Here So Far Away(62)

Francis was very late, and it was getting chilly inside the car. I turned the engine back on, waited for the interior to get warm. Turned it off again. Turned it on. The snow was accumulating on the hood faster than Abe could melt it off. I stopped bothering with the wipers, and the windshield was soon covered and it was very dark.

Nearly two hours passed before I gave up.

On the way home, the streets were so empty and quiet. The house was quiet too. It was far too late to call the farm, and besides, Francis wouldn’t have turned around and gone home. He would have had to carry on to the city alone, and I didn’t have the phone number of the apartment where we were going to stay.

I sank into the chair by the phone in the kitchen, unsure of what to do. The air was heavy with cleaner fumes. For years afterward, I thought of Lysol as the official scent of disaster.





Thirty


Saturday was the longest day there ever was. I hovered near the phone for updates from Mum and maybe, maybe a call from Francis, if he felt like taking a chance. Had I any idea where the apartment was, I’m sure I would have gotten in my car and gone after him, but there was nothing to do but pace my room and wait for the sun to take a thousand hours to move around the house.

Dad was in a good mood when he got home on Sunday, which may or may not have been drug related. I half hoped he’d had an out-of-kitty experience when he rested his bandaged hand on my shoulder. He even gave Matthew a hug and didn’t say anything smart when Matty had a little cry.

The call from Rupert came in soon after Dad and his hand had settled into his recliner. “The pamphlet says you can’t smoke,” Matty was saying when I came back into the family room. “Right here. It’s bad for healing.”

“George, get my cigarettes,” Dad said.

So, not so out-of-kitty.

“Don’t you dare,” Mum said.

“I’m staying out of it,” I said. “And I’m sorry, but I have to go out to the farm to help Rupert.”

“Like fun,” Dad said. “Don’t you have a French test next week? Go forth and conjugate.”

Mum was giving me big eyes. “Your father just got home.”

“I know, and I wouldn’t ask, but his pig escaped and he can’t find him. He’s having a meltdown.”

“There’s no one else who can do it? A neighbor?”

“I have no idea. He was hardly making sense.”

Yes, I wanted to get out there in case Francis came home early, but the truth was, I’d never heard Rupert so upset. His sentences were disjointed, and he kept repeating, “You’ll bring the old boy back, George, won’t you? You’ll bring him back,” until I said I would.

“I could go out there with her, Paul,” Mum said.

“How are you going to lasso a rogue pig out in the snow?”

He pointed to her with his bandaged hand. He’d been gesturing with it constantly since he got home, and I thought the old Dad—the Dad who wore a purple tutu while paddling a pumpkin, the Dad who used to terrorize Matty by making Halloween decorations out of frozen cows’ hearts that he picked up at the meatpacking plant—might have had a lot of sick fun with a quarter less finger.

“I meant that someone should clap their eyes on this old gentleman,” Mum said. “He doesn’t sound too good. Maybe his mind’s gone.”

“Just to be clear, there is a pig,” I said. “The same pig that got out before. The last time this happened, I found him, so.”

“Georgie, go,” Mum said. “But for god’s sake, be careful on those back roads.”

As I turned into Rupert’s long driveway, I passed a bearded man in a black hat and motorcycle jacket. I was nearly to the house before I took in that it was Bobby.

A gray-haired woman came round the barn as I got out of the car. “You Georgia?” she said.

“Yeah. Well, George.”

“George—sorry. Thank you for coming out, and I’m sorry for that phone call. Rupert insisted that if anyone could find this damnable pig it was you. I’m Janet, I should have said. Live up the road.”

“I can try, but I found him accidentally the last time.”

“Do you know how to get hold of Mick? Apparently, he just up and left on Friday night. . . .”

“Oh, no, he went to the city for the weekend. I don’t have a number, but he should be back tonight.”

“Thank god. Rupert made it sound like he was lost to the wind. Never mind. He’s not all there at the moment.”

She took my arm and we crossed the icy driveway together.

“Did I see Bobby?” I asked.

“He was lucky enough to drop by in the middle of this ruckus, yes. My husband and my boys are out looking too, and the Johnson family—except the one inside. By god, that girl is useless.”

The useless Johnson girl—a blond blob arranged in the vague outline of a human—was sitting at the kitchen table with Rupert, reading a magazine, apparently oblivious to the crumbs and sticky splotches around the plate of whatever she’d helped herself to and the tears hovering at the edges of Rupert’s eyes. I kicked my boots off and rushed in to hug him. “What happened?” I asked.

Short story, really. Back door open. Pig gone.

“Have some tea,” I said, pouring him a cup from the pot that was simmering on the back of the stove. I loaded it up with milk and sugar. “Have you eaten? You’ve probably been too worried.”