by Lindy Zart
She always wanted to tell stories; do things that could be retold as great stories.
Beth’s eyes found the leafless tree she used to climb with Ozzy and then jump from, much to her mom’s consternation. Beth was a princess, trying to save her prince. Or an explorer searching for lost treasure. Jane looking for Tarzan. She never realized it then, but she was usually saving Ozzy, even as they played.
Her mom would chase them around the yard until they ran off and found something else to do, telling Beth she didn’t need her daughter to break any bones when she had two boys who did it often enough as kids.
It was a poignant memory—spun in sorrow and joy. Ozzy was a sweet boy, but as the years went, he changed. Gradually, but irrefutably. One day Beth looked at him and didn’t know him anymore. She mourned that little boy. The hint of a smile dropped from her face, and she inhaled deeply, wondering how the man in her house earlier that morning could be the boy she grew up with.
“Beth!” Her mom waved from the open door. “What are you doing standing out in this cold?”
“Hi, Mom.” She waved back and approached the house. “Just remembering things.”
“You can remember them inside, where it’s warmer.”
Sandy Lambert had blonde hair a shade darker than her daughter’s. She kept hers short, saying she didn’t want to mess with it when she had more important things to do. Her frame, once muscular and fit, had softened with age. She was still a formidable force, someone Beth strived to be like. Dressed in ragged purple shorts, pink slippers, and a gray tee shirt, she should be cold, but appeared to be too hearty to give in to it.
The look she leveled at Beth as she passed was penetrating and mixed with a dab of concern. “How are things with you? You look tired.”
“Good. I got up early, that’s all,” she explained as her mom closed the front door after her. “I wasn’t sure if you had the day off or not.”
The living room, with its pale paneled walls and brown carpet, hadn’t changed much since she’d graduated from high school, a small detail she appreciated. Her dad’s brown recliner had been replaced with a dark blue one when the first one went kaput, and there were more recent family pictures on the walls, but otherwise, it looked much the same as it always had. No matter where life took her, inside the white house with the black shutters would always be her first home, and how she would base all future ones.
“I have the morning off, but we’re getting a shipment of tools in later this morning, and your dad will need help sorting through it all. You know how he is—gets frazzled over everything. I’m heading over to the hardware store after lunch. You hungry?”
Her mom marched from the room without waiting for a response. Beth’s parents had owned and run Lambert Hardware for the past thirty years. Her dad was always working on some project, and her mom was there with him, looking over his shoulder and rolling her eyes.
Beth removed her boots and coat, sweating now that she was no longer outside. It smelled like freshly baked bread in the house, a scent that grew as she stepped into the kitchen. The pale green room was small and cluttered, only a sliver of the refrigerator able to be seen under the photos and papers magnetized to it. Her mom liked to decorate with pigs, and there were little pink beings spread throughout the room.
She was handed a red bowl and a plate with an oversized slice of homemade bread with melting butter. Beth took them and sat at the square table in the center of the room, setting down the bowl before it further burned her fingers. “Thank you.”
“How’s the writing coming along? And the new project?”
Beth shifted in her seat, keeping her eyes down. “Slow, but okay. I haven’t written much. It’s only been a few days,” she added.
Her mom didn’t reply, stirring the soup around with her spoon.
“What’s new with you?” she asked her mom, not keen on small talk but feeling anxious at the thought of silence.
“Benny and Jake are coming home Wednesday with their families and are staying for a few days. You’ll be here for Thanksgiving next week?” It was asked like a question, but it wasn’t. It was a confirmation of something already labeled as fact.
She dipped her spoon in the homemade tomato soup, blew on it before putting it in her mouth, and swallowed. Her mom believed in eating food personally made instead of in a factory as much as was feasible. The tomatoes used in the soup were from her garden. The soup was hot and filling, a blend of spices giving zip to the tomato base.
Benny and Jake were her older brothers, both smart enough to move from Crystal Lake as soon as they were able. Benny lived in Wisconsin and worked as a computer specialist, fixing problems that may arise with programming software. He was married with one daughter. Jake was the middle child, recently married with a baby on the way, and lived in a city three hours away. He was the manager of a sporting goods store.
“I miss Benny and Jake, and I haven’t seen Benny in months. I will definitely be here. Where else would I be?” Harrison. She instinctively knew he would try to spend the holiday alone, like it was an ordinary day. Her stomach dipped, and she swallowed.
“Amanda Hensley stopped in at the store yesterday and said you and Ozzy had been spotted together at The Lucky Coin. I thought maybe it meant a reconciliation was in the works, and if so, you might be at his Thanksgiving instead of ours.”
“So what if we were seen together there? We both work there. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Her mom tore off a chunk of bread and popped it in her mouth. “It was implied you were on a date.”
Beth’s face went hot, and she let the spoon drop from her hand. It made a small splash as it hit the soup. “We weren’t on a date. He asked me to get a drink with him. Anyway, it was a mistake.” She clenched her hands into fists. “This town needs to find better ways to spend their time than talking about the people in it.”
“They do,” her mom agreed. “But do you think they will?”
Beth thought of Harrison. She thought of what it would be like if the town found out about him. The talk that would follow, the judgment. How would he react to that? Not well, she was thinking. Beth’s nails dug into her palms and she glared down at the bowl of soup.
“Beth? What is it? You’re not getting back together with Ozzy, are you?” She tried to keep her tone even, but it wavered with an underlying layer of apprehension.
She looked up, shaking her head as she met her mom’s blue eyes. “No. We’re done. For good.”
“Oh, thank God.” Her mom placed a hand on her heart and closed her eyes.
A frown tugged at her mouth. “Really? I’m surprised. You love Ozzy.”
“I do love Ozzy.” She resumed eating her bread and soup. “But he isn’t good for you. He never was. He’s too needy. He held down your wings. You need to fly.”
Stunned, she could only blink at her mother.
“You’re my little bird. I want what’s best for you, always.” She smiled, reaching across the table to pat Beth’s hand. Her hand was roughened by years of manual labor, but it felt like being reacquainted with one of the best pieces of her childhood to Beth. “You know that.”
Beth inhaled, held it, released it. “You never told me you thought that way about me and Ozzy.”
“Of course not. You had to find out on your own that he wasn’t right for you. But I’m glad you see things for how they are. Ozzy is a dreamer who only dreams, and you’re a dreamer who goes after your dreams.” She squeezed her hand. “I just want you to be happy, Beth.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Beth said in a faint voice.
Minutes passed before she spoke again, and when she did, it was with the voice of a child needing comfort from their mother. “Sometimes he scares me.”
Their eyes clashed, her mom’s sharp on her face. “Who, Ozzy?”
Beth looked down, nodding as she lifted her gaze.
Her features turned to granite. “Stay away from him. If he scares you, stay away from him.”
“I’
m trying.”
“Don’t try, do it.”
Beth swallowed, her throat closing around the ferocity of her mom’s tone. She examined her mom, saw the spark of a protective parent burning through her eyes and straightening her spine. She knew her mom would not be gentle with Ozzy if she found out he’d harmed Beth.
“I’ll say something to Dan and Deb, tell them to make sure he leaves you alone. I’ll say something to Ozzy too. What’s he done?”
“Nothing, really. He just…makes me nervous. Says things he shouldn’t, shows up where I don’t want him to. All the time. It’s okay, Mom. I shouldn’t have said anything.” Beth shifted on the chair and turned her eyes to her food.
Now that she’d voiced her concerns and seen her mother’s reaction, Beth felt like she was overreacting. She felt like she was betraying him by speaking of him that way. It was Ozzy. He may be unstable at times, but at the center of him, there was goodness. He made mistakes, but it wasn’t like he didn’t feel bad about them. Beth’s faith rang hollow.
She pointed her spoon in Beth’s direction. “I better not hear about him harassing you, because if I do, me, your dad, and your two brothers will be having a talk with him.”
Beth smiled at her mom’s proclamation. Knowing she had her support made her feel better.
They finished their lunch with little talk, and once the dishes were washed and put away, Beth turned to her mom. “Dad still keeps all his sports magazines, right?”
“Yes.” Her mom sighed and hung the dishtowel on the oven handlebar. “You know what a packrat he is. They’re all downstairs in the den. Why?”
“I was just curious about how far back they go. Is it okay if I look around?”
She eyed Beth, her expression saying she was suspicious of her daughter’s words. Everyone who knew Beth knew she didn’t care about, or know anything about, sports. “Sure. Good luck making your way around the room. He has boxes and boxes of them. Shelves even. Everything is categorized by year and sport, if that helps.”
Beth gave her mom a brief hug, smelling cleaning solution and hairspray on her. “Let me know when you’re leaving if I’m still down there and I’ll make sure I lock up when I go.”
Her mom murmured acknowledgment, watching Beth with narrowed eyes as she walked the length of the carpeted hallway. Beth opened the door that went down to the den in the basement and her dad’s sanctuary in a house that was otherwise designated as her mom’s. Turning on the light, she started down the steps.
It was cooler in the basement, the main room dreary with its cement floor and half-finished walls. The downstairs smelled of dust and staleness, the chill in the air weaving its way through her. Finishing the basement was one of her father’s never-ending projects. He complained that he’d finally get it the way he wanted, and then he’d die. Which could explain his procrastination.
Die.
Death.
Harrison.
The words echoed through her mind, growing in volume and urgency. As far as she knew, his death was not coming anytime soon, and yet it felt like there was a shadow of it hovering just the same. Beth went still, forcing thoughts away from Harrison. Again. And then they went right back to him anyway. Her brain seemed to be hardwired to him.
Everything reminded her of him or made her think of something that pertained to him. There he was, alone in his house in the country, surviving. Enduring. He acted like he wanted it that way. Beth didn’t accept that. What did he do for fun? What did he do to keep the insanity of his illness at bay? Did he allow himself to hope, to wonder, to dream? What brought him joy?
No one should live without some kind of happiness.
How many times had he smiled?
Not enough.
How many times had he laughed?
Not enough.
The walls shrank on all sides of her as she moved around boxes, totes, and rarely used exercise equipment, squeezing in on her like a blackened organ with her standing in the center of it. It was a warning to distance herself from Harrison, but she didn’t know if she was able to heed it. Beth sighed, deciding it was time to be honest with herself.
She didn’t want to distance herself.
There. It was out. Unable to be ignored.
Admitting it to herself was opening a virtual gate to invite in other truths. Like how she admired the vibrant shade of his hair, that it reminded her of fire. How she liked to look into his dark eyes that saw too much, seemed too old, and were trying to hide from her. How her breaths couldn’t function right and her palms turned damp as she thought about his lips and wondered how they would feel.
“Shit.” Beth closed her eyes, not sure she was ready to admit quite that many things.
Something shot through her, pushed back her shoulders, added grimness to her lips and determination to her frame. Harrison thought he had to deal with HIV alone. That was his first mistake. He didn’t. Beth could help him, be a friend. He needed a friend.
The den was through a doorway with no door, a large space that smelled faintly of cigars and her dad’s cologne. It was a dark room, decorated in black and brown. A man cave, as her dad liked to proudly call it. Benny’s and Jake’s various athletic trophies were set up in a bookcase. A spattering of Beth’s awards were among them, but hers were for Forensics, Solo Ensemble, dance competitions, and poetry contests.
She trailed her fingers over the frame of a picture taken of them all when she was thirteen, and smiled at the memory of that day. It was Jake’s sixteenth birthday, and he took the family car without asking, thinking he was entitled to it since he had his driver’s license. The picture was taken after he got back from the store, and his misery showed in the scowl on his face. He wasn’t allowed to drive anywhere for a month after that. He acted like his world was over. It was nice having older siblings as role models on how to not behave.
Her hand fell away, and Beth turned, not sure where to start. Her mom was right—there were magazines and other sports paraphernalia covering just about every inch of the room. The task could easily overwhelm her if she let it. Taking a breath, she searched her dad’s handwritten stickered labels and found the football section on one of the shelving units. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but Beth couldn’t shake the sense of urgency that she must find something on Harrison. She wanted to hold his history within her hands.
The magazines blurred into one another, and when she finally came to one that featured Harrison on the cover, Beth flinched and dropped it. Carefully lifting it like one wrong move would cause it to burst into flames, she took the magazine and sat down on the old and lumpy loveseat, her back twinging when she moved wrong. The journal was cold against her fingertips.
Wrapping an old blue, musty smelling blanket around her shoulders, Beth stared at his face with its cut cheekbones and firm mouth. Harrison’s red and gold hair was styled with the top in orderly disarray, and short sideburns lined the edges of his face. His jaw was hard with determination, his dark eyes alive and confident. The image exuded power and strength. A choked sound left her, and she traced a trembling finger down the side of his face. Beth hugged the magazine to her chest and focused on the television across the room, trying to calm an unstoppable need.
I’m too interested in him. I care too much. This isn’t good.
It was of no consequence.
“Feelings cannot be decided by time,” she whispered to herself.
She opened the publication to the right page, and she read about Harrison Caldwell. He studied forest management in college and hoped to work in an outdoor capacity once he retired from playing professional football. His hobbies included hiking, canoeing, and camping. A dream of his was to hike the Appalachian Trail. Long-term goals included having land in the country with his family and spending as much time outside as he was able.
“Beth? What’s got you so upset?”
Her head shot up, and Beth looked at her mom, unaware that she was crying until one warm tear slid down her cheek. “Nothing. I’m fine.” Sh
e closed the magazine and set it on the couch beside her.
“Are you sure?” Her mom had exchanged her shabby clothes for jeans and a light blue sweater. She walked to the couch and sat down, picking up the magazine as she did so.
“I just…I was thinking of Ozzy.” The lie felt thick on her tongue, and Beth’s stomach roiled in response.
“Don’t waste any more of your tears on that boy,” she quietly chastised, putting an arm around Beth.
“I’m working on it.” That much was true.
Her mom flipped the magazine to the front and frowned. “Such a tragedy. Your father and I saw him play once, when he was just starting out.”
Beth looked over her arm, pretending to not recognize the man on the cover. The pounding of her heart said she did. “Harrison Caldwell.”
“You know I’m a fan of sports as much as your dad and brothers. I never saw someone before him play with such spirit. He was an amazing football player. He moved across the field like smooth water. Hardly anyone ever caught him, or took him down.” Her mom stood and put the magazine back in its spot among the others. “Why are you interested in Harrison Caldwell?”
“I’m not,” Beth quickly told her, getting to her feet.
The look she gave her daughter said she was smarter than Beth thought she was.
“I saw something about him online, and…it made me curious.” She shrugged, looking down at the thick gray carpet.
“I see.” She waited, but when Beth said no more, she walked toward the doorway. “Well, I’m off to the shop. We’ll see you next week? Come by Wednesday night if you can, just to say hi to your brothers and their families.”
“Yeah. I will.” Beth paused, looking at the place where a small part of Harrison was forever entombed. Would she come back here one day, and only have a magazine photograph and article to remind her of the man? A fresh set of sorrow flowed to the surface of her eyes.