Dead Men's Dust

    'For now,' she said. 'But what about when you leave? What's to stop them coming back?'

    'I'm only a phone call away.'

    Jennifer hacked out a cough. She stabbed the cigarette into her mouth.

    'What about when I can't pay you, Joe? Are you still going to come running then?'

    'You think I did this for money? I helped you because I wanted to. You needed help. All of you.'

    'But you don't work for free, Joe. Didn't you tell your brother John that? Why didn't you help John? If you had, then maybe he'd still be here . . .' I saw fresh tears on her lashes. 'Why didn't you help us then, huh? I'll tell you why, should I? It was about the money.'

    I didn't answer.

    She brought a light to her cigarette and went at it as if it were a lifeline. She glared at me. 'You wouldn't help John when he needed it. I can't pay any more than he could.'

    I had to say something. First, I settled in opposite her. 'Jenny, you don't really understand what happened between me and John. It had nothing to do with whether he could pay me.'

    She snorted, sucked on the cigarette.

    'I don't know what he told you, but I guess it wasn't the truth,' I said.

Her eyes pierced me.

'What are you saying, Joe?'

I sighed. 'It's water under the bridge, Jenny. Forget it, okay?'

    She shrugged, flicked an ash that missed the ashtray. 'Suit yourself.'

    Silence hung in the air between us, mingling with her blue smoke exhalations.

    Once, I watched a heron spearing trout from a stream. Jennifer's hand made similar stabbing motions to douse her cigarette. Then, like the greedy heron, she reached for another. I gently laid a hand on top of hers. She met my eyes. Hope flickered beyond the dullness but only for a second. She pulled her hand away, drew the pack to her. She lit up and took a long gasp. Through a haze of smoke, she said, 'I want you to find John.' She reached out and twined her fingers in mine. 'I want you to find your brother and bring him home.'

    'That might not be as easy as it sounds. He's not in the country anymore.'

    'No, he isn't. He's in America,' Jenny said.

    'You've heard from him?'

    Searching in her pocket, Jenny pulled out an envelope and held it to her breast. After a moment, she placed the envelope before me. I looked up at her, but she was looking over at the kids. 'You two, go into your room while me and Uncle Joe are talking. You can watch TV in there.' Before they could argue, she hurried over, took them by their elbows, and ushered them into their bedroom. Closing the door, she said, 'I don't want them listening. After all's said and done, John's still their dad.'

    Nodding, I concentrated on the envelope. It was standard white and dated more than two weeks ago. It was stamped Little Rock, AK.

    'Arkansas?' I asked.

    'Where else?'

    The tattered edge of the envelope produced two sheets of paper.

On first inspection, it looked like the kind of note you scrawl and leave in a prominent position when you have to leave in a hurry. Only longer. A Dear John letter. Or in this case a Dear Jenny? But it wasn't my brother's handwriting.

    I sought Jenny's face. 'Go ahead. Read it,' she said.

    I did.

    It read:

Jenny,

    I probably have no right writing you like this. No doubt you hate me, but I hope you'll listen to what I have to say.

    John has gone, and I don't know what to do. Don't get me wrong, he hasn't just left me as he did with you. When I say he's gone, I mean vanished.

    Maybe you don't care, maybe you think I deserve everything I get, that John definitely deserves it, but I don't think you're that kind of person. John has got himself in some kind of trouble. He was jumpy for two or three days before he disappeared. He was frightened. I think something terrible has happened. And that's why I'm writing to you now.

    I placed the first sheet of paper on the table and looked across at Jenny. She'd retreated to the opposite end of the room, staring vacantly into space. The letter was my problem now.

John said that he's got a half-brother over in England.

Someone he called Hunter. I know they didn't get along that well, but John said once that if anything ever happened to him I had to send for Hunter because he would know what to do. So I'm asking, I'm begging, please do this for me. And if you won't do it for me, do it for John. Send for his brother.

Please. L.

'This woman,' I asked, 'who is she?'

    Jenny returned to stub out her cigarette. Her words held more vehemence up close. 'John's bitch.'

    'Is she American?'

    'No. She's English.'