Winter Loon(49)

A wisp of smoke rose from where the scarf—a black hole in the center now—had drooped down onto the bulb.

“Oh shit!” We sat bolt upright, aware of everything at once—the burning scarf, our naked bodies, the slamming car door. Jolene pulled the scarf off the lamp and jammed it into a glass of water on her bedside table.

I peeked out the window. The station wagon was there.

“It’s Mona and Troy.”

“You have to go. They’ll kill me.”

I was already up, hopping to get my pants on. Jolene shoved my socks into my coat pocket, her finger on her lips.

“Don’t stomp! Get on the bed so they won’t hear your feet.”

She quickly slipped into pajama bottoms, pulled a T-shirt over her face.

Mona’s voice drifted up the back stairs. “Jo, we’re home.” Then, “Is something burning?”

“I’ll be right down.” She shook her head, rolled her eyes, kissed me full on the lips. “Go out the window when the coast is clear. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I pressed her open palm to my lips and kissed it. She flew out the door.

I waited agonizing minutes for Troy to finish his nightly cigarette under the streetlamp. When I heard the screen door shut below me, I jiggled the window open and climbed out onto the roof. The music of family played below me—Mariah’s excited laughter, Troy’s low voice more instrument than human, Mona’s clapping, the uphill of Jolene’s voice louder than usual as she peppered them with questions to cover the sound of me, newly made, sneaking out into the night.



THE NEXT MORNING WAS SUNDAY, and I showed up at Jolene’s house as usual, walked through the door, and immediately flushed at the sight of her. Surely they knew from our stupid smiles, the fumbled way she greeted me. Troy didn’t hesitate. “Let’s talk for a minute,” he said. “Man to man. Jolene, go help Mona.” She glanced over her shoulder at me, mouthed, “It’s okay.” I feared the worst, that he knew what had gone on upstairs, and that this was the practical end of me. I imagined the gamut, from Troy insisting we marry on the spot to him running me out of town. Both scenarios involved a shotgun.

“Sit down,” he said, pulling out a chair at the dining room table. “Jolene tells me you might need to borrow the truck.”

“She told you about Topeka then,” I said, relieved.

“She did.”

I’d thought about the trip plenty, even before Jolene brought it up—how I’d get there, what it might look like, who I might find. “I could take a bus down, but once I’m there, I got to figure out where to go, and I can’t afford to stay over. If I’m going, I want to go, ask my questions. Driving would make it easier.”

“Quicker, too. Safer. Let me ask you something,” Troy said. “Say you get there and you don’t find him, this Topeka. What then?”

“I come back here. I’m down a tank of gas but I’m not worse off. I want to know, you know?”

“Okay. Let’s say you find him. What if your dad happens to be running with Topeka? What then?”

The reunion played in my head, the manly hugs, the ruffled hair, pats on the back. I remembered the way Troy put his hands on Bull when he left and imagined my father’s hands on me, how surprised he’d be about how I’d grown and filled out. But that was the homecoming of a prodigal son, not a missing father who knew where to find the boy he’d left behind. My brow furrowed on its own, tightening down on my eyes to keep the tears in. I shook my head. Shrugged.

“Listen to me, Wes. This isn’t about my truck. You don’t know what your dad might be mixed up in. Don’t go running off with him if you find him. You call here if you need to and we’ll help if we can.” Troy pushed back his chair and I did, too, extending my hand to him in thanks.

“Will do.”

“So a week from Saturday?”

“That’s the plan. Unless something comes up in the meantime.”

He put his left hand on my shoulder at the same time he shook my hand, the warmth of it pressing into bone. “Do not steal my truck.”

“I swear I won’t.”

He patted my shoulder twice. “We better go on and get in the kitchen before Mona shuts down the operation.”



IF A BOY CAN BE in the glow of losing his virginity, then I was in it that week, unable to concentrate on much of anything except for Jolene and my daily rifling through the mail for any news that would make the trip to South Dakota unnecessary. I didn’t want to be away from her for even a day. Since the night of Mariah’s play, we hadn’t had a single opportunity to be alone and suspected that Mona was on to us. Every day, she had a new chore for Jolene, one that required her to be home with the family or at least Mariah. That didn’t mean I made myself scarce. If it was possible, I spent even more time that week at the Hightowers’ house.

Come Friday, nothing in the mail, I made my plan with Troy to pick up the truck first thing the next morning. Jolene suggested I sleep on their couch after the barn dance to make it that much easier. Troy set his newspaper down on the kitchen table and laughed out loud. “No.”



I CHOSE A DECENT SNAP shirt and my best jeans, fresh from the army-navy surplus and stiff as a corpse, to wear to the dance. Lester had offered to loan me an old pair of cowboy boots, but his feet were a size or more bigger than mine, and I figured if I had to clodhop around a dance floor I’d best do it in my own farm boots, worn but comfortable.