by Hannah Paige
Her neighborhood was one of the few that wasn’t completely clogged with the constant noise of honking horns and the innumerable amount of overpriced parking meters. It was tucked behind some towering apartment buildings, and Rick had to hang a left down a road that was barely wide enough for his truck to fit, but the avenue was about as peaceful a place as could be found in New York. Besides upstate, but April wasn’t a doctor and she didn’t work on Wall Street, last time Rick had talked to her anyway, so that area was a bit out of her price range.
Her house was blinding to the naked eyes, shocking to those that stumbled upon it, tucked away in its cozy hiding place. The siding was a cream color, paled by the sun and the harsh winds that plagued New York winters, but the trim was a color that fell somewhere in between Oscar the Grouch’s fur and a Granny Smith apple skin.
From inside his car, Rick could already hear the music playing—‘The Beach Boys’ ‘Help Me Rhonda’—and suddenly he didn’t want to get out of the car. He didn’t want to go in there and see people dancing, laughing, singing along, when all he could think of was: What if that damn kid was right? What if Grace really is here, controlling the next CD that plays, just like she always did? What if she’s here, taunting me with these songs, this band, when she knew it would rip me apart to hear them without seeing her lean her head out the window, singing along?
“Rick! Is that you? Damn, you made it! If my hips didn’t hurt so bad, I’d think I was dreamin’!”
Rick’s thoughts were yanked back to reality and he saw Mickey roll his wheelchair out on the front stoop, propping the screen door open against one of the wheels on his chair. Rick stepped out of the truck, locked it behind him, and walked across the street, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. His boots hit the brick steps of April’s house and he gave Mick the closest thing to a smile that he could manage at the moment.
“Hey, Mick. Yeah, my TV’s busted so,” he shrugged his arms in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture, “I had nothing better to do.”
Mick shook his head, laughing, then looked up at Rick, serious for a second, “I’m glad you made it, Rick. April will be too.” His eyebrows bobbed up and down and Rick pushed the front door open all the way, shoving Mick’s chair through.
“Yeah, right, whatever you say, old man,” he scoffed, heading inside after Mick had cleared the doorway.
“Old man! Who you—” he stopped as April flew into the entryway from the kitchen.
She was practically beaming: from blonde head to orange-painted toes. She greeted Rick with a radiant smile and promptly threw herself at him, “Rick! You made it!” She laughed, after leaving Rick breathless from her hug. She looked down at Mick, “I told you, Dad. Didn’t I tell you he would come? I knew you would, Rick. I made extra pasta salad because I remembered that you liked it the last time you were here. Gosh, that was, what, four or five years ago? We only live an hour away, the least you could do is take a trip up once in a while. Don’t be such a stranger. It’s not healthy to keep to yourself that much, you gotta get out, live a little. You look tired, Rick, you hanging in there?”
Rick didn’t have the breath to answer—April had sucked the oxygen straight from the space between them—but she didn’t seem fazed in the least and spun around to head back in the kitchen, waving Rick to follow her.
“You want something to drink? I made lemonade. I learned this new recipe that has you mix lime and orange zest into the lemonade, it’s to-die-for. Oh, I have beer, too!” she hollered from the open kitchen.
Rick looked down at Mick who held a smug grin on his face. He chuckled, expelling the hearty noise from his chest, and patted Rick’s arm as he started to roll into the kitchen, “Oh boy, are you in for a day.”
Rick followed him into the kitchen and found April rummaging through a cooler full of assorted beers on the counter. She withdrew two brands and turned around to him.
“I have Coors or Corona. I also have a couple Fat Tires, but you’ll have to fight Dad for those,” she winked at Mick, who was looking up at Rick, waiting for his decision.
Rick forced his chest to move—up and down, up and down—and cleared his throat, “Actually, I think I’ll try the lemonade, that sounds good.”
April nodded, “Great! It’s fantastic, I promise.” And she dove into the fridge.
Rick couldn’t look right at Mick, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw the old man swell with the tiniest bit of pride from Rick’s answer. April poured the lemonade, with visible vibrant orange zest specks, into a blue mason jar and handed it to Rick. She was waiting for him to reward her with a positive review of the drink when someone called from the backyard,
“Hey, April there’s smoke coming from this thing, you wanna grab a fire extinguisher?”
April jumped, and ran out the screen door into the fenced, cubic backyard. Mick rolled past Rick and out the back door after her, yelling at whoever had called the alarm, “Sweet Caroline, Ed! I told you not to touch that grill!”
Rick tore his eyes away from the cooler full of beers, his alcohol-wired taste buds yearning for something with more of a kick, contented himself with the lemonade in his hand, and followed the two of them outside. Mick was tipping the lid back on the grill and waving aside the smoke that billowed out, while a stringy man in khakis and a polo crossed his arms beside him.
“I didn’t touch it, Mi—”
Mick held up a finger and whipped his head in the man’s direction, “Ah! That nickname is reserved for those very few people that can say they have saved my ass. And if memory serves, you weren’t a fellow grunt, now where you?”
The man straightened his polo shirt, “Fine. I didn’t touch the grill, Mr. McCann.”
“Dad, settle down,” April appeased and handed Mick a spatula to flip the burgers. She turned back to Rick, “Rick, this is my friend Ed. Daddy hasn’t quite warmed up to him.”
Having gotten the smoke cleared and the burgers and steaks under control once more, Mick turned his attention back to his daughter, “Ha! Don’t believe her, Rick. Ken-doll, over there is about the last person on the planet I would ever ‘warm up to’.” He clamped the lid back on the grill and rolled closer to Rick, “Democrat and all, probably voted for stricter gun rights.”
Ed planted his hands on his hips, “I am entitled to my opinion same as you are! It’s a valid proposition, a lot of lives would be saved if we only—”
“Do you know how many lives would be saved if we just left everyone alone to shoot the psychos themselves? Less paperwork, less mess.”
Ed shook his head, swiping his bleached hair out of his face, “I don’t understand your point of view, Mr. McCann.”
Mick raised his eyebrows, “Really? Well, lucky for you I’m always packin’. I’d be happy to take you out front and clear up the confusion.”
Terror flashed across Ed’s face while Mick slapped his knee, chuckling to himself. Rick looked back at April who was shaking her head, “Boys, be nice, please. My house, my guests.”
Rick took a pull from his lemonade and couldn’t help smiling at April; she was contagious if nothing else. “So, are you two…” He motioned between April and Ed.
Ed buckled over, laughing, “Oh, absolutely not! No offense, April, but you’re just not my type.”
April chuckled and bumped up against his shoulder, “Right back at ya. Ed’s gay, Rick. His partner’s out of town for the weekend so I invited him over to spend the day with us.”
“Mhm, I’m slumming it for the day,” he added, raising his hand up to take a drink and Rick’s eyes locked onto the beer, with its perspiration dripping down the bottle.
“Hey, I like my little house! It’s away from all the crazies, besides we can’t all afford to live in Manhattan, now can we? Dad you want a plate for those?” She turned to Mick, who nodded, and she waved at Rick, “Come on, oh tall one, you can help me get the dishes ready. Ed, would you mind setting the table?”
“Staging? Absolutely,” he abandoned the beer
on the three-legged table teetering beside the grill and followed April and Rick back into the house.
“Ed, please remember that we want to eat before the sun sets, so don’t take forever this time. There’s no client here to pay you to do this, just hungry people,” April added.
Within a few minutes the table was set and the four of them were seated around April’s wooden, slightly crooked, kitchen table. Rick sat on the bench across from April and Ed while Mick took the head.
“Alright, looks great, Daddy,” April commended as Mick was dishing out the steaks and burgers onto everyone’s plates. He slabbed a steak onto Ed’s and the man cringed, stabbed it, and returned the meat to the platter.
Mick glared at him, “What the hell is wrong with my cooking?”
Ed smiled, “Nothing at all. I’m a vegetarian.”
Mick grumbled, “Of course you are. Pesto and all that crap.”
Ed chuckled and corrected him, “PETA.”
Mick stabbed a piece of his own steak and pointed it at himself, “Carnivore.”
April sighed, “So! Rick, how have you been?”
Rick added lettuce to his own burger, debating the best answer. He had hoped that the meal-time conversations would somehow stay off of him, but of course he wasn’t a person known for having good luck, so he said the first thing that came to mind, “I’ve uh, I’ve been going to AA meetings.”
A choked cough erupted from Mick’s mouth and he pounded on the table, “You’ve been what?”
“I went to my first AA meeting last week, and I’m going again this Tuesday.” Until now, he hadn’t said it out loud, and hearing himself acknowledge it somehow made his progress seem more real.
April smiled encouragingly at him, swallowing her bite of pasta salad, “That’s fantastic, Rick. I’m happy for you.”
Rick felt a spark of warmth spread through his chest as she smiled at him, “Thanks, April.”
“Nice to know someone takes my advice to heart,” Mick commented, staring at April.
She shifted in her seat, “Daddy, not today, okay?”
Rick frowned at the woman across from him; her smile had finally faltered, and he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of concern, “What do you mean? Are you—”
April shot from her chair and jogged over to the stereo by the sofa. “I love this song!” she giggled, turning up the volume.
The CD had looped back around to the track Rick heard when he arrived. April spun around, dancing with her arms up in the air. Mick shook his head at his daughter, but she didn’t notice, laughing at herself as she sang along,
“Help me, Rhonda, help, help me, Rhonda!” she sang at the top of her lungs, “Come on, come dance with me!” She pulled at Ed’s arm.
“Honey, I am not known for my rhythm and moves,” Ed batted her away and she turned her attention to Rick.
“Rick! Come dance with me. You won’t leave me hanging, will you?” she pleaded and wiggled her eyebrows at him, giving Rick a snapshot of a resemblance between father and daughter.
He shook his head, “I’m alright, April. I think you might be—”
She tugged at his arm, harder than he expected, and yanked him off his bench and up into the living room, “Come on, Rick. You can’t turn down the Beach Boys, it’s simply un-American.” She held on to both of Rick’s hands and jostled him back and forth to the beat of the song until he gave up and moved his hips in-sync with hers.
“There we go! Sing with me!” she tossed her head back and laughed, and Rick spun her around, feeling her happiness latch on to him.
In that second he smiled and he laughed and he wasn’t thinking about the beer sitting a few feet away that he was deprived of. He was just there, in a living room dancing and laughing and singing.
The song was almost over, and April stopped twirling and jumped closer to Rick, taking both of his hands once again. Her bright eyes met his, graced him with their light, and they both yelled as loud and off-key as they could,
“Help me, Rhonda, yeah, get her out of my heart!”
Chapter Six
The homey scent of garlic and onions wafted to Rick’s nose as he stood on the sidewalk outside of Will’s house that Monday afternoon. He had taken all of Sunday and most of today to contemplate what he should say to the boy. He’d hurt him, that could be assumed, and an apology would be in order for how he had threatened the nine-year-old, but what then?
Rick should have expected the boy to beat him to the punch; he hadn’t made it to the front door before he walked up to Rick on the sidewalk, “Hello, Mr. Griffin.”
He didn’t jump this time, but continued to stare straight ahead at the house, “Hey, Will. How ya’ doin’?”
The boy nodded, “I’m doing quite well, feeling better now that you’ve decided to speak to me again.”
Rick turned to the boy and, even though he had to look down quite a bit to see his clear eyes, he felt infinitely smaller than Will. “About the other day—I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am. I never should have spoken to you the way that I did.”
“I, as you put it, ‘messed with your life’, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but you’re still a child and I guess I forgot that. It’s kind of a cop-out answer, but it’s the only one I’ve got.”
Will smiled, “My mom has mentioned to me several times that I am mature for my age. Precocious, I think, is the word that some folks have used to describe me.”
Rick was struck by the word, but willed his mouth to open, willed himself to speak again, “That’s an understatement, in my opinion. But still, it’s no excuse for how I acted and I,” He cleared his throat, “I would like to ask for your forgiveness.”
The boy’s smile twisted into a mischievous string, wriggling on his face as he thought for a moment, “No, you don’t. I mean, of course you have my forgiveness. But you already know that…don’t you? That’s not what you want to ask me for, not really.”
Rick shook his head and rubbed his hand across his chin, kept smooth now from his new habit of shaving every morning, “You’re right about that. I can’t get anything past you, can I?”
The boy’s eyebrows pulled together, “I’m actually quite small for my age, it’s relatively easy to maneuver anything by me.”
Rick chuckled at his serious tone, “Never mind, Will. My question for you…” He struggled to get his words out, “My question is—well, I don’t actually know if it’s a question anymore, I’m not sure I even know what to say. I’ve been—”
“What is it that you want, Mr. Griffin?”
It was such a simple question, but for someone like Rick, it was the hardest one to come up with an answer for. He dug through his mind, through the possible answers that popped up: a drink, to laugh easier, a drink, his daughter back. In the end, his thoughts returned to Grace.
“I want to hear my daughter laugh again, to hear her sing off-key and to see her hang out the car window on the way home from school. I want to go back to that Tuesday and tell her not to get on the plane, tell my ex-wife that she had her chance to have a relationship with Grace and she blew it. I blew it, Will, and I’ll never get any of those things. I know that.” He kicked at the sidewalk at his feet.
Will repeated the question softer the second time, “What do you want, Mr. Griffin?”
Rick breathed in through his nose, let fresh oxygen swell his lungs, “I want to be a good father, Will. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I’ve always wanted to be whatever my daughter needed, do whatever she needed me to do. When she was—when I had the chance, I don’t know that I always succeeded. But if you’re right…” He shook his head at how ridiculous the words sounded, even in his mind, “If you’re right, and she’s really still here, then it’s my job to do whatever she needs so that she can be at peace, or move on, or whatever it is that you think she can’t do right now.”
Will looked up at him, obviously pleased with his answer, and breathed in, exhaling a satisfied sigh, “I want to go for a walk. Will y
ou join me?”
Rick, puzzled by his seemingly aimless answer, nodded slowly and fell into step beside the boy, “Sure, let’s…let’s go for a walk.”
They walked silently, side by side, until they got back to Main Street and Rick understood where they were going, “You’re taking me to the cemetery, aren’t you?”
“You want to see Grace. It’s best to start where you have spent the most time creating your own image of her in your mind. She’ll be strongest there.”
Rick kept breathing; the warm afternoon air soothed him, kept him from dwelling too much on how absurd the boy still sounded. He needed to keep an open mind. He needed to be a good father.
“Did you go somewhere yesterday? See someone?” Will asked quietly.
Rick followed Will’s steps as they veered to the left, nearing the cemetery entrance, “I did, yeah. I went up to New York to visit with some friends. They were having a barbeque and invited me.”
Will nodded in understanding, “Ah, I see, well that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Why you seem so different. Something in you has changed, Mr. Griffin. Meeting people, sharing a meal, it’s good for the soul. Don’t you agree?”
Rick honestly couldn’t disagree with the boy. No matter how feel-the-love the explanation sounded, it provided a solid reason for how he felt after having spent the day with Mick and April.
“Yeah, you’re right. Being around certain people…yeah, it can change you.” He couldn’t help but think of Grace, and how she used to walk in a room and instantly touch those that she talked to, smiled at, existed near.
The two of them passed the rickety gardener as they began the walk up the path to the red oak tree, where Grace was buried. Will’s eyes wandered in the old man’s direction, “What’s his name?” he asked Rick, who was ashamed to tell him that he hadn’t any idea.