Unexpectedly, Milo - Matthew Dicks [107]
From somewhere down a hallway lined with boxes, stacks of newspapers, and books, someone, presumably Michael Bryson, shouted, “Coming!”
Moments later, he emerged, his enormous frame rubbing up against the piles of detritus on either side of the hallway, causing the bundles of newspapers and stacks of books to teeter as he passed. Michael Bryson, a little over five feet tall, was smaller than his wife, but only in height. The man’s dimensions were so askew that Milo could not even ascribe a Weeble-like description to his body. While also spherical in nature, he resembled more of a two-layered snowman propped up on a pair of tree stumps, his small head perched atop an enormous, ovoid body. He had a shock of curly red hair and a complexion to match. Like his wife, he was sweating and breathing heavily as he pushed through the door frame and into the kitchen.
“Michael Bryson,” he said, sounding as if his tongue were getting in the way of his words. “Nice to meet you.” He thrust his right hand out to Milo, who shook it while marveling at its size. It was like shaking a Christmas Day ham.
“Hi, I’m Milo. I was just explaining the reason for my visit to your wife.”
“Did you want grits or not, Milo?” she asked, removing sausage links from the skillet with a pair of tongs.
“No, thanks, Mrs. Bryson. I really am full already. The biscuits were great.”
“Sausage is coming right up. I fried some up for you too, Michael.”
Milo turned his attention back to Mr. Bryson, who had taken a seat at the end of the table. Because of his girth, his stomach was pressing against the table’s edge even though he was sitting nearly two feet from it. Though Milo had no appetite, he was suddenly curious to see how Michael Bryson would manage to eat with his mouth so far from the table. “Mr. Bryson, I came from Connecticut looking for an old friend of mine from grade school, and I was hoping that you might know her. Her last name is Bryson.”
“You hear that, Emmy? We’ve got a carpetbagger in our midst. A Yankee, for goodness’ sakes! Shut the doors and board up the windows!” The man barely finished his sentence before bursting into a fit of laughter, his tongue still obstructing his giggles. “No offense, Milo,” he finally managed. “Just a little southern humor.”
“That’s right,” Emily Bryson added. “Good food and better hospitality. That’s what we’re known for here.”
“Right,” said Milo. “That’s great. And thank you so much. But you see, I’m wondering if you know of my friend. She would’ve come to Chisholm about twenty years ago. Her name is Tess. Tess Bryson.”
“Tess Bryson,” Michael Bryson repeated, appearing to search his memory banks for a match.
“You have a second cousin named Bessie,” Emily Bryson said. “Isn’t that right, Michael?”
“Sure do. But she lived in West Virginia. Grew up there, I think. Maybe Virginia, but I don’t think she’s ever lived up north. Probably never been farther north than Baltimore, if I had to guess.”
“And besides,” Emily Bryson said as she added six sausage links and a spoonful of fried mushroom to Milo’s plate. “Her name’s Bessie. Not Tess.”
“That’s true,” Michael Bryson agreed. “But you know, Milo, there is a Tess living over on Harris Road, I think. Isn’t there, honey? Tess Dailey? Or Bailey?”
For a moment, Milo’s hopes soared. Perhaps Tess Bryson had changed her last name, or maybe she had married and taken on her husband’s last name.
“You fool,” Emily Bryson said. “That was Tally Bailey, and she died five years ago.”
“Really?”
“Michael. We went to the funeral. Don’t you remember?”
This quality of discussion went on for another thirty minutes, during which time Milo consumed a total of three biscuits, ten sausage links, and two servings of fried mushrooms. He watched as Michael Bryson turned himself and his chair sideways, facing away from his plate, allowing him to sidle up to the table on his left side, where the distance from his plate was