Madman on a Drum by David Housewright

that in mind.”
    A few moments later, Karen emerged from the house and joined us on the sidewalk. “I’m sorry about that, Mr. Thomforde,” she said. “It’s just something I have to do.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” Tommy said.
    â€œI noticed the drum kit set up in one of the bedrooms.”
    â€œMy mom’s idea,” Tommy said. “She set it up for when Scottie came to visit. Said it would make him feel more at home. One thing about my brother, all the other shit aside”—he was looking at me again—“the sonuvabitch sure can play the drums.”
    We thanked him and were making our way back to the Audi when Tommy called to us. “Hey, McKenzie? Did you try Joley?”
    â€œAre they back together?”
    â€œI don’t know. Scottie called her when he was here. They were on the phone for hours.”
    â€œYou’re kidding me.”
    â€œTalk about your bad relationships.”
    Â 
    We were pulling away from the curb before Karen asked, “Who’s Joley?”
    â€œA woman Scottie was once involved with,” I said. “I’m surprised you weren’t informed about her.”
    â€œWhy would I be?”
    â€œShe had to take out a restraining order to keep him from stalking her.”
    Her mouth hung open for a moment, and then she closed it with a snap. I could hear her teeth grinding behind her lips. After a moment, she said, “I should have been told that.” Later she hissed, “Bureaucracies,” as if the word were an obscenity.
    Who was I to disagree?

7
    Jolene Waddell was one of those girls who peaked at age seventeen, going from high school midwinter queen to dowdy middle-age in about a summer. Back in school, she was perky with a long-jumper’s body and legs. But the legs were the first to go, then the waist, then the rest of her. Only her voice remained unchanged. You’d hear that hot and humid voice over the phone and you knew—knew!—that she had the goods.
    We met her under the porch light of her small bungalow in Highland Park, not far from where the Ford plant used to be. It had been a long time since I’d seen her, and when I hugged her my arms easily made it around her torso.
    â€œYou’ve lost weight,” I said.
    â€œThirty-five pounds since New Year’s,” she said. “Another thirty to go.”
    â€œYou’re lookin’ good.”
    She smiled like a woman who hadn’t received a compliment in a long while, yet still remembered how it felt.
    â€œNo, I’m not,” Joley said. “I will be, though. I’m trying to get to my high school weight plus ten. That’s fair, isn’t it, McKenzie? Weighing ten pounds more than you did in high school.”
    â€œMore than fair,” I said.
    â€œOur high school reunion is coming up, you know.”
    â€œIs it?”
    Joley nodded and smiled. “Still, a girl can’t hope to look like she did in high school.”
    â€œI don’t know, Joley. You look pretty damn good to me.”
    She smiled some more. She had a lot of lines around her mouth and wrinkles at her brow, and her hair had gone through so many dye jobs it had forgotten its original color and had settled on crayon brown. Her eyes—I had known her when they sparkled with blue. They had since deepened to gray, yet they remained clear and luminous.
    â€œOh, McKenzie. You were always so sweet.” Looking over my shoulder, she asked, “Who are you?”
    â€œI apologize,” I said. “I should have introduced you. Jolene Waddell, this is Karen Studder.”
    â€œMs. Waddell,” said Karen and extended her hand. Joley shook it carefully.
    â€œKaren is Scottie Thomforde’s parole officer.”
    â€œOh,” said Joley. She released Karen’s hand as if it were suddenly radioactive.
    â€œHave you seen Scottie?” Karen asked.
    â€œSeen him? No.”
    â€œYou’ve heard