Once a Charmer

by Sharla Lovelace

  “I might have heard that, too,” I said.

  There was a pause, and I swear if I could have reached through that phone, I would have yanked him through it.

  “They bought condoms, Allie.”

  For the oddest, longest moment I had an entire conversation with him in my head that included a good laugh when he realized it wasn’t Angel and this boy, but some other random kids…or that it wasn’t really condoms they bought, but a package of sour gummy worms. They were innocent.

  My baby was still innocent. My diner was still mine. My best friend was—

  “They—” I attempted. “She—that can’t be right. You had to be mistaken.”

  “I talked to her,” he said.

  My belly contracted. “You talked to her? She—she didn’t even try to hide it?”

  “Oh no, she acted like she was alone, but I saw them come in together,” he said. “And they met back up outside the door.”

  I was sweating and in need of more air. Maybe I was having a heart attack. I looked around for something to fan myself with, but there was nothing. If I started my car back up for AC, my dad would hear and know something was up. If I got out and stood outside talking on the phone in the brisk air, he would know that, too, and come outside in his underwear and ask me just what the hell I was doing on his little patch of grass. Because there were days he didn’t know me.

  But right now that didn’t matter. Because his stupid, idiotic, moron of a granddaughter was probably banging another moron.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered.

  “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Mr. Mercer said. “But I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Yes—absolutely,” I said absently. “Thanks for calling.”

  Thanks for putting the rotten cherry on a really shit-filled day.

  I hung up and sat there, listening to my breathing. She’d already done this. Last night, when we had our fun little meeting of the minds—they’d already bought the condoms. Had they already done the deed? We’re just talking and stuff.

  I wanted to throw up. I also wanted to nail Aaron’s dick to a tree. And pull Angel’s hair out one hair at a time.

  And more than anything, I wanted to talk to her dad.

  That thought kicked me in the gut more than anything in a very long time, and knocked the wind right out of me. I sucked in a breath and clamped a hand over my mouth. Because it wasn’t her actual dad I wanted to talk to, but the pretend one I used to wish for. The perfect one that would hold me right now and say all the right things and help me figure out the way to deal with our kid. And then head off to break the boy’s fingers.

  In other words, Bash. I wanted to talk to Bash. But I couldn’t do that, because we were weird right now, and because he really would go break fingers. It pissed me off through and through. I missed my friend. I needed him.

  I needed him for her, for the crap with the diner, for what was about to be crap with my dad. For this freaky-ass thing going on with a guy lately that I couldn’t tell him about, even as a joke, because he was the freaky-ass.

  I put the phone away. It was Sunday. Angel would theoretically be home when I got there, getting ready to go drive with Bash unless she was off doing homework again—and fuck-a-duck.

  If homework was a cute little code word for sex, I was going to mess up that girl’s world.

  I swiped under my eyes and pushed open the door, pulling my hair down from the messy bun and fluffing it out. I felt so hot, it almost made me more nauseous, but Dad tended to place me better like that, so...

  “Okay,” I whispered, breathing slowly and shaking out my hands. Time to shelve the diner and the Angel issues for the moment and go face this one.

  He opened the door before I even knocked, which told me he’d been watching out the window, and the set of his mouth told me I was eleven minutes late getting there.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said, hugging his neck.

  He smelled of Ivory soap and cigarettes, the latter I’m sure he thought he was hiding successfully from me and from his home health nurse. He tended to forget we had noses. He hugged me back, so at least he didn’t forget I was me. Not today.

  “What were you doing out there?” he said, his tone irritable as he paced in front of the door.

  “I was on the phone,” I said.

  He turned and fixed a look on me. “Don’t blow smoke up my ass,” he said. “Since when are there phones in cars?”

  Ah. That’s where we were.

  “So what are you eating tonight?” I asked. “Has Bev been here yet?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “She’s supposed to bring me extra puddings tonight.

  “Awesome,” I said.

  “You were late,” he said.

  “I know, Dad, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll do better next time.

  He grunted and walked back to his recliner, next to which was a rickety old metal TV tray with a lidded cup, the remote, and a book. Add some Cheetos to that mix, I thought, and he’d never have to leave his chair.

  The room was bright, every light on. He liked it that way, claimed it helped keep him from nodding off. Sleep wasn’t usually his friend. The dreams he’d always been plagued with made slumber a miserable place for my dad. He could take medicine to knock him into the next planet, past dream level, but he hated how that made him feel. So the lights stayed on, the television stayed on, the AC stayed on—basically if it kept him cold and kept his eyes open, it was on.

  A war movie was playing on the TV, which usually spurred him into a bad mood and quick tempers, but today I didn’t care. I was kind of in a mood, myself.

  I settled on the couch and pulled a worn throw pillow into my lap. “Whatcha watching?”

  “Does it matter?” he asked. “War is life. It all has the same message. Get your shit together.”

  “Okay,” I said softly. “Words to live by.” I ran my fingers along a stray thread on the pillow. “Dad, do you remember how you and Mom named the diner?”

  “Of course,” he said. “And so do you. I’ve told you a million times.”

  “So go for a million and one,” I said. I needed the nostalgia. I needed him to hear it, too.

  There was a long pause.

  “When I asked your mother to marry me,” he said. “We weren’t even dating. I just knew. She didn’t, but I did. She laughed and said Sure thing, Greene. When bananas turn blue.”

  His face softened with introspection. “So, I bought a banana, painted it blue and brought it to her.” A smile pulled at his lips. “She said, ‘Well, a deal’s a deal. But how about a date first?’” Dad stopped and rubbed at his jaw. “We were never apart again. We’d joke that that blue banana was our good-luck charm. So when we bought the building for the diner, she painted one and put it in the window. I couldn’t imagine a better name after that.”

  My eyes burned with tears. Not just at the story—he was right, I’d heard it a million times in my lifetime—but it was the longest dialogue he’d had in almost a year. There for about thirty seconds, it was like having my dad back, talking to me. Really talking to me, not just grunting at me in short little fragments.

  “I can’t imagine a better one, either,” I said, shutting my eyes. I would rather run through town naked and on fire than have this conversation. “I’m fighting to keep it, but I don’t know if I can.”

  He frowned at the TV, and I knew he’d gotten lost again.

  “So, Dad, do you remember a guy named Landon Lange? Tall. Useless look about him.”

  “Carries a purse like a woman,” he added.

  I laughed. “Yes!”

  He shifted in his chair and reached for his cup, and I took it that the subject was finished. Except that it couldn’t be. Why the hell couldn’t it be? I gritted my teeth together and willed my brain to let it go. I’d already determined that it would
only rile him up, or he wouldn’t remember it at all, that it served no purpose.

  But there was an angry seven-year-old girl inside me, losing her purple-flowered room all over again and wanting retribution.

  And the Blue Banana Grille was about to become The Honey Pot.

  “He came to see me the other day,” I said.

  Dad grunted.

  “Seems that you and he had a—transaction last year,” I said, forcing the word over my tongue. “Do you remember that?”

  Another grunt. “Bottom drawer.” He twisted in his chair to look behind him.

  “What do you need, Dad?” I asked, pushing back at the impatience shoving its way up my throat. “Bottom drawer of what?”

  “I want some peanut butter crackers,” he said.

  “Bev’ll be bringing supper soon,” I said. “You don’t want to spoil your appetite.”

  “I’m a grown-ass man,” he said, twisting back to growl at me. “I can have crackers before dinner if I want to.”

  I held up my hands. Every day was different, and so were the boundaries. I knew that from before I hired Bev to bring him his meals and make sure he took his meds correctly. Soon, I’d have to concede to full time care or move him, and that was a battle I wasn’t looking forward to.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll get you the crackers.”

  I got up and went to what was always the snack cabinet below the counter, but it was empty. Bev must have moved some things around for easier access. I opened the pantry cabinet, which was at eye level, and there were what looked like fifty boxes of whole grain peanut butter crackers. I pulled a package out and brought it to him.

  He took it and tore it open, giving me a double take as if questioning why I still stood there.

  “Bottom drawer,” he said again around a mouthful of peanut butter.

  “What bottom drawer,” I asked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “My bedroom.”

  I shook my head and grabbed a nearby blanket to throw over his legs, and then wandered into his bedroom.

  “What, is there food in here, too?” I said, cringing as I entered. The bed was unmade and the sheets looked like they hadn’t been washed since I washed them. Two months ago. Two unfinished glasses of something kind of brownish sat on his nightstand with cracker wrappers scattered around them. Dirty clothes were wadded up in a pile on the floor, and there was a definite stench going on.

  “Has Bev been cleaning in here?” I called out, wrinkling my nose.

  “No,” he replied.

  “I’ll talk to her,” I said. “She’s paid to handle light cleaning and laundry and it stinks in here.”

  “I don’t let her in there,” he said.

  “What?” I said with a sigh as I opened his top drawer. “Dad, you have to let her do her thing.” Top drawer was a mash-up of everything from questionable socks to fingernail clippers. I closed it. “Or hey, maybe wash a load of clothes,” I said under my breath.

  Next two drawers were T-shirts and shorts and jeans. Bottom drawer was—

  “Holy fuck.”

  “Watch your language,” he said casually from the other room.

  I backed up to the bed and sank onto it.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whispered.

  All I could do was breathe. And stare. And listen to my heart shoving blood through my head at warp speed. A million questions asked and answered themselves in my head as I sat there in shock. I got back up and walked slowly into the living room, stopping to stand between him and the TV.

  “Can you move?” he said, not looking up.

  “Can you tell me why there’s—” I took a slow breath and let it out. “Dad, how much money is in that drawer?”

  He looked up like I’d asked him about the weather.

  “A hundred thousand dollars.”

  * * *

  I had to walk away. Well, as far as the kitchen, anyway. I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and stood in there eating it at the counter in shock.

  What did he do? Why did he have that kind of money, did he win it? Would he even remember the answer to that? And why was it in a grocery bag in a dresser drawer in his bedroom instead of at a bank?

  Why didn’t he just pay Lange before the Blue Banana entered the equation?

  He was asleep when I finally pulled myself together enough to go back, so I sat down and flipped through channels unseeing.

  “Your granddaughter bought condoms with her boyfriend yesterday,” I said softly. He snored louder. “Yeah. My thoughts exactly.”

  A few minutes later, he woke with a start, gripping the arms of the chair like he was on a carnival ride.

  “Dad?”

  He jerked to the right, staring at me with wild eyes. “When did you get here?”

  “I’ve been here for a little bit,” I said. “You fell asleep, so I thought I’d watch some—”

  “Did you take the money?” he asked.

  My mouth was still open, but words failed me. I couldn’t tell if he was angry, paranoid, still in a dream state, or honestly asking me a question. It crossed my mind that he might not remember telling me, and I could pretend not to know, but that hurt my brain just to conjure that up. I was juggling too much already.

  “No,” I said. “It’s still there.”

  “Well it’s yours,” he said. “You need to take it. I don’t want it here.”

  I blinked. “Mi—Mine? What are you—”

  The knock on the door made me jump. “Good God.”

  “That’s Bev,” he said.

  “I know,” I said, both palms against my temples. I felt like if I let go, everything might fall out. But he was halfway lucid, and I had to grab the moment. “Dad, where did that money come from?”

  “From the trees,” he said.

  Well, so much for lucid. I sighed.

  “Trees.”

  “Bailey’s trees,” he said irritably, like when I was little and bothering him.

  “Bailey,” I said, shaking my head as I walked toward the door. Mr. Bailey was an eccentric older man that basically owned most of Charmed and lived like a recluse in a house tucked away in the woods across the pond. My dad and Lanie’s aunt had grown up with him or something, and they’d kept some semblance of a friendship as adults. I think. My dad only still spoke of him in dreams. “Of course. Big house Bailey?”

  “Don’t let her in yet!” he hissed, and I stopped cold. “Get some plastic grocery bags to double it up—triple it up—so it doesn’t show. I’ll stall her.”

  I gaped at him. “Dad—”

  “Do it!” he demanded. “Put it in your car.”

  “My—” I had to laugh. This was insane, like we were pulling off some kind of heist. Except that the money was mine and it came from trees and landed in his dresser drawer. “I’m not putting it in my car.”

  He grabbed me by the shoulders. “Allie,” he said. “Get it out of here, away from me. Now.”

  In that one split second of looking up into his eyes, my dad was in there. Goose bumps covered my body.

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  Another knock at the door made us both jump, and I sucked in a breath as I went to the kitchen and pulled four plastic grocery bags from the drawer I knew he stockpiled them. On a whim, I tore a large black garbage bag off the roll under the sink.

  “Mr. Greene?” Bev’s voice sounded from the other side of the door. “Are you okay? It’s Bev, can I come in?”

  “Just a second,” he called back, shooing me into the bedroom and shutting the door behind me.

  “Jesus,” I muttered, the insanity of the situation mixed with the rank odor of dirty clothes and sweat and funk overwhelming my senses.

  I dropped to my knees and opened the drawer again, half expecting it to be gone like someth
ing I made up in my head. Nope. Still there. I reached out and picked up a bundle of hundreds wrapped in rubber bands. Some were like that. Some were twenties tied together with twine. Whatever the version, it was more cash than I’d ever seen in my lifetime and was likely to see again.

  Take it away from me. Now.

  My eyes filled with tears. Something buried deep under the dementia, something him, was still in there. And just tried to do the right thing. I think.

  “What the hell am I doing?” I said under my breath as I heard Bev talking in the next room. I stuffed the tattered plastic bag into another, and then that into another, tying it all off at the top and setting it on the bed.

  “Does it look like a bag of money?” I muttered.

  Glancing around, I grabbed the garbage bag and fluffed it open, threw all his dirty clothes in it, and topped it with the bag of money. Tied that off. That worked. I opened the door and smiled at Bev as my dad turned around in surprise.

  “What were you doing in there?” he asked.

  I sighed.

  “Cleaning up your mess,” I said. I held up the bag. “I’m bringing his clothes home to wash. It’s disgusting in there.”

  “I’d be happy to wash them,” Bev said, reaching for the bag and retracting her hand when I yanked the bag behind me. “He—didn’t want me to go in there.”

  “I know, he told me,” I said, trying harder not to look like I was committing a crime. “But I’m overruling him.” I chuckled. “I’m going to put this in my Jeep, and then I’ll come strip the bed. If you’ll take care of that from there, I call it good.”

  “Will do.”

  Fifteen minutes and half a melt-down later, the bag sitting like a slumped passenger on my right, I pulled into my driveway. Next to Bash’s truck.

  “Fuck,” I sniffed. He was early, and sitting in the porch swing by the front door. Clearly the day wasn’t done with me yet. “Shit, damn, hell, and every other word.” I swiped under my eyes and took a deep breath. It was getting dusky dark. He wouldn’t notice.

  I grabbed my loot. God help me. And then—God help me.

  Damn if he didn’t look sexy sitting on that swing, one leg cocked lazily over the other at the ankles and his left arm riding over the top of the swing. Like he was waiting for me and had all the time in the world. Except that he wasn’t waiting for me. He was there for Angel.