Driving home that evening the mid-June sun was still high overhead. He was thinking about the town of Oscar, Iowa, a town he had never heard of. Thinking about the worry in Deputy Clinton’s voice, thinking about what the hell was going on down there. But most of all Ness was thinking about a drink.
The air was humid, and if you could see far enough the horizon was smudged. To the west, great purple columns, like fat worms, took up all the air from earth to heaven, and within Ness could see daubed pops of lightning like shots from a pistol. Rain tonight, he said aloud.
On his way home he always made three stops. First to the liquor store for a fifth of whiskey, then to the florist for lilies. The final stop was a small cemetery with ancient oak trees overlooking the river. Here he’d find their plot and stand for a moment, saying nothing, only looking down, his shadow stubby or long depending on the season, and then he’d tell them about his day. Often it was mundane. Plain talk, what others listening in might think of as stupid. Other times his voice might spike with a little excitement. When he had said all he could, he’d lay down the lilies and, with a handkerchief, polish the little tin car they’d given Peter for his birthday. Then he’d kiss each headstone. The walk back to the car had not gotten any easier. He would walk slowly, reluctant to leave. Some days he would turn back to see if the lilies were still in place and see his shadow, sometimes stretching on, as if it too was reluctant to go.
Today was no different. He laid down the flowers and polished the toy car.
Crazy times, he said. So I’ll be headed out of town for a while. Place called Oscar. Down in Iowa. I know how you don’t like me talking about this stuff in front of Petey, so I won’t. Just strange is all. I was reading about it in the paper. I’m not sure what to make of it.
Ness knelt down. Rubbed a thumb on the corner of the headstone. Looked around at the grass.
They’re doing a good job keeping it clean around here, he said. Then he said, Kids are all out of school. Summer vacation. Petey would’ve been what? Eleven? What is that, fifth grade? Sixth? Anyway.
He stood.
Just wanted to come and let you know where I’ll be. Won’t be too long. I promise.
He put his hands in his pockets. He pursed his lips. Then in a very solemn but matter-of-fact way said,
Miss you two.
It was like he was talking to someone over the phone.
He kissed his fingertips and touched each headstone. Then he walked to his car without turning back to look.
Hours later, in his small, empty apartment, with the thunderstorm going and the fifth of whiskey half gone, he wondered why he didn’t turn to look earlier that day. Then he thought about the lilies and how they were probably scattered and sodden over the lawn.