by J D Spero
Marcella shook herself alert. “Are you kidding me?”
Tripp rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”
“What you’re asking me to do, Tripp, is illegal. What the hell? Are you really that thick?”
Tripp shot out of his chair. “Forget it. I’m outta here.”
“Oh, the drama. Where will you go? It’s late. The whole town is closed for the night.”
“I’m not talkin’ right now. I’m talkin’ I’m out. Leavin’ town.”
Marcella folded her arms. “Really?”
He pointed to the sky like a freaking astronomer. “I want out of this hole. ASAP.”
“What about Tyler?” She raised her eyebrows. That would get him.
“What about him? Ain’t my problem. Never was.”
Marcella’s arms dropped to her sides. There it was. Her intuition confirmed. Tripp was never interested in helping Tyler. She tensed with anger. “Why did you come, then?”
He stopped. His glare like a knife. That old fear roared back, and she flinched as if he’d struck her. She fought against it, but crumbled inside. Who knows how long they stared at each other? Her limbs went cold as heat filled her.
Finally, without another word to her, he stormed to the front room where his clothes and crap lay sprawled all over her living space. He mumbled one curse after another as he packed his bag.
She tiptoed to her bedroom, and prayed he wouldn’t hear the lock click into place. Or the rush of tears that followed.
Marcella took Tripp to the train station the next morning after getting Hen off to school. As she drove, snow flutters dotted the gray sky as if it hadn’t made up its mind to storm. Loosened milkweed, aloof.
She and Tripp were silent en route. The silent treatment had been in effect since his outburst the night before. Still, as she’d pulled up to the train platform, she thought they’d say goodbye.
Tripp heaved his duffle from the backseat and shot out of the car without a word, pressing his cowboy hat onto his head.
She watched him go, slightly stunned. He was going to walk away? Just like that?
White dots of snow freckled his hat as he sauntered blithely, his duffle over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
She waited. He’d turn around to wave goodbye. Any moment now.
Or not.
When he ducked into the station to buy his ticket, it hit her. She’d never talk to him again. Or see him. She gripped the wheel, fighting an urge to go to him. Make things better. Apologize.
For what? Why was she such a flimsy, desperate weed? Ugh, she disgusted herself sometimes. Besides, he was the one in the wrong. He left Tyler. Yet again. Selfish ass that he was.
It took less than ten minutes for the train to arrive. That hard nut in her chest tightened as Tripp boarded without hesitation. No wave, no look back.
“Good riddance,” she spat.
Rails squealed. The train rasped into motion. As it picked up momentum, steam shooting from its horn, Marcella felt something slip away. The train careened into a valley and disappeared into the lower Adirondacks.
Falling against her seat, she stared at the platform, now deserted. Her breath came more easily.
Then, oddly, she laughed. She laughed and laughed, feeling lighter every second. Oh, the relief! Her chest opened with it. The car windows fogged with it. She laughed until tears gathered. She wiped her eyes. A song of a sigh filled the silence. She cracked a window and the rush of cold invigorated her. Like her car had an infusion of oxygen.
She was free.
Six Months Earlier
Spring 1991
Meep-meep.
After finishing his joint in his truck, Derek honked outside the Trout home. It was a humid Friday night. Sweat gathered under his arms. Had to get the AC checked.
“Come on, Ty.”
He hadn’t called. He assumed he’d hang with Ty like every other Friday night. Not sure what exactly they’d do. Smoke another joint. Grab some grub. There was a bonfire later. Roxanne might be there. That wouldn’t suck. Even if she wasn’t there, it never hurt to drink a few Buds in the woods.
Suddenly Marcella—not Ty—leaned into the passenger-side window. She wore a white blouse that fluttered in the wind, and Derek saw the lace trim of her bra. Her dark hair blew into her face. She gathered and held it by her neck. Derek took off his cap and ran a hand through his own hair. She smiled, and Derek noticed she wore lip gloss.
“It’s Hen’s birthday.”
That’s all she needed to say. Memories came swirling: Marcella home from the hospital with this tiny bundle wrapped like a baby mummy. She dressed in white too, for weeks after, as if she were marrying the thing. He’d never seen someone so smitten about a blob that did nothing but slobber and poop and cry all the time. Even after the baby’s dad left, her love for that blob made her glow. Made her love stronger with him gone. She held the baby all the time. They were stuck closer than if he’d still been inside her. They meandered around the house like that, all white robes and blankets. A big, fluffy cloud.
“Ah.” Derek nodded, understanding. Ty couldn’t come out.
“How are you doing, Derek?” Marcella smiled brightly.
Derek squirmed, tongued his soul patch. He couldn’t remember the last time Marcella talked to him, no less asked him about himself. “Aw’right, I guess.”
“Staying out of trouble, I hope?” She winked.
“‘Course.”
“Are you still working at the diner?”
“Yah.” A dumb question maybe, but he didn’t care. Weird that Marcella would be asking, though. Didn’t she know Ty worked there too?
“Tyler says you have a girlfriend?” Marcella’s smile changed. Was she teasing him?
Now he was sweating. “Nah, not really.”
She glanced back at the house. “Well, we’re going to Flanagan’s. Hen likes their mac-n-cheese almost as much as he likes mine. Would you like to come?”
“Who’s going?”
The head tilt always got him. “Is that a polite question?”
A half-hour later, Derek found himself at Flanagan’s, sitting across from a plate of chicken wings. And none other than Old Mother Hubbard.
“It’s customary to wear sleeves in a dining establishment,” she told him, her bird-like eyes peering over her reading glasses.
If he could’ve sneered at her, he would have.
“Didn’t know I was comin’,” he mumbled, jittery from his joint. Or nerves.
It was true. He didn’t know he was coming. And it wasn’t his fault. This old T-shirt with the cutout sleeves was the only clean shirt he could find in his house this morning. The over-bright restaurant felt like an interrogation. He considered putting his cap back on.
As if she read his mind. “At least you took off your baseball hat. There’s hope after all.”
Derek gritted his teeth, his appetite lost. He was dying for a cigarette. Ty had already torn into the platter of wings, and he noisily slurped sauce off his fingers. Derek drank his iced tea, and searched the room for an escape. Something to save him from this neighborhood witch. It baffled him how Ty tolerated her presence like he did. Marcella pretty much kissed her wrinkly ass. And the kid, Chicken, thought she was love in a biscuit.
Hen, Marcella, and Bernie were engrossed in their own thing at the other end of the table, leaving him with Ty—who was, as usual, stuck in his own head—and Old Mother Hubbard, the witch.
She dipped celery into blue cheese. “So tell me. What are you up to, Derek?” Nothing about her tone was friendly.
He shrugged. “Nuthin’.”
“No? Helping your dad at the diner a lot? Are you involved in all aspects of the business or only the food service part?”
Ty karate-chopped his hands. “He’s a food processor. Chop, chop!” His voice was too loud. “He’s got style, though. Ask Roxanne Russo.”
Derek rolled his eyes.
“Don’t you have aspirations, Derek? You don’t want to be a slav
e to the diner all your life, do you?”
For real? The diner was the hub of the whole freaking town. He was proud to work there. It would be his someday. “What’s wrong with the diner?”
The waitress served a second platter of wings along with Hen’s mac-n-cheese. Then, a cup of chowder for the witch, who dropped her oyster crackers in one by one. They floated and bounced like moorings in the lake.
“Where were you and Ty planning to go tonight?” she asked.
Ty perked up. “Hey, isn’t there a bonfire later?”
Derek nudged him with his knee. Shut up.
The witch cackled. “Oo-oo! Nothing like drinking beer and building a huge fire in the woods. Very responsible.”
Ty laughed, and the witch smiled at him. Actually smiled. She had never—not once—smiled at Derek. He knew he shouldn’t care, but it pissed him right the hell off.
Marcella called from the other end of the table, “Derek, aren’t you hungry?”
Derek obediently picked up a wing. He ate it absently, not tasting it, making it last until Ty finished the rest. Finally, Hen’s peanut butter pie came with a big candle in it. While everyone sang Happy Birthday, Derek felt the witch’s eyes burning his skin.
What? he asked silently, scowling at her.
I’m watching you, her eyes told him.
He refused to let her get to him. She thought she had all the power in this town because she was a stupid watchdog nag, but she didn’t.
Pop did.
Once a month when produce was delivered, Derek played hooky to help Pop with the heavy lifting. This month it fell on a Monday, the only day the diner closed. Pop went about administrative stuff, like bills, while Derek brought in the crates.
Pop squinted at a letter. “This is getting out of control.”
Derek set the bag of potatoes atop the box of cabbage. “What is?”
“All these years, I been payin’ more rent than any business in town. All to Hubb Corp. They don’t have no office. Return address is a PO Box. Phone number gives me some mechanical voice askin’ me to leave a message.”
Derek was used to Pop’s outbursts about rent. “Yah?”
“And then this letter comes in. From a lawyer. Hochman. Comes in here for a blue-cheese burger nearly every week.”
“I know ‘im.”
“Letter says I gotta hand over my balance sheet, tax returns, and payroll detail. Required by law.”
Derek paused. “That’s odd.”
Pop’s neck was so red it was like a volcano about to erupt. “More than odd. So unfair, it’s an outrage. You weren’t here last week when this examiner guy came by. Checked the electrical to see if we were up to code. Threatened to shut us down if we don’t comply with his demands.” He tore the letter in half.
Derek thumbed his belt loops. “Damn.”
“Yeah, damn it all to hell and back, I say. Woulda cost a fortune to do everything he asked for.”
“Where’s it comin’ from?”
“Tole you. Lawyer named Hochman. He eats a—”
“No, someone hired him. Who does he work for?”
Pop knocked on the table. “Let’s pay a visit to Hochman and find out. Right now.”
In less than thirty minutes, they sat across from Lawrence J. Hochman, Esq. Derek’s worn flannel and grunge jeans seemed ratty against the studded leather armchair.
Hochman did not seem like the kind of man who liked surprises. He fidgeted at the opposite side of his desk. His satin tie dazzled against his starched white shirt. He yanked at his cuffs, stretched his arms, and yanked at his cuffs again. The law seemed to emanate from his pores. Derek wasn’t sure he trusted him.
“What can I do for you?”
Pop tossed the letter onto his desk.
Hochman barely looked at it. “Did you have a question about something?”
“Who the hell is Hubb Corp?”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, Larry, cut the crap. You eat at my place every week. Be a pal and tell me what the hell’s goin’ on here. I shell out more dough to this company—freakin’ crazy high rent for this area—and I dunno who the hell they are.”
“They’d like to remain private about the matter.”
“Screw that.”
“Mr. Hogg, please—”
“They can’t ‘remain private’ when they send all these suits over who force me to spend money for no good reason. I have a right to know who’s behind all this.”
Mr. Hochman donned his reading glasses and studied the letter.
Pop paced the room, fury stinking off him.
Derek tried a gentler approach. “We want to do the right thing. What do they want?”
Mr. Hochman softened. “She just wants everything above board.”
She. Derek’s ears perked. He kept his voice level. “Above board?”
Sigh. “It’s a basic consideration, really. It’s important to Mrs. Hubbard that any business under her roof is a respectable one.”
As soon as he said her name, he must’ve realized his mistake. The air in the room vanished. The bookshelves grew to the ceiling. Silence rang against the books, the gold etching on the spines pinging.
Derek fell back against his seat.
Pop’s face blanched. “What did you say?”
Mr. Hochman folded and unfolded the letter. Dropped his readers. Sweat gathered on his forehead. “Well. Um.”
“Sally Hubbard?” Pop was either pissed or in awe.
Derek’s fists clenched in his lap. Old Mother Freaking Hubbard. The neighborhood witch. Always yelling at him and Ty. Tattling to Marcella. Threatening to call the cops on them. Derek’s blood boiled.
Hochman tapped the letter against the desk. “Yes. Not that it matters, really. It’s not who that’s important, but what. Hubb Corp—the entity—is who you are dealing with…through me.”
“Sally Hubbard lives two doors down from me.”
“Still, it would be prudent to address any communications through this office.”
Pop snorted. “That’s not very neighborly, is it?”
Derek had to smile. Now Hochman’s face went white.
The chessboard stretched between them, a few pieces left on the squares. Some pawns, his bishop, her queen, both their kings.
“You’re a smart boy. You’re learning to read already. You can learn this game easily. And it’s good for you. It exercises your brain.” Miss Sally beamed at Hen.
“Like, jumping jacks?” Hen giggled.
“Not exactly like jumping jacks. But you don’t want your brain to turn to mush. So you have to use it. Find new challenges to keep you thinking. Keeps you fresh. Look at me. I’m an old lady. But because I like to play Scrabble and chess, I stay sharp as a tack.”
Phone rang. When Miss Sally went to answer it, Hen yawned big. It was his turn, but his brain was sleepy.
“Your mom will be here soon,” Miss Sally said after hanging up. “Do you want to finish tomorrow?”
“Okay.” Hen curled up on the couch, snuggling Miss Sally’s afghan. A gurgle from his stomach. He was hungry, too. So many things: snack, sleep, Mom. But his eyes were closed already, and sleep came for him.
Rap, rap, rap.
It wasn’t Mom’s knock on the front door. Hen perked awake. The afghan fell as he sat up.
Miss Sally padded in her polka-dot socks to open the door. Hen craned to see that meanie, Derek Hogg, and his father on the stoop.
“Took you long enough. Come on in. I just put on some tea.” Miss Sally stepped aside.
Stunned, Hen stared at the two Hoggs, who were too tall and fat for Miss Sally’s fancy living room. Leon’s apron was dirty. Derek wore the same backwards cap. They smelled like cigarettes and bacon. All wrong. They didn’t belong.
Leon followed Miss Sally into the kitchen, but Derek stayed behind. Hen’s belly went shaky.
“Well, if it isn’t Chicken man.” Derek licked that lip patch of hair, his whole tongue out in the open. Hen ducked inside the a
fghan. Derek chuckled. Who knew at what? It felt like it took a year and a half, but Derek finally followed his dad.
Hen didn’t want to listen to the grownups in the kitchen. But he couldn’t help it.
“I’m here on a business matter.” Even Leon’s voice was fat.
The fridge opened and shut.
“You drink Bud, right?” A can opened with a pop. Miss Sally was hosting them? “How about nachos, Derek? Used to be your favorite.”
How did Miss Sally know Derek’s favorite anything?
“I’m good,” Derek mumbled.
“You’re good? Does that mean you’re not hungry? I don’t believe it.”
Why was she being so nice to them?
Chips fell onto a plate. Microwave beeped on. The smell of melting cheese made Hen’s stomach lurch.
“This is unnecessary, all this stuff.” Leon sounded annoyed.
Miss Sally’s voice was sugary. “I’m your neighbor. And your landlord.”
What was a landlord?
“Yeah. Hubb Corp. That’s you, right?”
“It was my late husband’s company. And now it’s mine. So, yes. Hubb Corp is me.” Hen could hear her smiling. He would bet a hundred dollars the Hoggs weren’t smiling.
The kettle whistled, and Hen followed her in his mind: getting her favorite mug from the cupboard, placing a licorice spice bag inside, pouring the boiling water. Now smells of black licorice mixed with melting cheese. They didn’t go together.
“Please, sit.”
Ceramic platter tapped onto the table. Chairs scraped the linoleum. Slurping beer, sipping tea. Finally, nachos crunching. Mmmmm…gooey cheese over warm chips. Hen’s mouth watered.
A knock on the table from Leon’s big knuckle. “I gotta ask you to stop sending over those officials, ma’am. They’re nothin’ but a pain in the ass.” Pause, then softer: “Sorry.”
Miss Sally laughed a little. “I’m sure they are a pain in the ass. Okay, no more officials.”
Leon cleared his throat. “And I wish…I mean, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t keep raisin’ the rent. But keep it, yanno, even with other places, like local commercial properties. Bonnie’s Boutiques on the other side of Main doesn’t pay half what I do.”