know, your friend. Where is he?”

“Carl?”

I want to shake the answer out of her. Scream and demand she sober up and come to.

“Tell me where Carl is. Carl can help you, okay? He can help you feel better.”

He can’t, but this is how you get info from a junkie. Make promises of things that will never happen. The cops are especially good at it.

“Carl is . . . Carl went . . .”

She breaks out into a fit of maniacal laughter and I’m nearly losing it.

“Tell me. It’s important. I’ll help you feel better if you just tell me.”

She sighs, then looks up at me with eyes as dark as midnight. “Carl went to get his son.” She giggles again. “I didn’t even know he had a son. B, B,” she calls to a nearby stoner making out with some girl who looks barely legal. “B, did you know Carl had a son?”

“Where is his son, Katrina? Answer me. Where is he?” This time I do reach out and grab her.

Her attention returns to me, her eyes snapping into focus on my face. “How do you know my name?”

Fuck this.

I make my way outside, tripping over bodies and God knows what else as I go. The shadows cast by Carl’s house are dark but just beyond them is the light, a glow being sent down from a streetlamp like a beam from Heaven.

“Gavin,” a female voice calls from the light. “Gavin, wait.”





29 | Dixie

THERE ARE CERTAIN things I’ve learned growing up that have shaped who I’ve become.

My parents taught me about love. My grandparents taught me about patience, kindness, and perseverance.

Every moment of my life has taught me about music.