Candy Colored Sky

by Ginger Scott

  The police came to interview us about two hours ago, and for all the times I’ve stared out that window watching the Trombleys with a certain dash of envy, I missed seeing the most important incident of all. I was useless. We all were.

  “It’s weird watching your own front yard on the news,” Mom says, pressing the volume button on the remote to bring up the latest reports.

  The glow of our living room window can be seen behind the live shot. I crane my neck and pull the flimsy curtain panel open an inch and squint when my eyes are hit with the harsh spot on the reporter.

  “She went to my high school,” I mumble.

  “That broad?” Grandpa says. I turn back in time to see him gesture toward the television, only to have my mom smack his wrist.

  “What was that for?” He rubs his skin, then holds the chilled beer bottle against it as if her small slap actually hurt. She scowls at him, urging him to fess up to his misogyny.

  “Fine. Lady,” he grumbles. Mom clicks her teeth together and mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

  “Yeah,” I cut in, ending their semi-playful spat. “She spoke at last year’s graduation. I guess she’s the most famous person to come out of Oak Forest, or something like that.”

  “Horseshit,” Grandpa barks. Mom and I both flash our attention to him. He shrugs. “Your dad’s more famous than she is. He’s just famous among smart people, and this town is full of real idiots.”

  My mom softens to him again, reaching over and squeezing the same spot on his arm that she smacked a moment ago. She misses Dad, and she shows it in these little moments of reverence. I only wish I could feel that same awe they do. Instead, I don’t really feel anything. Other than Grandpa living here and Mom being a lot more stressed, my life hasn’t changed much in the absence of my father. I didn’t really know him. That fact does make me sad, though, because now . . . I never will.

  I take after my mom physically. She’s slender, whereas my dad was always on the stocky side. I get my height from both of them, reaching six feet by my sophomore year. The rest of me, though, is a carbon copy of my mom. Dirty blue eyes, as she calls them, and copper-brown hair that doesn’t fall straight or curl. It means when I wake up in the morning, I look like one of those pencil-toppers I used to buy at the book fair in elementary school, wild strands poking in all directions.

  I did inherit my father’s mind, and that scares me a little now that he’s gone. School has always been easy, but I have caught myself more and more obsessing on the work. My dad turned into a man who studied life rather than lived it. As much as I don’t want the same fate, it sometimes feels inevitable. My path has been carved.

  “ . . .When police showed up at the Trombley residence, they weren’t sure what to expect. They say it’s procedure to investigate missing person reports with a certain sense of skepticism. As an officer, they’re not sure what they’re walking into. Is this the case of a runaway? Abuse or domestic violence? A teen drug problem? But what law enforcement quickly learned was that none of those shoes fit the Trombley case. The problem is, they’ve never really seen anything like this before. Addy Trombley is just a little girl, last seen skating in her driveway yesterday afternoon. Seemingly, under everyone’s noses, she simply . . . vanished.”

  “Stupid,” my mom mutters at the TV, knocking back the rest of her warm tea and bolting from the other end of the sofa where she’d been sitting near Grandpa. “These news people think they’re so clever with those little sayings. None of those shoes fit the Trombley case. I mean, my God, Rick and Patricia are living a nightmare and this, this broad, is playing around with nursery rhymes while her network exploits their tragedy. It all makes me sick.”

  “Oh, so you can call her a broad,” my Grandpa says, earning an instant glare from Mom.

  “I was using it for effect,” she shoots back.

  “Well, what do you think I was using it for?”

  “Chauvinism,” she retorts.

  Grandpa and I don’t crack a smile in her presence, but the moment she leaves the room and is out of ear shot, he leans forward and cups his mouth toward me. “Don’t mess with your mother. She’s always right. And she has a mean left hook,” he jokes, rubbing his arm. I expected him to say something else at first, but he’s always quick to take up Mom’s side beyond their usual jokes and banter.

  “Hey.” I meet Grandpa’s squinty stare and for a few seconds he gnashes his whiskered lips together in thought. It feels as though I’m about to get a lecture.

  “I wanna give you your birthday present now.” He coughs through his effort to stand up from the chair, and moves toward the side table near the front door, pulling out the small drawer and removing a wrapped package the size of a Bible. I’d think maybe that’s what I’m being given if I didn’t know what a heathen my Grandpa is. Mom walks in as he’s about to hand the gift to me.

  “Oh, I didn’t think we were doing this until next weekend,” she says, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. She taps her fingernails against her refilled tea mug and perches on the arm of the couch. I hold her stare for a second, seeing if I can get her to crack. She only shakes her head.

  I expect a card with some cash inside and maybe a flat-pan cake with some sprinkles for my birthday, which is definitely at odds with the heavy package now resting in my hands. I can tell it’s a book, but it isn’t your normal hardback or the latest Brandon Sanderson. The shape is too odd for that.

  “Well, go on.” Grandpa Hank nods at my hands.

  The goofy grin of a child takes over my mouth and I laugh out nervously while I fumble with the paper. It doesn’t take long to unwrap the beat-up notebook with well-worn leather binding and an ink stain smudged across the spine. Turning it over in my hands I study it, and after noting his trademark handwriting engraved with pen on the cover, I realize it belonged to my father. He wrote like a typewriter, complete with the little hoods over his lowercase A’s and tails at the ends of his D’s and T’s. I used to look at his notes in his briefcase when he packed up in the morning and always wondered how he wrote so much in such a meticulous way.

  “It’s Dad’s.” I glance up just long enough to catch Mom’s glossy eyes and half smile. I lift the book and suck in my lips, feeling some reverence for this notebook, but probably not as much as I should.

  “Now, I know what you’re thinking. ‘Great. I turn eighteen and all I get is a crappy old notebook,’” Grandpa says.

  I breathe out a laugh at my grandfather’s guess at my inner dialogue.

  “No, I like it,” I say, thumbing through the first few pages.

  “Well, you will . . . when you crack that hood of the thing that goes with it,” he says.

  It takes a few seconds for his comment to sink in, and when my head pops up from reading my father’s notes, my sudden realization is quickly confirmed by the glimmer of a gold key dangling from his index finger. I haven’t seen that key in years. It used to hang on the small hook by the back door, a nagging reminder of my dad’s long-gone teenage years.

  “All registered, and insurance is paid up for six months, mostly because it’s considered a hobby car until you can get it running, but . . .” My mom stops mid-sentence and moves close enough to weave her arm through mine and rest her head on my shoulder while I flip through the pages of notes my father left behind.

  “You really think I can get Dad’s old Bronco up and running?” I’m being serious because right now, I have major doubts. I’m book smart, sure. I’m great at math and I figured I’d study engineering in college, but the inner workings of an automobile feel a bit impossible, especially a seventy-two Ford that hasn’t run, at least not well, since my dad was seventeen.

  “I know you can,” Grandpa answers. “My gift to you is I will pay for the parts. Whatever you need.”

  “Yeah, but that’s the thing. You guys, this is— I mean, I would love to drive the Bronco around, but I have no idea where to begin. And insurance after six months. Mom, we can’t afford that unless I work part ti
me, and . . .” My hand finds its way into my hair and I grip at it, feeling overwhelmed.

  “Page one.”

  I stare at my grandfather for a beat, my brows dented as he leans forward and taps on the notebook clutched in my hands.

  “That’s where you begin. Page one. Your dad kept that diary of everything he ever did to that heap of metal. From the moment he bought it for four hundred bucks to the last time he tinkered on that thing when you were in diapers. Damn thing’s too old to still have a manual so he figured he’d make his own.”

  On Grandpa’s suggestion, I flip to the first page and begin reading. His analytical mind wasn’t great at being conversational, but there’s a bit of humor to his words.

  Step 1: Battery and gas, you idiot!

  “He always hoped it would be yours one day. We’ll make the insurance work. You worry about the normal things a kid your age is supposed to worry about.” Mom squeezes at my arm, and a shiver runs through my body. Maybe it’s a tinge of guilt over getting something so big I don’t really feel I deserve it, or worse, properly appreciate.

  “Happy birthday, kiddo.” Grandpa’s mustache lifts with his crooked smile.

  “Thanks.” I lift the book again and take the keys as he hands them over.

  “It’s in the garage. I had an old buddy give ’er a tow from the storage yard he was keeping it at for your dad as a favor. Go on, spend some time with her.” Both he and my mom tilt their heads toward the garage door, urging me forward.

  My feet feel like lead, though. I’ve never been more sure I’m going to fail at something in my life, and this includes that time I decided to try ice skating backward with Lindsey Monahan in junior high. I fell on my ass then, and I’m pretty sure the same fate awaits me now. But I haven’t seen my mom look this alive in months. The least I can do is spend some time in here every now and again pretending I know what I’m doing.

  I step into the garage and let the door close behind me, feeling along the wall for the light switch. I smell oil in the dark, and when the fluorescents above finally kick on, my eyes fill in the rest of the picture. The yellow paint has held up. For the most part, there’s still a decent sheen on the doors and the hood. The seats are ripped to shreds from years of wear, though, and even through my novice eyes I know there are serious pieces missing from the dash. It’s as if my dad stopped halfway and left many things in limbo.

  Needing fresh air, I hit the button to raise the garage door and lean in through the Bronco’s open driver’s side window. In my own selfish bubble, I’d forgotten about the chaos happening at the end of my driveway. A reporter and his camera man jet to their feet from the open back of a van. I hold up my hand in apology, sorry I disturbed them. But when they meander up my driveway, the nicely dressed one with a microphone in his hand, I regret being open and friendly. They took this as an invitation.

  “Hey, there!” The guy’s wearing jeans and a sweater vest over a shirt and tie. In two words, I detect a slight accent—Texas, Oklahoma maybe. He’s not local, that’s for sure.

  “Hi,” I stammer out, gripping my dad’s notebook while my arms rest along the open window. My eyes dart to the circus forming in our street. The last thing I want is for more people to see me, to approach me, to want to talk about the family across the street, a girl I barely know.

  “Would you mind if we asked you a few—”

  When the garage door begins to shut between us, I jerk my head back to see my Grandpa standing behind me, his thumb poised over the button on the remote. He waves at the two-man media crew, then switches to giving them the bird when the door blocks their view.

  “Sorry. I forgot they were out there,” I say, my own words echoing in my head. How could I forget?

  “I figured when I heard the door open.”

  My grandpa has a bit of a limp. It’s at its worst in the evening and early morning. He ambles to the front of Dad’s Bronco and slides his hand along the crevices in the grill, feeling for the latch. He nods at me to join him as he lifts the heavy metal. I jump in, knowing enough to at least find the support bar to hold the hood in place.

  “She’s a beauty under the hood,” Grandpa muses.

  “Mmm.” I nod in agreement but honestly, I don’t have a clue what I’m looking at. The book in my hand may as well be written in Pig Latin and deciphered using a cereal box decoder ring.

  “You can do this.” My grandfather’s heavy hand lands on the center of my back. He must sense my reservations. I’m sure they are vibrating off my skin.

  I clutch my dad’s book to my chest, my thumbs nervously running along the corners of the pages that are no longer sharp. Maybe this is why Dad and I never really bonded. He could look under this hood and understand the workings of the engine so easily; all I see is a lot of dirty wires haphazardly taped together and strung around random filthy motor parts that do important jobs, I’m sure, but all look the same.

  “Want a tour?” Grandpa leans his head under the hood and quirks a brow.

  I shrug and set Dad’s book on the fender, leaning over for a better view. Holding on to the sides of the cavity, I breathe in deep. “Gotta start somewhere, I suppose.”

  “Battery. You start here.” His hand hovers over the one thing in this mess that looks new. I’m guessing it is.

  “Right.” I chuckle.

  For the next twenty minutes, Grandpa walks me through the path that starts with a key in the ignition and ends up at a series of belts that run the motor. It’s one giant loop, and it’s overwhelming. I manage to sport a convincing smile by the time we close up and head inside. To truly pull this off, I’m going to have to obsess like my old man did. I know Mom and Grandpa have visions of me piling my friends in this thing and racing off for the weekend in the woods, but all I can see is the need for perfection, the frustration when things don’t work as they should, and the spiral until I basically live in this garage. All of this, of course, assuming I have any automotive inclination at all.

  Mom is still curled up on the couch in front of the TV when Grandpa Hank and I come in. Having just been approached by the media zombies lurking on our sidewalk, I’m less drawn to watching them on screen. I kiss my mom on top of her head and lean over to hug her from behind the sofa.

  “Happy early birthday, Jonah. I promise there will still be cake on the actual day.” A sleepy smile barely stretches between her cheeks. She’ll fall asleep down here, probably along with Grandpa.

  I tell them both good night and drag my own tired legs up the stairs. I don’t know why I feel so listless. I haven’t done a thing all day except talk with officers and flip around local news channels. I don’t think my muscles have relaxed since we found out Addy is missing. My shoulders hunched up to my ears and have yet to fully drop.

  In the shelter of my room, I close the door and toss Dad’s book next to my laptop where my essay still needs an ending. There’s no way my mind can focus on comparing protagonists in Lolita and Crime and Punishment. It’s hard to contemplate two fictional hero-villains while something possibly equally horrific to their deeds is unfolding for real outside my window.

  My light on dim, I poke open the shutter slats and stare at the scene that is somehow growing in size despite the late hour. It doesn’t take long for my gaze to wander up the driveway to the Trombley front door. Any evidence of yesterday’s homecoming festivities has been swept away, replaced with markers on the lawn and police tape closing off places still to be dissected by the investigators. The bright orange and yellow wreath on their red front door seems so out of place.

  I’m not sure how long Eleanor’s curtains have been open. Perhaps she just flicked on the light, and that’s what caught my attention. Regardless, it’s obvious she’s looking at my window, and I’m temporarily pinned in place with my heart pounding at getting caught staring at her personal nightmare. I’m sure the neighbors are staring at her house through their windows too. Our entire street is probably spying on the Trombley house in some way or another. Hell, I bet
the retired guy who lives three houses down and does nothing but yell at people who let their dogs poop on his lawn is on his roof with binoculars. Still, it feels as though I should know better. I should respect their—her—privacy at a time like this.

  I rock back on my heels and am about to give in to the temptation to slowly back away and turn off my lights when Eleanor lifts her arm and presses her palm against the glass. The thunder in my chest skips; sharp tingles run down my spine. I open my slats wider when my feet finally unglue from their spot on the floor, and even though my insecurities scream at me to run and hide, my arm operates independent from my brain and I manage to hold up my hand in response. I keep it raised for several seconds, waiting for her to drop her palm from the glass. When her head falls to the side against her window, I open my shutters completely, folding them to the side, and sit on the edge of my desk so I can do the same. Something about this feels utterly necessary. Maybe the voice in my head is crazy, but it’s telling me that Eleanor needs me to be here, like this, for just a little while.

  I pull my knees up and cross my ankles so I can hug my legs. My desk is kinda small, and this position is not very comfortable, but I hold it while the two of us stare down below. The bright lights of yet another news crew lights up the front walk and damp flower beds in Eleanor’s front yard. The newswoman standing in the spotlight isn’t anyone I’ve ever seen on TV, but the sophistication of their operation makes me believe that this news team is bigger than Chicagoland.

  My attention shifts from the newscast after the woman begins talking, and while Eleanor’s gaze remains fixed on the strangers in her lawn, mine is locked on her. So many times I’ve glanced over there—okay, stared—and she has been laughing, pacing while she talks on the phone with her friends, or posing as she snaps photos that I later find on her social media. This version of Eleanor Trombley is a shell. The laughter is gone, and there is no sign of it returning in the unblinking eyes and sagging shoulders a hundred feet away.