by Rayne Lacko
Carter reckoned it’d be best to give up on a hopeless case like Piper and go to the airport right then, even though his flight wasn’t till after ten that night. If Mr. Ledbetter hadn’t been able to get through to her over the years, what could Carter do in an afternoon?
Mitch reached into the back pocket of his sun-washed jeans and pulled out a brown leather wallet. He counted out two hundred and fifty dollars and folded the stack of bills in half, offering it to Carter. “For the recipe.” He nodded and placed it in Carter’s palm. “It’d mean a lot to me if you showed her how to make it.”
The money made him feel like he’d accomplished something of value, all on his own. When he finally made it home to Mama, he was going to be more independent and, better yet, capable, able to take care of his own. He’d never steal from her again. “Thanks, Mr. Keller, for everything,” he said, meeting his eye. The money was the smallest portion of what the man had given him over the past three weeks. The truth was, Mitch had been a real friend to him from the moment he’d fallen into The Little Yucca. All he’d ever asked of Carter was to give his best effort.
But Carter had to ask one question, “Why do you do it?” He gestured through the window of The Desert Willow. “She says she doesn’t want your help, but you keep giving it.”
Mitch’s gaze followed Piper as she moved from table to table. At last he replied, “Love doesn’t walk away.”
If Mitch was right, Carter wondered whether showing up on his father’s doorstep would be hard or easy. “I never met anyone like you, sir. And I reckon there ought to be more Mitch Kellers in the world.”
Mitch squeezed his shoulder. “You’re a good kid. We hope to see you around The Yucca again someday.”
Carter’s smile faded. He wasn’t a good kid. He’d stolen money from his mother and he was as homesick as a knee baby, but he couldn’t call his mom because he’d have to lie to her again about where he was. Maybe it was best he refuse the recipe money.
Mitch saw the doubt on his face and pulled the boy into a hug with a good thump on his back. Short on words, he turned Carter by the shoulders and nudged him back toward The Desert Willow’s front door.
Inside, Piper was straightening up after the lunch crowd. For just a moment, Carter was jealous. If a man like Mitch had married his mother instead of Piper’s, he’d sure be grateful for having a stepfather who actually cared about him.
Paying it forward: Carter knew that was when you did someone a favor because someone else did something to help you. It was kind of Mitch to pay him for his recipe. He knew he ought to teach it to Piper simply because Mitch was a good man, and he couldn’t let down Mr. Ledbetter either. “I’ve got it from here, sir,” Carter said at last. Mitch tipped the rim of his cowboy hat and walked back to his truck.
When Carter stepped back into the restaurant, Piper motioned for him to sit down. A plate rattled on the low table in front of him. On it sat Piper’s infamous fudge brownie with might-kill-you walnuts. She went back to spraying down tables, humming to herself as she worked. Carter picked up the fork and dug in. It was perfect. Granted, he hadn’t eaten a home-baked brownie since before the tornadoes, but this one was special. Moist, and dark as a starless sky. Something went off in Carter’s brain—fireworks or carnival game bells or the velvet explosion of holding Kaia’s hand in his, Carter couldn’t tell which and it didn’t matter. This brownie was her secret weapon, he figured. The mysterious jewel luring customers back when Piper’s personality made them swear an oath never to return to The Desert Willow.
In the kitchen, Carter demonstrated his recipe from memory. Piper made notes on ingredients, measurements, and cooking time. She asked how he went about harvesting petals, and Carter lifted his Poly Virus tee to show her the scratches on his midsection. Nothing worth doing came easy.
By late afternoon, the restaurant was empty. Piper’s quiet hum in the dining area morphed to full-on singing in the privacy of her kitchen. Carter knew she wasn’t singing for his benefit. He was pretty sure she didn’t care what he thought of her one way or the other, but he liked her sound. It made her seem less of a psychopath, at least by a small measure.
“Any chance Mr. Ledbetter taught you to sing like that?” Mitch may know a thing or two about how to run a watering hole, but Carter couldn’t imagine him breaking out in song.
“Is that old has-been still hanging around?”
Her comment caught Carter by surprise. He couldn’t imagine anyone saying a bad word about Ledbetter and came to the old man’s defense. “What do you mean, has-been?”
“He used to be a big studio musician, toured with all the old rock legends back in the day. But he never kept a dollar in his pocket. Blew all his money,” she said, her words bitter as a raw yucca petal. “Mitch likes to play Lord and Savior to the desperate and pathetic.”
“He was there for me when I needed him.” Carter felt himself getting angry. Was she calling him desperate and pathetic? “And from where I stand, Mitch Keller’s still there for you.”
“Yeah?” She gave Carter a long, hard look that told him that conversation was over. “Well, I don’t need his help.”
He wanted to argue, but earlier that morning he would have agreed with her. “I thought his idea of help was beyond annoying when I first met him. But he surprised me, you know?” Making peace between Mitch and Piper was going to take patience, and patience required time he didn’t have. His flight took off in five hours.
Piper nibbled the fried yucca flowers, considering the boy. “What I do need,” she said at last, “are creative ideas like this recipe of yours. Rice and mesquite flour are both gluten-free; my customers will like that. So, did you serve them on a plate or upright in a cup like fries?”
“Neither. Served them in a plastic basket lined with parchment.”
She rolled her eyes slower than cream rising on buttermilk, then selected some dishes of varying sizes and shapes from a shelf. “To the customer, half the flavor depends on how it looks,” she said. Carter nodded. It sounded like something his father would say about faking confidence on stage.
Arranging the petals into a tiny sculpture, Piper made Carter’s dish look like art on a plate. Carter tried to create his own design, but his looked more like he was arranging kindling for a campfire.
A shadow appeared in the slit of light under the closed kitchen door. Piper twitched. Just a slight nervous squirm, but Carter caught it. The door swung open and a man stepped in. At first Carter thought he was a cop. His hair was cut close to his scalp and tanned biceps stretched the short cuffs of what looked like a police officer’s starched white uniform shirt. Built like a brick wall everywhere but his face, Carter couldn’t help but stare at his double chin squeezing over his starched collar.
Under her breath, Piper told Carter, “Playtime’s over. Clean up your mess.” She stacked all the dirty dishes, rattling them as she scurried over to the dishwasher.
“Where you been?” said the man.
Had Piper called the cops on him? Carter thought about making a break for the door. He couldn’t miss his flight. The big man moved toward him and Carter hurried to patch together an adequate explanation for why he was halfway across the country without parental supervision.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
PIPER REACHED UP ON HER TIPPY-TOES AND kissed the man’s cheek. “Hey, babe. How was your day?” Her voice spiked an octave higher. Carter held his breath, hoping maybe he was Piper’s boyfriend and not a cop after all.
“Same crap, different day,” he replied, swinging open the kitchen’s large stainless-steel commercial fridge and grabbing a beer. Nope, not a cop. Reflective wraparound sunglasses sat backward on his broad shoulders, holding on for dear life to his flabby, sunburned neck. He tossed the beer cap over the trash can and into the sink Carter had just begun scrubbing. “Who’s the brat?” he asked, taking a sip that drained the bottle by half.
“My stepdad’s new kid,” Piper lied. “Name’s Crater” She laughed a cruel laugh. “
Isn’t that right, Crater?”.
Piper had a bully streak and Carter didn’t like it. He cleared his throat, unsure what to say.
“Your big-boy words stuck in your throat, Crater?” The man laughed, throwing a polyester suit jacket with an embroidered security company logo onto the disinfected countertop. Above the left breast pocket was the name Willard.
“I hear y’all are fixing to get married,” Carter managed at last, picking up his guitar case and eyeing the door. Best he found that bus Mitch had told him about, and sooner rather than later.
“Yeah; what of it?” Willard asked. “What else did Keller tell you?”
“Nothing. Just being polite is all.” Carter got the feeling the guy was picking a fight. What’s his deal?
“Bet he didn’t tell you people around here call me a hero.” Piper’s fiancé finished the bottle and grabbed another beer. “Saved Piper here from a misdemeanor assault with potential felony endangerment written all over it, but even that wasn’t good enough for old Mitch Keller.”
“Willard, sweetheart?” Piper said, her voice barely a squeak. “I’m running short on inventory, babe.” Where was her couldn’t-care-less attitude? Carter wondered. Where was the voice that carried her singing strong and true? And what was with all the babes?
He set the bottle down, but Carter could tell it bugged him. Willard busied himself with scratching at the peeling sunburn on his forearm with ragged fingernails bitten down to nothing. When he noticed Carter’s eye on him, he took it as a challenge. Willard picked up the bottle again and pulled a long swig. “I’ll drink whatever I want to drink when I want it,” he said and chugged the rest, setting the empty bottle on the counter, this time right in front of Piper.
Carter swept his hair back from his eyes. There was a part of him that was curious. He wanted a reason to like the man, if only for Mitch’s peace of mind. “Mitch didn’t tell me that story. But I’d like to hear it if you got the time.”
Willard didn’t need much in the way of encouragement. He edged toward Carter, demonstrating his moment of glory. “I spotted two shady-looking losers who had this chick cornered in a parking lot at the mall, right? I didn’t know Piper back then, total stranger.” Willard stood a few inches shorter than Carter but carried twice the boy’s weight in muscle. “I heard her scream. One of them had her by the wrists. I ran fast as I could, pulled my five-fingered weapons,” he showed Carter his clenched fists, “and laid waste to both of them.” Even though Piper was all the way across the room, she cowered from his raised hands. “Piper learned fast to respect what these hands can do. We’ve been together ever since.”
Carter stood still as a cactus against the kitchen sink, looking back and forth between them. Lola May’s ex-husband Wayne liked to solve problems with his fists, too. Carter wagered the bruises on Piper’s back were Willard’s doing. But it didn’t make sense. Mitch said he taught Piper how to fight.
“I saved this girl’s life and delivered justice on the spot. And what was my reward? Got kicked out of the police academy and served time for aggravated assault. Judge sent me to jail; can you believe that? Our justice system protects the criminals, but it won’t stop me from setting things right.” Willard’s doughy face twisted into a grin. “You can tell your buddy Keller that Piper’s had enough bad men in her life to know a good one.”
If Mitch were here, he’d sure set things right, Carter reckoned. Taking a deep breath, he tried his best Mitch Keller voice: “You use those fists on Piper, too?”
Willard leaned into Carter, glaring. “What did you say, Crater?”
He could smell Willard’s beer-stained breath. Carter held his shoulders square, his knuckles white around the handle of his guitar case. Mitch had stood up to Darren Bartles for him without question. Time to pay him back. “She’s tough as a claw hammer swinging both ways,” Carter warned Willard, low but clear. “You better watch yourself.”
Willard laughed, the way a giant might laugh before crushing a bug under his boot. “She’s smart enough to stand by her man and do what she’s told,” Willard told him through gritted teeth. “Another word and I’m going to teach you who’s in charge here.” The guy readied his burling arm to throw a punch. “C’mon, just one more word.”
“Willard, he’s just a dumb kid.” Piper inched toward them, her gaze on the man’s upraised hand. “He doesn’t know a watch from a warning.”
What had Mitch told Carter? Neck, belt, nose?
“Why don’t you get on home,” Carter said as calmly as he could. He might be a kid, but he wasn’t dumb.
Carter ducked Willard’s punch when it came at him. The man swung with all his body weight, well over two hundred pounds, and the punch landed, hard. There was a sound of bone meeting bone. He hit Piper, knocking her to the rubber mat lining the concrete kitchen floor.
“I’ll call 911,” Carter breathed and raced to a phone on the wall.
“Kid, are you crazy?” Piper grabbed Carter’s ankle, stopping him, her other hand still holding the cheek where Willard’s fist had landed. “Babe,” she reassured Willard, “no one’s calling the cops. I’m fine; it was an accident. Let’s just lock up and head home. Okay, baby?”
Willard ignored her, turning to Carter in a rage. Before he knew what was happening, Willard threw him over his shoulder, firefighter style, and hauled him out to the parking lot. “Look what you made me do,” he said with a growl.
Carter held tight to his guitar, kicking and pounding on the man with the wide end of the case. Willard threw him down in the parking lot, and Piper raced up behind him. “Babe, stop. Someone will see you,” she said, her voice so thin and tight that all that got out was a high-pitched whisper. “You don’t want to get busted again.” From the parking lot, Carter could see couples and families strolling along the well-lit sidewalks in the early evening.
“He isn’t worth it.” Willard spit at the ground in front of Carter’s feet. He rose quickly and brushed off his jeans. “Get your helmet, Piper.”
She locked up the restaurant and put on a silver motorcycle helmet without another word, staring straight ahead, hard as rock. Piedra. Willard threw his leg over a black Harley-Davidson Softail, and fired up the motorcycle’s engine. Piper slipped onto the back and they peeled out of The Desert Willow’s parking lot.
Carter took off walking as fast as he could in the direction of the bus stop. When he reached the intersection, he paced anxiously waiting for the light to change. Piper was nuts. What was she doing with that guy? Why didn’t she use the fighting skills Mitch had taught her? Eyes, groin, neck, and knees. Oh great; now he remembered. Carter should have dropped Willard to the floor and run, taking Piper with him whether she wanted to go or not. She was the dumb kid, not him.
The light changed and Carter crossed the road, moving as fast as he could away from The Desert Willow. He shook his head, trying to make sense of what just happened. When a bad guy like Darren Bartles stole some tools, the cops came after him. Willard just hit Piper. Maybe that punch was meant for him, but Piper’s bruises told him Willard didn’t often miss his target. What do they call that kind of bullying, assault or battery? Piper shouldn’t marry Willard; she ought to drag the guy to jail.
Carter’s Converses came to a dead stop on the sidewalk. Wayne had dislocated Lola May’s shoulder once. If his mother hadn’t been there to stop him, it could’ve been worse. She’d helped Lola understand that she didn’t need to stay with the wrong man because she was strong enough to make it on her own. It was what friends did. He had to do something. Maybe this was his chance to help someone other than himself. He owed it to Mitch.
Chapter Thirty
CARTER PACED THE STREET, MUTTERING SOME choice words he wished he’d said to Willard—and a good lot for Piper, too. He thought about calling the police but he didn’t have any idea where she lived or even her phone number. His mother would’ve known what to do. He considered calling Mitch, but it was clear that Piper wouldn’t accept his help. Carter was sure tha
t if Piper told Mitch what Willard was doing to her, there sure wouldn’t be one solitary bruise on her back. She was keeping the abuse a secret.
Carter found the bus stop Mitch had pointed out, and sat on the bench. Across the street was a weedy, vacant lot between a dry cleaner and a liquor store. Carter wondered why no one ever filled the gap, or at least tended to the property in some way. He reckoned those weeds pushed themselves up toward the sun, died, and new weeds took their place. He was sick and tired of feeling like a helpless kid tossed around by circumstance, trying to get to the place that caused him the least amount of burden. He was fortunate to have met Mr. Ledbetter, and finding out Mitch Keller wasn’t a bad guy after all was nothing but a stroke of luck. Lola had said his mother raised him right. It was high time Carter did as he was taught by his carpenter mother: fix what was broken.
If there was one thing he’d come to see was broken, it was him. Losing music had crushed him. It was like old Ledbetter said, he had two choices: follow or fight. When he got angry enough to buy his daddy’s guitar back from Tommy, that bit of gumption paved the way for him fall in love with the Martin all over again. Music was the only thing he understood or could count on anymore. His father said the instrument was meant for him; his dang name was on it. No way he was ready to sell it, not at any price.
The bus to the airport rounded the corner and headed for his stop. Carter needed to make a decision.
The money Mitch gave him for the recipe was enough to buy another plane ticket. He didn’t want to miss seeing his father, but the only way Carter reckoned he could help Piper was to convince her to reach out to Mitch herself. He shouldn’t have let her go. Willard probably had her making his dinner under the shadow of his fist; Carter didn’t know. The plane ticket in his pocket mocked him, taunting him to give up and get on that flight and forget what he saw.
A billboard over the vacant lot featured rates for a local motel. Carter knew well enough they’d ask for a credit card or a driver’s license before they’d give him a room. He’d do just as well sleeping behind The Desert Willow. He could talk to Piper first thing in the next morning, or at least try. It was still fairly hot, even as the sun began to drop. He reckoned it couldn’t get too cold overnight in Tucson in April. But he’d been wrong about the weather before.