Season of Change

by Melinda Curtis

  “We have new bedspreads upstairs,” Grace offered.

  Faith sucked a spaghetti noodle into her mouth, leaving a tomato trail on her cheek. “Do you want to see?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Slade said.

  Three pairs of eyes turned to him.

  “The stairs are steep.” A lame excuse, but the only one he had.

  “Are you implying I’m too old to climb those stairs?” Takata speared a cherry tomato. “I’ll have you know I ride an exercise bike every morning while watching the news.”

  “No, I’m just... There’s not much to see.” Slade tried to regain control. “Two bedrooms and a bathroom.”

  “Three,” Grace said.

  “Three bedrooms,” Faith clarified in a mock-helpful voice, sliding a glance toward their guest.

  Which made no sense, unless...

  Slade stabbed his fork into his spaghetti and glared at the old man. “Have you been talking to them?”

  “Of course we’ve been talking. Your girls are very polite. Why wouldn’t they talk to me?” So innocently spoken. So artfully delivered. Takata should have had a career on the stage.

  “I mean—” Slade gripped his fork until the flatware made an impression in his fist “—have you been telling them things they’re too young to hear?”

  “No. Only that their grandparents died upstairs.” Takata bit into garlic bread that hadn’t been burned and salvaged.

  Slade frowned.

  “It used to scare us,” Grace said. “But he explained how the body is like a car and the soul is like the driver. And when the soul leaves, there’s just a car left here. So we shouldn’t be afraid of their bedroom, because both the car and the driver are gone.”

  “Did our grandpa really hang himself upstairs?” Faith asked. “You’d never do that, would you, Dad?”

  “No.” He’d prayed they’d never ask him that. He’d prayed they’d never wonder what kind of man he was to have tried or worry if he’d try again. “You had no right,” he rasped. He tugged at the collar of his shirt.

  “Perhaps.” Takata’s gaze landed on Slade’s tie, attempting to find more weaknesses in his defenses. “But I’m old and I don’t have time to dance around issues, especially ones left dangling for too long.”

  “Dad?” Grace touched his forearm.

  “I’m fine.” He resisted the urge to touch the silk at his throat. He drew a deep breath and bared his teeth in an attempt to smile. “I’m fine. But there won’t be any tours after dinner, okay?”

  The girls nodded, exchanging conspiratorial glances with their guest.

  They’d tried to outmaneuver him, those three. And they seemed proud of it, despite the fact they’d accomplished nothing.

  No door would be unlocked. No tour of the upstairs given.

  Takata kept talking through dinner—how to pick a good car, how to choose a proper bed, how to stay married. Their meal was over, the food cleared away, leftover spaghetti and green beans stored in Takata’s container. He talked on, shuffling his feet beneath the table, occasionally rocking side to side.

  The girls drifted out to the living room.

  “It must be time for a smoke,” Slade said, by way of encouragement. Takata had been there for two hours.

  For once, the old guy seemed uncomfortable. “I’m working on it.”

  Slade blinked.

  “Sometimes my joints freeze up and I can’t move. If I work them a bit, I can get moving again.”

  “Does this happen often?”

  “Don’t you worry about me. You have enough on your mind.”

  “I didn’t say I was worried about you. I asked how frequently it happens.” Slade recalled how often he’d seen Takata sitting alone—on benches, at El Rosal, on his front porch.

  “I have rheumatoid arthritis.” For once, he sounded defeated. “It happens every day, several times a day. Joints freeze up, hurts like hell for thirty minutes or so.”

  Slade felt a corresponding cold inside. “Is that why you sit outside at night? Because you can’t move?”

  Takata swelled up like a threatened puffer fish. “Why is it that just because a man is old, people think he can’t take care of himself?”

  Slade reached for the patience he knew his mother would recommend in this moment. He reached and reached, but it was hard to grasp when the old man had butted into his life and was scowling at Slade—at Slade—as if he’d done something wrong. “We aren’t on the same wavelength. I haven’t made any judgments about you. I’m just asking about your condition.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, it hurts,” he stated flat-out. “How long and how many times a day it hurts is none of your business.”

  If Slade had been the kind of person to argue with senior citizens, now would have been the time.

  “But I appreciate your concern. And I’m not too proud to accept help, as long as you don’t rub it in or tell me I need to go live in a home.”

  Right. Slade stood. “Can I help you up?”

  Takata grumbled his agreement.

  Slade came to one side of the old man’s chair, but nothing with Takata was ever straightforward and simple.

  “Now, once I’m up, I’ll take my cane in my right hand, and if you could steady me on the left side...”

  Together, they got him to standing.

  “Ah, still stiff. Could you walk me to the door?” And when they reached the door, he asked, “Could you walk me down the stairs?”

  And so it went. Slade walked him slowly home and into his house, wondering how he was going to watch out for the old man and simultaneously keep his distance, worrying over who’d watch out for Takata when Slade finally left town.

  “When was the last time you had the windows open in here?” Now Slade knew how Christine had felt coming into his house. The shutters in Takata’s one-story ranch were closed, presumably to keep out the hot sun. But the windows were shut tight, as well. The house smelled of old man, soiled laundry, and rotten garbage.

  “I don’t open the windows. Too much trouble.”

  And that explained why Takata was always in cargo shorts and a tank top.

  Slade and his partners had never come to Takata’s house to fix anything. The old man had never asked. How long had it been since someone had checked on him? Or helped him with simple everyday chores? “I’m going to open some windows.”

  “No.” He scowled. “I’ll just have to close them again.”

  Slade hesitated only a moment before opening up the two front windows. Then he went to the back of the house. The kitchen was a mess. Dirty dishes everywhere. The stench from the trash can nearly made him gag.

  “Dad?” Grace stood behind him, holding a hand over her nose. “What’s that smell?”

  “Get your sister. We need to clean house.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  * * *

  THE TROOPS RALLIED at Old Man Takata’s house the next morning—Slade, the twins, Truman, Flynn, Becca, Will, and Nate. There were squirrels in his attic, a rusted sink in the master bathroom, ants marching through his kitchen. And everywhere, dirty clothes and discarded trash.

  Apparently, the only thing the elderly man took care of was his front lawn.

  Takata complained the entire time. “I don’t need any help. I can live alone just fine. Next thing you know, you’ll be wanting to put me in a home.” It became an easy refrain.

  They listened, nodding until he was through, and then reassured the old man that they were only helping him get up to speed.

  Becca, Flynn’s wife, had the patience of a saint. She had Agnes and Mayor Larry drop by and explain that a little help was required from now on to keep him safe and living at home as long as
he was capable.

  “I’ll add him to my client list.” Becca dusted the mantel.

  “I’ll pay your fee, Becca,” Slade offered, remembering she had debts she wouldn’t let her husband pay. “Just don’t tell Takata.” Becca thanked him.

  “How long have you gone without lights up here?” Flynn changed the burned-out light bulbs in the ceiling fixture while Slade steadied the ladder.

  “You should all be next door opening up that bedroom on the second floor,” Takata said instead of answering.

  Flynn glanced down at Slade. “What do you think we’ll find over there?”

  “Cobwebs and old memories that need airing out,” Takata replied.

  Slade said nothing.

  But later, as they were loading tools in Flynn’s truck in the afternoon heat, his friend wouldn’t let it go. “Old Man Takata’s right. You need to air out that house and open the bedroom door.”

  Slade tugged at the knot in his tie. “Opening that door isn’t going to do anything.”

  “Keeping it closed is holding you back, man. I can feel it.”

  Slade shrugged. “And now you’re a therapist?”

  “I’m observant and I’m your friend.” Flynn stared him down. “You’re afraid.”

  Exactly.

  “At least let me look.” Flynn made for Slade’s front door. “I’ll tell you if the boogeyman is still bedding down in there.”

  “No.” Slade caught his arm.

  “Dude.” Flynn frowned at Slade’s hand until he released him. “It’s just a room. You can sell the house and never look in there again. But you’re letting it have some kind of power over you.”

  “The room doesn’t have power. The memories do.” And just like that, he felt the tightness around his neck.

  “How bad can it be if I’m standing next to you?”

  Slade tried to laugh.

  When that didn’t work, he let Flynn lead him into the house.

  * * *

  THE ROOM DIDN’T want to be disturbed.

  The lock turned with a groan. Squealing hinges complained. Cobwebs stretched and broke as the door swung away from the frame.

  The shades were up, the windows layered in a film of dirt. The bed was made, its blue-and-yellow star quilt covered in dust. The dust on the hardwood floors was undisturbed except for what looked like small trails made by adventuresome beetles. The bureau stood resolute, supporting pictures of Slade growing up, of his father as a boy, of his mother on her wedding day.

  Flynn stepped into the room, looked around, and walked over to the closet, leaving a trail of footprints in the dust.

  Slade stayed in the doorway, looking anywhere but the closet.

  “His clothes are still all here.”

  “I closed this up the day he died.” The room smelled like his father had been shut in a box for too long—Old Spice, sweat, and cigar smoke. Funny how he’d never associated the aroma of cigar smoke with his father before.

  “Come inside.”

  Slade couldn’t. He stroked his tie, staring out one of the windows. “Takata’s got a few shingles missing.”

  “And not just on his roof.” Flynn tapped his temple as he crossed into Slade’s line of vision. He struggled to open a window.

  “Don’t,” Slade said, taking a step backward. “Leave it alone.”

  “But—”

  “I can’t.” Slade spun around and went downstairs.

  He started walking and didn’t stop for a long, long time.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHRISTINE CAME OUTSIDE to meet Slade on the front porch of the farmhouse. The heat shimmered off the gravel drive.

  “Flynn called,” she said.

  Slade moved slowly up the porch steps and into her arms. He held on to her as if she was the best thing he’d seen in a long time.

  Here was her proof. Her reason to be strong. Her reason to turn down that job interview.

  She ran her fingers through his perfectly styled hair, murmuring soothing words. It felt so right to hold him. She could have done so all day, if not for the late-afternoon sun. “Come inside.”

  He hesitated.

  She ran a hand down his mud-brown checked tie and gave a gentle tug, with an equally gentle smile. And then she led him inside to the blessed relief of the air conditioner, settled him in a chair, and sat next to him. “You were very brave this morning.”

  “I couldn’t look at the closet.” He couldn’t seem to look anywhere now. His gaze drifted to a view of the river.

  “It’s a start.”

  “Flynn made me do it.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true. You don’t do anything you don’t want to.”

  “I kissed you,” he said raggedly.

  “You must have wanted to do that.” Her cheeks heated. “I wasn’t the one who initiated that first kiss.”

  Slade’s eyes turned dark, blustery green. “I didn’t want to kiss you. You said—”

  “Forget I thought we could get it out of our systems.” It had worked with Johnny Harding when she was in the seventh grade. “Can we get back to the reason you’re walking the valley when it’s one hundred degrees outside?”

  He nodded, slowly, deliberately, as if gathering up his control. “You’re right. I could have stopped Flynn. I think I was...curious. Flynn went in and walked around. I couldn’t. It was as if my father was there and telling me to stay out.”

  Would he have done that eight years ago?

  She squeezed his hand.

  “And the smell...I’d forgotten what he smelled like, but once we opened the door...” His voice trailed off and he stared out a window.

  “Flynn said all his clothes were there. That’s all it is. Clothes.”

  His eyes. So haunted. “I’m a horrible father. My kids are living across the hall from...from...”

  “Slade.” She put her palm against his cheek, feeling the beginnings of stubble. “My grandmother sleeps in the same bed where my grandfather passed away. She loved him. And if you ask her, she’ll tell you he wasn’t perfect. But she loved him.” Christine lowered her fingers, sliding them beneath his collar, beneath his tie. The backs of her fingers brushed the edges of his scar. “Your father had his flaws, and demons he couldn’t deal with. But he loved you, or he wouldn’t have wanted to go alone.”

  Slade drew her close, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. “In my head, I know I shouldn’t blame myself. But in my heart...”

  His heart had carried too much guilt for too long. “You can’t change the past. You can only look to the future.” Christine sat up, needing him to listen. “You have two bright, wonderful girls who need a dad in their life more than four weeks a year. They need someone who’s going to be there for them when they make mistakes. Someone who knows what it’s like to pick themselves up when things look irreparable.”

  “You think I should tell them what I tried to do?” He looked horrified.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never even told Will or Flynn.”

  Christine scrunched up her nose. “But you lived with them. You mean they never saw your—”

  “I wore a shirt and tie all the time.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” She stroked the brown silk. “Isn’t it time to let these go?”

  He put a hand over hers, holding it motionless. “No.”

  “At least think about it.”

  He stared out the window for far too long. And then he sighed. “Thank you. I’ve interrupted your work.” His tender touch contradicted his dismissal.

  “Don’t thank me.” Christine didn’t want his thanks. She wanted his love. She should have expected the boundaries to return. She stood and walked toward the stairs to the office. Disappoint
ment dragged her feet.

  “Christine?”

  She turned back to him.

  “I lied.” His mouth worked, as if trying to stop him from saying anything else. Before she could ask what he lied about, he blurted, “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you showed up for work. I think about kissing you all the time. Even now, when I can’t seem to lock the bad memories away where they belong, I want to kiss you. I want my arms around you and my lips on yours.” His breath came in ragged gasps. His gaze pinned her, so full of wanting she couldn’t move.

  And yet, he did nothing about it.

  * * *

  FLYNN ROUNDED THE corner of his house. “I thought I saw someone out here.”

  Slade stopped watching the river drift past Flynn’s back porch. He’d been there for hours. He couldn’t stop thinking of Christine and how his heart ached to think he had to let her go. She deserved someone whole and unblemished. “Becca took the kids into Cloverdale for a pizza run. And I like the view from your porch better than the view from mine.”

  “It’s not like you can’t buy some property on the river. There’s plenty of riverfront available.” Flynn sat in a wicker chair next to his.

  “I know it’s weird,” Slade said. “But that house is the last thing I have of my parents.”

  Flynn cleared his throat. “That’s not exactly true. That room is filled with their things. And the twins showed me your family photo albums.”

  “Where’d they find those? You didn’t let them in the bedroom, did you?” Unease clenched deep in his belly.

  Flynn shook his head. “They said they found them in the hall closet. Baby pictures. Pictures of you as a basketball star, newspaper clippings, things like that.”

  “Everybody has memorabilia.”

  “Not me.” He stretched his legs out in front of him. “Well, I had none until I came to live here with my grandfather when I was eight. But baby pictures? Nada.”

  “Your grandfather was a good man,” Slade said.

  They both looked out toward the river, remembering the man who’d raised Flynn and passed away less than two months earlier.

  “It was fun to see your young, smiling mug.” Flynn broke the silence first. “You were five years ahead of me in school. Back then, I looked up to you. Star athlete. Valedictorian. Scholarship winner.”