Rescue Me (Butler Island)

by Nikki Rittenberry

  “ ’Kay.”

  Olivia pressed her finger down on the button, the rhythmic click-click-clicking of the device slicing through the steady humdrum chatter behind her. “Great job, kiddo! Your cute lil’ face was made for the camera.”

  “That’s what my Nana always says.”

  “Smart woman”, Olivia reiterated.

  “Not when it comes to cookin’ stuff.”

  Randall and Olivia howled with laughter. They’d heard the epic tales about Mrs. Crawford’s culinary talent—or rather, the lack thereof. He’d never had the privilege to taste her infamous casseroles, thank God. But if they were half as bad as everyone claimed, he’d rather eat dirt than subject himself to that kind of torture.

  His eyes wandered over the crowd once again, the sight of Lana’s fleeing back zigzagging through the crowd reminding him of a marble’s jagged journey in a pinball machine. “Shit”, he mumbled softly.

  Olivia followed his gaze, catching a glimpse of the back of Lana’s black sweater as she hurried toward the solid metal door that led to the interior of the fire station.

  “Listen, Connor, why don’t you and Olivia get in line for dessert. I hear Jenny made cookies ’n cream cupcakes.”

  Pivoting in his lap, Connor’s brows drew together, wrinkling his tiny forehead. “What about you?”

  “I’ll meet you over there in a few minutes.”

  “Okay!”

  Carefully Randall lowered Connor down the side of the cab until he was low enough for Olivia to reach. When his feet finally touched concrete, Randall began his descent, landing with a heavy thud after hopping from the bottom rung. “If I don’t make it back in time” ,he called over his shoulder, “make sure to grab a cupcake for me, too!”

  “We will!”

  Randall pointed his work boots toward the door Lana had disappeared behind minutes earlier, his even gait never wavering. It didn’t appear as though anyone else had noticed her speedy departure. Good. Guess if it had to happen, at least she’d held off until the crowd had become distracted by the allure of the dessert table.

  Tugging on the heavy metal door, he stepped over the threshold, allowing the distant echoes of Lana’s sorrow to navigate him. The clank of his boots hitting the linoleum floor should have announced his arrival, but sadly she couldn’t hear them—not over the volume of her cries.

  His feet came to a halt at the entrance to the kitchen, and although he had a pretty good idea of what he was walking into, the picture in his mind didn’t begin to prepare him for what he stumbled upon. Her petite body trembled, her left hand braced along the countertop likely the only thing keeping her upright. Her right hand was positioned over her mouth, most likely in an attempt to muffle the shrill of her sobs.

  It was a small peek into the pain she struggled to suppress daily. A glimpse at the agony he’d created. Suddenly he felt like an imposter, feeling as though he was spying, invading on what seemed like a very private moment. Scrubbing his palm down his face, Randall decided to make his presence known. “Lana…”

  Startled, Lana spun around, eight trembling fingertips frantically swiping at the moisture cascading down her face. “Where’s C-Conner?”

  “With Olivia. Getting dessert.” Her head bobbed up and down several times before another wave of grief fought for release. She bit her bottom lip, but she was far too weak to curb the cries from escaping again. Her eyes clamped shut while her hand masked her mouth.

  Listening to the sounds of a wailing woman wasn’t one of his favorite pastimes—and he didn’t know of any man that would disagree—but retracing his steps back to the crowded bay wasn’t an option, either. Stepping forward, he opened his arms, offering security to her unanchored emotions.

  He held her while her small frame quivered, supporting her grieving body as she wept for the husband she missed and the father Connor had lost. Weeping for the memories that’d surfaced of the years she’d spent with Jimmy. And the many years ahead she’d endure alone.

  Lana’s tears had soaked through the heavy cotton of his navy department T-shirt, but he didn’t care. Offering his uniform as a handkerchief was the least he could do. He waited until the volume of her sobs softened, stroking her hair as he urged her to confide in him. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

  Lana sniffed, her head still buried against Randall’s solid shoulder. “I made a mi-mistake.”

  “A mistake?”

  Lana nodded, then raised her head. “I shouldn’t b-be here. And Connor… What if he s-sees me?” Gripping the front of his shirt, she focused her watery gaze on two gray eyes swirling with concern. “He c-can’t see me like thi-this, Randall. I made myself a promise a-after Jimmy’s funeral that I’d n-never let him see m-me like that again.”

  “Look at me”, he commanded softly as he cupped the sides of her face. “You’re going to take the back door to the parking lot and get in your car. You’re going to drive home—”

  “But, Connor will—”

  “Connor will stay here with me. My shift ends in an hour. When it’s over I’ll bring him home—”

  “I c-can’t ask you to do that, Randall.”

  “You didn’t. I offered, remember…? Go home. Pull yourself together. Connor never has to know about this.”

  “And what about everyone else?” she asked as she briefly closed her eyes. “If I l-leave, they’ll—”

  Randall brushed a fleeing tear from her cheek with his thumb, wishing he could offer her more than a spur-of-the-moment babysitter. “If anyone asks, I’ll tell them you weren’t feeling well. You did eat dinner at your momma’s…”

  Despite her grief, Lana laughed softly. “Yeah, I did.”

  Randall smiled, feeling as though he’d accomplished the impossible: he’d made her laugh. He was unprepared for the sense of satisfaction that pummeled through him, unprepared for the flicker of light expanding in his dark heart. “Go. I’ll see you in a bit.” Hands still cupping her face, Randall leaned forward and placed his lips against the top of her forehead.

  Lana closed her eyes, feeling a glimmer of hope for the first time in months. She wasn’t alone. She didn’t have to carry the burden by herself any longer. “Okay”, she whispered softly. “Okay.”

  Beams of light danced across the white mantel, followed by the low hum of Randall’s truck pulling into the drive. Rising from Jimmy’s favorite chair, Lana tucked her still-damp hair behind her ear. Near-scalding water had cleansed the overwhelming gloom from her body, the shower’s drain thirsty for her tears. She’d become accustomed to crying in the shower, hiding the anguish from Connor behind a palm-tree-printed curtain.

  She felt better—exhausted, but better. The amount of energy leached from her small frame by way of her tears still amazed her. Sometimes after a good cry she felt as though she’d competed in a marathon. In fact she was pretty damn certain she could make a sport of it. And if the Olympics recognized table tennis and badminton as a sport, she didn’t understand why Mourning Marathons couldn’t be included too.

  Heavy footsteps thudded against the porch steps as Lana reached the front door. Randall greeted her on the other side, carrying a sleeping Connor.

  “He passed out before we even made it to Main Street.”

  Lana moved aside, making room for Randall to enter. Once he’d cleared the threshold she gently closed the door. “He had a busy day today”, she uttered quietly.

  Motioning for Randall to follow, she journeyed down the narrow hall lined with pictures of Connor, all framed in white wood and randomly positioned in a collage. Jimmy never cared for the casual appearance, arguing that it looked as though she’d hung the pictures with her eyes closed. She hadn’t, of course. There was a method to her madness. She’d seen it done on HGTV once. It was supposed to command attention, luring one’s eyes to journey over the images in a sweeping motion, allowing the still shots to tell a story.

  Randall followed Lana into Connor’s room, light from the hall spilling onto the green area rug patterned with
thin white stripes: yard lines like the ones painted on a football field. Careful not to trip over any toys, he gently placed Connor in his bed, backing away while Lana removed his sneakers. Feeling as though he was intruding on a precious, private moment, Randall slowly backed away, wiping his palm down his face as he strolled into the kitchen.

  Walking up the porch steps moments ago he hadn’t known what to expect; she’d been a mess at the station. Now puffy red eyes were all that remained.

  “Thank you”, Lana uttered just above a whisper as she joined her rescuer in the kitchen.

  Randall shoved his hands in his front pockets, bewildered by her gratitude. “It was nothing, really.”

  “Don’t do that. It meant a lot to me.” Wrapping her arms around her middle, she continued, “You saved me from falling to pieces in front of Connor tonight.”

  Shrugging his broad shoulders, he leaned his hip against the counter, allowing his gaze to wander over her face. “I told you before, I want to help.”

  Two gray eyes staring back at her revealed pain—like a festering wound that refused to heal. She recognized the weariness, the despair, the discontent. Looking into his eyes was like looking in the mirror. And if there was any truth in the eyes being the windows to the soul within, their depths divulged his vitality had suffered an immeasurable blow. The agony was camouflaged well behind his poker face, but she still saw it. He couldn’t hide it from her.

  And although his pain wreaked havoc on her already fragile heart, the comfort of knowing she didn’t have to heal alone rescued her from the black hole she’d stumbled into nearly six months ago. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  It felt damn good putting her mind at ease. For the first time in months it felt like Randall was doing something positive and productive with his time, instead of spending it pickling his liver with eighty-proof whiskey. He’d been numb for so long feeling seemed foreign to him. But as his eyes settled on the healing woman before him, he had to admit it felt good.

  It felt good to be here. Good to see her smile again. Hell, it just felt damn good to feel. “Me too.”

  Chapter 8

  The first weekend in December had been reserved for Winterfest for as long as Randall could remember. The annual celebration began on First Street as eager spectators lined the road’s edges for the Christmas Parade. And after the Winterfest Queen rode by on the back of the mayor’s blue 1966 Ford Thunderbird Convertible, residents migrated to the boardwalk, sampling some of the best Christmas cookies available this side of the equator. But the biggest attraction, by far, had to be the carnival.

  Fried funnel cakes dusted with powdered sugar, Polish sausages smothered with grilled peppers and onions, cotton candy sold in pairs of red and green tempted the masses in droves. And when bellies were sated, thrill seekers binged on rides that spun, twisted, dropped and lifted. Large stuffed animals hung from tent ceilings near the exits, beckoning folks to spend the remainder of their hard-earned cash for a chance to win a coveted Christmas prize.

  But Randall wasn’t interested in parades, Christmas cookies, or the thrill of a carnival ride. It was Saturday night—which meant two dollar domestic drafts at The Saloon.

  Yeah, that was something worth celebrating.

  Pushing his way through the heavy wood door, the familiar scent of stale cigarettes and Pine Sol accosted him immediately, filling his nose with a strange sense of comfort. He waved at the bartender, Dan, as he wound his way to the back of the room. Grant had managed to snag their favorite pool table in the back corner, and was already arranging the billiard balls inside the triangular rack for their first round.

  “About time you got here”, Grant teased as he carefully lifted the triangle from the table. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.”

  Randall slapped his hand against Grant’s, pulling him in for a manly shoulder-bump. “What’re we wagering tonight?” he inquired as he turned his attention to the wall, meticulously analyzing the display for a cue stick before selecting the one on the end. Pointing the tip toward the ground, he studied the wooden rod, checking for any signs of warpage.

  “Loser buys the next round.”

  “Olivia have you on an allowance or something?” Randall asked as he stepped away from the wall.

  “Only when I’m playing pool with you.”

  Randall chuckled under his breath. He didn’t like to brag, but he was damn good at the game. He’d taken Grant’s money on more than one occasion over the years—a fact Olivia was obviously well aware of. “Where is she, by the way? Figured she’d already be parked on a stool for moral support.” The waitress arrived with their first round, placing two frosty mugs on a nearby table. “Thanks, Rachael.”

  “You bet”, she answered with a wink, then scurried toward the neighboring table to collect another order.

  Grant hovered over the billiard table, allowing the cue stick to glide back and forth over his thumb several times before he struck the cue ball. The perfectly-aligned billiard balls scattered violently along the green felt. “She’s at Lana’s; should be here anytime now.” He studied the arrangement, looking for an easy solid-colored ball to sink.

  “Lana coming, too?”

  “That’s the idea.” Grant struck the cue ball again, attempting to sink the solid number three ball into the corner pocket—of course, he missed. “Damn.”

  Swallowing a large gulp, Randall placed his beer on the high bar and grabbed his cue stick. He stalked the table, slow and confident, studying the whereabouts of each striped ball. Once his selection was made he got into position, pocketing number ten with ease. “What about Connor?” he questioned, altering his stance for his next shot.

  “Her parents are taking him to the carnival, then keeping him for the night.”

  Randall eyed the cue ball as it bounced off the side rail, smacking into number twelve with a loud clank before disappearing in the left corner pocket. “Think Olivia can talk her into it?”

  “Don’t know. She said Lana seemed onboard earlier. Guess we’ll find out when they get here.”

  Olivia pressed her thumb against the doorbell and waited.

  And waited.

  “Lana”—she yelled as she pounded on the door with her fist—“it’s me, Olivia!” Moments later the door swung open, revealing her friend still wrapped in an ivory satin robe. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

  Turning on her heels, Lana left the door open for Olivia and wandered into the living room. “Probably because I’m not going.”

  “Why not?”

  Lana shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t really put it into words, really. It just… doesn’t feel right.”

  “Lana, Connor’s gonna be gone until tomorrow afternoon; this only happens once a month. You can’t just sit here all night by yourself and—”

  “I’ll go next time.”

  Crossing her arms, Olivia eyed her from across the room. “That’s what you said last month”, she politely reminded her.

  “I know, I know. It’s just… I don’t think I’ll be very good company tonight. It’s probably best if I just, you know… don’t go.”

  “Huh-uh, you’re not sittin’ here tonight by yourself—I’m not havin’ it. If you’re plannin’ on stayin’ in, then so am I.” Olivia plopped down on the couch, arms still crossed.

  “No!” she pleaded. “Grant’s expecting you to be there and—”

  “He’s expectin’ you to be there, too”, she reiterated. “Listen, sugar, this is an all or nothin’ kind of situation: either we both go to The Saloon together, or we both stay right here. Your choice.”

  Lana ran her fingers through silky hair she’d spent twenty minutes straightening. Olivia was right: Connor wouldn’t return until tomorrow afternoon. Her parents kept him overnight once a month, and once a month she’d savor the much-need break it provided her. Alone.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want to move forward—she did, she really did. But sadly every step she took toward the future meant she wa
s one step further from her past. She knew it probably sounded silly, she’d buried her husband almost six months ago. He was gone. Forever. But moving on somehow still felt like she was leaving him behind.

  Abandoning him.

  Two months in a row, Olivia and Grant had invited her to join them at The Saloon. And two months in a row she’d declined, always hinting she’d likely accept their invitation the following month. Lana understood what they were trying to do. They were nudging her to take that next step.

  Was she ready? Would she ever find herself in a place where she felt prepared for life’s curveballs? She didn’t know. But one thing was certain: she couldn’t decline the invitation a third time. “Anyone ever tell you how incredibly stubborn you are?”

  The corners of Olivia’s mouth turned upward in a grin as if recalling a fond memory. “Yep, my husband likes to remind me daily. So… what’s it gonna be?”

  Even though taking the next step felt like a frightening leap, Lana finally obliged. “All right, all right. Let me just get out of this robe.” She pivoted and headed down the hall to her bedroom, but not before noticing the victorious expression plastered on Olivia’s face.

  Maybe Olivia was right. Maybe it was time to take advantage of the parenting pause her mom and dad offered once a month. Maybe it was time to stop merely existing and start actually living.

  After all, that’s what Jimmy would have wanted.

  Lana tossed her robe on the bed and tugged on a pair of denim jeans. She slipped on a green plaid flannel, leaving the ends unbuttoned so she could tie the soft material at her waist. She finished her ensemble with her favorite pair of brown cowgirl boots, distressed and worn in from countless hours on The Saloon’s dance floor. Glancing in the mirror a final time, she nodded in approval.

  Tonight Lana would rejoin the living. Wishing her life had turned out differently wouldn’t change a damn thing.