Bobbie looked him straight in the eye. “Patrick, thank you very much,” she said. “That is very kind of you.” She spoke with a sweet, but not condescending, tone, like she was used to dealing with kids.
“Booyah,” Patrick said, and flexed his muscles.
He always says that to Mom when he opens the door for her, Michael thought. And the ache in his chest expanded.
The Busted Knuckle Garage stood in the corner parking lot of a flat downtown street. Three raised garage doors, plastered with WVU stickers, led inside. Within were cars, within were shadows, within were patches on the ground that were either oil or blood.
Michael glanced around for the captain . . . and what he saw made a little breath of happiness rise inside him. The captain was straddling the double-yellow line dead center in the war-torn street, strapping on the last of his arsenal: a bulletproof (or bite-proof) Kevlar vest; a combat knife held to his wrist by three Velcro strips; a pistol on his ankle. Compared to the chaos around him, the captain looked strangely right.
“‘Reach fer the skyyyyy,’” Michael whispered to Bub in his Old West sheriff’s voice. Bub giggled.
The captain’s gaze snapped up to Michael. His eyes were narrowed.
“I miss somethin’?” he said.
“Just: nice equipment.”
The captain nodded, looking pleased. “I’ll tell you what: it’s my duty, that’s all. This stop won’t take too long. Not too many folks dumb enough to try ridin’ this out at a mechanic’s.”
“Not even in West Virginia?” Hank joked.
The captain ignored that. “Could still be some hidin’, afraid to come out. Gotta check; standard operatin’ procedure. Henry, why don’t you check my oil while we’re here?”
“Do you want any help looking?” Michael asked the captain.
The moment the sentence was out of his mouth, he was surprised he’d said it. I thought you didn’t want to “play The Game anymore.”
The captain cocked his head. “Help? Uh, nah, Private, I didn’t bring y’all to come in with me: just brought you to keep you close to yer captain, nice and safe. You have yourself some lunch.”
“O-oh. Right, yeah, of course.”
The captain turned, strolled into the garage, and casually shouted, “This is Captain Jopek of the United States Army! If you’re healthy, say the first three letters of the alphabet!”
“Ay. Bee,” Patrick said softly, to himself. He paused, trying to remember. “Ay, bee, dee, gee . . .”
Watch out for holes under the cars, where the mechanics change your oil, Michael almost called out. But the captain disappeared through a door in a brick wall inside, and was gone.
“Now, how does lunch sound?” Bobbie opened the shoulder bag she’d been carrying and pulled out a large Tupperware container, which was steamed white. “I think you might like some goulash.”
“Miss Bobbie,” Holly said, “that looks lovely.”
A picnic? Out here? Michael thought. Seriously, no offense, Miss Bobbie, but this kinda isn’t the place for a Martha Stewart moment.
Patrick looked up to Michael: Am I allowed to have some? Michael nodded vaguely, then said, “I’m gonna see if Hank needs any help.”
He went to the front of the car. Hank was pouring oil from a plastic container into the engine. Hank said, not looking up from the engine: “Nope.”
O-kay, Michael thought.
Bobbie and Holly sat on the rear fender of the Hummer, Patrick between them. Bobbie had her eyes closed, and seemed to be whispering. Praying before she eats, Michael realized. Her old-fashioned-ness and cheeriness seemed so oddly out of place.
Holly scooted over, offering him a space. But he found himself shaking his head. “Actually, thanks, I’m not hungry,” he mumbled, and walked out into the street, feeling a little numb.
What’s the matter with you, Michael? he thought. You wanted to get here. And now you are here.
But what am I supposed to do now?
Why do you have to “do” anything?
He shook his head at himself, looked across the road. Sealed-off parking lot; a Super Walmart past that. So you want to play a game, Michael, his mind hissed. Okay: guess how many Friday nights Ron dropped you off at Walmart.
Guess how many Friday nights he came home reeking like popcorn and sweat and beer—like he’d rolled in the trash under the high school football bleachers instead of sitting on them? How many Friday nights did he take you and Patrick to Walmart so he could have his parties with the buddies he only liked when he had alcohol in his blood? Michael and his brother would wander the