Lost by Gary; Devon

It’s the middle of the night.”
    They looked up at her, no longer laughing.
    â€œWell, come on. Somebody tell me.”
    â€œWe’re just telling jokes,” Mamie said.
    â€œOh, Mamie, you don’t know any jokes. Now run back to bed.”
    That was on Monday.
    On Thursday evening, as they sat around the dining-room table passing the serving dishes back and forth, a knock came at the back screen door. It had been a sultry day for September, and it seemed an odd time for someone to call. Their father pushed his chair away from the table and went to answer the door.
    They heard him say, “Well, Russell … come in, come in.” He always said it twice. The other man said he couldn’t stay, apologized for interrupting their dinner, but he had seen their father come home from work and he had something he thought he might want to see. Would Ray step outside?
    â€œWho’s Russell?” Mamie asked Toddy, who shrugged and grimaced and dug his spoon into his peas.
    â€œWhy, I’m ashamed of you two,” their mother said. “You know who Russell is. It’s Mr. Ambrose. He lives right behind us.”
    Very carefully, Mamie sat back in her chair. She left her fork on the edge of her plate, slowly withdrawing her hand to her lap. She licked her lips. “What does he want, do you reckon?”
    â€œHow should I know?” their mother said. “Toddy, don’t play with your potatoes. It’s something to do with your daddy.”
    â€œI want to see,” Mamie said. She rolled from the chair and dropped to her feet even as her mother told her she couldn’t. She went to the window, but the projection of the porch blocked her view. She pivoted and ran through the kitchen to the screen door.
    On the palm of his left hand, her father held the brown paper sack. It was open at the top. He was taking the things out of it one at a time, glancing at them and dropping them back in, while Mr. Ambrose talked. For a moment Mamie felt dizzy; the air began to waver. She turned and stepped into her mother. “I told you no, Mamie. Now come have your supper before it gets cold.” Steering her by the shoulders, she marched Mamie back to the table.
    Keeping her eyes downcast, Mamie turned her peas with her spoon. Fine prickly goose bumps nibbled her legs as the worry gathered in her mind. Still she didn’t move, sneaking sidelong glances at the empty plate, then at the empty blue eyes peering at her across the table. The minutes stretched indefinitely. Knowing the screen door would bang shut when her father came in, waiting for it and steeling herself, did not lessen its startling surprise. It was like waiting for the cuckoo to spring from a striking clock—when the screen door slammed, she jumped so hard she upset her plate. And he still didn’t come for her. He stayed in the kitchen.
    He made himself scarce. At eight-thirty, Mamie was helping her mother put the supper dishes away when she heard him in the living room. “Toddy, you better go on up to bed.”
    Toddy said he wasn’t through with his geography questions.
    â€œThen you can finish them upstairs. And stay up there. What I have to do won’t concern you. You better go on up right now.”
    Mamie took a deep breath. Under her skin, her muscles tightened as if straining for a place to hide. She heard Toddy climb the stairs. Her father called her into the dining room and closed the door behind them. By then, she was far too tense to cry. She stood in front of the closed door, tucking her lower lip in over her bottom teeth with three of her fingers, breathing very fast. “Sit down,” he said, and she did, at her place at the table. “Mamie, when things were really bad, I asked you to tell me the truth and you wouldn’t.” He was fuming, his words sawing across her nerves. In the shine of the tabletop, the ceiling light reflected an inverted ghostly pool. She fixed her