by Tracy Clark
Mr. Adkins answered the door, looked at me, at the box.
“I’ve brought Dontell’s things back.”
He called his wife, let me in. I placed the box carefully on the coffee table as the Adkinses held hands, drew strength from one another, braced themselves for whatever news I had.
“You find out what happened to our boy?” Mrs. Adkins asked, a slight tremor in her voice.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She eased herself down on the couch, and Mr. Adkins, too, their hands still entwined. I kept standing, my hand on the box, hoping to steal some strength from the strength Dontell had had. He’d refused to be undervalued and played for a fool. He had stood up for himself and had demanded respect. I drew in a breath, then told the Adkinses about Allen and Chandler, about the craven way Chandler had chosen for Dontell to die. How Chandler’s end was a conclusion, but not justice. When I was done, Mrs. Adkins cried. So did Mr. Adkins. I stood there and witnessed the grief, my hand on the box.
Chapter 43
Labor Day had bloomed like a rock star. The last blast of summer did not disappoint. Sunny, mideighties, birds chirping their little hearts out. It was gorgeous. I put on the music, got out the ice chest, and stuffed it with beer and pop and cold water. Whip and Eli had the grills going in the backyard, and the smell of hickory smoke filled my yard and the yards on either side of me, both of which had their own grills going strong. Chips? Check. Buns? Check. Mustard, relish? Check, check.
I had set the loungers and folding chairs out early and had covered the picnic table with gingham cloth and arranged the citronella candles. Everything was ready to go. I stood on the back porch, taking everything in, glad the weather was good, glad I had those who mattered the most to me here. I’d invited my father, Sylvia, and Whitford, as an experiment, I guessed, to see how it’d go. Whit had quickly attached himself to Eli, wanting to be regaled with cop stories.
Mrs. Vincent had made the potato salad and other sides, along with a couple of her famous coconut cream pies, which were chilling in her fridge. Hank Gray had brought very good beer and a couple of fireman buddies. And Ben was here, sipping pale ale, trading sports stories with, surprisingly, Whip as he babied the ribs with a pair of meat tongs. I thought we were okay, Ben and me. It felt like we were okay. I was going to leave it there.
Barb and Mrs. Vincent fussed over the table, putting out plastic forks, napkins, cups.
“Cass? Look there in my Frigidaire and bring out the fruit salad, will you?” Mrs. Vincent asked. “We’re about ready to get this party started.”
“Oh, and the other bottle of mustard,” Barb added. “It’s on the table.”
I gave them a thumbs-up and slipped inside. Frigidaire. I clocked the mustard on the table, then reached into the Frigidaire, found the salad, and pulled it out. When I turned back, Ben was standing there, leaning on the cane he needed temporarily to steady his steps.
I said, “Oh, hey.”
His eyes narrowed. “Oh, hey? That’s all you got? What’re you doing?”
I eyed the bowl of fruit in my hands. “Seems obvious, doesn’t it?”
“You drop a sandwich and run, then ghost me? What are we? Acquaintances?”
“I didn’t ghost you. I—”
He held up a hand. “Zip it. I got it out of Carole. She never could hold up to interrogation. First, she doesn’t know a damn thing about partners, okay? Two, she knows even less about relationships, seeing as she’s had a string of no-account losers dating back to junior high school, and there is absolutely no evidence that her losing streak is going to let up anytime soon. Don’t get me wrong. I love her, but she’s no authority on anything. Just putting that out there. Three, I got something to say to you, I’ll say it myself.”
I put the salad down. This was it. The talk. “You said you needed to talk, then things happened. Let’s do that now.”
He nodded. “All right.”
“All right.”
“This is it,” he said. “I’m going to put it all out here on the table, along with the mustard.”
“Okay,” I said.
He looked at me, but didn’t say anything for a time.
“Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“The salad’s getting old.”
“Right. I’m just going to put it all out there.”
“With the mustard,” I said.
“It was about your chucking the job. I got it, but I was a little pissed, too, mostly for me, having to team up with some other rube while you were out there with nobody watching your back. There was that dust-up a couple months ago, remember? That’s what fueled it. Since then I’ve been able to get my head around it. I’m good now in that regard. I could tell you were worried about how I was getting along, maybe feeling like you were responsible. Don’t. You did what you had to do. It was the right decision. We never really talked about it, but that’s where I’m at. That’s what I wanted to say. You with me so far?”
I nodded. “I am.”
He cleared his throat nervously. “Also, this. We’ve been through a lot, not all of it easy. But we trust each other. Good partners become almost one person after awhile. One zigs, and the other zigs. They zag, and you zag. Same direction, is what I’m saying. We’re not the same . . . We’re different, but where it counts, we’re . . .”
“Zigging in the same direction,” I said.
“Exactly. Carole? Clueless. You took a bullet for me, kept me from bleeding to death, and I’d walk through fire for you.” He smiled. “So what you let a potential murder suspect flee a crime scene. Nobody’s perfect, that’s what I’m saying.”
“You don’t have to keep bringing that last part up,” I said.
“My point is we’re family. Doesn’t mean I want to date you. Truthfully, it’d be like me going out with Carole, and that isn’t even legal in this state.”
I sighed. Relieved. I hadn’t been wrong. I hadn’t missed anything. Ben and I were as I thought we were, and nothing had to change or get weird or end. I smiled, practically giddy, high on friendship and hickory smoke and a perfect summer day with fruit salad and cold beer.
“Something else Carole said.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “What is it with her? I’m in the OR bleedin’ half to death and she’s out in the waiting room flapping her gums? Give it to me. C’mon. What else did she say?”
“That you went looking for Farraday after . . . you know. That you left your star behind.” He took a moment, watched me. “My partner had just gotten shot because of his fuckup. Would you have done anything different?”
I let a beat pass. “Absolutely not.”
“So, we good?” Ben asked.
I grinned. “We’re great.”
“Good.”
I picked up the salad.
“One more thing,” Ben said.
I put the salad down again. “Ben, frankly, I don’t think I can take one more thing.”
He waved me quiet. “What’s with the tree trunk out there?”
“What?”
“Hank Gray? The firefighter. You couldn’t go CPD? You had to go CFD?”
I groaned, and then picked up the salad again. “Not you, too.”
Ben grabbed the mustard off the table on our way out the back door. “I’m feeling encroached upon, crowded,” he said. “We’re like mortal enemies, in a professional kinda way. What got into you? When’d you go red?”
“He’s a very nice man.”
“Not the point. The point is you’ve acquired some very radical viewpoints lately. A smoke eater living right under your roof? I just don’t know where to begin with this.”
“You’re drinking his beer.”
“No shit? Well, I’m not going to lie. It’s good beer. Doesn’t change anything, though.”
“Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“Drink your beer, eat a hot dog, and evolve, for God’s sake.”
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