by Laura Drake
The swirling emotions she’d felt back then burst into vivid color in Priss’s mind. Indigo, for the sadness. Loneliness was the dark gray of storm clouds. The rage was crimson.
“Priss?”
It was the second time he’d called her name. “Easter was coming. Suzie got it in her head that she wanted a bunny. A real baby bunny.” She cleared the wad in her throat. “Mr. Brenan said no. Mrs. Brenan said no. But Suzie kept working on her mom until she got that darned rabbit.
“It was a tiny ball of white-and-brown fluff at first.” Priss relaxed her hand, letting go the fistful of sheet. “She named it Sweetness. They put it in a hutch, in the shade in the backyard.” She smoothed the wrinkles she’d made in the sheet.
“Everything was okay at first. Suzie loved it when it was little. But it grew into a rabbit. And Suzie didn’t think rabbits were as cute as bunnies.”
She took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. Better to say it fast. “I’d sneak out at night when everyone was in bed, to pet him. He really was sweet. And when I saw he didn’t have food or water, I took care of him.
“But one night I was cleaning the cage, and I must have made a noise.” She glanced at Nacho. He nodded his head to get her to go on. “Mr. Brenan came out. When he figured out that I’d been taking care of Sweetness, he made Suzie get up and clean that cage in her nightgown, yelling at her the whole time about how she wanted the rabbit and she was damned well going to learn some responsibility.
“I knew she’d make me pay.” The deep indigo pool of sadness welled in her, a rising flood that carried her back to that day. “But she made Sweetness pay, too.
“I always made an excuse to go out in the backyard in the mornings to check on him. Then one day, about ten days later, he was dead. Lying in the cage like he was sleeping, but his head was wrong, on his neck.” The sheet was back in her fists, but she didn’t let go. She needed something to hang on to.
“Suzie must have been watching because she came out crying and screaming, saying I killed her bunny.”
“Oh, man, that’s evil,” Nacho whispered.
“Mrs. Brenan came out to see what was wrong. Suzie went on and on, hysterical, saying how I was jealous, and I killed Sweetness to get back at her.” She took a deep breath.
“She believed Suzie, of course. Or maybe she didn’t, but couldn’t face what she’d raised. In any case, she stood there ranting at me, telling she was calling Social Services and getting me the hell away from her family.
“And all that time, Suzie stood behind her, smiling.”
“Did you kill her?”
“No. But I almost wished I had. Because that day, in the cafeteria, she stood up and told everyone I was a bunny killer.”
“Holy sh—” He stopped himself in time.
“Social Services came to the school that day and took me to the group home. I stayed there until Mom got her poop in a pile, found a day job and bailed me out.” She let go of the sheet. “But from then on I had a note in my file. Some psycho-babble label, but what it meant was ‘bunny killer.’”
The waters of sadness receded, leaving her standing knee high in the stinking mudflat of her childhood. “They say stuff that happens when you’re a juvie stays sealed in your records. But school records aren’t sealed—and kids never forget.”
She laced her fingers, to hide the shake. “So a few years later I’m in high school. And in order to graduate each student had to do so many hours of community service. I wanted to volunteer at the animal shelter—bad. So I went the first day, and had a great time, playing with the puppies, cleaning cages.” She tried to say the words without thinking about what they meant. “But there was another girl there from my school, too. She told the people at the shelter about me being a bunny killer. They were nice about it, and even listened to my side of the story.” She took a deep breath. “Then they asked me to volunteer elsewhere.”
Priss stood. “Stuff is never buried as deep as you hope it will be. I got the heck out of Vegas as soon as I graduated.”
Nacho stood, too. “You know what it’s like—not to have any say in what happens to you.” For the first time since she met him, she heard a sliver of respect in his tone.
“I do know. And I want you to have a say, as you get older. But a record is going to limit your choices.” She picked up his pillow and tossed it on the head of the bed. “And we mutts don’t get a whole lot of choices to begin with.”
* * *
ADAM SAT AT his kitchen table after dinner listening to the clock tick, staring at the empty pad in front of him. His mind felt mushy, battered black and blue. He’d spent the past three days in a personal spotlight-style interrogation, breaking down his excuses and motivations, trying to figure out how he’d ended up here.
He’d been so messed up after the accident. Tentative became a way of life—an amniotic sac of insulation from high-impact reality. It had been easier to just go along, to let others decide for him: majoring in pharmacology because his father wanted him to, returning home after college because his mother wanted him to, taking over the family business because everyone had expected him to.
It had taken three days and five pages of pro-and-con lists to dig down to the bedrock of what Adam Preston wanted.
He scanned the pile of pages. Luckily, some parts of his current life made it to the “Keeper” list—running the business, living in Widow’s Grove and playing softball.
June, though, hadn’t made that list. She was a very nice girl, but he now realized why there hadn’t been any spark. She was a woman he thought he should like.
His mother had never expressed an opinion of the women he dated except to say that she wished he’d settle down with one. So time and again he’d chosen women who he imagined his mother would approve of.
You can’t get much more pathetic than that.
To take his mind off it, he’d pulled out a blank sheet of paper and written at the top, “My Type.” That was an hour ago. It still lay on his kitchen table, as bleak and empty as his future. He didn’t know what type of woman would make him feel complete. And how could a guy so unaware ever hope to complete anyone else?
He dropped his chin on his fist. The pen tapped a staccato Morse code on the pad. Maybe it was a message from his brain. Pity he didn’t know Morse code.
Priss hadn’t been down for coffee the past three mornings. They usually crossed paths a few times a week, but lately he hadn’t seen either of his tenants. His mind worried at it like an obsessive compulsive with a lock. Was she all right? Were Nacho and she still fighting? Or was she avoiding him? In the parking lot that day Priss had nailed him in a few words. Afraid to really live. She hadn’t actually said it, but that’s what she’d meant.
And she was right.
Unable to sit any longer staring at his steaming pile of shortcomings, he stood and paced to the living room.
“You’re bullshitting yourself, Preston. Just admit it. You’re interested in Priss Hart.” He strode back to the kitchen. “And that scares you as much as any Amazon cruise.” He tucked his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, just so he had something to do with them. “You have determined this to be a fact. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
He walked another lap.
Thinking about doing something about it, and actually doing something... Dammit, he’d put himself in between these two hard places with all this silly introspection. But he couldn’t unknow what he now knew, and the knowing tore away what little self-respect he had.
His feet stopped beside the kitchen table covered in lists. “Then you really don’t have a choice, do you?” He snatched his car keys from the peg next to the door.
Time to go out there and get some of life on him.
He would run by to say goodnight to his mother, then he’d check in with Priss. Just
to be sure she was okay.
And maybe ask her out.
CHAPTER NINE
ADAM STOOD BEFORE Priss’s door, his heart unsettled, his fist raised to knock.
I should wait till morning....
Except that by morning he’d have an excuse to wait until evening. He knew this for certain because that’s what he’d done the past three days.
You didn’t have this much trouble asking June out.
A quieter voice in his head whispered, Yeah, but June doesn’t scare you.
Rather than exploring why that would be, or his budding multiple personalities, he gritted his teeth and let his fist fall into a knock.
The door opened to the limit of the safety chain, revealing Priss’s widened eyes and the frown above them. “Is everything all right?”
“Sure. Do you have a minute? I’d like to talk to you.”
The door closed and the chain rattled. It opened only enough for a glimpse of Nacho looking up from a jigsaw-puzzle-strewn kitchen table.
Priss stood in the breech, feet planted, holding the door as if he might try to force his way in. “What is it?” Her words were measured and clipped off at the ends.
If it wouldn’t have been seen as cowardly by himself as well as her, he’d have tucked tail and run. “You haven’t been down for coffee the past few mornings.” He cleared his throat of the forlorn tone. “We were going to discuss you playing baseball with the Winos, remember?”
She shot a glance over her shoulder. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
She hissed a whisper. “I don’t want to talk about it here.”
Nacho bent over the puzzle, but something in his studious disregard told Adam he regarded quite a bit.
Adam took a step back, trying to think of a gracious retreat.
Priss’s features remained shuttered, but her eyes spoke the truth. They were dark pools of confusion.
Her unwitting vulnerability puddled his unease like heated candle wax. What would it take to disorient a street-wise warrior who shot first and took no prisoners? He didn’t know. But discovering why suddenly mattered to him. He took a step forward. “Come for a walk with me.”
“I can’t leave Nacho.” But her eyes told him she’d like to.
“My mom is right across the hall.” He raised his voice. “Mom?”
His mother’s door opened so fast that he knew Nacho wasn’t the only one listening. “Yes, dear?”
He ignored Priss’s frantic head shake. “Would you mind keeping an ear open for Nacho? Priss and I are going for a walk.”
“Of course I will.”
“Adam, I can’t—”
Nacho said, “For chrissake, I’m ten. I think I can handle being alone for a half hour.”
“Don’t swear.” Priss glanced from Nacho to Adam to Olivia, who’d wheeled her walker into the hall. “All right. Hang on.” Priss strode back into the apartment, whispered something in Nacho’s ear that made him flinch, snatched the jean jacket from the back of the chair, and strode to the door.
It was just after dark as they walked down the street but most of the stores were closed. Downtown Widow’s Grove shut down early when it wasn’t prime tourist season. A fresh breeze cooled Adam’s face and neck. Priss shrugged into her jacket.
“Which way are we going?” she asked.
“Have you been to iCandy?”
She frowned up at him. “I sure hope that’s not a stripper bar.”
“Guess you’re going to have to take that chance.” Chuckling, he took her elbow and steered her left. “Now, tell me, why can’t you play baseball?”
“I grounded Nacho after his latest debacle.” She sighed. “But I’m learning that means I’m grounded too.”
“So? Bring him with you.” They strolled, hands in pockets, bumping elbows now and again.
“I thought of that, but I’d be so busy keeping my eye on him to be sure he didn’t take off, that I’d miss every ball hit my way.”
“Then sign him up for Little League. Their games are the same time as ours.”
“Yeah, I asked him about that. Zero interest.” She shook her head. “And honestly, can you see Nacho playing baseball?”
He imagined the kid in crotch-dragging pinstripes, baseball cap backwards, flashing gang signs at the other team. “No, probably not.” An occasional car passed them. He touched her back to guide her across Hollister at King’s Way. The spotlighted flag atop the tall pole in the center of the intersection snapped in the breeze. “Since he enjoys painting, why not sign him up for art classes down at the YMCA?”
Her head snapped up, eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that? We didn’t talk about it the day you heard us fighting.”
He shrugged, palms out to show he meant no harm. “Widow’s Grove is a small town.”
Her jacket seemed to deflate, as if her shoulders had shrunk. “I’ll look into the YMCA.”
At the defeat in her voice, his own shoulders stiffened. In her doorway she’d looked defenseless—his ego had the scratch marks to prove she wasn’t. But something like an itch deep in his gut made him want to protect her anyway.
Before he could think better of it, he raised a hand and curled his fingers around her elbow. “Nacho’s not stupid. Give him time. If you stay the course, he’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah, I can hope.” But her expression didn’t look hopeful.
* * *
“SO YOU’VE LIVED in Widow’s Grove all your life, Nacho?”
The landlord’s mother sat at the kitchen table, trying to work on the puzzle. She wasn’t very good. She picked up an edge piece, and tried it on the inside.
“No. See that flat part? That means it goes in the frame. On the outside,” Nacho said.
“Oh, I see.” She picked up another piece.
“I was born in Vegas, but this burg is all that I remember.”
“Don’t you like it here?”
Should he tell her the truth? A little old lady probably couldn’t handle the truth. He just shrugged.
“Priss seems nice. I understand you haven’t known each other long.”
He focused on the shapes in front of him. “I don’t know about nice. She’s pretty hard-a—tough.”
She looked up, her eyes all twinkly like Mrs. Claus. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think she’s half as tough as she acts.”
“That’s ’cause you haven’t made her mad, yet.” He turned a piece and tried it again. It was just the right color...
“Do you two look like your mom?” She dug through the pieces in the box.
“Yeah, kinda. We have this thing.” He pulled the hair that came down on the center of his forehead to show her. “Our mom was really pretty.”
“Looking at you two, I’ll bet she was. Was she sick long, Nacho?”
What was with this lady? So full of questions. He didn’t want to talk about his mom, but it was a long time to sit, not talking. And besides, Priss would yell if the lady told her he’d been rude. “Yeah. She had umphasema.”
He remembered his mom getting out of breath after a short walk. Then the oxygen tanks she wheeled around after her. Then the hospital, when she could hardly talk. She just lay there with a mask over her nose and mouth and looked at him and cried....
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” The pieces got blurry. His damn nose started running and he wiped it on his sleeve.
“Oh, I’m sorry to make you sad, son.” She touched his arm.
He pulled away. “I’m not sad.” And I’m not your son.
“Nacho.”
She didn’t say anything else, so he had to look at her.
“Real-life tough guys aren’t like in the movies.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
; “A famous tough guy once said, ‘Courage is being scared to death, and saddling up anyway.’” She smiled. “Do you know who said that?”
He just shook his head.
“John Wayne. You know who he is, don’t you?”
“Oh, heck, yeah. The Duke.” Even rabbit-ear TVs played his movies.
“Right. Real men cry, Nacho. Then they pull it together and go do what they’ve got to do.” She clicked a puzzle piece into place. “Hey, look at me, I found one!”
She looked so happy, he had to smile. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
* * *
WARM LIGHT SPILLED from the windows a few doors down. Adam steered Priss toward them, enjoying her warmth under his hand. Her short hair grew to a point at the nape of her neck. The pale, vulnerable skin below it begged to be touched.
He pulled his focus away when the door of the shop opened, emitting the cloying smell of sugar and metallic refrigerated air. Two small boys emerged, balancing ice-cream cones with tongue-between-the-teeth focus. Adam reached to catch the door.
“Jeremy, watch that drip.” The mother shot Adam a thank-you smile, took the boys’ hands, and strolled away.
Priss ducked under his arm.
The wall to the right was essentially made of sugar—filled with jars of brightly colored jujubes, licorice, jelly beans and lemon drops. On the left wall were display cases of handmade brittle, fudge and chocolate. At the case farthest from them, an aproned teen scooped ice cream for the store’s only other customer.
Adam breathed in a dizzying miasma of sugar.
“Wow.” Priss stood gaping like a girl who’d stumbled into Willy Wonka’s factory.
“It does slap your senses, doesn’t it?”
“I’d have to pry Nacho off the ceiling of this place from the smell alone.”
“What would you like?” He eyed the homemade Almond Rocha.
“I didn’t bring any money.” She stuffed her hands in the front pockets of her jeans. “I don’t want anything, thanks.”