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¦y^-r. -fe-"", -«·¦ ¿ k&~u£ Going Home by Keith Combs Josh Lemaster glared at the somber and dejected figure in the mirror in back of the bar. He didn't like what he saw. The square chin, brown hair and blue eyes didn't bother him. Rather, something not readily visible, something inside, brought a grimace to his reflection. Angrily, Josh shifted his six-foot body around .on the stool so he would no longer have to look at himself. He took an envelope from his back pocket and removed the sheet of paper it contained. His mother's handwritten words appeared as smudges in the dim light, but it didn't matter. He knew the words by heart. As usual, his mother didn't mention Millie, but she added a postscript, "John Premble died last week." The only time his mother had ever mentioned Millie was in her first letter after he arrived in Chicago. And even then she only mentioned that John Premble, twice Millie's age, had married Josh's girl. 66 Millie. Young, luscious Millie, with her straw-colored hair and pink, smooth skin. Millie, with her sweet-tasting mouth and ripe, womanly breasts. She had never been far from his mind since the night they parted in torment . Josh sniffed the stale odors of the barroom and frowned, thinking of the smell of Millie on their last night together. He turned again and confronted the mirror. "Has it really been four years?" he questioned . His head moved back and forth in disbelief. "Four years!" He let his mind wander back to the last night he saw Millie before taking off like some frightened animal. "I'm pregnant," Millie whispered in his ear as they held each other in the back seat of his father's car. Josh laughed nervously. "Come on, Millie, that's nothing to joke about." Then, when her silence brought the full meaning of her words to him, he said helplessly, "I've been out of high school a grand total of two weeks. I don't even have a job. What do you want me to do?" Millie pulled away from him. "I'm not asking you to marry me," she answered angrily . The bitter taste of bile filled Josh's mouth. His body shook in unison with his rapid breathing. The feeling of being a child again, caught doing something wrong, swept through him. "Millie, you're only sixteen," he blurted. "What are you going to do with a baby?" That night in the secrecy of his room, Josh buried his face in his pillow and cried for the first time he could remember. The next day he borrowed money for a bus ticket to Chicago from his mother. She cried at his going, and his father showed his hurt by stubbornly refusing to say anything. Some invisible force shook Josh, causing his body to tremble in frustration. He pushed the beer bottle away from him and stuffed the letter back in his pocket. He used the telephone next to the wall to make his call. "I'm coming home," he said, then hung up before his father could ask any questions. Josh slowed his Mustang and turned off the main highway. The narrow, blacktop road following the river hadn't changed. Dustcovered wild flowers waved back and forth as he drove by. At first the river lay stagnant but clear when it came in view between the trees. Then a few miles upstream it turned muddy gray and running from a recent thunderstorm. Steep hills on both sides hugged the river between them, promenading their summer greenery. Dark spots appeared in front of him where water had seeped onto the pavement. The same old gathering of faded, run-down houses appeared at every level space alongside the road. Mobile homes, new looking and isolated, sat on small lots bulldozed out of the hillsides. Then he turned a bend and saw the cluster of houses off to his right. Josh swallowed nervously. He stopped in front of a weather-beaten house that showed only fragments of its original white paint. Skirting the dirt yard, he walked to the back of the house...

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