Cole in My Stocking

by Jessi Gage

  “This is bullshit,” Tooley spat, his face purple. “Grip left me his business, dammit. All this is mine. I took care of him right up to the end. Took sick time off of work to be there for my brother. Took him to appointments, cooked him meals. He recognized the sacrifices I made and wanted to show his thanks. She meant nothing to him. Not since she booked it out of here the second she could and never looked back.” He pointed at me. “You know what happened to that will? I’ll tell you what happened. Soon as she got home, she came up here and destroyed it. She should be arrested for tampering with—” His words were cut off with a yelp when Cole grabbed him by the back of his jacket and walked him straight out the door.

  “You so much as think about accusing Mandy of wrongdoing, I will end you—” Cole’s words were cut off by the slamming of the door so hard it rattled Dad’s sharp-shooting plaques on the wall.

  Max, Gonzo, and I stood staring while Cole and Tooley’s footsteps pounded down the stairs outside.

  I looked at Max. He shrugged.

  I didn’t know Gonzo well, but I’d seen him around plenty. I faced him. “You can’t seriously think I’d destroy Dad’s will.”

  “How would I know?” he said, unsmiling. “I knew you as a kid, but you weren’t exactly on the straight-and-narrow. Then you left. Knew your dad, and he was a good man. I’m sorry for your loss. But I don’t know you. Don’t know what you’re capable of.”

  “Take it easy,” Max said. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or Gonzo. He was looking at Gonzo, but he put a hand on my shoulder.

  I appreciated the contact. I chose to interpret it as support.

  I’d left town to escape an undeserved reputation. Apparently, doing so had only enhanced that reputation. Now I was not only Gripper’s wild child but the ungrateful heir that had abandoned him in his hour of need.

  “Go on,” Max told Gonzo. “Make sure Cole doesn’t break Tooley’s nose again.”

  Yeesh. Even Max knew about the broken nose. Did all of Newburgh know Cole had punched his chief in the face?

  Cole’s words from this morning came back to me.

  You really don’t know, do you?

  Know what?

  Later, honey. I’ll tell you later.

  In the truck with Cole, I’d felt something weighty swelling between us, needing to pop. When I remembered his cryptic words, that something swelled even more.

  Was that why I hadn’t seen either man again after they left the main room of Newburgh PD that night? Had they gotten in a fight? Over me?

  Had Cole thrown away his career with the Newburgh PD because of me?

  “I think we both know there’s no reason to mention Officer Plankitt was up here yesterday.” Max’s voice dragged me back to the shop. Gonzo had left. It was just me and Dad’s lawyer.

  I blinked at him, taking too long to process what he was saying. “Right,” I said once I got what he was implying, that suspicion might fall on Cole if anyone but us knew he’d come up here yesterday. “Of course not. Cole was just making sure no one had broken in. He didn’t even know about the will then.”

  “That’s right,” Max said, but the distracted look on his face said he wasn’t so sure. Then he turned around and left me alone in the shop.

  Chapter 10

  I don’t know how long I stood staring at the rubber-mat flooring, thinking about what Max had said, but when I finally locked up and headed for the house, I found the driveway empty except for the beast.

  Everyone had left. Even Cole.

  A pulse of hurt twisted my stomach.

  A few hours ago, I’d told him I wanted to be alone, and I’d been this close to meaning it. But now, I definitely did not want to be alone. I had a million questions for him, but mostly, I wanted to enjoy Lucky Dragon with the man who had come to my rescue more times than I could count since I’d been back home.

  I missed him, but I couldn’t blame him. After all, it was Christmas Eve. He probably had plans. I’d had plans too, to celebrate the holidays with my friends. All of that had gone on hold when Dad died. Fact of life. Or death, I guess.

  When I got in the house, the microwave clock said it was a little after four. If I were back in Philly, I’d be slipping into the holiday-red dress I’d found at a thrift store and putting a bottle of champagne into a gift bag right about now. My friend Heather held an annual Christmas party at her loft apartment in Philly’s charming Fairmont neighborhood. There would be wine and hors d’oeuvres, striking sculptures on loan from her artsy friends, witty conversation, and cute guys I wouldn’t have the courage to talk to but would be happy to ogle.

  Instead, I was pulling reheated Chinese food out of the oven to eat alone in front of the TV. A glamorous New Hampshire Christmas Eve.

  It wasn’t all moping and mooning, however. I chose to focus on the positive, mainly that the food was delicious and had been provided by a hot cop. I just hoped I’d see him again before too long so I could thank him.

  While I cleaned up after dinner, using every piece of Tupperware in Dad’s trailer to store the leftovers, I called Heather and wished her a Merry Christmas. We talked for half an hour while she got ready for her party. Afterwards, the trailer seemed darker and less festive than ever. Neither Dad nor I had ever decorated for Christmas. No lights, no tree, not even the lazy-man’s nod to Christmas, a wreath on the front door.

  I had a sudden urge to put a wreath on the door.

  But where could I get a wreath on Christmas Eve? Would the tree places be open this close to the big day?

  Figuring I could use a drive, even if I came home empty-handed, I grabbed my keys and started up the beast. Twelve minutes later, I was cruising the main strip through Plaistow, amazed at the amount of traffic. Not only were the stores and restaurants all open, but Plaistow was as hopping and festive as I had ever seen it. The parking lots were full. Holiday lights lit up everything from storefronts to streetlamps. There were shoppers everywhere. Guess I wasn’t the only one in need of a little last-minute holiday cheer.

  At the 24-hour Wal-Mart, I picked up two wreaths, one for the storm door and one for Dad’s shop. A few little odds and ends made it into the cart beside the wreaths: a bag of Sam’s Club peanut butter cups, some packing tape to aid my boxing up of anything I wanted to keep from Dad’s place, trash bags, fuzzy socks in Christmas colors for padding around the house, a poinsettia. I saw lots of cutesy things that reminded me of my friends back in Philly, but I’d already done the whole gift-exchange thing with everyone I cared about, so I exercised restraint. Still, a snow globe featuring a platform high-heeled pump would be a perfect souvenir for Heather. I picked it up even though I’d already given her a pair of earrings.

  After loading my bags in the car, I crossed Route 125 and parked at a sporting goods store that looked every bit as busy as Wal-Mart had been. My left knee was aching enough after my long run that I decided to pick up a knee brace for tomorrow’s run. After grabbing the cheapest brace I could find, I ended up wandering through the hunting and fishing section. Thoughts of Dad made a fist around my heart. The store didn’t have any guns, but there was a decent selection of compound bows and a glass case filled with hunting knives like the ones Dad collected.

  He would never buy hunting equipment again. I would never again see him get that excited light in his eyes when he would tell me about a twelve-point buck he brought down after stalking it for half a day. He would never cook me another venison burger and try to convince me the gamey flavor was an acquired taste.

  God. I missed my dad.

  I swallowed hard and headed for the register to pay for my knee brace, but when I walked past a display case of Oakleys, my feet fused to the floor. A sick pair of black sunglasses with orange-tinted polarized lenses and a big orange Oakley O on the trademark head-hugging temples screamed, Buy me! Buy me! They were two hundred and twenty dollars. I’d never paid more than twenty for a pair of sunglasses. But I had to have these. Not for me.

&nb
sp; There was someone I owed a big thank you to.

  For dinner, for support, for Dad’s funeral. For everything good I’d experienced the last few days.

  Maybe it was extravagant. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe I would chicken out and never give these to Cole, but I bought them along with a padded case and had them gift-wrapped for an extra three dollars. As I drove home, I figured, if nothing else, the glasses would give me an excuse to invite Cole over if he had a free minute tomorrow. After all, he’d spent a small fortune on Lucky Dragon and hadn’t even gotten to enjoy it with me.

  By the time I finished hanging the wreaths, it was eight o’ clock. Dad’s neck of the woods was dark and quiet, a world away from bustling Plaistow. Not knowing what else to do with myself, I spent a good hour organizing Dad’s clutter into piles in the living room. The “keep” pile had enough stuff in it to fill a hat box. The dump pile had taken over the couch and two feet of floor space in front of it. A full beast-load, with seats folded down.

  Hands on hips, I surveyed the eating nook and the peek-through bookshelves dividing the living room and kitchen. Every wooden surface shone with a fresh coat of Old English. The eating nook sparkled. Placing the poinsettia I’d bought in the center, I actually looked forward to eating breakfast there tomorrow.

  Christmas breakfast.

  I refused to dwell on being alone on Christmas. I would crank Dad’s stereo system and dance to the holiday favorites. I’d celebrate with morning talk show personalities. I’d call Heather again. Check email. Update my social networks. I wouldn’t be alone. It would be fun.

  Maybe I’d even give Aunt Leslie a call. Mom’s sister lived down in Massachusetts. She’d taken care of me some after mom died, but she’d never really gotten along with Dad, so we’d lost touch. I’d found her on Facebook and sent her a message to let her know Dad had died. She’d said she was sorry. That was it. No asking when the funeral was. No telling me to look her up while I was in New Hampshire. I wasn’t going to twist her arm. But what if it hadn’t occurred to her I might want to get together? I hadn’t said as much in my short message. Seeing family on Christmas might be worth sticking my neck out a little. Maybe.

  Somehow I’d ended up sitting at the eating nook with the Oakley box in my hands. My thumbnail played along the seam of the wrapping paper. I’d chosen silver paper with white snowflakes. The paper was smooth and cool in my hands. Shiny. Pretty.

  What the heck had I been thinking?

  A gift like this said more than I should have wanted to say. A bag of peanut butter cups said thank you. This said, let’s elope and start having children immediately. It was too much, considering I planned to return to Philly as soon as this trailer was cleaned out and Dad’s debts paid.

  I blew out a breath and put the box on the shelf. Most likely, I’d end up returning it. Or maybe I’d keep the Oakleys for myself. A tangible memory of Cole when I’d left him behind to return to the life in Philly that fit me so much better than life here ever had.

  It was after nine. Too early to go to bed. Too late to call anyone and expect an answer on Christmas Eve. The thought of watching a movie held some appeal. Dad had all the premium cable networks. But I didn’t want to end up in a heap of tears watching a sappy flick on the Hallmark Channel.

  I craved quiet, but not the dusty quiet inside this junk-filled, plastic-sided box of memories. Sometimes in Philly, I would climb the stairwell of my apartment building and go sit on the roof. It wasn’t a finished space, like the roof decks of some of the nicer apartment buildings. But between the various mechanical boxes and fans, someone had stuck a couple of camp chairs with cup holders in the arms. They looked out over Philly’s north end.

  I liked to go up there once in a while with a bottle of water or a hot cocoa and watch my city bed down for the night. The peace one could find on rooftops seemed somehow deeper and more lasting than the peace one found in one’s own head…or a stuffy trailer.

  Dad kept a ladder lying down in the grass behind the house. He used it to go up and shovel the roof when more than a couple inches of snow piled up on the flat, tarred expanse. I had a sudden urge to go up there. Over the living room, the roof pitched to a shallow peak. Could I see the dump from there? What would Dad’s wooded three acres look like at night from up there?

  The thermometer said it was thirty-four degrees out. I didn’t care. Now that I’d had the idea, it seemed so right that nothing else would do. I needed to go up on the roof. And even though I almost never drank, I found myself grabbing a couple of Dad’s PBRs out of the fridge.

  I wouldn’t be alone up on the roof. I was going to spend Christmas Eve remembering my dad.

  * * * *

  I didn’t mind cold weather. Maybe because I’d grown up here in the land of long, harsh winters, playing outside no matter the temperature, hiking half a mile to the bus stop every day for school come rain, sleet, or snow—the mailman had nothing on me.

  I stuffed myself into my down jacket and instantly, I was impervious to cold. It could be anywhere between forty above and ten below, and a down jacket would keep a girl toasty-roasty inside. Didn’t matter if you had on five layers underneath or nothing but a T-shirt. Down was “the shit,” as Dad would have said. But you had to pay attention to the access points. Scarf at the neck. Mittens or gloves snug over the cuffs. A hat was a must. I grabbed one of Dad’s with fur-lined earflaps. It smelled like his shampoo, a cheap drugstore brand I hadn’t smelled in six years but remembered like I’d used it in a pinch just recently. Surrounded by that old, familiar scent, I was even more certain this was right thing to do tonight.

  My Sorel snow boots were where I’d left them when I’d moved to Philly, at the bottom of the coat closet. I jammed my feet into them, grabbed Grandma’s afghan and a cushion from one of the chairs in the kitchen, and went in search of reflection and quiet.

  Climbing up a ladder with an afghan and a cushion made for quite the challenge, but once I made it onto the roof, the view was worth it. Just a faint crescent, the moon didn’t provide much light, but the stars punched through the cold night like little fists of brilliance. The roof was tarred with some hard, rough substance that was light-gray in daylight and made a godawful racket when Dad took a shovel to it. It looked silver in the starlight and reminded me of the present I’d gotten for Cole.

  Idiot.

  The more I thought about it, the more I realized how incredibly stupid it would be to give him the gift. My credit card balance would thank me when I returned it. But enough about Cole.

  I cracked open a beer and turned my thoughts to Dad, flipping through every good memory, no matter how brief or infrequent. There was the time he’d taken me for a ride on his dirt bike when I’d been ten. We’d sped along the dirt road around the dump, leaning into the turns, wind whipping the hair sticking out the neck of my too-big helmet.

  We’d wiped out on a sharp bend. I’d been wearing shorts and had lost a good couple layers of skin all up and down my left thigh. The road rash had hurt like the dickens, but the memory was a good one because it was the one time I could remember Dad being tender with me. He’d been bleeding too, all along his left arm, and the exhaust pipe had burned him through his jeans, but he’d taken care of me first, scrubbing the dirt out of my wound and wrapping it with care. He’d never made me feel like a baby for crying. In fact, he’d encouraged me to let it all out.

  “Tears wash the pain away,” he’d told me. “Let them flow, honey, let them flow.”

  There was the time he’d taught me how to shoot a pistol. He’d put a 9mm with a black grip in my twelve-year-old hands. “Keep those arms strong. Line up the sight. Keep your eye on the target. Squeeze the trigger when you’re ready, nice and steady.”

  The target had been the beer can he’d just drained and crinkled in his fist. He took a few running steps and hurled it into the air. I captured it between the uprights of the sight and kept it locked there until it started the downward half of its arc. I squeezed
the trigger, nice and gentle like Dad told me.

  Smack!

  The recoil sent the pistol flying toward my face. The hammer slammed into my forehead. I stumbled back and fell flat on my butt.

  I didn’t know about the can, but I’d dented myself. I had the stars to prove it.

  “You okay, kiddo?”

  I nodded. I wouldn’t feel the pain for another few seconds.

  “Atta girl.” Dad had helped me to my feet and left in search of the can.

  I had to have missed it. It had been moving so fast. And then I’d lost control of the gun. Dad would never take me shooting again. I stood there, weaving with what I now knew had to be a concussion, waiting for him to tell me how disappointed he was in me.

  He found the can and held it in front of my nose.

  There was a hole in it. Small where the bullet entered, large where it exited.

  His smile said it all. I’d made him proud.

  I never did complain about the bruised knot I’d sported in the center of my forehead for the next two weeks. The pain was nothing compared to the sunshine of Dad’s smile.

  The sound of tires crunching on gravel brought me back to the present.

  I was sitting on the dump-side of the low peak, the kitchen cushion protecting me from the cold roof. Turning and lowering myself to my stomach, I peered over the peak, nervous. I half expected it to be Tooley, come to insist on searching for the will again. I should have brought my phone up here with me. Cole would be angry if he knew I’d left it inside.

  A pair of headlights shone so bright in the dark, I couldn’t make out the vehicle until it triggered the security light and angled to park in front of the garage. Cole’s white truck.

  Hyperactive butterflies zinged around inside my stomach, hopped up on relief and excitement.