Catch & Release

I would have recognized the guy even if he hadn't driven up in a truck with Estes Equipment on the door, wearing an Estes Equipment hat and an Estes Equipment shirt with “Buck” embroidered above the pocket. There's a family resemblance, after all. He looks like somebody took my beautiful Odd and dipped him in an extra layer of meat.

I walk out to meet him more than halfway. I don't want him anywhere near the house if I can help it.

“Where's my brother?” says Buck.

“You know what I know. I saw him three days ago in Portland. He might be headed for the coast.”

“Look, they're going to be home soon, and they don't need this kind of grief,” Buck says while he takes a step too close and drops his hand on my shoulder. He doesn't grab me or anything; he just lets me feel the weight of his thick hand. “That little asshole needs get his skinny ass back here. Maybe you know more than you think you do. Maybe you remembered something that might be . . . useful.”

Little Dog Penny comes down off the porch and starts growling and barking. I don't need her help. I push Buck's hand off my shoulder and shrug, “Can't help. Like I told you, you know what I know. That's it.”

“Polly?” Mom calls from the porch.

“I got this,” I say; then I turn my back on Buck and walk away.

“You let me know if you hear something,” says Buck.

I don't say yes. I don't say no. But, at this moment, I'm not inclined to do Buck Estes any favors. His happiness is not my problem.

 

“What was that about, Polly honey?” asks Mom.

“Odd. He's not back yet. His brother's all worked up,” I say. I pick up a glass and open the faucet. I hold my other hand under the water until it runs cold as the river before I steer the glass under the stream and fill it to overflowing. Then I drink it all down. “Some people just have a hard time letting go,” I say.

“You want me to fix you some lunch? I could make soup . . .” says Mom.

“I ate before. I'm going to shower, and then I'm going into town,” I can see the question forming on my mom's tongue, so I answer it, “I'm going to get the car checked out. Dad said I should do that before I go to Laramie to scope out the school. Got to get that done and apply if I'm going there this fall.”

I can see the worries crawling across my mom's face. It's like watching an ant farm. I can't solve this for her. She needs to develop her own coping skills and strategies. She needs to adjust to her new condition—the situation where I can get in a car and drive off to Wyoming.

“It's a long way to drive all by yourself,” says Mom.

“People do it,” I say.

 

The envelope is addressed to me, but the letter inside is for Gramma Dot.

Odd must have carried it around in his back pocket until he found an envelope and stamp. The pages are lumpy, creased, smudged, and must have been wet at least once, because they stick together when I try to flatten them out.

Someday soon, I'm going to deliver this letter and the rest. I just can't deliver them yet, not until I know for sure that Odd's grandma is back. Then I have to call around to all the nursing-care facilities to figure out where to take them. It would be easier if I could just hand them to Buck and let him take care of it, but that won't work. Buck's an asshole. If Odd thought he could trust Buck to deliver them, he could have just sent them to Buck. He didn't. He gave them to me.