Mission Flats Read Free Page A

flashing. At the rear corner of the house, I shouted, ‘Maurice, it’s Ben Truman.’ No response. ‘Hey, Rambo, would you stop shooting for a second?’ Again there was no response, but then, there was no shooting either, which I took to be a positive sign. ‘Alright, I’m coming out,’ I announced. ‘Now, Maurice, don’t shoot.’
    The backyard was a small rectangle of scrub grass, sand, and pine needles. It was scattered with detritus of various kinds: a skeletal clothes-drying rack, a street-hockey goal, a milk crate. In the far corner an old Chevy Nova lay flat on its belly, the wheels having been transplanted to some other shitbox Chevy Nova years before. The car still had its Maine license plate, with the picture of a lobster and the motto VACATIONLAND.
    Maurice stood at the edge of the yard with a rifle in the crook of his arm. The pose suggested a gentleman hunter on a break from shooting quail. He wore boots, oil-stained work pants, a red flannel jacket, and a baseball cap pulled low over the brow. His head was down, which was not unusual. You got used to addressing the button on his cap.
    I shined my flashlight over him. ‘Evening, Maurice.’
    ‘Evenin’, Chief,’ the cap said.
    ‘What’s going on out here?’
    ‘Just shootin’ is all.’
    ‘I see that. You about scared Peggy Butler half to death. You want to tell me what the hell you’re shooting at?’
    ‘Them lights there.’ Maurice nodded toward Route 2 without looking up.
    The two of us stood there for a moment nodding at each other.
    ‘You hit any?’
    ‘Nos’r.’
    ‘Something wrong with the gun?’
    He shrugged.
    ‘Well let’s have a look at it, Maurice.’
    He handed me the rifle, an old Remington I’d confiscated at least a dozen times. I checked that there was a round in the chamber, then pinged one off a metal fence-pole at the edge of the field. ‘Gun’s okay,’ I informed him. ‘Must be you that’s off.’
    Maurice gave a little murmuring laugh.
    I patted down the outside of his coat, felt the box of shells in his pocket. Reaching inside, my fingers got snarled in the Kleenex balls Maurice collected there like chestnuts. ‘Jesus, Maurice, do you ever clean out these pockets?’ I pulled out the box of ammunition and stuck it in my own pocket. A box of Marlboro reds I opened and slipped back in Maurice’s coat. ‘Okay if I take a look around and see how you’re doing out here?’
    He looked up at last. The skin grafts along his concave jawline shone silvery in the flashlight. ‘’M I under arrest?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘Okay then.’
    I went in the back door, leaving Maurice where I’d found him. He kept his arms by his sides like a scolded child.
    The kitchen stank of boiled vegetables and body odor. A fifth of Jim Beam stood on the table, half empty. The refrigerator was empty save for an ancient box of baking soda. In the cabinets were a few cans (Spaghetti-Os, Green Giant corn), a few packets of powdered soup, and a tiny hole through which carpenter ants were entering and exiting.
    ‘Maurice,’ I called to him, ‘has your caseworker been out to see you?’
    ‘Don’t ’member.’
    With the barrel of Maurice’s rifle, I nudged open the bathroom door and shined the flashlight about. The tub and toilet were stained yellow. Two cigarette butts floated in the toilet. Beneath the sink, a section of the wall had rotted, and a piece of particle board had been nailed there to patch the hole. At the edges of the board, the ground outside was visible.
    I switched off the lights and closed up the house.
    ‘Maurice, you remember what protective custody is?’
    ‘Yes’r.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘It’s when you put me in the jail but I’m not under arrest.’
    ‘That’s right. And do you remember why I have to do that, put you in protective custody?’
    ‘To protect me, I guess. That’s why they call it that.’
    ‘Well, yeah. Exactly. So that’s what we’re going to do, Maurice, we’re going to put you