Tourists of the Apocalypse by C. F. WALLER

tree, I peer down the deserted avenue. It’s dusk and the sky bleeds oranges and purples over the tree tops. A friend once told me the night before Thanksgiving was the busiest bar night of the year.
    “No one has to work the next day.”
    That may or may not be true, but it is tumbleweed city on Oakmont Street. I didn’t tell anyone before coming home this time. As a matter of fact, I sent my mother a vague postcard inferring a bunch of us would be skiing in Colorado. Why would anyone believe a poor kid from East Texas could snow ski? In any event, this guaranteed no one would be at the airport to pick me up and Graham would be unable to warn Lance.
    Having left all my stuff in Pensacola, stashed in a bus station turnkey locker, I stroll down the street unencumbered. Passing Dickey’s house, I see a huge grey Jeep of some kind sitting in his narrow driveway. The house has a garage, but my previous impression was that it was full. Where is the Mustang? I seriously doubt he would part with it, meaning he’s not home.
    Thoughts swirl in my head until I am standing in front of my house. The lights in the front window are off, but the dining room is occupied as the blueish glow of the television bleeds out from the edges of the curtains. Scanning the cul-de-sac, I see only Graham’s truck in the three driveways. Nothing at T-Bucks or Lances’ place may mean they are all out of town. An interesting turn of events. I decide to surprise Mom and see what’s new. Slipping through the screen door, while holding it with well-practiced precision, I sneak in unheard.
    Inside my mother, Izzy and Roberta are watching the Wheel of Fortune. They sit around one end of the table, while the small flat screen sits on the far end. A black cable hangs off the TV, running in to the kitchen. The wire dangles two feet off the floor, threating to trip anyone unaware of its presence. I watch for several minutes, until a commercial comes on and Izzy hops up. When she turns she nearly runs me over.
    “Nice to see you too,” I chuckle, catching her by the tops of her arms.
    “Dylan,” she blurts, a look of confusion on her face.
    “Happy Thanksgiving.”
    She doesn’t reply, but musters a weak smile.
    I endure a hugging ritual from my dear mother and many questions from Roberta. There is one long story about how Lance took Jerry on down at the job site. She’s so thankful he helped get her son back on his feet. This has apparently been attributed to me. I assume Graham told them it was my idea. He has a way of passing around the praise and deflecting blame.
    Though the chatter, Izzy leans silently in the dining room archway. Her hair is pushed back by a horse shoe band and she hooks it with a finger over her ear. A yellow sun dress hangs to her knees. White Keds and short tennis socks adorn her feet, an oddly feminine outfit for her. She’s mostly a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl. We share several long glances as various stories are told. These glances are worth a thousand words in comparison to all the senseless talking that’s going on. When my mother goes to get everyone coffee Izzy finally speaks.
    “Nice to see you,” she injects, stepping away from the archway. “I gotta get home.”
    “Already?” I groan and then pause, watching her eyes drop to the floor. “But, I just got here.”
    “Yeah, sorry, Lance likes us to watch Jeopardy together,” she offers in a fairly insincere tone. “Makes him feel smart.”
    I just stare, but when my mother re-enters the room with coffee mugs, she spots Izzy by the door. A long hugging routine takes place and Izzy thanks her for dinner. The two of them are like sisters and have been since Izzy took care of her after the beating. I get a mere parade wave before she slips away in the darkness of the cul-de-sac. I should have kissed her.
    I’m obligated it seems to sit through Jeopardy, but soon after I slink back to the front porch. With fingers tracing the wooden boards I recall sitting here