“Hello,” the boy said, his voice the same as my son’s. “My name is Stephen.”
My heart walloped again—huge and fluttery—stopping time. I was talking to Michael’s boy, my grandson. Another tear needled, and I quickly dried my eyes. Emotions welled and turned my insides to jello just as a young woman widened the door. A beautiful woman, she had reddish-blonde hair flowing over her shoulders and onto the front of her chest. Her eyes found mine and were bright green and majestic and held a hard look of concern in them as she reached for the boy.
“Can I help you?” she asked, stopping short when I stood up. I knew the look. I could tell the woman recognized me. Just be honest.
“Hi, I’m Amy, Michael’s—” I began, but the woman wrapped her hand around her boy, picking him up and eased the door until there was just a mere sliver remaining open. I stepped back, unsure of what to do or if I should say anything. Sweat needled my scalp, the back of my neck becoming damp under the hot sunlight. I leaned forward, putting my ear toward the door and tried to listen.
“Babe, can you come to the door?” I heard Michael’s wife ask. I’m assuming it was his wife—the boy had her hair and chin, while the rest was all Michael. “It’s important.”
Footsteps approached, and anxiety edged like a climb to the top of a rollercoaster’s peak. My heart was pounding. I straightened my shoulders and back and tried to put on a smile. The door swung open to reveal a tall man, his eyes the same as those I’d remembered, but they were older, wiser. He had a handsome, mature face with a square jaw and furrowed brow, a full head of hair that had gone salty gray on the sides. He let out a sigh as his eyes traveled the length of me. I lifted my hand to wave, unable to say anything.
“I’d heard you’d been released,” he said in a deep voice that lacked emotion. “But I didn’t expect to see you.”
“Hi Michael,” I said, stretching my smile until it hurt. “You look good, all grown—”
“Can I help you with something?” he asked, shifting his stance, uninterested in my words.
“I . . . I wanted to see you,” I got out, my smile fading as I reached for his hand. He turned his body away from mine. I pulled back and wiped the sweat from my head, the heat on his porch becoming insane. “I needed to see you.”
“Needed?” he asked, raising his voice briefly before a hand delicately appeared on his shoulder. While I couldn’t see inside, couldn’t see past the dim light of the interior, his wife and son were standing near him—their mottled figures blurred behind the door’s jeweled glass. “You’ve never needed no one, and you never needed to see me before now.”
“Could—” I began, but my voice broke with emotion. “Could I come in for a minute—” I tried to ask, fanning the heat from my head.
“There’s nothing for you here,” he interrupted, his head shaking as his face disappeared behind the door briefly.
I heard mumblings, I heard Michael’s wife telling him to invite me in. My heart lifted a moment, and I leaned up onto my toes, straining eagerly to hear more. I stepped closer and added, “I’d love to come in, to talk for a few minutes, meet your family . . . Your—”
“There’s nothing for you here,” he repeated, his head appearing again. I stepped back when he raised his hand and began shutting the door.
“Wait!” I yelled, my voice breaking again. I’d made a terrible mistake keeping my children away, I knew that now. “I should have let you see me. I couldn’t though. But I’m here now.”
“But I don’t need you now,” he said firmly, his lips trembling. The tears needled, threatening. And my insides shook uncontrollably. His words knifed my heart, but I couldn’t blame him. He was hurting. He stepped away from the door, adding, “So, if there’s nothing else.” I could hear the resignation in his voice and let out a cry. As much as I’d told myself not to, as much as I tried to stop it, the tears came anyway.
“Please?” I blurted
“Why now?” he asked, his chin quivered and his eyes welled. Briefly, I saw my eight-year-old little boy, and it broke my heart. I wanted to hold him the way I used to, the way I’d calm him after a skinned knee or a missed soccer goal. I tried to reach for him again, but he pulled away and started closing the door. I quickly retreated, knowing I couldn’t bear to have the door shut on my face. “Why do you want to talk now? Why not twenty years ago, or even ten?”
“I’m so sorry, Michael,” I told him. All of my efforts to remain composed were lost. I cried and raised my hands, my body shook as I offered another apology.
“Well, it’s a little late now.”
“Is it?” I asked, pleading. “It doesn’t have to be?”
“Mom—” Michael began, swiping at his face before stepping back inside.
“Please, Michael,” I said, raising my voice. “Please. I want to talk.” But my last words came out in sobs as he shut the door.
I was heartbroken.
THIRTEEN
I DID NOTHING AFTER my son shut the door on me. I stood on the porch of his house, staring blankly at his door wondering if I should leave or try again. I didn’t want to push in case I could come back—giving him some space, some time to think about me might be all he needed. But there was that word again. Time. In my head, I heard the prison wall clock ticking like a time bomb, exploding like a tree splitting as the second hand chased the first around the empty face.
“We never get our time back,” I mumbled, raising my hand to knock. “Now is the time.”
I knocked twice and paced, waiting. I followed the subtle movements I saw through the decorative glass, but nobody came. I heard their voices too. It was faint, but I heard Michael’s wife, heard her calming words and his son’s inquisitive questions. And I heard Michael crying. That was the hardest part, hearing him cry like that. I did this to him and doubted he’d ever let me make it up to him.
“She’s nobody,” Michael answered his son at one point. I eased down from the porch, feeling rejected and hurt. “Go on and play and stay away from the door.”
Michael’s words cut deep and made me feel lower than dirt. His wife and son listened to him, moving on, moving about their day and forgetting the woman at the door. But when Michael was alone again, he stood at the door. Did he see me? I raised my hand to wave, hoping he did. With the sun behind me, the sunshine threw my shadow into his foyer. From inside, my silhouette was thrown into the room, like some kind ghost, which is all I’d been most of his life. He moved. And for a moment I thought he would open the door. Maybe he’d wanted to be alone when he saw me? Maybe he had something to say and didn’t want his family around.
“But I’m your family,” I muttered and gave another wave, biting my lip, my head dripping with sweat and my insides feeling torn. “Michael?”
His figure rocked from one foot to the other, the same way he’d done as a child whenever he’d been nervous and unsure. He took a step, and I bit down harder on my lip, watching as he reached for the door. He was a foot away from me, his face becoming clearer from behind the ornate glass. The sound of sliding metal and a heavy thunk came then, a deadbolt drowning my hopes. Michael turned and disappeared. He’d considered opening the door. I was sure of it. But then he changed his mind. For just one moment, I know my son wanted to talk to me. And that gave me the smallest bit of hope.
“Tell yourself that,” I argued, turning toward the car. I stepped around the robot grass mower and climbed into the car, glancing back just long enough to see Michael’s son at the window staring out and watching me. There were tears on my cheeks and I brushed them away before giving the little boy a smile and a wave. He was my grandson, and I wanted to know him, to love him the way grandmothers are supposed to. He briefly looked over his shoulder, checking to see if he was alone, and when he was certain, he returned a wave and offered a toothy grin. “Maybe one day I’ll know you.”
“White Bear Tavern,” I told the driverless car, closing my door and sitting in the chilled air until my skin cooled. A shiver came as though I’
d had a fever, but the fierce heat on the porch had been too much. My head throbbed, my brain pounding with a rapid pulsing.
“Pruno,” I said, which was slammer slang for wine. I needed a drink, or ten. A warm memory of the Bear’s whiskey goodness came then and my mouth watered. It was a far cry from prune and my liver would thank me for the upgrade. I’d need the whiskey goodness too if Snack’s reception was anything like her brother’s.
“We will reach your destination in twenty minutes,” the computer told me and drove.
I wasn’t sure when I’d see Michael or his family again, but could hope that his seeing me might be enough to stir something . . . anything. I checked my phone for Michael’s contact information, wondering if there was an email address. There wasn’t. Had email gone the way of the dinosaur? I checked Brian’s contact information too, comparing them.
“Brian, any chance you forgot Michael’s email address?” I asked aloud. I laughed before the computer could answer, knowing Brian wouldn’t have missed on any details. My first thought was the correct one—email had become extinct. Instead, I could video, text, voice, but no email. I clicked the text message button and sent Michael a short note.
Hi Michael, it’s Mom. I hope this message reaches you.
I’m sorry you did not want to speak with me, but I’m available if you change your mind.
You have a beautiful family and I’d like to meet them one day.
With love, Mom.
FOURTEEN
BY THE TIME I’D arrived at the edge of the city border, I recognized the streets, recognized where the shootout occurred and where my daughter was calling home these days. We were a minute away from the White Bear Tavern and a flurry of nerves stirred the way nerves stir, leaving me to feel antsy and fretful. This was the one place I’d never have expected to see again in my lifetime, let alone visit, hoping to find my daughter. The car parked, and I exited to the smell of city traffic while stepping over a litter of broken glass. The tavern’s door hadn’t changed and I let out my breath and stopped. Should I reconsider going in? I needed courage and couldn’t hesitate like I had at Michael’s—a place like the White Bear would sense my fear. If the Wilts gang was there, they’d smell it on me and turn like dogs. I’d be devoured.
“This place shouldn’t even exist,” I said, swinging the thick door open and stepping onto its threshold. Like my office above Carlos’, the tavern was a step back in time—a single room hanging off the front door, centered on a large bar, surrounded by the same high-backed seats from twenty years earlier. From behind a stretch of oak, an old biker lifted the point of his chin in my direction, quickly dismissing me, uninterested, and went back to cleaning a glass. A staircase separated the bar from where seated booths and a dance floor had once been. Back then, the Bear had opened the floor to cater to a local college crowd, luring them in, selling them just about anything they wanted. There was no sign of the college kids now—the booths were recessed into darkness and the dance floor was gone.
I peered toward the stairs and to the small broom closet beneath where I executed the contract on Todd Wilts, killing him for having destroyed Brian’s baby sister. My eyes stayed fixed on it as an itchy tingle warmed my fingers. I’d killed in that room, setting into motion a series of destructive events that I could have never seen coming.
“Debt is paid,” I mumbled, pushing passed the regret as I glanced over to the other side of the bar. The space was new, a second room, with tables and booths lining the walls—it was an extension, maybe an eatery. I met a few of the upturned faces, their curiosity waning in favor of their liquid spirits.
But in the corner, out of the light of the main room, I saw the bikers, the members of the Wilts gang. They weren’t hard to miss either. And once they saw I was a nobody, they went about their business. Their murmurs grew into a chatter and soon into a constant thrum that was the heartbeat of the White Bear—loud and obnoxious—just as I’d expected. They huddled around stout tables, each gang member looking more dangerous than the next. Tall mugs cradled their rough hands—hardened like leather from the years of biker sun and wind. The men sat squatly with their shoulders hunched, their bodies covered in black-tanned hides as women clung to their thick, tattooed arms. And while they seemed consumed by their own voices, every movement, every motion in the bar was followed by their eyes—white beads shifting in the dark. There were local girls with them too, but these weren’t the college kids I remembered. These were young girls too naïve to know the dangerous flames they were playing with. They were innocent moths, and if they fly to close, they’d singe and burn like Brian’s baby sister. I searched the girl’s faces, looking for Snacks, but thankfully didn’t see her.
A few hard stares remained on me, and an annoyed muttering came next, complaining about the daylight I’d left bleeding in from the street. I closed the door and stepped up to the bar, careful to keep my head down and not to trade any more glances. I didn’t want to let on that I was looking for someone. Prison life taught me that—never invite trouble. I side-eyed the run of stools along the bar, up and down and then turned briefly to check the booths. It was still too dark to see, even after my eyes adjusted. There was no sign of my daughter anywhere—not that I’d know for sure upon seeing her. I could only hope I’d recognize her. I’d like to think a mother would always recognize their child, but that might just be wishful thinking on my part or from some stupid fairytale.
“You’re not here,” I mumbled, uncertain if I should be disappointed or relieved. I stayed for a few minutes, hopeful she might arrive.
The smell of cigarettes and stale beer was faint, having been replaced with new smells I didn’t recognize. But there was one scent I’d always remember. Whiskey. And a shot of the Bear’s whiskey sounded great about now. I eased up onto a stool, sliding my hand along the bar’s wood finish, feeling sentimental as I tried to forget the disappointment brought on by my visit to Michael’s home.
The bartender put down the glasses he’d been cleaning and turned in my direction. He was a thin man with a sparse hair tied back in a salty gray bun. He whipped the air with a ratty towel mottled in stains and then hung it over his shoulder. He nudged his chin, asking “What ’ya have?”
“A shot of White Bear,” I answered firmly. I wasn’t sure why I’d answered with White Bear, knowing the whiskey had disappeared soon after I went to prison—another consequence of my killing Todd Wilts. But who knows, maybe the Wilts moonshine business was back up and running. “Make it a double.”
The bartender flung the towel from his shoulder, slapping the end onto the bar and wiped the place before placing a glass tumbler in front of me.
“White Bear?” he asked, cocking his head to the side and squinting. “You come up from around here? Maybe few dozen years back?” He pursed his lips, struggling to recognize my face. I felt a cold rush in my blood, a chill settling when I saw the Wilts family resemblance in the man’s face. He had the same pointed chin and widow’s peak as Todd Wilts’ father, the matriarch of the gang. I couldn’t be certain if the bartender was an immediate relation, but he was surely a Wilts family member. And if he knew who I was, he’d give me more than a shot of whiskey. I’d never leave the tavern alive.
“Might say so,” I told him. “Was a time when White Bear was the only whiskey to order.”
“Damn right,” he agreed proudly and put a second glass down to pair up with mine. “Shame it ain’t around anymore, but maybe you’ll like this one. It’s from my private stash and comes from the same family recipe. That recipe is generations old . . . gotta be one-hundred and twenty years.”
“Like the proof,” I joked. The man stopped and studied my face again, causing me to pause. He slapped the bar and let out a raucous laugh. I quickly added, “Strong. And smooth.”
He nodded agreeably, still chuckling and reached beneath the bar to reveal a glass jug identical to the White Bear whiskey bottle I remembered, save for the missing label. The bar’s overhead light danced on the surf
ace of the whiskey, glinting a moonshine spark as he shook it up and watched the air bubbles dissipate. “That’s how you check the proof. Give’er a shake and watch the bubbles. We want them bubbles running as if they afraid for their lives,” he let out another laugh and poured the spirit into each glass.
“To the Bear,” I said, clinking my glass against his. “And to the best damn whiskey this side of the Mississippi.” I was feeling nostalgic, and the bartender didn’t seem to mind.
He gave a firm nod, licking his lips, adding, “The country . . . best whiskey in all the Country.”
“Country,” I agreed and drank down half the glass. My throat burned and my gut became hot as though I’d just eaten a fiery coal, but the taste was a dreamy memory I’d longed for. I held onto some whiskey, swirling it around my mouth until the toffee flavor numbed my tongue. “Delicious.”
“Another?” he asked, lifting his brow until lines creased his forehead. I nodded gratefully. “We’ll split one more, but then I’ll have to give you the other stuff.”
“Appreciate you sharing with me,” I told him, enjoying the conversation and feeling the heat from the shot ease through my body.
“Don’t get many who know about the Bear’s whiskey,” he said as he filled our glasses. “Gotta say, I enjoy talking the history.”
We drank again, and I thumped the glass down, swallowing a mouthful. My body buzzed, and a craving ticked off inside me for more.
“Another,” I said, and then let out a laugh, “I’m not driving.”
“Driving?” he asked, giving me a coy look. “Damn right, you’re not. Against the law. Damn AI. Artificial Intelligence, my ass. Boy I miss being able to drive my car. What’er they take next, AI to shit and piss for ya?” He replaced the White Bear whiskey with another bottle and poured me a fresh shot. I didn’t comment, but drank it down with my eyes shut and waited for the burn to settle. A buzz was going to my head fast, and I warned myself to be careful.
Grave Mistakes_A Deadly Vigilante Crime Thriller Page 7