coffee

Buffalo Alberts was humming softly behind the wheel of his truck, humming itself as it rolled down the highway.  His broken radio had been no good at entertaining him for so long, he couldn't remember the last time he'd used it.  Didn't bother him, though.  Singing to himself kept him more awake.  Better than coffee, even.  But speaking of which, it was time to find himself a refill.  He'd been running on fumes for about 80 miles now.

He pulled off into a little service station, with just four pumps, all looking shiny and new, and parked next to the door.  Clear, clean, automatic doors.  Nice.  He nodded his head approvingly as he entered.  The young man behind the counter looked up as Buffalo came down the aisle.  Well, young man - just a boy really.  He had acne and a scrawny teenager's mustache.  Buffalo tried to give him a dignified but condescending look as he went passed.  Tripping on his undone bootlace did not add to his planned effect.  Although he avoided falling flat on his face, he couldn't help cursing to himself as he made his way to the back of the store, where the drink machines were.  While filling his travel mug, he snuck a glance over his shoulder, as if he was just taking a leisurely look around the store and rubbing his grizzled chin nonchalantly.  The boy's gaze was lowered to the counter and some paper lying spread out on it.
"Well, damn it," Buffalo thought, "doesn't that boy have a sense of humor?  If I'da seen him stumbling around like a dumbass I sure as hell woulda laughed."  Steaming black coffee now filled the mug and the man snapped the lid back on.  As he walked to the counter, he gave the store a final lookover.  Not a soul about.  Perfect.  Buffalo never was a fan of complications.  Stepping up to the counter, he pulled his pistol out from under his shirt and with his coffee stained grin, said in a jovial voice, "Alright buddy, this is what's gonna happen.  I'm not gonna pay for this coffee.  Nobody oughta pay for gas station coffee anyway, it's shit.  What's more, you're gonna pay me not to shoot you right in the gut.  Open that register and hand over some cash."  The boy's face was frozen into a mask of surprise.
"You want all of it?"
"Aw, hell, why wouldn't I want all of it?  Well, now that you mention it, not all the coins.  Just the bills.  Just gimme some quarters for the tolls."  The boy obeyed in a robotic manner, opening the cash drawer, carefully removing the bills and putting them together in a stack before slowly handing them over.  Then he fished several quarters out of the drawer and dropped them into Buffalo's outstretched hand.  His face had an incredulous, but perversely joyful smile, as if this was an event he had imagined but never quite believed he would experience.
"I don't get the impression that your corporate masters have impressed the importance of money on you," laughed the man as he deposited his toll coins into the pocket of his shirt.  "You seem practically happy to give it away."
"There isn't that much cash," the boy replied almost apologetically, "and they tell us during training not to confront robbers.  Just give them what they ask for and don't antagonize."
"Always service with a smile, huh?" Then Buffalo let his face harden into what he hoped was a cold and threatening glare.  "So they're caught off-guard when the police come after you push the alarm button under the counter."
The boy's expression was now more one of panicked confusion.  "What?  No!  No, there's no button, there's no alarm, the cops are supposed to come by regularly.  I can't call them, I swear to god!"
The man nodded slowly as he moved towards the door keeping his pistol pointed in the boy's direction.  "Well, I'll believe you this time.  But there better not be any cops on my tail down the road.  I'll shake them off, and then I'll come back to get you for lying to me."
"I'm so not lying, I swear to god!" the boy sobbed.
"Alright then," grunted the man, backing slowly out the door after he heard it swoosh open behind him.  He was just about to walk calmly to his truck when he realized his freshly filled travel mug was still on the counter where he'd left it so he would have a free hand to grab the cash.  He strode back into the store, boomed out, "Forgot my coffee," and shot the startled cashier right in the middle of his forehead.  He leaned over the counter after the body fell, searching the underside with his fingers and eyes carefully.  "Well, god damn it, he wasn't lying about not having a button," he muttered to himself.  "Oh well."

Heaving himself back onto his feet, Buffalo Alberts took up his mug, tucked his gun back into his grungy jeans and walked to his rusty truck that was waiting patiently to take him to his next stop.

Young Math - he meets the stranger

The boy awoke the next morning early with a hankering for breakfast.  He decided his best bet was the widow innkeeper, who always made more than her guests could eat, and would happily allow him to eat his fill in return for help in serving the food and clearing the tables.  He shook the old man's shoulder to let him know his plan, but the old curmudgeon waved him away with a grimace and a snarl.  Shrugging, the boy went off in search of his first meal of the day.

All went according to plan and the boy was in high spirits when he left the inn.  He went back to the stable to see if the old man was still there, but the hayloft was empty of large bodies.  While the boy was looking around, a huge cry went up in the street and he rushed out to see what the cause was.  A crowd was gathering and angry faces were all around.  The chapman was shouting and pointing - at the old man.  He was in the center of the crowd, in the eye of the hurricane of ire, looking all about him with a face of defensive indignation.
"This beggar, this bum, this filthy hobo is nothing but a thief!" thundered the chapman. "I caught him red-handed trying to lead off my best mule!"  The old man shook his head furiously.  He was about to say something, explain himself, but somebody in the crowd cut him off.
"String him up!"
"Yes!" another voice in the crowd agreed, "String up the thief!"  The thirst for vengeance exploded in the crowd and the old man held up his hands, waving them desperately.  Then the wave of mob violence rose, crashed over him, and washed him away with it, down the street to the square.

"Well," thought the boy, "I guess he's going to miss his meeting with his friend."  All of a sudden, a burning desire sprang up in his heart.  He just had to know where that stranger meant to go and what he was going to do.  At least, he had to be told that the old man wasn't going to meet him.  With this justification, the boy trotted off down the road in the direction of the blue boulders.  With all the excitement of the old man's capture, not one person remained in the streets to see him run off and out of town.  He skipped, carefree, along the road until the blue boulders came into view.  He was mildly surprised not to see anybody anywhere around.
"The stranger must be hiding behind them," he thought, "Guarding those things he wants to take."  But when he got to the rocks and looked behind them, there was nothing.  He circled the lumps of solid sea blue curiously.  Coming back to the road, the boy stopped and looked back towards town, thinking the stranger must have found another way to travel and maybe had heard of the old man's trouble and run off, abandoning him to his fate.

"Well, well," came a voice from above him, "A little barn owl has come to see me off."  The stranger was standing on top of the rocks, smiling down at the boy.  His shiny cape was open, revealing a smart, red suit and reddish brown boots.  The man's hair was shaggy, a nondescript brown, and his grin was friendly enough, but his eyes were flat pools of blackness.
"I just wanted to tell you not to wait for your companion, sir," the boy said as gravely as he could, "The townspeople think he tried to steal a mule and he's being - tried."
"Yes, of course," mused the dapper stranger, "That oaf never could do anything right.  Always too contrary to follow the law, and too clumsy not to get caught.  Oh well, I'll just have to go on alone, I suppose."  He jumped off the boulder, landing lightly on the ground.
"How will you move your things without a mule?  Are you just going to leave them here, on top of the boulders?" the boy wondered, "You could.  Nobody likes to spend much time around these rocks, and they're too slippery for most people to climb..."  His thinking out loud trailed off as he realized he couldn't explain to himself how the stranger had gotten up on the boulders, much less brought travel supplies up with him.
"Oh, I don't have any belongings, I much prefer to travel light.  I pick new things up as I need them and leave them behind when their usefulness is at an end.  Always renew yourself, never go back or repeat.  That's what I say."
"But you told the old man-"
"Bah, I just told him that to give him a goal to work for.  Some people have such trouble coming up with their own.  I really was just giving him a hand."  The stranger was smirking a little with his gaze turned towards town.  The boy was starting to feel more and more uncomfortable.  He didn't really want to stay much time with the stranger; there was something about the man that made him uneasy.  At the same time, he didn't feel much like witnessing the fate of the old man.  Although the townspeople were goodhearted and fair-minded in general, sometimes there was a kind of demon stirred up in their bellies and they lost their heads for a few hours.  The boy had never been caught up in the madness and it always made him feel a little sick to see it arise.

"You aren't like them, you know," the stranger said, like he was sharing a great secret, "You could be so much more if you wanted to be."  In spite of his haughty tone, the stranger's face was soft, giving him some sort of aura of vulnerability.  Even his eyes had gained a liquidy shine, although that wasn't so pleasant.  It gave them the appearance of little puddles of oil in an expanse of sand.
"They are good people," answered the boy stubbornly.
"Oh yes, 'good people', those content cattle of human beings.  Never any ambitions, never any rebellion...if that's good, they can have it.  I'll be bad, I'll be pure evil.  And I'll enjoy every minute!"  As he spoke, a light began to glow brighter and brighter in those obsidian chips in his eye sockets.  A tiny needle of terror pierced the boy's heart on noticing this and he backed away instinctively.  The stranger saw the movement and seemed to get hold of himself.  He chuckled, trying to bring some friendly warmth to his voice, instead of blazing rage.  His hand snaked out to grab the boy's shoulder and hold him tightly.  He said, "Of course, I might be too ambitious for my own good.  I wouldn't recommend emulating me to anyone, especially a young man with so much potential.  Only the talentless must rely on their force of will."  The boy was unsure, unconvinced.  The hand did not pull him closer to the stranger, but neither would he be able to escape its grasp to run back to town, he felt.  "Isn't there something you want, though?  Some skill you wish you had or could develop?  Come now, I promise I won't laugh."  A little flame of desire sprang up in the boy's heart, right in the space the previous terror had left.  He answered quietly, "I guess I always wanted to know about magic.  How to do tricks, which ones are real, that sort of thing."  A strangely jolly laugh rolled from the stranger's mouth and he said brightly, "You are most certainly in luck, my boy.  It just so happens that magic is my specialty.  If you agree to fly a while under my wing, I will teach you all I know and you will have every answer you seek."  A purple glow of hope grew around the boy's heart.  He felt, for the first time in his yet short life, the call of adventure.  The stranger was suddenly dashing, exciting, appealing.  A broad smile broke out on the boy's face and with a nod, he sealed his fate.  The two began to walk away from town with the stranger's cape trailing behind them and sometimes swirling in the breeze.

Young Math - he has a dream

Oh the bouncy dream sheep with rubber legs
Oh the pinkish skies and bluish grass
Water flows like wine and full of pigs
The glowing stream crossed over by zebraffes
Oh there's the wolf with toothy flashing grin
His mouth is full of fire and laughing scorn
See how the little horses flee from him
Hear how the great deer clash their great red horns
Waving trees in twilight sing and sigh
The heaving ground bounces baby birds
They chirp and cheap but never do they fly
Their tiny wings cover tiny heads
The hot wind pushes clouds over the hills
And yet the purple long-grass stands unmoved
The sky shark floating by roars and swells
When Baseball Bear hits it with a glove
The wolf is prancing now with tiny foxes
He bounds and leaps on rubber pebbled path
They dodge a flock of quacking, quarreling ducks
While the waterpigs look on with masks of wrath
And now the wolf sends out hairs of death
The foxes and the ducks explode or scatter
He laughs and laughs until he's out of breath
And walks away like nothing even matters

Young Math - he meets the old man

There was a boy who was a very funny boy.  He was always laughing and making everybody laugh with him.  His face was always smiling and his voice was always warm and even on the grayest day people felt good when he was around.  He could go through the town and collect treats from shop keepers and people running their daily errands in exchange for jokes and antics.  The boy had no father or mother, so all the town took care of him.

Then one day, an old man came to town.  He was gray and wrinkled and smelled of vinegar.  All the townspeople were suspicious and didn't want to talk to him any more than necessary, and he seemed to feel the same way about them.  Only the boy was friendly.  He went up to him and said, "Good day, uncle.  Can I help you with anything?"
"No!" snapped the old man as he shuffled away down the street.  His shoes were like bedroom slippers, but all dirty and with the soles almost worn through.  The boy shrugged his shoulders and went off to run errands for the tavern keeper.  The old man just wandered around town, peering angrily into windows as if he disapproved of everything he saw going on inside.

Later, the boy ran into him again hanging around the bakery, shooting pathetic, sideways glances at the cakes and loaves as they were carried out the door, wrapped in protective arms.
"Good evening, uncle," said the boy.  The old man scowled and started to stomp away, but no sooner had he gone two steps than he shuffled back, leaned way up close to the boy's ear, and whispered conspiratorially, "Boy, do you think you could get me a nice, fat loaf of bread?  I'll make it worth your while."  The boy's grin ate up half his face.
"Uncle, it's no trouble to me at all.  Just a minute."  and he went inside the shop to talk to the baker.  He started telling the story of the bear who thought he was a mole, miming the action as the main character tried to dig his tunnels, mound his hills and chase his worms.  Soon the baker and the couple of customers in his shop were roaring with laughter and when the boy had finished the story, he received two fresh raisin buns and a small loaf of white bread.  He brought his spoils out to the old man, offering him one bun and half the loaf, but the old codger shook his head and snapped, "I never let those nasty dried-out things near my stomach!  I'll take the loaf, if you please.  You keep those spotty buns."  This was perfectly agreeable to the boy, who preferred the raisin buns to plain bread, and they were fresh while the loaf was from the day before.  In spite of its dryness, it soon disappeared down the old man's gullet.
"Where will you stay tonight, uncle?" asked the boy.  The old man looked around nervously.
"Well, I don't know.  Truth be told, I was supposed to meet a friend here, but he hasn't come.  He knows the place better than me."
"Who is this friend?  Maybe I can find him for you."
"Oh no, he doesn't live in this dump of a village.  When I met him he had a splendid castle on an island in a sea surrounded by desert.  Later he had to leave it, but I'm sure he's living well still."  The boy was impressed by the image this statement left in his head, but he had never heard of a sea in the middle of a desert with an island and a castle.  Not even in stories.  Finally, the old man accepted the boy's invitation to spend the night in the hayloft of the stables.  The hay was soft, if somewhat pokey, and the animals made the building pleasantly warm.

In the middle of the night, the boy was awakened by voices.  He looked out over the edge of the loft and could barely make out two figures standing in the middle of the stable, just their outlines illuminated by the moonlight seeping through the chinks in the walls.  One was the old man, looking as filthy and scruffy as ever, even in such little light.  The other figure was taller and clothed in something that shone softly, like satin.  They were speaking in hushed tones to each other, but it was still easy to tell that they were arguing.  The old man's whisper was harsh and raspy and his arms jerked around as he hissed at the other.  His companion/opponent had a voice like a breeze in Indian summer, soft, but with wintery teeth that caught hold of you as it slipped past.  The boy leaned over the edge of the loft just a little more and strained his ears to hear something.
"You can't do this to me!" the old man hissed, "You promised!  After all I've done for you - "
"I never asked or demanded a thing from you," soothed the other, mellifluous words filling the air like smoke, "You made your choices.  I offered what I could and made clear what was necessary to receive my aid."
"You didn't reveal everything, you bastard!  You kept some of those oh-so-important details to yourself, and look at me now!  I'm a beggar in some backwards, backwoods village!  I did everything you required, and if you required me not to do other things, you should have said so."
"You foolish man, you would still challenge me?" the voice had an odd kind of echo to it, "What is common sense need not be mentioned.  If you need it so, you are uncommonly senseless."
"There you go with your insults, like you're so smart.  You remember when we first met, where you were?"
"Your intervention was welcome but unnecessary."  A voice that you heard in your head as much as with your ears.
"Ah, ox dung."
"Be silent.  You may draw attention to our presence.  It is not in our interest at this time."
"There, you see how easy it is to tell people what not to do?"
The other seemed to ripple in the dimness, and expand.  "I advise you to be still now.  Tomorrow we will leave together for the north.  Meet me on the road, a mile from town.  I will wait by the blue boulders.  You will come with a mule to carry the supplies I will have."
"Fine, a mule," muttered the old man, shaking his head and staring at the floor.  He turned to go back up the ladder to the loft and the other stepped backwards into deeper shadow.  With a soft whump, the air seemed to lighten and brighten, and the boy could suddenly see that the barn floor was empty of people.  He rolled back to his place in the hay, just as the old man's head crept over the top of the ladder.  He was grumbling to himself through clenched teeth, "That sneaky bastard.  As soon as I get that box back I'll show him."  Grunting, he deposited himself in a pile of hay, and for all his bother and consternation, was soon snoring away.  In spite of the odd scene he had just witnessed, the boy also fell to dreaming in no time.

Merry Out Of The Sea - beginning of the middle

Mom hustled me out of the room when he said that.  She shoved me out the front door and said, "Go on home.  Mrs. Patrick and I will take care of things here."
"But -"
"No buts.  Go."  She opened the front door, shoved me out so I almost slipped on the icy, snowy sidewalk, and shut it firmly behind me.  It was a definitive click that came from it, and I knew better than to turn around and go back in, a thought that did enter my mind.  But, I just glared at the closed door and stomped off home.  Mom came home a couple of hours later without appearing very upset or relieved and wouldn't answer any of my questions about what went on in Mr. Jessup's house.

Tay Jessup died a week later.  Dr. Leqeuex was in his house when it happened, doing a favor I guess.  Mrs. Patrick had harangued him for days to at least go and look in on Mr. Jessup as a friend.  It was a small, very quiet funeral, with only a few adults from town, who had been schoolmates of his, invited.  There was so much mystery about his illness and death, that that was all we could talk about at school for the rest of the month.  Everybody was frustrated with how little information their parents were letting them in on and curious about what was going to happen to Merry.  Nobody knew anything about where she had gone.  I assumed Dr. Leqeuex had taken her to the hospital or maybe sent  her to another one, a psychiatric hospital, but then one day I saw her face in Mrs. Patrick's upstairs window.  I stopped dead in my tracks and stared up at her, and she stared blandly down at me like somebody watching grass grow.  Not a shadow of interest flickered on her face.  We had our little staredown for a minute or two before it got too unnerving for me and I ran inside.  "Mom," I said breathlessly, "Why didn't you tell me Merry was with Mrs. Patrick?"
"Damnit, I told her to keep the girl away from the windows." grumbled my mother as she folded shirts.  Then she turned to me and said, "I didn't tell you because it's not your business.  It's not your friends' business either.  It's nobody's business but Dory Patrick's and I don't want you or anybody else mucking around in it.  I'm absolutely serious, Lori."  I believed she was serious.  I don't think I've ever believed so much in anybody's seriousness before or since.  I brooded over my bit of knowledge, but in the end it got out without any help from me.  That does seem to be how things work when I have a secret anyway.

Spring break was coming up, although spring wasn't much in the air yet that year.  There were still piles of snow on the street corners and the sky was the same monotonous, cottony grey for weeks on end.  One afternoon I was walking home from the library with the Mulligan twins, Martha and Curtis, and we saw Mrs. Patrick wandering around in her bathrobe in front of her house.  She would take a few short steps in one direction, stop and look around as if confused, and kind of trot of in another direction.  Martha and Curtis didn't know what to make of her and didn't want to go near her, but she was my neighbor and I felt like I should say something at least.  "Mrs. Patrick, what are you doing outside without a coat?" I called over the gate to her.  I also noticed she was wearing slippers and no socks.  She looked at me with a puzzled expression, like I was speaking in a language she didn't understand.  "Are you alright, Mrs. Patrick?" I called again.  She didn't answer and slowly her gaze turned away from me and she tottered off to stare uncomprehendingly at her peach tree.  I looked up at the window expecting to see Merry and yes, she was there.  What I wasn't expecting was to see her so fascinated with watching Mrs. Patrick.  Her eyes were wide open and she was riveted to her host's movements.  Since she had never shown any expression in public before, I couldn't quite believe what I was seeing, or be sure I was interpreting it correctly.  As eerie as she was with her normal, blank face, this was even creepier.  I backed away from Mrs. Patrick's gate and hurried to join the twins, who were standing in front of my door.
"I think you should call an ambulance for your neighbor," said Martha tensely, "Even that weird sea-girl looks worried."
"Worried?  You think so?" I asked.
"Yeah.  Did you see how big her eyes were?  She looks really freaked out."
We went inside to go over some notes and found Dad cutting up vegetables in the kitchen.  We told him what was going on next door, but instead of calling 911, he mumbled, "I'll take care of it." and zipped out the door.  We were working on our notes for a couple of hours and didn't notice when he came back, but he was in the kitchen with Mom when I walked the twins to the door.  They had the door almost closed and I couldn't hear the words they were using, but the tone was very serious.  I looked out the side window and saw Mrs. Patrick's yard was empty.  I went up to the kitchen door, ready to go in and ask what was going on over there, but just when I was about to open it, Mom hissed some kind of impolite words and somebody slammed a fist on the counter.  It didn't seem like the time to intrude.

The next morning at breakfast both my parents had such grim faces that I didn't dare bring up what had happened the afternoon before.  Somehow, in the fuzzy light of morning, it didn't seem so important, or even real.  If it hadn't been for my parents' thundercloud faces, I might have thought it was all a dream, or maybe a misunderstanding of what I'd really seen.  As the day went on, it seemed less and less tangible in my memory, although Curtis Mulligan did start a question in the hall that seemed like it was going to be about what we'd witnessed, but after, "So did your dad...?" he just shut his mouth and walked away.  When I got home I didn't see anybody around Mrs. Patrick's house, not in the yard or in the windows.  Nobody was home to query either.  I had to wait for hours to satisfy my gnawing curiosity.  Of course, it wasn't satisfied even when Mom came home from grocery shopping because she just shook her head in disgust, saying, "I don't even want to think about that right now."  She just radiated so much tension when I tried to ask the question that I knew way better than to try again.  I just stomped off to my room to stew and wait for dinner while pretending to do homework.  I was a little apprehensive about joining my parents for dinner, but by then they had relaxed and everything seemed to be just like always.

I didn't feel like rocking the boat right away, especially with ACTs on the horizon, so I decided to leave things alone for a couple of days.  Maybe, just maybe, somebody would slip up and let a little information into the air around me.  Sure enough, rumors and bits of phone conversations started to paint a picture of hospitals and locked doors.  Mrs. Patrick had gone to stay with her sister in Ohio, while Merry had been taken to the hospital again.  They found she had hardly eaten in over a week and she was put in bed with an IV.   It seemed like that would be the end of any trouble for a while.

In fact, it was.  Merry left the hospital about a month later and put in a sort of managed care facility.  Like with old people.  Now that the snow was pretty much gone, she could fumble around outside in her wheelchair.  Since she had people checking on her, she didn't need to go shopping for anything, and since she didn't have any friends, she didn't have anywhere to go.  Mostly she sat and stared at everybody who walked by her little square of the complex's lawn.  I didn't have much need to go to that part of town, and now I had even less desire to do so.  I heard some kids at school talk about going to "stare down the weirdo" or throw eggs at her window while she sat behind the glass like some uncomprehending goldfish, but I think that was just talk.  There would have been indignant letters to the editor and auds on tolerance and preventing vandalism or something if anybody had actually gone through with such provocation.

I put my mind to my classes and my tests and my scholarships.  Packets of information were showing up in our mailbox by the pound, and that was more exciting than Mr. Jessup's mute widow, who never bothered to leave the property she was allowed to use by the county.  I did some virtual visits online and Dad and I went to see a couple of nearby colleges on weekends.  They were nice enough, but I really wanted some more distance between me and my childhood home.  Not that I had a need to escape, but I wanted a little freedom to see how much I could change in a new, unshadowed environment.  Most of my friends were of similar minds, although a lot of them were perfectly happy to attend the state university, almost 4 hours away.  That was enough distance for them to feel they'd slipped their hometown bonds.  Actually, the distance itself was enough for me, but so many of my classmates would be around that I wouldn't be able to shake old habits, I felt.  Mom tried to argue that with almost 15,000 students I wouldn't be running into my fellow small-towners all that much, but I didn't want to take the chance.  She also tried to convince me with Suzie; the poor thing was old, what if she got sick and I was far away, I wouldn't be able to say goodbye before she died.  Something about that made me more determined to go farther away.  It just felt like uncalled-for emotional pressure.  Eventually, I thought I had set my heart on a small college in one of the Rocky Mountain states.  They had vibrant history and writing departments, and that was just the sort of atmosphere I was looking for.  Financial information was sent and scholarships were offered, and by May I had everything set up for my great new start in September.  I, like my friends and classmates, was so absorbed in planning my future, that stories from the younger students about weird things going on in town were brushed off without a second thought.

I got myself a summer job at the big bookstore at the mall off the interstate.  Even with scholarships, no reason not to gather up a little more cash.  Kate Owen was working there too, and we carpooled most days since we had the same shift.  One day in July, towards the end of the month, she was late picking me up.  It kept getting later and later and I was worried about having to explain to the supervisor that I didn't know what happened, but I missed my ride.  After 15 minutes, I even went out to the curb to wait, kind of to drive home that I had noticed the time.  But I didn't say anything about it when she finally pulled up and I saw her face.  I wasn't sure if she looked more angry or sick, with red eyes and cheeks but mostly grey skin underneath.
"Holy shit, do you have the flu?" I asked, "You shouldn't go to work if you're sick."
"I'm not sick," she muttered, "I just saw something..."
She didn't finish the thought and I was pretty sure she wasn't interested in talking about it, so I just let it drop.  She looked almost healthy when we got to work and when we left she was her normal self, so my question just drifted into the back of my mind.  Until that night when I was getting myself a snack and my parents were in the living room watching the local news.  I heard my mother gasp, "Oh my god!" from the kitchen and I trotted out to see what was going on.  Both of my parents were sitting on the edge of the couch, leaning intently towards the screen.  I just saw the tail end of the story, but it looked like the outside of the nursing home where Merry was being kept.

"What's up?" I asked, and they both jumped like I'd stuck a pin in their behinds.
"Oh honey, I'm glad you didn't see it," Mom said, "Some guy just committed suicide this afternoon in front of the nursing home.  They don't know why, he just walked out the door and waited for a truck to come down the street.  Then he jumped out in front of it."
"Was he one of the residents?"
"No, he was one of the nurses," answered Dad.
"I bet you anything he was taking care of Merry!" snapped Mom.  Dad kind of groaned and rolled his eyes.  "Yes, Steve, I do think it's possible.  You know what happened to Tay and Dory."
"Well, I don't think we have to discuss it now, not in front of her anyway," grumped Dad and Mom threw her hands up and a "Fine, you're right." over her shoulder as she stomped off upstairs.
"What's going on, Dad?" I asked timidly, trying to put on my best little girl face.
"Oh honey, it's not something you should have to know about.  You're going off to college all those hours away in the fall anyway."
"But Dad-"
"No," he sighed, waving his hand, heaving himself off the couch and switching off the TV, "There will be no discussion.  Not until your Mom calms down and tells me what's OK for you kids to know."  Then he kind of shuffled off to bed, rubbing the back of his head.  As soon as he was out of sight I switched the TV back on, but of course the report was over, and they were into the weather.  I turned the TV back off, wondering if that's what Kate had seen that affected her so much.