Girl Gone Missing by Marcie R. Rendon

Author:Marcie R. Rendon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2022-01-28T20:36:33+00:00

She woke to the smell of bacon frying. Some guy with a baritone voice was singing. Her brother sang along off-key, “I’m going home, my tour is done . . .”

She got up off the cold floor, her legs stiff and cold, and threw the pillow back on the bed and crawled into it, wrapping herself tightly in the sheet. Her blanket still hung over the window.

The baritone sang in measured beats, “I’m going home, I’m a lucky one . . .”

“I’m a lucky one,” her brother repeated, banging out the beat with a spatula against the metal stove.

Cash pulled the pillow over her head, then threw it and the sheet off. She got up, pulled on her jeans from the night before, lit a cigarette.

Jeezus Christ, what the hell was that? she asked herself, looking around the bedroom. She stood next to the window and looked out. The screen had been cut in half. She opened the window to a blast of frostbite air. She grabbed the window frame, leaned out and looked down. She lived on the second floor. The exterior wall was red brick. She stuck her hand out and felt the bricks. Between the bricks and mortar was barely room for her fingers. How the hell did he get up here? She slammed the window shut, shivering. If he scaled the wall, he was a damn monkey.

“What the hell?” is what she said out loud. “Come and get it. Chow time.”

Mo was standing at the stove tending bacon, while eyeing eggs that were being cooked over easy. On a chair next to his makeshift bed was a record player. The singer was saluting the nurses of Vietnam. Mo saw Cash eyeing the record player. “Had it in my car. Thought you wouldn’t mind some early morning music. Chow’s on.” He handed her a plate with bacon and eggs. She noticed a short stack of already buttered toast on the table, which meant that at some point he had bought a toaster. Sure enough, there it was plugged in on the kitchen counter.

He was wearing a pair of blue jeans. She looked over at his stash in the corner. The Army fatigues he had worn last night were folded on his bedroll, the punji stick nowhere in sight. “Guess it was a little crazy in here last night.” He sat down and speared his egg, dipping a piece of toast into the runny yolk and shoving it in his mouth, grinning at her.

Cash sat across from him. “How’s your leg?” She searched his left hand, the one that had held the burning cigarette last night as he fell asleep.

“Fine. Just a scratch.” He dipped more yolk. He caught her looking at his hand. The skin between his two fingers was nicotine-stained. He laughed. “Ah, you don’t know that trick? If you’re tired, smoke your cigarette between these two fingers. If you doze off, your fingers automatically close around the cigarette. Won’t burn your house down.”

Cash ate in silence.

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