Madman on a Drum by David Housewright Page A

the house the whole time.” I noticed that Mrs. Thomforde was looking upward and to her left when she spoke. “He helped me do some chores around the house, helped me move furniture and clean. He played the drums. He’s such a fine musician.”
    â€œHe was seen in a bar, Mrs. Thomforde. That’s a terrible violation of the terms of his parole.”
    â€œI don’t know where you’re getting your information, but you better go back and get some more. Anyone saying Scottie wasn’t at my house is lying. Scottie wasn’t anywhere else but at my house for the entire weekend. We had a family reunion. The entire family came over and we had dinner together. Scottie played the drums for us.”
    â€œMrs. Thomforde—”
    â€œAre you saying she’s a liar?” one of the East Siders asked. “We don’t lie.”
    I liked the collective “We,” but didn’t say so.
    â€œWhat’s important is where Scottie is now,” Karen said. “Do you know, Mrs. Thomforde?”
    â€œNo, I don’t. You’re the one who’s supposed to be watching him.”
    Karen was this close to losing it. She clenched her fists and stepped forward. Something was about to come out of her mouth, and my inner voice warned, It ain’t gonna be pretty.
    â€œMiss.” I spoke loudly and gestured. Both women turned toward me, as I had hoped they would. I purposely looked past them. “Miss,” I called again. A waitress pivoted and stepped between Karen and Mrs. Thomforde to reach my chair. “How many tickets do you have left?”
    She did a quick count of the remaining tents on her tray and said, “Ten.”
    â€œI’ll buy them all.” I dipped into my pocket for cash. “Ladies, pick a ticket, my treat.” I dropped a ten on the tray and leaned back while each woman made a selection. Ruth said that I certainly knew the way to a girl’s heart. Her friends suggested that Ruth was a cheap date.
    â€œTake a ticket,” I told Mrs. Thomforde. “You, too, Karen. Pork chops, yum.”
    Mrs. Thomforde selected hers, and Karen followed, leaving one ticket on the tray for me. I pulled a four. Victoria’s number. Suddenly I wasn’t having any fun. Suddenly I was angry again. I kept it to myself.
    The waitress thanked us, scooped up the cash, and made her way to the front of the bar where the manager stood next to a spinning wheel. They both scanned the crowd for the other waitress, catching her eye. The waitress held up four fingers.
    â€œFour tickets left for a chance at winning five pounds of pork-chops-on-a-stick,” the manager announced.
    â€œYou and Scottie talk a lot, don’t you, Mrs. Thomforde?” I said.
    â€œOf course we do,” she said. “I’m his mother. He calls me all the time. He’s a good boy.”
    â€œDid he ever mention any friends to you? People he spends time with?”
    â€œYou mean from prison?” She was looking at Karen when she said, “He doesn’t spend time with that trash.”
    â€œDid he ever mention anyone called T-Man, for instance? Mr. T?”
    Mrs. Thomforde looked up and to her right. “I don’t think so,” she said. “No. No, I’m sure he hasn’t. Why are you doing this, McKenzie?” She flung a look at Karen. “Why are you helping her?”
    I patted Mrs. Thomforde’s hand. “I’m not,” I said. “I’m trying to help Scottie. When I found out Karen was looking for him—I was looking for him because I was hoping he might know some people who can help me out with something, but then she told me”—I flicked a thumb in Karen’s direction—“that Scottie was missing…”
    â€œYes, yes,” Mrs. Thomforde said. “You were always a good friend to Scottie. I remember what you did that one time. I won’t ever forget it.” She sighed dramatically.