Fragile

catalogs and mail, a little gathering of cute salt and pepper shakers that Maggie had haphazardly collected over the years-little Eiffel Towers, dancing pigs, an egg and a yolk. She was always complaining about the lack of counter space. Get rid of some of this junk, Jones would say. It’s not junk, it’s life, she’d answer.

“I saw your boy last night,” said Travis.

“Where?”

“At Pop’s,” he said, gesturing toward the magnet as if that was what had made him think of it. “He was sitting there, looking like he’d dropped his ice cream cone on the sidewalk.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah. Stood up from the looks of it. Checking his phone, dialing and hanging up.”

Jones felt something loosen in his chest. If Ricky had told the truth about that, maybe he was telling the truth about everything. When relief passed, guilt rose in its place. This search is more about you than it is about him, Maggie had accused. Maybe she was right.

“Charlene is Ricky’s girl, isn’t she?” Travis said.

“Yeah,” said Jones, sitting across from Travis. The other man took a long draw from his beer. They were easy together, always had been, even with, or maybe because of, the past they shared.

“That must kill you, Jonesy. It must keep you up at night.”

Travis was already over the line Jones had seen him cross too many times. They’d all go out for a drink, a bunch of guys from the precinct, and the rounds would start coming. By about round three, Travis would start to change. Depending on his mood, he’d get rowdy, or maudlin, or just plain mean. His face would turn a particular shade of red, his voice would take on a certain pitch. And soon a few of the guys who couldn’t handle it would beg off for the night. Usually, someone would wind up taking Travis home. Often it was Jones. Travis didn’t bother Jones as much as he did some of the other guys. Jones understood him, knew the size and shape of the baggage he carried, how much it all weighed.

“She wouldn’t have been my choice for him,” said Jones, smiling in spite of himself.

Travis took another swig off his bottle. “She looks like her mother.”

Jones gave a snort. “Mel never looked that good.”

“Come on. You fucked Melody Murray.”

“No, man. I never. That was you.”

Travis laughed again; this time it took on a hooting quality. “Now, that’s true. I popped her cherry-in her mama’s bed.”

“That’s what I always heard.”

They both chuckled for a bit. For a minute they were just two middle-aged guys who’d known each other nearly forever.

Then, “So where’s Marshall, Travis?”

“He took the car a while ago. Pissed at me, as usual. Said he was going to sleep at his grandpa’s. He actually seems to like the old bastard.”

“You and your dad still not talking?”

Travis cast his eyes to the ashtray and ground out his cigarette. “You know, the DUI, losing my job. I disgraced him, he says.” Travis started to laugh a little then, but Jones could see there was no humor in it. “Disgraced. Like he’s the queen of England.”

Travis started tapping his fingers on the table, beating out a nervous rhythm. Then he lit up again. Jones could see yellow stains on his index and middle fingers.

“I’m going to need to talk to Marshall, Travis. Like, right now. Tonight.”

Good humor abandoned Travis’s features, and that familiar darkness settled in around his eyes and the line of his mouth.

“How’s the transmission on your vehicle?” Jones asked.

Travis gave Jones a slow blink. “Needs work.”

He stood up quickly, and Jones did the same. It was never a good idea to be sitting when Travis was standing. Travis left the room and returned a moment later with a beat-up denim jacket.

“I’ll come with you,” he said. “To find Marshall.”

That was the last thing he needed, Travis along for the ride. But there was something about the way the other man looked that ignited a familiar feeling of pity within Jones. It was that same thing that always drew them together. Besides, Marshall was a minor; Jones couldn’t really talk to the kid without a parent around anyway.

“Suit yourself.”

The sky outside had turned quickly and totally from dusk to night. Jones and Sarah looked anyplace but at each other-Sarah looking at her knees, Jones messing with the radio-while Travis and Melody rocked the car in the backseat, laughing, moaning, until finally it stopped. Jones flipped through the stations; they only got a few back then, whatever happened to carry in from bigger cities that day. Sometimes on 712 AM, The Hollows Wave, the night DJ played some decent stuff. But that night all Jones could get was an alternative station.

“Oh, I love this song,” Sarah said. Jones had no idea what the song was or who was singing, but he didn’t want to seem uncool. She didn’t say anything else.

“Are you two just going to sit there?” asked Travis, popping his head between the front seat headrests.

Neither Jones nor Sarah answered; they just exchanged an embarrassed look. She definitely didn’t act like a girl who enjoyed giving head, not that he’d ever met a girl like that. Really, most girls-in his limited experience- didn’t want anything to do with what was going on in your pants. Most of them just wanted to kiss, maybe do a little rubbing. Most of the girls he knew balked at even putting their hands down there.

“There’s no point in pretending you’re a prude, Sarah,” said Travis. “We all know the truth.”

Sarah frowned, turned to study him and Melody. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Melody started to giggle. “Come on, Sarah. Lighten up.”

Travis and Melody were both stoned stupid, now laughing like idiots. Finally, Travis pushed open the door and the two of them tumbled out, ran screaming into the woods. They left the door open, and the cold air quickly filled the car. Jones got out and closed it, could still hear their voices off in the distance, like the calling of barred owls. He returned to the driver’s side.

“Can you just take me home?” Sarah asked. “My mom is going to be really worried. And really mad.” She looked like she might cry, eyes wide, corners of her mouth turned down.

“Yeah, okay. Sure,” he said. “They’ll be back in a minute and we’ll go.”

He noticed that some of the tension in her shoulders released with a breath. And her arms, which had been wrapped firmly around her middle, relaxed a bit.

“What did he mean ‘We all know the truth’? What’s he talking about?”

“Don’t listen to Travis,” Jones said. He felt embarrassed. “He’s got problems.”

“No, really. I want to know.”

He should have told her that he had no idea what Travis was talking about, just left it at that. But there was a small part of him-a young, stupid part of him-that wondered if the whole innocent thing was just an act she was putting on. Maybe, he thought, if he just told her what he knew, she’d relax. Maybe it was even true.

“Travis says someone told him that you give good head.” The words sounded clumsy, felt awkward on his tongue.

She stared at him blankly but slowly started to shrink away from him again. She looked down at her knees. “I don’t know what that means,” she said.

He felt his face flush. “Uh, you know.”

“No,” she said, getting angry now. “I don’t.”

Jones found himself gripping the wheel, wishing he’d never listened to Travis, wishing he could be anywhere but where he was. Finally, he left the car.

“Crosby!” he yelled into the darkness. “Let’s go. Let’s get out of here. I have to get home.”

He heard the car door open and close, and then determined footsteps on the ground.

“What does it mean?” she asked. He turned to face her. She was tiny, much smaller than he was, but somehow her direct and powerful stare cowed him.