A Plague Year

“Yeah. He saw something on TV about how they’re identifying the dead people at the crash site. They’re finding all these little bits of human bodies, you know? Like bone fragments and teeth. They’re asking their families to bring in people’s combs, toothbrushes, and stuff for DNA samples. It flipped poor Jimmy out.”

“That is some creepy stuff.”

“He just got up from the TV, climbed into his Ranger, and took off. To his old dealer, I’m thinking. My mom heard the truck leaving and thought somebody was stealing it, or it was damn repo. Then she saw that Jimmy was gone. By the time she woke me up, it was too late.”

A large group of students swirled past us. Arthur lowered his voice. “Guess where he wound up?”

“Where?”

“The crash site in Somerset County, down those dark country lanes. He drove off that gravel road and broke the back axle of the truck. The county sheriff called us at five a.m. to come get him. As far as I know, the Ranger’s still out there, or they towed it to that big scrapyard.”

He finished by saying, “Don’t tell anybody.”

I assured him, “No. I won’t.”

When I showed up for the counseling group, I saw kids huddled in front of the conference room door. I joined them, leaning my face over Jenny’s shoulder to see what they were looking at. (I couldn’t help noticing how good her hair smelled.)

A note was taped to the door, written in a feminine cursive hand. It read: Due to a recent family emergency, the group will have to be canceled this week. The note was signed Wendy Lyle.

I whispered to Jenny, “What’s the family emergency?”

Jenny looked at Mrs. Cantwell’s office before answering, “Her father got busted.”

“What?”

“The state police raided a bunch of houses up at Blackwater University—frats mostly, but Dr. Lyle’s house, too.”

Arthur demanded to know, “Where do you hear all this stuff?”

Jenny’s hands fanned out to encompass the whole office. “Right here. Officer O’Dell was talking about it today.”

I asked her, “Did they find anything?”

“They did. They found weed at his house.”

Suddenly the stoners all started talking at once about police raids, and search warrants, and narcs. They really knew their stuff.

Mrs. Cantwell stepped out of her office, frowning at the level of noise coming from our group. She pointed at the door. “Jenny Weaver, what does that note say?”

Jenny read the note aloud to her. Mrs. Cantwell shook her head. “No. That’s not right. Mrs. Lyle called me an hour ago. She said they’re moving away, so the group is canceled permanently.”

Ben Gibbons’s face drained white. “Permanently! She can’t do that. I still have pica disorder.”

“You have what?”

“Pica disorder. I eat things that aren’t food. Compulsively.” Mrs. Cantwell just stared at him. He added, “I eat chalk. I eat wood. I eat rocks.”

Mrs. Cantwell finally found her voice. “Please, that’s enough! You need to stop doing those things.”

Lilly turned the conversation back to the note. “But Mrs. Lyle can’t just end the group like this. Can she?”

Mrs. Cantwell said, “I’m afraid she can. Mrs. Lyle is a parent volunteer. This group was her idea. If she leaves, then it’s over.”

A ringing telephone pulled Mrs. Cantwell back into her office.

Arthur commented bitterly, “She said she was gonna talk to Mrs. Cantwell about the new shirts. Yeah, my ass.”

Mikeszabo pulled out a red marker. “Listen, that’s no problem. I will turn any T-shirt into an ‘I Hate Drugs’ shirt. Just bring it to me and I’ll do a custom-made design for you.”

Arthur nodded. “Righteous. That’ll do it. Everybody bring your shirts to Mike.”

After that, though, the group members started moving toward the exit, heads down, feet shuffling, looking totally defeated.

Jenny raised her voice. “Wait! We can’t just leave like this. We can’t just give up. We’re in a war here. Remember?”

She waited until she had everybody’s attention. “All right. My parents ran an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting every Monday night until a few months ago. People stopped showing up because, well, because alcohol is not the problem anymore. We could meet where the AA did and do our small sessions, just like here. We don’t need a leader.”

Lilly asked, “Where was the meeting?”

“The Hungarian church on Sunbury Street.”

“I know where that is.”

“Everybody does.”

Ben asked, “What will we talk about? Should we think of topics?”

Jenny replied solemnly, sincerely, “There’s only one topic now: the meth plague. We need to talk about that. Bring whoever wants to come. The people in our town are dying. We need to save as many of them as we can.”

When I told Mom about the meeting at the Hungarian church, she got all excited. She started talking about it like it was the homecoming dance. “I can drive you! And I’ll stay if they need adults. And I’ll get your father to donate some food.”

Lilly’s face contorted. “Geez, Mom. Do you want to hang up balloons, too? It’s a frigging drug-counseling group.”

“Lilly! Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?”

Mom persisted, “That f-word. And there is nothing wrong with me volunteering to help your group.”

Lilly tried reason. “We can’t have a parent sitting in our group, listening to us talk about how messed up our parents are.”

“Is that what you do?”

“Yes.”

I interjected, “No. We do more than that.”

Mom said, “Well, how about if I just set up a table, away from you, and serve the food?”

I decided. “Yes. That would be fine.”

Lilly just shook her head.

The Hungarian church has a real name, St. Stephen’s Catholic Church. We learned that from Mom on our drive to the Food Giant. Mom then went on in great detail.

“Most of the coal miners around here were Catholics. Some came from Eastern Europe, like the Hungarians and the Poles; some came from Western Europe, like the Irish, Italians, and Germans. They all had their own little churches. But now all the Eastern Europeans go to St. Stephen’s, and all the Western Europeans go to St. Michael’s.”

Lilly muttered, “I wonder where the Puerto Ricans go. I’ll have to ask John.”

She was trying to be funny, but Mom answered seriously, “They go to St. Michael’s.”

When we arrived at the Food Giant, Dad was in a frazzled state. He told us, “I’ve got nobody to run the register. I’ve got nobody to bring back shopping carts. I’m getting robbed blind here.”

I figured that meant I would have to stay, but Lilly volunteered. “I’ll take a register, Dad, until closing if you like. And I’m sure John will help with the carts. That way, Tom can go to group.”

I really did want to go. “Are you sure?” I asked her.