by Laura Wiess
“There she is, Miss America,” he warbles, and holds out his cleaning ticket. “The only girl in the world besides Mrs. Hanson who’s allowed to put her hands in my pants.”
Oh God, not now.
I take his ticket, trying not to shudder as his hot fingers brush mine. Glance at the clock—ten to seven; he’s usually not this late—and, pulling free, hit the conveyor-belt switch. “You just made it. We’re getting ready to close.” Stop the conveyor, retrieve the hanger with his pants and the envelope of loose change stapled to the plastic bag, and hang it out on the hook where he can reach it.
“Well, I certainly hope you don’t have to walk home alone in the dark,” he says, and with a fake look of surprise, like a lightbulb just happened to go off in his head, says, “I can give you a ride if you’d like.” He pulls a wad of cash from his pocket and peels off five damp, limp dollar bills. “It wouldn’t be any trouble.” He hands me the money, his watery gaze dropping to my boobs. “Maybe we could stop for ice cream, too.”
No, maybe we can’t. Maybe I’ll just take your pants and hurl them out into traffic, instead. How about that?
“Thanks anyway, but my father’s picking me up,” I say, and hand him his change. “I’ll tell him you offered, though. You spell it H-A-N-S-O-N, right?” I meet his alarmed gaze with a tight, pointed smile. “Have a nice night.”
He leaves huffy and without saying good-bye, and although I know Eva needs every customer she can get, I really hope he never comes back.
Seven o’clock. Finally.
I slip on my jacket, turn off the lights, lock the door and step out into the twilight, where, to my surprise, my mother and not my father is waiting.
Chapter 7
I can hear her music pulsing from here. I open the car door and get pummeled by the relentless, bouncing bass line.
It’s the Gap Band’s “Burn Rubber on Me.”
Not a good sign.
“Hi,” I say cautiously, sliding into the passenger seat, lowering the volume and becoming very busy buckling my seat belt because all I can think is that the bus driver filed a complaint against me with the principal and they called my mother into school. “I thought Daddy was picking me up. What, did you get off work early today?”
“Yes,” she says, and gives me a slight, preoccupied smile, a strand of chestnut hair too long to be a bang but too short to be tucked behind her ear falling into her face. “Vinnie came by. He and your father are out in the wood shop working on your hope chest.” She glances in the rearview mirror and pulls away from the cleaner’s.
“No kidding,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Great.” My father’s been building me a hope chest, not exactly something I’m dying to have —that would be a car, or at least the money to buy one—but back when I turned sixteen my mother got it into her head that we needed a tradition and so he’s been working on it in his spare time, drilling, sanding and whatever else goes into it. I don’t know; I’m not allowed to see it till it’s done which is fine, as I don’t have anything to put in it, anyway.
“Yes,” she says absently, pausing at the stop sign. “It’s an excellent distraction from all of this.”
“All of what?” I say in a tone of doom as we pull out onto the road. “What else has happened?”
And then she tells me about the video going viral and the ongoing fallout, how even though my father’s response time was stellar—thirty-eight seconds to arrive once the call was dispatched—and he did all he could in the twelve short minutes he was there, the media was focusing on why the local PD allowed a beat cop untrained in crisis negotiations to handle such a delicate situation.
There was no budget-cut angle at all.
“Liars,” I mutter as we make the right onto Victory Lane.
Worse, they totally ignored the fact that if my father hadn’t kept Corey talking he probably would have gone over the side much sooner, before the cops even had a chance to establish a perimeter and stop traffic down below on the highway, clearing space so that if he did jump, he wouldn’t land on the windshield of some poor, oblivious soccer mom driving along in a minivan full of kids, causing a major pileup and taking even more innocent people with him.
No, they totally skipped that part.
And then, my mother says, besides my father writing a detailed report and briefing the brass, having to recall every single moment of that wretched call over and over again, basically defending himself for doing his job, thanks to the media and mounting public pressure, the department has decided to launch an internal investigation on whether he violated procedure in any way. Until it’s complete and he’s exonerated, they’re taking him off of the road and assigning him to a desk.
“Are you serious?” I say in disbelief.
“Oh yes,” my mother says bitterly, flicking on the signal light to turn into our driveway. “I mean, public relations are everything, right? So what if the murderer is already dead; people are still howling for someone to blame, so why not sacrifice a highly decorated officer with almost twenty years of experience behind him just to toss the mob their pound of flesh?” She turns up the driveway and parks next to the porch behind my father’s Blazer. “Disgusting.” Shuts off the engine and opens her door. Starts to slide out, pauses and looks back at me. “Do you know why I came home from work early today?”
I nod. “Because everybody’s got something to say about Daddy all of a sudden, right?”
“Rowan, I never came so close to hitting an old lady in my life.” She scrubs a hand across her forehead as if it’s all too much. “Do you remember Grandma’s friend Mrs. Thomas?”
“The short one with the chameleon eyes and glasses who sticks her nose into everybody else’s business,” I say, nodding. “Sure.”
“Well, she stopped into the library today and just had to come up to me while I was busy checking out a stack of books for someone else and just as loud as she possibly could, said, ‘You poor thing, it’s such a disgrace. You must be so humiliated and embarrassed for your husband.’” She looks across the car at me, her face in shadows. “And in that instant I swear to you, my hand came up and I almost slapped her right across the face. Thank God I caught myself in time.” She gathers her purse and keys but doesn’t move to get out. “I don’t know what happened. I dealt with rude comments all day about that video and didn’t lose my temper, but at that moment . . . I’m not a violent person, you know that, but the way she said it, with this nasty kind of glee—”
“I know, I yelled at our crackhead bus driver today, too,” I confess, and if I get grounded for it, well then I just do. “She insulted Daddy really bad and it was like, the last straw.” I bite my lip and glance over at her, hating to ask but needing to know. “Mom, do you think he really did everything he—”
“Yes,” she says firmly. “I do, Rowan. He’s always gone above and beyond, especially for children, and I believe he did everything he possibly could to save them both.”
“I do too, but . . .” I sit for a moment, fingers knotted in indecision. “Oh, crap.” I pull out my phone and quickly go online to the local news site. “Can I show you something?” I find the page that’s killing me and hand it to my mother. “Read the comments.”
“Sweet Jesus,” she murmurs as she sees the headline, then scrolls down to the comments section.
Infant Dies, Police Watch Powerless
stupid fuckn pig why didn he taze him tazers work I been tzed 2x it works
Tthat cop shud rezine n shame
How could he not save the baby? He should be fired and mad to pay for the funral.
the wrong guy went over the side!!!!!!!!!!!!
He is just as guilty of murder as the father and should be hung they will both goto hellfor killing that baby jesus loves children god will judge them
east mills pd is a joke lame ass cops dont do dick
And on, and on.
She reads in silence and abruptly closes the screen. “Don’t show this to your father.”
; “Like I would,” I say, taking the phone back and shoving it in my purse. “God, it would kill him.” I don’t mean that literally, of course; my father’s been cursed out by the general public a thousand times before and has always seemed to let it roll right off of him because it comes with the territory. What I mean is that it would just make him feel worse than he already does because no one is ever as hard on my father as he is on himself.
“What are people thinking when they post things like that? I mean, just because we can be cruel doesn’t mean we should. Doesn’t anyone think before they hit send anymore?”
“Nope. People are twisted, Mom. Daddy knows. He deals with them every day.”
“It’s a wonder he’s not an alcoholic,” my mother murmurs, shaking her head. “Well, let’s just keep this to ourselves. He doesn’t need any more grief right now.” She stops. “And don’t post anything back.” She catches my mulish look. “Rowan, look at those comments. There’s no use trying to explain anything. They don’t want to understand. They just want to wave their pitchforks and feel superior. Don’t engage them.”
“But why should they be able to get away with saying stuff like that? It’s not right. Somebody should defend him.”
“We are,” my mother says quietly. “And we’re doing it in the way that’ll help him the most. So just let it be, Rowan. Please.”
I hesitate, frustrated but struck by the worry in her gaze. “All right, I won’t say anything online.”
“Thank you,” she says, not seeming to notice my choice of words. “Now let’s go warm up the rest of the lasagna so we can eat.”
“Okay.” And as I slide out of the car and follow her up the steps it hits me that despite all the bad stuff that just keeps happening, getting home still feels like a giant, welcome exhale after holding your breath all day.
The sunporch light is on, the windows open, and Stripe is sitting inside on the sill. The night is quiet, the lights are glowing in my father’s wood shop out back and the breeze is soft, clean and carrying the spicy scent of fresh-cut pine. I pause on the step, holding open the screen as my mother unlocks the inside door and then follow her into the porch. I love this old house with its warm, comfy, unflappable personality, quirky room layout and funky little sunporch tacked onto the side of the kitchen like an indulgent afterthought.
I hang my jacket on the wall hook next to my father’s crisp, blue police department windbreaker, pry off my shoes and nudge them between my mother’s kicked-off sensible black work pumps and my father’s worn brown slipper moccasins. “Hey, handsome.” I scoop Stripe off the sill and his rumbling purr vibrates deep into my bones. My father found this cat eight years ago, alone, abandoned and starving, a scrawny, terrified kitten dodging trucks and living under a Dumpster in the industrial area. Stripe was so weak that all my father had to do was walk over, pick him up and bring him home.
Not quite as dramatic as Daisy’s rescue from Iraq, but not bad.
“Lucky cat,” I whisper as he kneads my collarbone and nuzzles my temple.
And I have an odd, fleeting thought: Lucky me, too.
Chapter 8
I give in and text Nadia that night: sorry. I miss you.
Me too xoxo, she texts back. Having pizza with Brett. Talk tomorrow?
I gaze at that for a long moment, then sigh and text, Sure.
But we don’t because I’m at work all day Saturday and she’s out with Brett on Saturday night and Sunday. I don’t see her again until Monday morning at school, where Brett lets go of her long enough so we can hug in the courtyard, have our happy, public reunion and be friends again. She laughs and chatters, I smile and nod, we snap a few BFF shots for our pages.
She never brings up the video or asks about my father, and I never mention anything that really matters to me, and it hurts my heart.
Chapter 9
What a difference two weeks make, and not in a good way.
It’s the Thursday after the Thursday Eli was supposed to pick up his—
“Don’t forget the inside pocket,” Eva croaks from the next counter.
I look at her blankly, then down at the suit jacket I’m pinning.
“You didn’t check the inside pocket,” she says, and pauses to blow her nose for the hundredth time, leaving her nostrils damp, chapped and painfully red. “I was watching.”
Of course she was. Even with her pollen allergies raging, her eyes swollen to bloodshot cracks and her being so dizzy she tilts sideways while waiting on customers, she just won’t give in and go home and let me work the counter again alone.
Probably because of stuff like this.
“Sorry,” I say, and, reopening the jacket, stick my hand in the inner pocket, my fingers searching and closing around—of course—a pen. I’m tempted to leave it there, both to deny her the satisfaction of being right and to finally get myself fired—third time’s a charm, right?—but I need the money, and so some stubborn spark of pride makes me pull it out and hold it up. “Good call.” I drop it in an envelope and staple it to his ticket.
“Every morning I tell Helga the same thing: You have to check the pockets,” she announces hoarsely, pounding a gnarled fist on the counter for emphasis, and then sneezes into her cupped hands. Looks at them, scowls and says, “Oh, hell. I need another tissue.”
“Bless you,” I call after her retreating back, and give a mighty exhale when she’s gone.
Sad to say, but this five-minute break is pretty much the one and only good thing that’s happened lately.
I only got to have one more vending-machine lunch with Eli—cheese crackers, chocolate cupcakes and Gatorade, and he bought—because he found out he was a credit short and had to make up a whole semester’s worth of senior health class in that one free period every day.
“I’ll do it, I don’t care, because I’m not going to summer school,” he said. “I just want to graduate already. I mean, being new in senior year, for like, the last couple months of school? It sucks. I would have rather graduated with my class back in Houston but after my father died my mother got it into her head to move out here closer to my grandparents, so . . .” He ran an aggravated hand over his hair. “Whatever.”
“So then this is our farewell feast,” I said, hiding my disappointment and trying to lighten his dark mood. “We should have a toast.” I lifted my Gatorade and waited until finally, lips twitching into a reluctant smile, he did the same. “What should we toast to?” I asked, hoping he’d say us.
“How about senior health?” he said dryly, tapping his plastic bottle against mine.
“Which, in case you didn’t know, is ‘Love and Sexuality,’ so here’s to you acing it.” Blushing, I tapped bottles right back and hoped he wouldn’t notice the heat in my cheeks.
“Is it really?” he said after a moment, giving me an owlish look.
“Yup,” I said, becoming very busy reading the label on the bottle.
“Are you in that class, too?” he said after a long moment.
“I’m not a senior,” I said, and that seemed to kill the subject, as we moved on to what was happening with my father—nothing good—and then the bell rang and lunch was over. I’ve seen him walking down the hall a few times since then, once with a senior girl who, if you listen to gossip, could supposedly teach sexuality, and he always looked happy to see me but we haven’t really talked at all and—
A phone rings, startling me, and I’m halfway to the landline when I realize it’s Eva’s cell.
She really should get a ringtone.
I roll up the suit and stuff it into a Monday bin. Nod at Eva wiping her nose and grumbling into her phone, and head out front. Grab the next bundle and unroll it. Police uniforms. I glance at the name on the ticket.
Lieutenant Walters.
Ugh.
I count the pieces—two pants, two shirts and a tie—and search his pockets, grimly hoping to find something scandalous like a condom, weed or a receipt from the shabby little No-Tell Motel out on the highway, which adv
ertises hourly rates.
Anything I can put in an envelope and staple to his ticket, watch his face when he picks up his uniforms and opens it. Something that will remind him of how bad it sucks when you try to do everything right and then one small, random act changes the way people look at you forever.
But my search turns up nothing. He did what he was supposed to do, was responsible, followed the correct procedure, and so his pockets are empty; there is nothing there to tarnish his reputation, nothing incriminating to discover.
And that’s exactly how he trained my father twenty years ago, to be thorough, do right, follow procedure . . . So how can he stand being part of the internal investigation now, when he knows my father didn’t do anything wrong?
“Asshole,” I whisper, viciously balling up his uniforms and striding back to shove them into a bin.
A dog barks outside.
I look up to see Eli, Daisy and a short, sturdy, dark-haired girl with blond tips who looks vaguely familiar walking toward me across the parking lot.
Oh God, he has a girlfriend?
“Interesting,” Eva rumbles from right behind me, making me jump. “Grief certainly does make strange bedfellows.”
“What?” I glance back at her, puzzled.
“That’s Eli Gage and Payton Well, together,” Eva says, giving me a look. “Don’t you watch the news?”
“Yeah, and I’ve already met Eli but . . .” I look back, trying not to be obvious, and she’s right. That is Sammy’s mother. I only saw her in the funeral clip and she looks really different in jeans and a tank.
“I’ll wait on them,” Eva says, nudging me toward the back.
Eli spots me and, smiling, lifts a hand in greeting.
I smile and return his wave.
“Go in the back,” Eva says, tweezing her tissue from her sleeve and dabbing at her nose. “I don’t want you involved in a scene.”
What is she talking about? “Why would there be a scene?” I’ve been waiting to talk to Eli again, actually dreamed about him once and—