Free Innuendo by R.D. Zimmerman Page A

tea, she was no longer sure. With each year it seemed John had grown more distant, more preoccupied, so much so that Martha sometimes wondered if she really knew him anymore, if they weren't together just as a matter of habit. She tried to tell herself that it was the farm, that John was simply overwhelmed with financial worries, but sometimes she couldn't help it, couldn't help but worry that he didn't find her attractive anymore, that perhaps he had someone else. To top it off, of all their years, of all the troubles they'd been through, this last had been the hardest to come their way. Drought and debt, blizzard and isolation, the near death of Annie, their youngest—Martha had thought they'd been through it all. But they hadn't, not until this past year.
    Just one day at a time, she told herself. Isn't that how you were supposed to get through these things? The kids were already in bed, and her day would last just a few minutes longer, until about 10:17, when the weather segment concluded.
    Hearing the all-too familiar music, she blew on her hot tea, then looked at the TV screen and saw the
10@10
logo.
    And then that wonderfully familiar man said, “Good evening, and welcome to
Ten at Ten.
I'm Tom Rivers, and we have a number of stories tonight, from a problem with the Teacher's Pension Fund to a cancer-fighting enzyme recently discovered at the University of Minnesota. We begin tonight's coverage, however, on a very serious note, that of the murder of a young white male in south Minneapolis.”
    “Oh, God,” she muttered.
    It struck her immediately, of course, just the way such things had since he'd disappeared in the dark. Practically every moment of every day since then she'd wondered what had happened to him, just as she'd wondered how the news would finally come back. Would he call? Would he write? Would he simply come walking up the drive, his boots kicking up the dirt the way they always did, that playful grin lighting up his face?
    And as she did every single time she heard any horror story, she now silently prayed. Don't let this be about him. Not about my baby. Not about Andy. She was planning on getting up enough money to hire a private investigator, though she didn't actually know how to go about finding such a person. She was, however, almost positive he was there, somewhere in The Cities, and ever since that horrible, horrible night she was afraid of something like this. Afraid that one of these times she'd pick up the newspaper or turn on the television and the news was going to be about her boy.
    “Just over an hour ago,” continued Rivers, “Minneapolis police received a call reporting the crime. Here with a live report of this still-developing story is our investigative reporter, Todd Mills. Todd?”
    Her husband immediately sat forward and started groping around for the remote control.
    She quickly said, “Leave it, John!”
    “Oh, come on. We don't need this crap,” he snapped back, zapping the off button.
    In an instant the television screen went blank and melted into blackness. She sat forward, her hands clutching her mug of tea, and fear clutching her heart. There'd been no word from Andy, not since John had dragged him kicking and screaming into the barn. For his seventeenth birthday three months ago she'd wanted so very much to send him a birthday card, a present, money, something, but where? Where in God's name was he?
    “But what if…” she protested, “what if it's something about Andy? What if something's happened to him?”
    “Then he'll have gotten exactly what he deserved, just like I said!”
    “Jesus Lord in heaven, how can you say that about your own son, John Lyman?!”
    “Because he's no son of mine no more, that's how. If you had seen what I saw, Martha, you'd still be sick to your stomach, just like I am. That kid's not natural, and he's no son of mine! It's time you forgot about him. We got two kids now—two beautiful girls, that's what we got.”
    The tears just