by James Dobson
Campus Grinds was where Matthew had voiced his frustration back when the University of Colorado rejected his first attempt to enroll, still one of the most disheartening moments of his life. His dream had died. Or so he’d thought at the time. His coworkers might not have cared all that much, but at least they offered a semblance of sympathy.
Watching Sarah clear the last bit of clutter from the counter prompted a twinge of grief. Matthew would miss her, his favorite of the many part-time employees who had come and gone over the years. He would miss waxing eloquent on a range of academic-sounding topics while she nodded with varying degrees of interest. The tiniest possible audience, she had given him a sense of validation the enrollment office seemed unwilling to bestow.
Sarah had been most thoughtful during his mother’s worst years. A willing shoulder if he had been inclined to cry. But his mother’s decline had fueled anger, not tears. So he never took her up on the offer.
“I’m not sure I ever told you how much I appreciated your kindness during my mother’s illness.” He paused to watch her reaction before saying more. She appeared momentarily puzzled, as if reaching to recall any sympathy she might have offered.
“Oh,” she muddled, “don’t mention it.”
They both moved toward a small closet door in the corner behind the counter, where Sarah retrieved a broom and dustpan while Matthew grabbed a small garbage bucket he had filled and emptied hundreds of times before.
“How is she?” Sarah asked while maneuvering the broom into a corner.
“Who?” he asked.
“Your mom.”
Matthew’s brow furrowed. Then he remembered that he had never told Sarah about the transition. He’d told her about getting accepted as a full-time student. He’d sought and received her smiling approval when he said he could finally pursue his dream. But he hadn’t mentioned his mother’s death. Why would he? The money that would have freed him to quit his job still hadn’t been released. Had that happened he might have told her about the inheritance. So, with the exception of a few shift-change requests to accommodate Tuesday and Friday classes, nothing was different about Matthew from what Sarah had observed over the prior four and a half years.
“My mom is…” he began, then stopped. “Actually, she’s doing great. Never better.”
He almost believed it after months of telling himself his mom was now free from the limitations of a decaying body.
“Glad to hear it.” Sarah seemed eager to change subjects. “Remind me again why you’re moving to Denver.”
She knelt and positioned the dustpan in front of a freshly swept mound of dirt while handing Matthew the broom.
“Littleton, actually,” he said.
“That’s right. Littleton then.”
He hadn’t had time to invent an impressive reason for the change, so he told her the embarrassing truth. “I need to pay down my loan before I can fund another semester.”
“I see,” she replied, emptying the dustpan into the bucket. Then she stood and waited for the rest of a story he hadn’t intended to tell.
“I grew up in Littleton. Lived there until about ten years ago when my mom retired.”
“What brought you to Boulder?”
“Naïveté,” he said, laughing. “I assumed living close would improve my chance of getting into the university. Mom agreed. Of course, she never went to college herself, so knew even less than I did about what it takes.”
Matthew took two steps forward to accompany Sarah, who had inched her way toward the front of the shop for one last inspection of the floor.
“It took me seven years to get accepted, one of them driving to Front Range Community College to prove I have what it takes.”
“Uh-huh,” she said robotically.
He kept talking despite losing her attention. Closing duties completed, she appeared eager to lock up and head home.
“Anyway, there are more jobs in the Denver area. Besides, I still have a few high school friends living in Littleton. I figure I’ll hang there to save for ten or eleven months and then come back to school next fall.”
Matthew was glad she didn’t ask what job he had lined up. The only thing less impressive than cleaning coffee mugs was taking care of old people. But senior-care services paid a premium wage. Short of receiving the inheritance, he knew of no other way to get the kind of money necessary to enter his sophomore year.
They returned the cleaning supplies to the closet before Sarah retrieved her purse from behind the counter.
“Well,” she began, “I guess this is goodbye for a while.”
“For a while,” he said with a tentative smile. “Thanks, again, for being a great shift boss. And for being a friend.”
“You bet.” She extended her free arm for a side embrace, less than he wanted but all he could expect.
“I’ll miss you,” Matthew heard himself say.
“Ditto,” she said awkwardly. “So I’ll see you in about a year?”
“For sure,” he agreed. “In a year.”
Matthew stood outside in the warm August air watching Sarah enter the locking code on the front door. They walked silently in the same direction, the space between them widening as each veered onto diverging paths.
He gradually slowed his pace until he found himself standing still on the university lawn while Sarah continued toward the parking lot. He waited for her to move out of visual range before turning back. Matthew needed to say one more goodbye before loading up the U-Haul and moving back to Littleton.
* * *
Three hours earlier Professor Thomas Vincent had popped into the shop for his daily Brazilian coffee and invited Matthew to stop by the office whenever his shift ended. He said he would be working late, code for an evening tryst with one of the female students eager to impress her teacher. Matthew smiled at the former priest fully recovered from a vow of chastity.
While approaching the philosophy building Matthew recalled the professor’s instructions. He glanced up toward the outer window of the second floor. Drawing near he noticed light shining through opened blinds, his cue to climb the stairs.
“Hello, Matthew,” Dr. Vincent said after opening the door. “Come on in.”
The professor moved toward a dark wooden cabinet. “What are you drinking?”
Matthew shrugged. “Beer, I guess. Thanks.”
Matthew walked toward a small sofa nestled between the professor’s desk and bookshelf. Just before sitting he noticed the faint aroma of perfume only slightly more pungent than the lingering scent of Dr. Vincent’s cologne. He moved to a different chair.
“Here you go.” Dr. Vincent offered a cold bottle to his guest before raising his own. “To a successful freshman year.”
Matthew mirrored his host with a nod before joining in a celebratory swig.
“And to your one year sabbatical before returning as a sophomore,” Dr. Vincent said, repeating the ritual.
“‘Sabbatical,’” Matthew mocked. “I like the sound of that. Although it’s more like an exile.”
“I’m sure everything will work out. You got this far. You’ll find a way to keep going.”
Matthew pressed his lips into a weak smile. “I guess.”
Both men sat in silence for thirty seconds.
“So, tell me about the job. You said something about better pay but didn’t mention what you’ll be doing.”
Matthew looked toward the bookshelf to avoid the professor’s eyes. “I accepted an elder-care position.”
“Really?”
“My first client lives in Littleton.”
“East of Denver?”
“Right. A few blocks from my old high school.”
“Friends?” Dr. Vincent asked.
“A few. There’s a girl.” Matthew left details of the relationship to his host’s imagination rather than explain the pathetic reality.
“Anything serious?”
“Not yet.” The truth. “But things seem to be progressing nicely.” A stretch
.
Another thirty seconds without words.
“Pretty lame, isn’t it?” Matthew asked.
“What’s that?”
“If you think about it, I’m right back where I started. No. Worse than where I started.”
“How so?”
“Last year I couldn’t go to school because I was broke and taking care of my mom. Now I’m in debt and will be taking care of a complete stranger.”
“True. But you have a year of school under your belt.”
“Right. And the loan to prove it,” Matthew scoffed.
“Big accomplishments come through small moves, Mr. Adams.”
The comment struck Matthew wrong. He felt anger rise as he recalled a year-old conversation with this same man. A conversation that had fueled a very big move.
“Do you consider it suicide if someone volunteers to transition?” Matthew had asked while wrestling with the most difficult quandary of his life.
“There’s no such thing as a mortal sin,” Dr. Vincent had assured him. “Just hard choices.”
“Would you help your own mother transition, you know, if she asked you to?” Matthew had pressed further.
“Yes. I believe I would have helped her.”
Matthew looked up from the bottle of beer toward his host. “I’m willing to make small moves. But I made a big move last year and I’m not sure it was the right thing to do.”
“By helping your mom transition?”
More than help, he didn’t confess.
“Listen to me, Matthew,” Dr. Vincent insisted. “Your mother was in severe decline, am I right?”
A single nod.
“And she wanted to fund your dream?”
“She did,” he acknowledged.
“Then you did the right thing by confirming her choice. There’s no way either of you could have known the transition money would get held up in a legal mess.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” Dr. Vincent decreed. “And it won’t do either of you any good to second-guess the decision. Your mom’s death wasn’t a sin. Nor was it a waste. Even if the money never comes, the procedure put her out of her misery.”
Matthew’s stomach tensed. Mom wasn’t miserable, just forgetful.
“What was the phrase you borrowed from that journalist?”
“Julia Davidson?”
“Davidson, right.”
“‘Free to thrive.’” Matthew recalled the title of a column that had eased his conscience. “She said something about using genetic prescreening to prevent defective babies. I thought it applied to people like my mom who deserve freedom from disease now.”
“Your mother couldn’t thrive while trapped in a decaying body.”
Matthew pushed aside thoughts of his mother’s smile and touch to recall her failing memory, bathroom mishaps, and fits of anxiety. “I suppose not.”
“There’s no supposing about it,” Dr. Vincent insisted. “You did the right thing, Matthew. I’m sure your mother would be proud of all you’ve accomplished this year.”
He lifted his bottle for another toast. “To her heroic sacrifice.”
They shared a drink.
“And to your hard work,” he added.
“Thanks, Dr. Vincent,” Matthew said. “I appreciate your encouragement.”
“Just promise me you won’t let this girlfriend in Littleton distract you from your goal. I expect to see you back here as soon as you resolve the transition money mess.”
“I promise.”
The host ushered his guest to the door, where both said their goodbyes before Matthew descended the stairs and began walking toward the parking lot. He felt much more at ease than he had when the day began, even allowing himself a hint of self-respect. A playful ping came from the device in his left pocket. Retrieving the source he tapped the tablet screen, where a brand-new image of Maria Davidson appeared. She had apparently posted it seconds earlier as another treat for her anonymous admirers. As usual, she looked amazing.
The moment prompted a satisfied smirk. In less than twenty-four hours Matthew would pack up his few possessions and move them to the home of an elderly client who lived a few short miles from the woman of his dreams. A woman Matthew hoped might become the kind of sweet distraction Dr. Vincent had warned him against.
Chapter Ten
Tyler waved his tablet over the police station parking meter until it acknowledged payment with a beep. Straining his left ear toward his shoulder he tried working out the kink in a neck that resented sleeping on the couch. After a series of comforting pops he stretched in the other direction. Renee had said he couldn’t sleep in the master suite since she had cleaned the sheets for her parents. And joining her in the guest room would have required groveling, something he refused to do.
He approached the door in grumpy silence with a slight anxiety. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was that troubled him about asking Smitty’s advice. His old partner would keep the conversation completely confidential. But he still felt uneasy.
Tyler felt his pocket to confirm that he had remembered to bring the Santiago letters. Then he swallowed hard while crossing the threshold to reenter a former life.
A minute later Tyler found himself standing outside a window of bulletproof glass, behind which an unfriendly face eyed him skeptically. She said nothing while waiting for the day’s first interruption to identify himself.
“Cain,” he offered. “Tyler Cain. I’m here to see Smitty.”
A disapproving scowl caused him to wonder what had happened to the perky brunette who used to occupy the receptionist station.
He nervously cleared his throat. “Or, I mean, Assistant Chief Smith.”
A familiar voice called out from behind. “Cain?”
He spun around to see Kory Sanders, annoyingly happy to see him.
Tyler forced a smile in return, nodding. “Kory.”
Kory slapped Tyler on the back, as if they had once been great friends.
They hadn’t.
“What’s happening?” asked the man who had weaseled his way into the post Tyler had deserved. “It’s been a while. I haven’t seen you since, oh, let me think, right after I became captain. Am I right?”
Kory smirked.
Pull out your gun and shoot me in the heart now, why don’t you? Tyler thought.
“Uh. Yeah,” he heard himself say.
“How’s PI work treating you?”
“Great!” he lied. “Couldn’t be better!” Which was almost true, given the new case.
Kory wore a doubtful smirk. “Riiiight.”
Tyler suppressed an urge to slug his former nemesis.
“So, still with, oh, what was her name? Courtney?”
“Heck, no.” Tyler snorted awkwardly. “Escaped that relationship years ago.” Another forced laugh. “How about you? Anyone keeping you warm at night?”
“Off and on. You know how it is…I’m game if they’re willing with no strings.”
“I hear you,” Tyler said. “My current live-in is a nice-enough gal. But it’s about time I ended it.”
The officer behind the glass glanced up, rolling her eyes.
“It’s just getting, you know, complicated. She wants more from me than I—”
He stopped. Why in the world was he telling Kory Sanders about his relationship with Renee? Kory Sanders was a jerk. But Tyler found himself on the speeding train of a conversation heading nowhere good.
He lied again. “I think she wants a kid.”
“Whoa, man,” Kory said. “You gotta nip that one soon. That’s why I have a strict policy: never live with a partner. Way too many expectations I’m not willing to meet.”
Change the subject, Tyler thought. “I’m here to see Greg. Running an important case by him.”
“Really?” Tyler could almost see the gears churning away in Kory’s head. “Anything I can do to help?”
Tyler shook his head as he went for the dig. “Nah. Really need
s someone…higher up.”
Kory sniffed. “Gotcha. Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind.” He rapped his knuckles twice on the counter before sliding two fingers across the entry scanner. The door buzzed open. “Don’t be a stranger.”
* * *
Tyler knocked assertively on the door with the sign that read GREGORY SMITH, ASSISTANT CHIEF OF POLICE.
“Smitty?”
His former partner glanced up from behind several stacks of files and offered a wry smile. “Tyler Cain. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Tyler set one foot over the threshold, waiting for an official invitation. “Got a few minutes?”
Smitty hesitated. Then he leaned back in his chair to wave him in. “You bet,” he said, closing the folder in front of him. He tossed it onto one of the piles. “We’ve been in the computer age for nearly a century, and there’s more paperwork now than ever!”
Smitty stood and moved to the front edge of his desk. Then he leaned back and crossed his arms. Tyler recognized the “keep it brief” stance, so he turned a chair around and leaned back to mirror his host’s posture.
Their reunion felt awkwardly cordial, another reminder that Greg Smith was no longer Tyler’s partner. The two had once trusted each other with their lives. They had been fairly close confidants who felt a bond forged patrolling neighborhoods, sipping doughnut-shop coffee, and enduring the boredom of more stakeouts than either cared to recall. But diverging streams of time’s river had created an expanse Tyler could no longer pretend away.
He reached deep for something to restore their former amity. He found a useful memory: Smitty confiding in his partner during a rough spot in his relationship with Carol Anne. Were they still married?
“How’s Carol Anne?” He felt his way lightly.
“Fine,” Smitty said. “She’s fine. We’re fine, actually.”
“Really? So you’re not—”
“No.” Smitty chuckled. “We’re not apart. Actually, quite the opposite. We got some help, worked through our issues, and then, well…” He paused, reaching back to spin around a frame. “There’s the result!”