From here the fantasies soared. Josh and Miranda living, scantily clad, in a beach hut on Dauphin Island or some equally exotic locale. Josh and Miranda with their own Chik-Fee-Lay franchise, working side-by-side in sanitary whites, pores slick with vegetable oil, returning home nightly for endless lovemaking in their high-rise condo. Josh and Miranda et cetera. Yet all the while, understandably, tragically, Josh overlooked one important character, young Duff Jr., who was at the moment engaged in electronic mayhem at Mamaw and Papaw’s in Jackson, unleashing an awful, vicarious firepower, joystick clutched in his innocent paw, the inevitable carnage piling up.
Duff ordered the chicken breast sandwich and grinned at the waitress in her faux French maid’s uniform. He tipped her a dollar for his next Coke and bourbon. He wondered how old she was, and idly wondered, if he were single again. Oh, but, he did love Miranda, he thought, mildly maudlin. The commission on the D’Accord would hold them to the end of the month, and keep the Frenchman off his back for a while. Though Duff would still be into him for almost a grand.
He had hoped to sell most of the last eight ball to cover his own, and maybe make a little on top. But it had been a tough week on the sales floor at Jeff Davis. And he’d traded one gram to a black guy in the service department for a snubnose .38 Special. He didn’t quite know why. Except perhaps that the Frenchman, a gap-toothed goon who’d played left wing one season for the Winnipeg Jets, gave him no respect. The revolver made Duff feel dangerous, like a body worthy of respect. He knew he would never use the piece, but the comfort of its weighty little bulk, its combat grips, in the Honda’s glove box put some resolve in his step.
Miranda brushed her teeth and gargled with minty-fresh mouthwash. She appraised herself in the mirror. A few gray hairs amongst the brown, crow’s-feet at the corner of her dark eyes. She missed Duff Jr. and Duff, who was never home, it seemed. She tried to smile, and only shook her head saying no, no, no, no, no, never again. I must put this out of my head, and never, never again. She wondered if perhaps she should have bought the encyclopedias for Duff Jr. Or the first volume anyway. Perhaps she could call Josh. But she knew that would not do. She needed to get away. A weekend on the Gulf. A real family vacation. She resolved to make her appeal to Duff and collect her son from the folks.
Josh tried to watch the television, but he could not concentrate. His mind runneth over with Miranda. He turned off the set. He tried to recall her words, but they were lost already, and she herself was fading with them. He could not see her face complete. Perhaps the eyes, her crinkled smile. He could see her dress, the vague shape of her, but only clearly the mole, and the sweet, woodsy smell of her. He had to see her again, if only to commit her forever to his memory. He sat at his little desk to write. He poured it all out onto page upon page. His great, illicit love. The sun sank, but the heat remained in the near dark, lingering like a villain. Josh, freshly showered, dressed in his best white tee and khaki chinos. He pulled on the orange wig for courage, and strode to his car.
Duff finished the tasty chicken breast sandwich, one last Coke and bourbon. He paid with a credit card, and halfheartedly invited the waitress aside for a blast, a snort, a pick-me-up. She politely declined, the way she always did. And Duff left alone. Some relieved, if truth be told. Savoring his lonesome liquored blues. In the parking lot, a quick line for the road. He dreaded to go home these days, and as often wondered why. How could this have come to pass? he wondered. And so, vintage Black Sabbath in the optional tape deck, Duff pounded the dashboard as he drove, the righteous beat of his yearned-for youth, and wailed along with the awful words.
Miranda showered and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. The yellow throw off the sofa and into the washer with an extra splash of cleansing Tide. She remembered Duff s dry cleaning, and rushed off in the old Chevy. The dry cleaner would close soon. The heat of the day, only slightly diminished, came in through the car’s open windows like a free sample of hell. A strange glow of sunset about the town. Otherworldly, Miranda thought. And as she maneuvered through the evening traffic, she willed them all together in a beachfront timeshare. Duff, herself, and spunky Duff Jr.
Josh drove a secondhand Mustang, ragtop, car of his dreams. Bought and paid for. In the back seat, his livelihood, a carton of Encyclopedia Americana, volume one. Aardvark to Aztec. Gold-em-bossed blue leatherette. Riding shotgun, his letter explaining himself to Miranda, handwritten on lined yellow paper, folded neatly in thirds. He would give it to her inside the complimentary copy of volume one that he’d neglected in all the excitement to leave this afternoon. Tucked arbitrarily into the page for Amaryllis. A flower and name from some forgotten studies. A pretty word, illustrated, for this thing between them. The rest would be up to her.
Miranda, Duff, and Josh, three residents of one town, on the road. Theirs was not a small town, but not big either. It is certainly conceivable that three cars leaving different places for the same destination could cross paths, perhaps even collide, given the poor driving skills of most on the road. But they did not. Duff arrived home first, parked in the drive, and noticed that the Chevy was gone. A late-model Mustang in fair condition pulled up across the street. A convertible with the V-8 option. Duff looked in the rearview mirror, but could not clearly see the wild-haired driver in the feeble light. That dent in the front left quarter panel would sure reduce the trade-in value. No one got out of the car, and Duff began to sweat. A henchman of the Frenchman, he wildly imagined. He tried to calm himself, but took the pistol from the glove box nonetheless, and slipped it into the waistband of his slacks.
Josh sat in his car, his heart pounding wildly. He watched a well-dressed man get out of a new Honda and walk toward Miranda’s door. The man stopped and turned to peer across the street. Josh was sitting motionless in the dark car praying when he was momentarily lit up in her headlights. Stricken, you might say. Like an armadillo on the centerline.
The old Chevy approached, pulled in the drive, and parked beside the Honda. Miranda emerged from the car with a load of dry cleaning. Duff walked out to meet her.
“The Gulf, Duff, this time of year,” she began.
Josh got out of his car and stepped into the street.
“I must,” he called out. “Just one moment, please. This cannot wait.” He used his firmest voice.
“You leave her out of this,” Duff yelled in reply, brushing past Miranda. “I told him Friday.”
Miranda looked at Duff, and Josh. She put a hand on Duffs arm, to steer him into the house.
“It’s some crazy kid. Let’s go inside.”
Josh stepped closer.
“You think I’m scared of you?” said Duff. “Think again, punk.” But Duff was scared — scared of losing, scared of pain, scared of growing older in a world devoid of meaning, a world inhabited by violent ex-hockey players and their psychotic, orange-haired thugs.
Miranda took Duff s arm. He shrugged her off a bit roughly. She dropped the dry cleaning. She felt suddenly very small, in the midst of big, big events spinning ever out of control around her.