by J D Spero
“What the hell is so funny?”
“Marcy,” Tripp said, rubbing his crotch.
Leon sniggered, his eyes half-mast.
Derek stood between them, puffing up. “Y’all are a bunch of pervs. This here woman’s an angel and as long as I’m breathing, no man is going to do her wrong.”
A few beats of silence, then unadulterated hilarity.
Marcella, both touched and sickened by what Derek said, pulled him into the bright light of the dining area.
“What are they up to, Derek? I don’t think I have to tell you Tripp is not here on vacation.”
“Yes, ma’am. I gathered that. Let’s just say, Tripp and Pop are smoothin’ out some unfinished business.”
“What does that mean? Tripp was never involved in the business of this diner.”
Derek tried to hide his laugh. “No, ma’am. Not about the diner, pacifically.”
“You mean: specifically?”
“Right. Pacifically.”
“What, then?”
“Afraid I can’t tell ya.” Derek’s grin was too wide. To her horror, he had the nerve to giggle.
Marcella leaned close to his face. “If this has anything to do with Tyler, anything you’re not telling me, you are in big trouble, young man. Do you hear me?”
“Has nothin’ to do with Ty, ma’am. Promise.” That cocky grin.
Tripp came over, and draped his arm around her. Her knees buckled under the weight of it. “My Marcy.” He eyed her breasts.
She shoved away from him. “I’m not your Marcy. Don’t call me that anymore.”
She stomped outside, through the snow towards her Impala.
How did it come to this? How could Tripp’s presence help anyone, no less Tyler? That boy had no idea what he asked for. She flicked her hand at the diner. Tripp should just stay here, with Leon.
She froze in her tracks, panicking a little. Oh, no. That wouldn’t work.
She needed Tripp on her side. Leon couldn’t get his hooks in him. Turning back, she opened the diner’s door and called, “Tripp, your ride’s leaving.”
Her car seat had turned to an ice sculpture while she’d been gone. Her teeth chattered as she started the engine and turned on the heat. “Come on, you pain in the ass.”
The car was so warm by the time Tripp came out, she’d almost fallen asleep.
Tripp slid into the passenger side as if he’d done so for years. And now she’d take him home. Where she’d have to host him. Cook breakfast for him. Introduce him to Hen. Maybe even Bernie. Ugh. The couch was already made up with sheets and one of Miss Sally’s quilts. Tomorrow, she would take him to see Tyler.
This had better be worth it. He’d better come through for his son. For once.
He closed the passenger door, caging them together in her car.
“My Marcy—”
“Don’t call me that.”
A few beats. He waited for her to look at him.
His eyes caught the light of the diner, and shone a blue brighter than an Arkansas sky. Tyler’s eyes. Tears threatened and she turned away.
“How can you not be my Marcy? You look exactly the same. As beautiful as that night we met on the dance floor.”
Marcella said nothing as she pulled out of the parking lot. She felt his eyes on her.
Tripp serenaded her softly as she drove. The chorus of Danny’s Song filled the car in the same warm-honey voice she remembered from long ago.
That song. That song. It had been the soundtrack of their courtship and the early days of their marriage. All her worries about their finances and their future would melt away whenever he sang her that song. As long as he loved her, it would be okay. She believed him.
Marcella kept her eyes on the road, praying they would stay dry. The last thing she wanted was for Tripp to see her cry.
Bigfoot’s feet stuck out from the throw, off the couch and onto the end table. Hen stopped in his tracks, half way downstairs. A strange man—a giant—slept on their couch? He hunched down, peering through the wooden spindles. The throw looked like a napkin for as much as it covered him. He wore a white T-shirt and red striped boxers.
Hen’s belly rumbled, and the man stirred. When he stretched, he filled the room. His jaw was box-shaped like Tyler’s. When he opened his eyes it was like headlights turned on. His bright blue eyes matched Tyler’s, too.
Oh.
This was Tyler’s dad.
His yawn sounded from a bullhorn. As his jaw shrunk back to a box, he noticed Hen.
“Hey, there. You must be Henry. Or Hen, I guess.”
Hen nodded, gripping a spindle.
“Well, come on down here then. Gotcha a present.”
Hen didn’t budge.
“Come now. Don’t be scared. I won’t bite-cha.” When Hen still didn’t move, he said, “I’m Tyler’s daddy, see. Nothin’ to be ‘fraid of. I’m family.”
“You’re not my dad.”
The man scratched his head, ran his fingers over the bare spot. “Nope, I’m not. You’re right about that.” He laughed a little. Hen wasn’t sure why.
Mom’s slippers swished in the kitchen, and then she was frowning in the doorway. She spoke to Tyler’s dad. “You’re awake.”
“Just tryin’ to make a friend here.” He gestured to the stairs.
“Oh, Hen.” She brightened in an instant. She came over and lifted him off the steps like he was still a toddler. “Good morning, sweetie bug.”
He nuzzled into her hug. She smelled like Mom. That orange blossom lotion she liked to wear. She wore her uniform, which meant she’d be leaving soon. Hen worried she’d ask Tyler’s dad to take him to the bus stop.
She finger-combed Hen’s hair. “Hen, this is Mr. Tripp. Say hello.”
Tripp, like when you fall over something? “Hello.”
“I was just tellin’ little man here I got a present for ‘im. But he wouldn’t come down. Spooked or somethin’.” He dug into his huge duffle bag that sat open in the middle of the room, clothes spilling out. “Here we go.”
He held up a green, fuzzy thing—like a giant raindrop—attached to a tiny chain. In Hen’s hand, it was soft, with little bumps inside, and something sharp on the end.
“Ya like it?” Tripp leaned closer.
“What is it?”
“Rabbit’s foot.”
Hen blinked at it.
“You know, bunny bunny hop hop? A rabbit. That’s the foot of a rabbit.”
The foot of a rabbit? Hen stared at the man named for falling over something, his mouth open in shock. It dropped from his hand, landing near his feet. He squirmed from it.
“It’s a good luck charm.” Tripp dangled it in the air. “Carry this with ya everywhere, you’ll have good luck.”
When Hen didn’t take it, Mom did. “Thank you, Tripp. How thoughtful.” She didn’t sound thankful, though. She must not have liked the rabbit’s foot either.
“Ya like it?” Tripp grinned hard.
“The bathroom’s upstairs,” Mom said. “Why don’t you get cleaned up while I give Hen his breakfast?”
Tripp kept staring at Hen. “He’s got your eyes. Tyler got mine.” He winked, and put on his wide cowboy hat. His outfit was funny: a T-shirt, red-striped boxers, and a cowboy hat.
Mom brought Hen into the kitchen. His cereal was already poured.
“His daddy around?” Tripp’s voice followed them.
Mom tried to whisper. “Excuse me, Tripp. That subject is forbidden around here. Especially coming from you. That is none of your business.”
Tripp didn’t try to whisper. “Thought the kid might be in need of a daddy man while I’m here.”
“Hen’s doing fine. He’s none of your concern.”
Hen dug into his cereal. Floorboards creaked in the next room. Mr. Tripp sounded like he was stretching again. Mom looked in his direction.
“What?” The man’s voice was smiling.
“Nothing.” Mom turned toward the sink.
“Nothi
ng you haven’t seen before.”
Mom cleared her throat. “After I put Hen on the bus, I’ll take you to see Tyler. Then I have to go to work.”
Hen felt mixed up inside. He was glad Mom would take him to the bus. But he wanted to see Tyler. He pushed away his cereal bowl. “Can I go see Tyler?”
His mother wasn’t listening. She loaded the dishwasher, fast. Almost throwing the dishes in. Did he make her mad?
“Why does Mr. Tripp get to go and not me?” But he didn’t say it loud enough. Mom didn’t hear.
Hen didn’t like what happened at Thanksgiving. Hen promised to be better next time, but Mom had been firm. Hen wasn’t going back anytime soon. Something about Tyler not being ready. It didn’t make sense. They were brothers. They shared a room at home. Why would Tyler need to get ready to see Hen?
It wasn’t fair. If Mr. Tripp and Fall—who killed harmless bunnies for their good luck feet—was spending time with Tyler, why couldn’t he?
Marcella had never seen Tyler grin so big. He and Tripp hugged like old high school pals, slapping each other’s backs.
“You’re here.” Tyler gazed dreamily at his father. Marcella swallowed her envy.
The trio sat around the small table, the Prick etching facing Tripp.
“Got somethin’ for ya.” Tripp retrieved a crinkly bag of spicy barbecue pork rinds from inside his jacket. “Merry Christmas.” He tossed it like a football.
“Wow. Thanks so much, Dad.”
Marcella winced. Dad. And pork rinds? Really? What kind of idiotic gift was that?
“Got a joke for ya,” Tripp said. “So, what do you call a camel with no humps?”
Ty laughed as he blushed. “I know this one. Humphrey.”
“Nope. You call him ‘one unlucky bastard.’”
They laughed in sync. Marcella groaned inside. Completely inappropriate. Why should she be surprised? He was performing for his son, but he was a bad actor. He used to do it all the time at parties. Sure sign of nerves. Most people thought he was charming. Ring leader. Life of the party.
Tyler was charmed, too. He didn’t talk much. Just sat and grinned. A huge grin—that unceasing frown Marcella had chalked up to teenage angst flipped on its head. Relaxed and happy, those brooding lines across his forehead gone kaput. That darkness in his eyes brightened. Between the two, she was blinded by the blue sparkle in the room. A mixture of disgust and pride kept her from chiming in. She settled to be an observer, her insides at war.
“Those were the days.” Tripp referred to his defunct country music band. At least he had moved on from dirty jokes.
Tyler interrupted. “I’ve always wanted to play guitar.”
Marcella’s eyebrows shot up. Tyler always wanted to play guitar? He never once expressed an interest in being a musician. Not that she could afford lessons. Still, where did this come from? She tried to hide her surprise. Didn’t matter. No one paid any attention to her.
“I’ll tell you what.” Tripp clapped his hands, rubbed them together. “Let’s bust you out of here and I’ll get you some lessons. Better yet, I’ll teach you myself.”
Her jaw dropped. Bust you out of here? Did she hear him right?
“You will? You think you can get me out of here?”
No way. Her son would not suffer from Tripp’s empty promises. “I don’t—”
“Any son of mine is destined to be in a band. It’s in your blood.” Tripp yanked on his belt loops. “Besides, I’ve been told I have a gift for teaching.”
She hoped he saw her eye roll.
Tyler latched on. “My best friend Derek wants to play drums. We could get our own band together.”
“Derek? You mean, Leon’s Derek?”
“Yeah. Derek Hogg. He’s my best friend. Has been since forever.” Tyler sounded like her little boy, and Marcella felt her heart breaking. Yes, his best friend who has completely thrown him to the wolves. Weren’t they in a fight?
“Interesting.” Tripp stared at the Prick on the table until his eyes glazed over.
Marcella bit back a sudden, uneasy feeling. “We should get going.”
“I have the perfect name for it.” Tyler’s grin hadn’t quit.
Tripp started. “Huh? Name for what?”
“For the band.”
“Right. The band.” Tripp’s eyes narrowed and refocused on Tyler. “Whatcha got?”
Tyler glanced up at the security camera. “The Ex-Convicts.”
They laughed like a couple of intoxicated teenagers. When Tripp reached over the table for a high five, Marcella’s chest constricted. As their hands touched, something broke inside of her. She’d lost control. Her son was almost unrecognizable.
“Tripp? We should get going.” She caught herself reaching for him.
He ignored her. She wanted to scream. Look at me.
Tripp didn’t. Of course, he didn’t. Marcella felt a corner of her heart crumble. It dawned on her. He never really saw her. Her chair squeaked back. “I’ll wait outside.”
Clapp lingered in the hall. He didn’t wear his sunglasses or cap or even his holster. He folded his hands, suppliant. This was new.
“Mrs. Trout?” His voice had that strange lilt to it. He gave her his trying-too-hard smile.
“Yes?”
He seemed lost for words. Redness crept up his neck.
“Officer? How is the investigation going?”
He snapped back to his haughty self. “Ah, right. Fine.”
“Anything leading to Derek Hogg?”
“I’m not at liberty to say ma’am. Mrs. Trout.”
“Still.” She tsked, disappointed, and spun on one heel toward the exit. She’d wait for Tripp in the car. A biting wind fought its way in with the door cracked open. Over the gust, she heard Clapp’s mewling voice. “Was hopin’ to see your boy, Henry, today.”
That stopped her. She stared back at him.
“Why—” she caught herself.
Clapp gave her a wry smile. A warning, maybe.
Her head spun, her protective instincts kicking in. She wanted to go to Hen right then. Take him out of school just to hold him.
“Keep your distance, Mr. Clapp.” Her voice shook.
He winked. “Call me Rob.”
“No, thank you.”
Breaking eye contact, she pushed the glass door shut, creating a barrier between them. She walked swiftly to her car, the head-to-toe, blood-to-bone chill having nothing to do with the cold, December Adirondack air.
December 1991
Bernie had been avoiding cleaning out Ma’s house, though Clapp had given him the all clear over a week ago. It made him physically ache. The thought of stuffing her belongings into boxes, organizing clothes and shoes for Goodwill, sifting through her file cabinet to reconcile any unpaid bills…
Today, though, he needed a distraction. Since Marcella had invited Tripp into her home, he would rather do anything than see them together. What if Tripp tried to rekindle their romance? He didn’t know much about their history aside from the fact that he’d left when Tyler was still a toddler.
Tripp’s visit was for Tyler, Marcella insisted. Bernie had no choice but to believe her. Maybe Tripp could help Tyler. Besides, he would never stand in the way of a reunion between father and son. If his own father had paid proper attention while he was a boy, maybe he’d have turned out different. Stronger. More assertive. He’d never know, though. For his entire childhood, it had been just him and Ma with his father swirling somewhere in the background. Working. Always working, too busy providing for his family to be bothered having a part in it.
Where did this sentimentality come from? In the wake of Ma’s death, he thought about his father. Bernie hadn’t thought about him for decades. Not since the cancer took him when Bernie was still a young man. At least he went quick. Ma had taken comfort in that. He didn’t suffer long.
Bernie supposed he was glad his father didn’t suffer long too, though he never gave it much thought. Strange that memories of his father crep
t into the forefront now. They seemed to be a physical barrier as he stepped into Ma’s living room.
And then, thoughts of his father vanished as traces of Ma’s life hit him like a tidal wave. Her favorite plaid chair, her knitting basket, framed family photos from years past, the chess set stuck mid-game.
A deep sigh escaped him as he cautiously made his way through the small house. Being in her bedroom was almost too much to bear. There, the frozen-in-time items that marked her sudden passing—the novel on her nightstand bookmarked a third in, her half-used makeup on the vanity, the dry cleaning ticket for her favorite wool coat—those things nearly broke him.
He was supposed to pack this stuff away and…do what, exactly?
His throat clogged. Ma would never be here again. Without her, all this stuff…was just stuff. Did any of it matter? Why not toss it all? Burn it. What good was it anymore without Ma?
He was already overwhelmed.
The kitchen was safer. Silence crowded around him as his eyes panned the room. It looked as if she’d just stepped out, leaving dirty dishes for later. At the base of the sink, mold grew at the bottom of a soup bowl. On reflex, he went to load it in the dishwasher, and was hit with a waft of rotten vegetables. His eyes watered and he bit back tears. Ma was gone, and this mess was in her place. The world seemed so cruel and unfair at that moment he wanted to run away and cry. But he had work to do. He squirted some Cascade and hit start on the dishwasher.
Amazing what a little button could do. Its methodical churning filled the awful silence a bit. The kitchen—the whole home—felt warmer. Steam-heated. Bernie took his first full breath all day. Inexplicably, he no longer felt like crying.
As a boy, he had always been comforted by the sound. At night, he’d toss and turn in his small bed trying to sleep until he’d finally hear the hum and swish of the dishwasher. It told him Ma had closed up the house for the night, with nothing left to worry about. He was safe.
One particular night, a nasty cough had kept him awake long after the dishwasher cycle ended. Kept Ma awake too. “My heart hurts,” he’d said. She knelt at his bedside for ages, rubbing Vicks VapoRub on his chest. He hadn’t remembered falling asleep, but slept soundly—the weight of her palm assuring him, healing his heart—even after she’d gone to bed herself.