M.I.A.

Chapter 1 "Mrs. Fahey?" "Yes." "This is Assistant Principal Lodge at the high school. Your son didn't come to school today." I felt my world disintegrate. Again. I said, "I know. I'm sorry. I was supposed to call. He's ill." That last word sounded so alien. But honest. Not a lie, like "He's sick"; Jimmy wasn't sick except at heart. Heartsick. Not physically disabled. Psychically. I said, "We've all been a little off since his dad died." "I'm sorry," she said. It sounded mechanical. "Have you considered having him see our psychologist?" "Not your fault," I said. I let her question go unanswered. There was a long pause. Like when someone says something so out of line no one knows what to say. She finally managed, "Well, thanks for calling." I didn't bother to remind her that I hadn't. I called home as soon as I hung up. There was no answer. I left a message: "Jimmy, we have to talk. If you're not there when I get home, I'll have to report you missing." He knew I would. Mickey had hit on that method when Jimmy was fourteen and inclined to disappear. Mickey would call all the numbers we'd collected from Jimmy's friends and ask if they'd seen Jimmy. None had, of course. But Mickey would ask them to pass along a message: If we didn't find him soon, we'd have to report his absence to the police. Usually, Jimmy would call home before Mickey got to the bottom of the list. After a while, Jimmy stopped disappearing. He was in the family room when I got home from work, lying on the couch upside down, with his knees hooked over the couch back. "Hi ya, Ma," he said. There was a half-empty Jack Daniel's bottle on the floor. Yesterday, it had been nearly full. He waited upside down. I just stood and stared. Finally, he said, "Aren't you gonna bitch me out?" "You'll have a doozy of a hangover. That ought to be enough." He groaned and shifted to a horizontal position, dangling his left arm on the floor. "Why do you have to be so . . . ? So . . . ?" "Reasonable?" "Yeah." I shook my head and went across to the kitchen to dump the whiskey down the drain. The family room is sort of an extension of the kitchen, separated from it by a large counter we sometimes use as a table. I went to the liquor cabinet, gathered up all the bottles, and emptied them as well. Jimmy rolled on his side and put his head on his arm. "I could get more." "Will that help?" I could see the tears come. He buried his face. "Jimmy, what is it you want?" "I want Dad." He started sobbing. He jumped up and ran for the bathroom, slamming the door. I sat on the couch and fought my own tears. I wanted Mickey, too. "Ma, tell me about my first dad." He was over the heaves and had cleaned himself up. He was lying on the couch again with his head on my lap. I stroked his hair. "He was a good man. Brave. Loyal." "You always say that. I need details." "I didn'Dymmoch, Michael Allen is the author of 'M.I.A.', published 2008 under ISBN 9780312373719 and ISBN 0312373716.