“I know. He said you were a good mother.”
She bowed her head and covered her eyes with her hand while she gathered herself. When she lifted her head, mascara ran in inky streaks down her face. “One time—Travis must have been about six—we drove to visit my sister in Louisville. And we passed a shoe lying on the highway. Travis goes ‘Mama, won’t that shoe be lonely?’ He got himself so worked up about it, he started to cry. Well, of course Clint and Matt thought that was just the funniest thing they’d ever heard. They laughed and laughed. Not in an ugly way. Clint was nicer then. They just didn’t understand. But that was my Travis. I have so many stories like that living in me.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her eyes.
“That sounds like Travis.”
“I always thought Matt was the brave and strong one and Travis was the sweet and gentle one. In the end, it turned out that Travis was sweet, gentle, brave, and strong.” She paused. “But they’re both gone now. I’m not a mother anymore.”
Dill and Mrs. Bohannon gazed at each other silently. Then they hugged for what seemed like an hour while they both cried some more.
Mrs. Bohannon took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. She glanced at her watch. “I’d better go. Thank you, Dill. For tonight. And for everything. I figure this is where Travis stayed for the time that—”
Dill nodded. “You’re welcome.” He walked her to the door.
Mrs. Bohannon started down the front walk. In the porch light, Dill noticed that her car was filled haphazardly with bags, clothes, and belongings. And he understood.
“Mrs. Bohannon?”
She turned, tears streaming down her face.
“I’m not going to see you again, am I?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Then there’s something you need.” Dill went back inside, went to his room, and grabbed Travis’s staff.
Mrs. Bohannon was still wiping away tears when he got back outside. Enough of her makeup had smeared away that he could see the bruises.
He handed her Travis’s staff. She hefted it and smiled through her tears. She tried to thank him, but she couldn’t speak. She touched his face and then put her hand over her heart.
“Good luck, Mrs. Bohannon.”
“Thank you, Dill,” she whispered. “Good luck to you too.” She carefully laid the staff across the front passenger seat, got in, and drove away.
Dill lay awake that night, thinking about exits and escape from pain. He envied Mrs. Bohannon.
The next morning, Dill couldn’t get out of bed. Not that he tried.
He heard the knock at his door, but he couldn’t summon the energy to speak. A moment or two later, his mother pushed her way in.
“Dillard?”
“What?”
“Why aren’t you up yet? You have school.”
“I’m not going today.”
“Are you sick?”
“I just don’t feel like going.”
“You should go.”
“Why? What do you care? You didn’t even want me to go this year.” He rolled onto his side, facing away from her.
She came and sat on the edge of his bed. “No, I didn’t. But you insisted. You committed. So I want you to honor your commitment. We honor commitments in this house. We’re not rich but we have our word.”
“Not today. Today’s a bad day for honoring anything.”
Her voice became uncharacteristically gentle. “Is this about Travis?”
Dill rolled onto his back to look up at her. “No, it’s about my life. And Travis is part of that sad story. People leave me. It’s what they do.”
“Not Jesus. He’s always with you. We’re too blessed to be depressed.”
Dill laughed bitterly. “Oh yeah. Blessed is the first thing that comes to mind when I think of our life.”
“I know. We have trials. Don’t think I haven’t asked God, ‘Why me?’ But the answer is always the same. Why not me? Why should my life be free from pain and suffering when Christ suffered all things for us?”
“I’m glad that works for you.”
“I’m worried about you, Dillard. More than I’ve ever been. I’ve never seen you like this, even when your father got taken from us.”
Dill said nothing in response.
“Imagine how things’d be for us if I just decided not to get out of bed one day,” his mother said.
“I wouldn’t blame you. Maybe neither of us has much reason to get out of bed.”
His mother was quiet for a moment. “I get out of bed every day because I never know where I’ll meet with one of God’s small graces. Maybe I’ll be cleaning a room and find a dollar bill. Maybe I’ll be at the gas station on a slow night, and I’ll get to sit and be paid to watch the sun set. Or maybe I just won’t hurt much that day. What a miracle each day is. To see the spirit of God move across the face of our lives like he did the waters in the darkness of creation.”
“God’s abandoned me.”
“He hasn’t. I promise.”
“Today he has.”
“Will you pray with me, Dillard?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll pray for both of us.”
“You do that.”
“Jesus knows our sorrows. He tasted them. He drank from the bitter cup.”
“Then he knows already that I’m not getting out of bed today.”
Lydia sat in her car and tried calling Dill again. It was her fifth unsuccessful attempt. She shook her head and stared at Dill’s ramshackle house, looking for movement inside. Nothing. His mother’s car was gone. But the house didn’t feel empty to her. She looked at her watch. School started in fifteen minutes.
Where are you, Dill? Somehow I doubt you decided to get up bright and early and walk to school.
She sighed, started her car, and went to put it in gear. Then she abruptly stopped.
Maybe another time. Maybe I’d just drive away. Catch up with Dill tomorrow. Maybe chew his ass out for making me come to his house for nothing. But these aren’t normal times. You were oblivious while Travis’s dad was knocking his front teeth out. You’re not going to let Dill bleed to death or choke on his own vomit in there.
Her heart beating fast, she got out and walked quickly to Dill’s front door. She knocked and listened for some sign of life. Nothing. She pounded again, louder. Still nothing. She turned and started to walk back to her car.
These aren’t normal times. These aren’t normal times.
Her heart pulsed. She steeled herself and turned back. She looked from side to side at the neighbors’ unfortunate, decaying houses. It seemed unlikely that their inhabitants would care much if someone waltzed uninvited into the Early home.
She tried the loose, rattling doorknob. It turned and the front door creaked open. A puff of air smelling of mildewed carpet and stale bread hit her nostrils.
This is what despair smells like. She had never been inside Dill’s house. He’d never invited her in. In fact, he’d always taken great pains to ensure that she never even saw inside. It was easy to understand why. It was worse than she imagined—not that she ever particularly enjoyed imagining how Dill lived.
“Dill?” she called. Her voice died, muffled in the closeness of Dill’s sagging, dusty living room. She stepped inside, picking her way along in the gray light, as though the floor might collapse beneath her feet.
“Dill?” She looked into a spartan bedroom with a neatly made bed, a cross-stitch with a Bible verse above the bed, a Bible on the nightstand, and almost nothing else.
She turned to the closed door behind her, the floor creaking. She heard a buzzing in her ears. Her insides burned with adrenaline. She felt acid fear in the back of her throat. Cold panic rising.
She reached out, hesitated, and knocked softly. “Dill? Hey, dude. School. Dill?” Silence. She tried to sound casual and brave. “Hey, Dill, if you’re in there cranking it, you better stop, because I’m coming in. And that would be very awkward for both of us.” Silence.
Please. Please. Please. Just be okay in there. Please. You cannot die in this awful place.