Crossing Tinker's Knob

by Cooper, Inglath

  - First entry written in the baby book given to Maxine McAllister for her daughter Grier

  For a long time, Maxine McAllister counted the number of days. Then she counted weeks. Months. And finally, years. Nineteen, now.

  Nineteen since Grier had left Timbell Creek.

  Maxine stared at the newspaper photo, a glamorous headshot with a photographer’s credit in the lower right hand corner. She studied her daughter’s features. Wide green eyes, full lips so like hers, clear, unlined skin that spoke of a care she’d never given her own.

  Grier. What a beautiful woman she’d grown up to be. In a way, Maxine felt as though she were looking at a stranger, even as she saw remnants of the little girl she’d once rocked to sleep at night.

  An ache set up in the center of Maxine’s chest, a painful throb of remorse and regret. She let the newspaper collapse onto her lap, her right hand gripping the arm of her wheelchair in an attempt to steady against the sudden dizziness swamping her like an ocean wave.

  She closed her eyes and fought it back.

  “That must be your young’un.”

  Maxine stayed as she was for a few moments, not answering. When she finally opened her eyes, Hatcher Morris stared at her from the seat of a wheelchair exactly like hers, arthritic hands laced together in his lap, his fingers so gnarled with the disease they were painful to look at. “Yeah,” she said, surprised. “How’d you guess?”

  “McAllister’s not the most common name around,” he said, his voice coarse evidence of the decades of cigarettes to which it had been subjected. “And one of the nurses mentioned she thought you had a girl named Grier.”

  “Had,” Maxine agreed, putting her gaze back on the picture.

  “Don’t you ever see her?”

  “Not for a very long time.”

  “Mind if I ask why?”

  Maxine shook her head, unable to answer. Hatcher Morris was about the only friend she had in this place. On the first day they’d met, he’d read her history in the lines of her face the same as she’d read his in the yellowed whites of his eyes and the distended stomach beneath his faded flannel robe.

  “Well, I don’t expect it’s any of her business, anyway,” Hatcher said.

  “It’s not that,” she finally managed, lifting a hand and waving it once.

  Hatcher reached for the newspaper, looked at the article, and then in his gravelly voice, read, “Image Consultant Comes Home to Find Date for a Duke. Sounds like a big undertaking.”

  “I would imagine,” Maxine said.

  “She’s made it pretty big then, huh?” He lifted an eyebrow, looking impressed.

  “Yes,” she said, pride etching her voice despite the realization that she had absolutely no claim to any credit for it. “She has.”

  He glanced at the paper again. “She resembles you, you know.”

  Maxine forced a smile, unable to see any current resemblance between herself and the beautiful young woman pictured in today’s paper. “You angling for my chocolate pudding again tonight, Hatcher?”

  He chuckled. “Naw. I wouldn’t fool you on something like that. Anybody could see she’s yours.”

  Maxine could have hugged him then and there. Hatch had a good heart. Like her, he’d thrown away some of the best years of his life with nowhere better to go at the end than a place for people who’d made a practice of taking the wrong roads. “Except I’m the rode hard and put up wet version.”

  Hatcher smiled, lines fanning out from his dark eyes. “She comin’ by to see you while she’s in town?”

  Maxine forced herself to laugh so the tears gathering in her throat wouldn’t make their way out as a sob. “I doubt she’ll have much extra time. I guess a TV show would have something of a schedule,” she said, hearing how pitiful her explanation sounded, and at the same time, willing him not to pity her for it.

  Hatcher nodded as if there were nothing to question. “You two ever talk?”

  She could have lied. But she wouldn’t fool him. Hatcher was a sharp man. In fact, she’d begun to think he’d probably done more good as a therapist for some of the people in this place than the doctors who worked here. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “We don’t talk.”

  He was quiet for a couple of minutes, rotating his thumbs back and forth, one over the over. The TV in the far corner of the room blared Jerry Springer reruns. Maxine had grown to hate the show, but Edna Gardner and Mish Caldwell sat glued in front of it every afternoon as if they might find the answers to their own screwed up lives on that twenty-seven inch screen. Somewhere along the way, Maxine had realized the only answers to be found anywhere were the ones that nagged low inside her in that place where she’d tucked the truth away so she didn’t have to look at it. Better not to look when there wasn’t a thing you could do to change any of it.

  When Hatcher spoke again, his voice sounded far away, as if he were looking back down the tunnel of his own past and regretting what he saw there. “My kids don’t talk to me neither. ‘Course I don’t blame them. I was nothing but a mean son of a bitch to all three of them.”

  “You?” she said, disbelieving. “Mean?”

  “Nothin’ meaner than a drunk lookin’ for the next drink. Except maybe an out of work drunk. I was both.”

  “I can’t imagine—” she began, then stopped there. Actually, she could imagine. She’d seen the change alcohol could bring over people. For her, it had been little more than a curtain behind which she could hide. A shade to pull when things got too gray.

  “I wonder sometimes,” he said, “what would have happened if somebody had told me what the doctors are saying now. That some people have a gene that’s like a switch being thrown at the first sip. I wonder if I might have left the stuff alone. Never touched it.”

  “Probably not,” she said, uncertain whether that was supposed to make him feel better or worse. She didn’t think it would have stopped her. Self-destruction was a powerful force to resist.

  “’Bout the only thing I ever did for my kids was write them a letter a couple years ago telling them they might have that same gene I have. That one drink might be all it took to put them on the same path as me.” Probably too late, but it made me feel better to know I said it.

  “That must have been a hard thing to do.”

  He lifted a shoulder, glanced off to the side. “Not really,” he said. “I was kind of relieved to know a person might actually have a choice if they never touched the stuff at all.”

  “They listen to you?”

  He rubbed a thumb across his whiskered chin. “My oldest son sent me a letter that basically said I was an arrogant s.o.b. for assuming he’d ever make the same choices I’d made. I never heard from the other two.”

  “I’m sorry, Hatch.”

  “Hey, don’t be. If I were him, I’d hate me, too.”

  Sad, but she couldn’t think of a thing to say to make him feel any better. Not when she could apply the very same sentiment to herself. There were just some roads in this life that could never be retraveled. Some choices that could never be remade. And if she were honest with herself, she’d admit that she didn’t want her daughter to come here. Didn’t want her to see how she’d ended up. Better to leave it all behind that door Grier had closed nineteen years ago. The only thing Maxine had to offer her daughter was an apology. And what good would that do? An apology didn’t change anything. Much as she wished that it could.

  She tucked the newspaper between her leg and the side of the chair, then started rolling toward the door. “I think I’ll go take a little rest, Hatch,” she said.

  “You all right?” he called out after her.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’m just fine.”

  “I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

  “Thanks, Hatch,” she said, without looking back, certain that if she did, the tears she’d been holding in would come spilling out. And once they got started, there was a very good chance they would never stop.

  Chapter Five

&nbs
p; This is a place of quiet. If you cannot respect this policy, please choose a spot outside the library where your conversation will not be an imposition to those who do respect it.

  - Wall plaque above Anderson Randall’s

  favorite reading spot

  “I should have guessed this is where you’d be hiding.”

  Andy Randall glanced over her shoulder to find Kyle Summers looking down at her with something close to aggravation simmering in his green eyes. She pointed at the sign on the wall and put a finger to her lips.

  “Then let’s go outside,” he said without bothering to whisper. Andy had known Kyle since pre-school, and his lack of concern for rules the rest of the world made an effort to pay attention to was nothing new.

  Today, however, it irked her.

  She frowned at him and tapped the page of the book she’d been reading.

  “Come on. Five minutes,” Kyle said.

  Andy breathed a disgruntled sigh. Second to his disregard for rules was a streak of stubbornness that had allowed him to lead the Timbell Creek Varsity football team to a state championship this past fall, even though they’d started out with a group of guys that easily deserved the mantle of a season-long losing streak.

  She marked her place in the book, then slid her chair back and followed Kyle out of the library to the miniature park just down the street, where a bench sat in the shade of a huge oak tree.

  “So what is it?” Andy asked, doing a poor job of hiding her irritation.

  “You got your period or something?”

  Andy beamed him a look and said, “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”

  “So why’d you bag school today?”

  “You actually noticed I wasn’t there?”

  “Of course I noticed.”

  “Of course.”

  He frowned at her sarcasm. “Where were you?”

  “I just didn’t want to go.”

  Kyle arched a dark eyebrow. “This from Miss Harvard Bound?”

  “Did you come all the way over here just to harass me?”

  He leaned down, traced a finger in the dirt beneath the bench. “I was worried about you, Andy. That’s all.”

  For a moment, Andy felt the sting of guilt. The note of uncertainty in Kyle’s voice reminded her of the old Kyle. The one she’d grown up making mud pies with, the one who’d spent the night at her house on weekends until her daddy said they were too old to be sharing a bed together anymore. That Kyle had been happy to spend an entire afternoon swimming in the creek or helping her build one of the doghouses she’d been selling since she was ten, earning them both money for their college savings account.

  But the old Kyle didn’t come around much anymore. The new Kyle had him way too busy with cheerleaders and weightlifting and more cheerleaders.

  She fixed her gaze on the street just beyond the edge of the library and said, “I had an argument with my dad.”

  Kyle leaned back with a look of surprise. “You two?”

  “What’s so weird about that?”

  “Nothing, except that you both think the other one walks on water.”

  “That’s not true,” she said, embarrassed.

  “Yeah, it is. What’s the rift between you?”

  Andy considered not telling him. But by tomorrow, he’d know anyway. It might as well come from her. She reached in her pocket, pulled out the flyer and unfolded it. Kyle took it and began to read. Once he was done, he shook his head and made a noise that fell somewhere between a laugh and a hoot. “You’re kidding, right?” he said.

  She grabbed for the flyer, but tore off the top half, leaving Kyle holding the rest. “What is so ridiculous about me entering this?”

  Kyle started to say something, stopped, then tried again. “A date with a duke? Come on, Andy.”

  She snatched the other part of the flyer from him and took a step back.

  “You’re as bad as he is,” she said. “You don’t think I can win either!”

  “I never said that.”

  “You didn’t have to,” she said, hating the crack in her voice.

  “It just doesn’t seem like something you would do,” he said.

  “More like something one of your cheerleader girlfriends would do?”

  Kyle ran a hand up the back of his hair, letting it pause in mid-air for a moment before falling to his side. The gesture was classic Kyle, and for just a moment, something inside her caved with regret for the changes between them this past year.

  “It sounds like a scam, Andy. Of all people, I can’t imagine you falling for something like that.”

  “It’s not a scam. I checked it out.”

  “Checked it out where?”

  “With the TV network that’s sponsoring it.”

  “And they said it’s legit?”

  “Yep.”

  Kyle folded his arms across his chest, causing the muscles of his biceps to flex at the edge of his shirt. Andy felt a dip in her stomach and looked away.

  “Are you mad at me or something?” Kyle asked.

  She pasted on a look of indifference. “We don’t see each other often enough anymore for me to have a reason to be mad at you.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Every time I call you, Andy, you’ve got some excuse about why you can’t go out. Why couldn’t you go to the movies Sunday?”

  She looked down at the ground, scuffed the toe of her running shoe in the dirt. “Too much homework. And besides, wouldn’t Sheila mind you going to the movies with me?’

  “She knows we’re—” He stopped there, didn’t finish.

  “Knows we’re what?” Andy asked abruptly, meeting his gaze head on.

  “Friends.”

  “Friends,” she said, doubt in her voice, suddenly needing to hurt him as much as he had hurt her.

  Kyle stared at her, confusion clouding his eyes. “At least I thought we were.”

  “People change, Kyle. It’s time we both grew up. We’re not little kids anymore.”

  “You wanna tell me exactly what you mean by that?”

  “Maybe we ought to quit trying to hold onto something that doesn’t work anymore. Admit that we’ve outgrown each other.”

  For a moment, something she could almost believe was hurt flashed across his face. He quickly banked it, throwing up a hand and taking a step back. “Hey. If that’s what you want, Andy, you won’t get any argument from me. You used to be somebody I wanted to hang with, but you know what? Now, you’re just a pain in the butt.”

  He wheeled then and jogged off, jumping into the old truck he’d left parked across the street. Andy watched as he popped the clutch and took off, tires squealing.

  For a minute or more, she stood completely still, afraid to think about what she’d just done.

  When the reality of it began to sink in, she sat down on the bench, staring at the half-torn flyer still clutched in her right hand.

  She stifled a scream of frustration. She was just so mad at him.

  Not that she’d ever bothered to tell him, pride keeping her silent. Instead, she’d acted as if she thought it was great that he was dating the captain of the cheerleading squad, thought it fine that he had a whole new group of friends she had absolutely nothing in common with.

  The truth? Sometimes she missed him so much, she actually ached inside. It was like having an arm or leg removed, knowing it was no longer there, and yet phantom pain throbbed in the place where the limb had once been.

  But the simple fact was that Kyle had moved on. Outgrown her. Oh, he tried to touch base with her often enough to keep from ditching their friendship altogether, but the last thing Andy wanted to be to Kyle was a noose around his neck. So maybe it was better for them both that she’d cut him loose. He didn’t have to feel obligated to her any longer.

  He could get on with his life. And she could get on with hers.

  She glanced down at the ripped flyer in her hand. Which was exactly what she intended to do. Starting now.

  Chapter Sixr />
  I’m going to make sure my daughter knows what’s important and what’s not. No cheerleading, no beauty contests. Just the stuff that will actually make a difference in the real world.

  - Bobby Jack Randall’s famous last words on the day his divorce became final

  Bobby Jack had his speech all prepared. Along with it, Andy’s favorite supper of veggie burgers sizzled on the grill out back, and crinkle cut French fries baked in the oven.

  It was seven o’clock though, and she still wasn’t home. He’d started to get worried about an hour ago. Bobby Jack hated worrying. He’d made a pact with his daughter when she’d turned thirteen and started going more places without him that she would always call if she were going to be late. He’d now tried her cell phone six or seven times, only to have her voice mail pick up.

  At seven-fifteen, just as he was considering calling everyone they knew, the front door opened, and Andy breezed in.

  He heard Flo jump off the living room sofa and trot out to greet her.

  Within a few moments, the two of them appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  “Hey,” Andy said, dropping her book bag on the kitchen counter and heading for the refrigerator where she pulled out a bottle of water and guzzled a third before saying, “I’m going up for a shower.”

  Bobby Jack stared at her for a few moments, wondering who this teenager with an attitude was and what she’d done with his daughter. “Hold on a minute,” he said to her retreating back.

  She turned, arched an eyebrow, took another sip of her water.

  “Where’ve you been?” he asked, trying to insert calm into his voice.

  “Just doing stuff,” she said, annoyance in her tone.

  “I’ve been trying to get you on the phone for over an hour. You said you’d be home at six.”

  She glanced at her watch, lifted a shoulder. “Sorry,” she said, breaking the word into two syllables.

  “What’s going on, Andy?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the kitchen doorjamb.