by Forthright
Songs of the Amaranthine, 3
Dragged through Hedgerows
Copyright © 2019 by FORTHRIGHT
ISBN: 978-1-63123-069-1
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or shared in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the author. Which is a slightly more officious way of saying what I’ve always asked. Play fair. Be nice. But by all means, have fun! ::twinkle::
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Table of Contents
Worn Out Welcome
Life in Boxes
See You Saturday
Running on Empty
No Job Experience
Big Back Yard
Slippery When Wet
Boy Meets Wolf
The Empty Doghouse
Be My Gopher
White Collar Wolf
Happy Father’s Day
Den Sweet Den
Coming to Heel
Run Away Home
Five White Envelopes
Duty and Delight
Dangers of Intoxication
Can We Pretend
Coming to Terms
What Are You?
Half a Bottle
Run with Me
Trade with Me
Moonlight on Water
Sing My Name
Five Years Later
Worn Out Welcome
Daroo-fen rarely deviated from the little routines that reinforced the impression he needed to make. He jogged every morning, so that whenever people remarked on his build, someone could be counted on to say, “Oh, you know Drew. He works out.”
He rented a bungalow two blocks from his office, where he kept regular hours, so that everyone would know he was as honest and upstanding as they come. And he shopped at the corner market every other day—except Sundays—so that the women of Pine Hall would see that he could take care of himself. Otherwise, they tended to show up at his door with casseroles and broad hints about nice, eligible girls who could help him settle down.
He bought Girl Scout cookies and yearbook ads. He attended town meetings and adopted a two-mile stretch of highway. He donated to the food shelf and returned his library books on time.
Nobody knew him well, but most folks would vouch for him. He was both a pillar of the community and an island unto himself. Not an easy balance to maintain, but Daroo-fen had considerable practice.
One thing he definitely did not do was make house calls.
So it was with well-concealed uneasiness that he walked the four blocks to End Street, where neat hedgerows defined the property lines of a section of modest homes. Because too many letters had gone unanswered. And the only phone number on file seemed to have been disconnected.
Turning up the walk of the last house before the dead end, Daroo-fen trod gingerly over pastel graffiti that continued right up the porch steps and across much of the front of the house. Powder pink letters warned all comers that COOP LIVES HERE.
The young culprit—a boy by the whiff of him—had passable handwriting.
Daroo-fen pressed the doorbell, then retreated off the stoop. It was a simple trick that served to diminish the inevitable height difference. He was widely recognized as the tallest citizen of Pine Hall, but he didn’t like to loom in doorways.
Feet thudded on stairs, and the front door swung wide, revealing a boy-child clad in nothing but too-small pajama pants printed with a montage of superhero icons. He had spiky blond hair, wide-set blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of a pert nose. Bandages decorated both elbows, and another clung precariously to the underside of his chin.
Having each sized the other up, the boy asked, “Are you a stranger?”
“Yes.”
The door slammed shut.
Daroo-fen sighed, reclimbed the steps, and rang the doorbell again.
From the other side of the door, the boy hollered, “Dad! It’s a stranger!”
This time, the door was opened by an adult. The man was young, slight, and in need of a haircut, for loose brown curls all but obscured his eyes. His feet were bare, his pajama pants striped, and his arms occupied by a baby and her bottle. “Hi. Sorry. He’s not supposed to open the door for strangers.”
“Mr. Cooper?”
“Yes.” He adjusted his hold on the baby and began to sway. “Well, maybe. I’m Charles Cooper. My father recently passed away. He was David Cooper.”
“I knew your father. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Charles accepted that with a cautious nod. “Who are you?”
“The name’s Drew Hunter. I’m a lawyer here in town. You should have received a letter from our offices—Woodruff, Thackeray, and Hunter.”
It was actually more like five letters. Daroo-fen had finally given up on hearing back.
“If you wrote any time in the last six weeks, it’s probably in here.” Charles bumped his foot against an oversized, overstuffed cardboard box with bold green letters that promised round-the-clock, leak-proof protection. He shook his head. “We just moved. Things are a mess. I haven’t gotten around to sorting mail yet. Sorry.”
The man’s scent wasn’t terribly promising—a pall of grief and a haze of stress. But under it all shone a glimmer of something Daroo-fen hadn’t encountered in many years. The words were out of his mouth before he could give them proper consideration. “Do you need help?”
Charles was already shaking his head. “We’re fine. We’re great.”
The smile might have worked to warn off the usual sort of polite inquiries, but Charles had a wolf at the door. Daroo said, “I could pitch in with the paperwork. It’s what I do.”
“No need. We’re fine,” insisted Charles, as if trying to convince himself. “Besides, I can’t afford a lawyer.”
Daroo-fen sifted through the mixed messages he was receiving—words and worries and weariness. “Think of it as an exchange. I’d be willing to help you if you’d be willing to hear me out.”
Charles shook his head. “Are you trying to sell me something?”
“I’m a lawyer, Mr. Cooper, not a salesman.” Daroo-fen pushed. “I have no other appointments today. Let me locate the documents my office sent. And if you like, I can create a checklist of the things you’ll need to do in order to settle your father’s affairs.”
The man didn’t so much give in as give up. “Sure. I guess. Come in.”
Life in Boxes
“Sorry for the mess.” Charles was usually more on top of things, but the move had discombobulated everything. “We haven’t been here long. A little over a week. We’re packing and unpacking and … sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Mr. Cooper. This is a difficult time.”
He had no idea. Edging past a wide-open suitcase with clothes spilling over its sides, he led the way into the dining room. The big walnut table was probably the best place for the lawyer to set up, but that’s where Charles had unloaded everything. Was it sad that all his worldly possessions fit on a dining room table? They hadn’t even needed a truck. Just a rental van that had rattled half-empty across three state lines.
He’d been reduced to two suitcases, three cardboard boxes, and a clumsy heap of baby stuff—seats and stroller, playpen and playthings. Charles was still too numb to be homesick for the pristine little Cape Cod that had been his whole world. All he really knew for sure was how glad he was that Ally hadn’t argued when he said he’d take the kids. And how much it terrified him that she’d suddenly change her mind.
“Mr. Cooper?”
“Kitchen table, maybe,” he suggested, pushing aside a laundry basket with one foot. It slid easily on wood floors that were dusty enough to show footprints. Dad had been letting things go for a while. Charles had wanted to come back sooner. Might always regret putting it off too long.
With one hand, he stacked cereal bowls and carried them to the sink. Snagging a dishcloth, he mumbled another apology, only to stagger to a full stop.
The lawyer stood just inside the kitchen door, the heaping box of mail casually balanced on one arm.
Charles was used to looking up at people. He’d matched his father’s height at fourteen and never surpassed it. Five-two in his hiking boots, if he rounded up. He suddenly remembered how peevish Ally had been over having to wear flats for their wedding. And all the little tricks the photographer had used to make him look taller and her less pregnant.
This guy was well over six feet, a dominating presence. The house seemed to shrink around him, and a part of Charles was shrinking as well. He’d always felt awkward around professionals.
“Mr. Cooper?”
“Is this okay?” Charles gave the table a quick swipe, then rubbed self-consciously at a sticky patch that was probably an ice cream dribble from the night before.
“Yes.” Mr. Hunter set the box on a chair, shed his suit coat, unbuttoned his cuffs, and began to methodically roll up his sleeves.
Charles caught the change in sound that meant Rose’s bottle was empty, set it aside, and lifted her to his shoulder. All the while, he kept an eye on the stranger he’d let in. Mr. Hunter’s manner was stiff, his expression stern. His complexion was brown enough to suggest some degree of native ancestry. It was hard to guess his age. Probably Ally’s age or older, since law school had to take at least as long as medical school.
Rose burped softly, and he kissed her downy hair. She was ready for her morning nap, but he hesitated to lay her in the playpen crowded into the corner. It was right next to the table. Maybe he didn’t want to bother the lawyer, but maybe he wanted to be sure his baby girl was safe.
Was it rude to doubt the intentions of someone being neighborly?
Suddenly, the kitchen door rattled with a series of quick raps, then squeaked open. “Charlie! Oh, golly, just look at that precious baby girl!”
It was Mrs. Lundgren from next door, covered casserole in hand. She shouldered her way inside, as sure of her welcome as she’d ever been. A longtime neighbor. Mom’s best friend.
“You hardly seem old enough to be a father, but look at you. All grown and getting along with two young’uns. I suppose Ally isn’t here because of work?”
Charles’ gut clenched.
Mr. Hunter spoke up. “Good morning, Cybil. Is that your famous cheesy potatoes?”
“Oh, Drew! How did you guess?” Mrs. Lungren’s smile widened. “It shows good sense for Charlie here to hire a professional. Know your limits, that’s what I say. Now, Drew, you be sure to thank your partners for their generous contribution to the bandstand fund. Isn’t it exciting? There’ll be a big groundbreaking ceremony and a band and one of those trailers that sells corndogs.”
“I’ll relay your kind words to Misters Woodruff and Thackeray.” The lawyer had a handful of envelopes, most of which were probably junk mail, yet he managed to cradle them importantly. “Please, excuse us. Mr. Cooper and I have much to discuss.”
“Say no more. I was only popping by on my way to bridge.” Mrs. Lundgren bustled across the room, eyes roving all the while. Nosy in her concern. “Let me put this in your fridge. Oh, dear. Not much to speak of. Do you need help with the shopping, Charlie?”
“No, ma’am. We’re fine. We’re great.”
The woman shook her head and smiled, then pinched his cheek on her way out, like he was six instead of twenty-six. “Send my love to Ally,” she called as she hustled away.
Charles stared after her, unseeing. He’d gone away and grown up, but coming home meant losing any gains he’d made. Everyone still treated him like Dave and Linda’s little boy.
“Mr. Cooper?”
“Charles,” he quietly corrected. “Please, call me Charles.”
Mr. Hunter was already seated at the table, a linoleum-topped square no wider than his shoulders. He looked like an adult shoehorned into a classroom desk designed for middle schoolers.
“Are you sure that’s going to work?”
“Not a problem,” the man assured. “Do you have a paper shredder?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll bring one next time.”
Charles looked between the lawyer and the box. “Next time …?” he ventured.
“These things take time.” He glanced up from the sheaf of paperwork. The look was steady and searching. “Unless I would be imposing.”
“Let me think about it.”
Mr. Hunter inclined his head and returned his attention to sorting. His movements were unhurried, yet unceasing. Confident. Decisive.
Charles hated that something so basic was so far outside his experience. Ally had always handled the finances. All he’d had to do was stick to his budget for diapers and groceries. Even a high school dropout who knew his limits could handle that much.
Suddenly, it occurred to Charles that his son was being far too quiet. “Cole …?”
The lawyer didn’t look up, but he spoke up. “In the back, I believe.”
Just then, the distinctive squeak of the hose being turned on came through the wall, and Charles quick-stepped to the kitchen door, which let out onto the driveway. Hurrying around the house, he found his son knee-deep in a bucket, standing under the hose, which he’d looped through the upper branches of a dwarf apricot tree so that it dangled down.
“Outdoor shower!” Cole explained brightly, though his teeth were clenched and his lips were turning blue. “Neat, right?”
Hardly. Cole wasn’t neat. Or tidy. Ever. Charles simply asked, “What happened?”
“You know them bags in the shed with no labels?”
Pausing to turn off the hose—one-handed, since he was still carrying Rose—he gave his son’s spiky blond hair a cursory inspection. “Cement mix. Let’s apply soap before you turn into a statue.”
Cole’s eyes widened in fascination. “Really?”
Charles dredged up a smile. “Don’t think so, but better safe than sorry.”
Leaving the dripping hose and brimming bucket, he followed Cole’s wet footprints to the first-floor bathroom, which doubled as a utility room—washer, dryer, water heater—and boasted the house’s lone bathtub. His childhood home was old and odd and inconvenient. Unless you counted Cole’s new rigging, they didn’t have a shower.
Back home—the one he’d shared with Ally—Charles had worked out all the boundaries necessary for safety and sanity. Cole was mostly obedient, but only if his parents had established a specific rule. And closed the loopholes. Far beyond those familiar boundaries, Cole was creating whole new forms of havoc. Nothing bad. Sometimes funny. Often messy. And exhausting for someone whose whole life was already a mess.
Charles settled his baby girl in a laundry basket of clean towels. Three-months old and low in the percentiles, she fit with room to spare and without complaint. A good baby. Daddy’s girl.
While Charles oversaw Cole’s first bath of the day—there were usually two or three, depending on mayhem levels—the boy asked nonstop questions.
How come Grandpa kept cement? Did you just add water? Could they really make a statue?
With his arms draped on the edge of the tub, Charles explained about anchors and trellises and posts and rebar and his father’s never-ending projects, which amounted to a hobby of sorts.
Once his son was sufficiently clean, Charles said, “Hey, Cole?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“I love you.”
His boy smiled. “I know.”
“No more messing with cement until we pick a project we can do together.”
“You know how to make cement?”
“My da
d taught me, and I’ll teach you.” Charles firmly established a new boundary. “And no further exploration of the contents of the shed without me. Understood?”
“Yep.”
“Try again,” Charles said mildly.
Cole grinned in his no-hard-feelings way. “Yessir.”
See You Saturday
Charles had half-forgotten the lawyer, who had several neat piles arranged on the table.
Fanning an assortment of envelopes bearing the familiar logos of local utilities, Mr. Hunter asked, “May I open these?”
“Go ahead.” Charles cringed inwardly. “Are we in trouble?”
“Not really. There are extenuating circumstances,” murmured Mr. Hunter as he scanned statements. “Have you dealt with the bank yet?”
“No.”
The lawyer touched a stack of envelopes bearing the local bank’s name. “Would you like me to act on your behalf?”
Charles wavered. He probably needed the help more than he wanted it. But should he be trusting a stranger with Dad’s finances? Then again, Mrs. Lundgren had approved, and in Pine Hall, that was as good a reference as any.
“Officially?” he ventured, since he had an inkling that lawyers looked expensive because they were expensive.
Mr. Hunter gave him a whisper of a smile. “Unofficially. As part of our exchange.”
“But isn’t this a lot of work?”
“Nothing too onerous. There is more patience than effort involved.” He shrugged those broad shoulders as if he had patience to spare.
Charles struggled against himself. Having spent his entire adult life with someone else in charge, it was far too tempting to simply hand over the reins. He fell back on his earlier answer. “Let me think about it.”
And once again, Mr. Hunter nodded his acceptance.
Cole jogged into the room in clean shorts and a faded tee. Before he could assail the lawyer, Charles tapped the boy’s head. “Rose is ready for her naptime story.”
“Can I go get her?”
“Of course. We’ll change her diaper, then get her settled.” As Cole backtracked, Charles cast a sidelong look at the lawyer, whose attention followed Cole. Defensively, Charles said, “I trust him with Rose.”