Fireside

by Susan Wiggs

  Whenever Bo tried to pinpoint what love was, he thought of his coach, Landry Holmes, and Emmaline, his wife. Emmaline was, to put it in the kindest of terms, a plain woman. Yet Landry had a way of looking at her that made her beautiful, simple as that. He’d get this peculiar expression on his face, and when she looked back at him, she was lit from within, and beautiful didn’t even begin to describe how she looked in those moments. Bo’s mother worried about losing her looks but Emmaline would always have hers.

  That was the kind of feeling Bo was meant to find; he was convinced of this. He hadn’t had much luck...until now. His hand shook as he peeled off her swimsuit. He’d been overwhelmed by her beauty, her flickering shy passion. They were each other’s first time, with all the attendant awkward tenderness. He was clumsy with the condom, and there was blood and discomfort, but she clung to him and said she wept because she loved him. Over time, their passion and boldness grew and he learned how to please her, nearly weeping himself when she cried out in ecstasy. Afterward, replete with a soaring sense of accomplishment they called love, they lay together and built a future out of words. He would play baseball and go to college. She would work at her sewing, which she loved, making bride gowns and fancy dresses. One day they would marry and have a home of their own, with a porch and a little garden patch where they’d listen to the cicadas singing at twilight.

  Bo remembered trying to close that moment into his heart, knowing it was his first time to feel the utter wonder of perfect happiness. As the weeks went by they learned to steal away to secret places, where they would make love, sometimes with frantic, hungry haste and other times with unhurried, delicious passion. He would never know precisely which night the condom had failed. But indeed it had, and Yolanda’s blossoming, fertile body had done what it was made to do. The unseen division of cells that would one day be his son happened without his knowledge.

  His first inkling that something was amiss occurred when Yolanda stopped coming to school. Worried, he breached her cardinal rule and picked up the phone, even though she told him never to call her. In stern tones her father said Bo must not try to speak to her again. Bo persisted, going to her apartment, only to be turned away by her furious father, Hector Martinez. After that, Bo stole a ladder from a construction site to climb to her window late one night. She was startled awake by his tapping and greeted him, fearful and swollen-eyed, with an urgent whisper. The sight of her gave him an immediate hard-on, which made him vaguely ashamed, since she was clearly the opposite of turned on.

  “Go away,” she begged him. “If my father catches us, he’ll hurt you.”

  “What’s going on?” Bo asked in desperation.

  “The end of us, is what.”

  “But why? I love you, Yolanda. I can’t stand being without you.”

  She’d cried, her cheek to his chest. She felt so small and fragile. “I loved you, too,” she whispered, “but we can’t be together. I’m pregnant, Bo, and you can’t be a part of this.”

  Pregnant. The word had twisted him into knots. He felt no joy, only abject fear, confusion and disappointment. “I’ll help you,” he said. “We’ll do this together.”

  That only made her cry harder. “We can’t. Everything’s changed. I’m not the same person now. I’m not that girl anymore, not that girl who liked making out in the school library and sneaking away to the rice wells. This is real life. This is a baby, and neither of us is ready. But I don’t have a choice. You do.”

  “I choose to stay with you and help you through this.”

  “You don’t get ‘through’ a baby. I know you mean well. And I know you’d do your best. But the two of us—we have nothing, Bo. Nothing. And that won’t work.”

  “I’ll leave school, get a job—”

  “What about baseball?” she asked. “What about your dream?”

  “It’s not as important as you.”

  She smiled sadly. “I knew you’d say that. I don’t want to be with you, though. I don’t want to be with someone who sacrificed a dream for me.”

  “It’s not a sacrifice,” he protested. As soon as he spoke the words, he knew he was lying. He hoped she couldn’t tell.

  He never found out. Her parents burst into the room and made him wait in silent misery on the stairs while they called the police.

  “Mr. Martinez, I want to take care of her. Swear to God,” Bo said to her father.

  Just as Yolanda had warned him, her father backhanded him across the face. Blood trickled out the side of his mouth. He didn’t make a sound. His mother’s boyfriends had trained him the hard way that it was no use.

  He was arrested for breaking and entering, and for stealing the ladder. The last he saw of Yolanda was her face in the lighted window, her dark eyes enormous with sadness.

  At the substation, they recognized his name thanks to their familiarity with his brother. “I figure it was only a matter of time before we met the other Crutcher boy,” said the arresting officer. His partner was more sympathetic. Maybe it was Bo’s age or the bloody and swollen lip. The cop said, “I’m a Stings fan. Played for them myself when I was in high school. You got a hell of an arm, boy.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bo didn’t know what else to say. Then he found himself telling the whole story to the cop, who proved to be a good listener.

  “Son, I know you’re on fire for this girl right now, but trust me. It’ll be best for all concerned if you let her family deal with this in their own way. Fighting them will only cause more grief and you won’t win anyway. Best to move on. Trust me on that.”

  The charges were dropped on condition that Bo stay away from Yolanda for good. Since he couldn’t afford a lawyer to fight an actual charge, he conceded defeat. Her family moved away and he could find no friend or neighbor to say where she had gone. He later heard she’d been sent to live with her father’s sister in Laredo.

  Not long after, the chance of a lifetime had appeared before him—an opportunity to train with a farm league team affiliated with the Houston Astros, and Bo had seized it. He told himself he’d never stop searching for Yolanda, but he was out of ideas.

  * * *

  And that, he admitted to the sleeping boy in his living room, was only the first time he’d turned his back on his kid. Although Yolanda had forbidden him to see the boy, Bo now wished he’d fought harder for his rights as a father.

  Moving quietly through the small apartment, he opened the plastic zipper pouch with AJ’s ID in it, studying the copy of the birth certificate. Hell, no wonder the kid went by AJ instead of his whole name. Place of birth: Laredo, Webb County, Texas. He stared at the date, unable to remember what he’d been doing that day more than twelve years ago.

  After Yolanda, Bo dated any girl who said yes to him. He wanted to see if Yolanda was right—if he was in love with her specifically or if he was in love with love. Turned out Yolanda was neither wholly right nor wholly wrong. He loved every girl he was with. Yet the moment Yolanda called, he was prepared to drop everything and rush to see her, but she still didn’t want that. “This is just to tell you I had a baby boy last night. AJ. AJ Martinez,” she stated.

  “Can I come see him?”

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Hell, Yolanda, then why’d you even bother to call?”

  “I thought you’d want to know.”

  “What I want to know is why you cut me off when I said I wanted to be with you. What I want to know is why I’m not a part of this.”

  “Because we’re living in Laredo now. My aunt has a bridal shop....”

  He told her about the bank account then, the one he’d opened for the baby. Coach Holmes had helped him set it up and explained how it would work. A bank official had opened an escrow account that could be accessed by the child’s legal guardian. It wasn’t much because he didn’t earn much, doing odd jobs wherever he could. But he promised he would always add to the
fund.

  “Why would you do that?” Yolanda asked after a long silence.

  “Because you won’t let me do anything else,” he said.

  Bo tried not to resent Yolanda for keeping AJ from him, only bringing them together when disaster occurred and she had nowhere else to turn. Fact was, even if she’d invited him to be part of AJ’s life, Bo probably would have kept his distance. The child-support payments he voluntarily sent were, for him, a kind of penance. He’d caused a child to come into the world, after all.

  He went to the sofa and checked on AJ. Still asleep. The boy’s face was erased of all the tension and anxiety and anger of last night. He was a good-looking kid, despite being puny. He probably took after his mother. Bo remembered her pretty smile and thick eyelashes, large doe eyes that seemed to sparkle just for him. Bo didn’t know what AJ’s smile looked like. The boy looked as if he’d never smile again, and Bo really couldn’t blame him.

  That sleeping face held secrets Bo knew nothing about. There was a tiny whitish scar by his mouth. A Band-Aid around his right thumb. Was AJ right-handed? Or left, like Bo?

  AJ was only here temporarily but if he did nothing else for the boy, Bo would make sure they got to know one another. That was the least he could do.

  He took a quick shower and dressed for the weather, with thermal layers and thick socks under his jeans. When he popped his head through the neckline of his undershirt, he felt someone watching him. “Hey, AJ,” he said.

  The boy was sitting up on the sofa, surrounded by the rumpled covers and slowly blinking in the half light. He reminded Bo of a just-hatched chick, disoriented and looking for something to lead him in the right direction. His dark hair was tousled, his face a little puffy. He looked chastened, as though someone had yelled at him. Hell, maybe he did get yelled at. Maybe worse. The thought of anyone hitting this kid made Bo fierce. Yet he acknowledged that the feeling of protectiveness came about twelve years too late.

  “Can we call my mom?” asked AJ.

  “Sure.” Bo dialed the number in Houston, same as he’d done the day before, several times. He doubted anything had changed, but went through the motions anyway. “No answer,” he reported when it went to voice mail.

  “Let me try.”

  Bo handed him the phone, watching the boy’s solemn face as he listened to his mother’s cheery bilingual greeting. The large brown eyes flooded with an expression so sad it made Bo want to put his fist through the wall. He knew nothing had changed since they’d called from the airport, but hell. The kid needed to see him doing something. “Let’s try the detention center.” He used the number Mrs. Alvarez had given him. It kicked immediately over to a frustrating bilingual menu, requiring him to press numbers until he was ready to pound the phone into the floor. After several minutes of button pressing, he made his way to a recorded message. With exaggerated care, he shut off the phone. “The center’s closed on weekends and after hours, except in case of emergency.”

  “This is an emergency.”

  “I know it feels that way. Hang in there, okay? Is there anybody else you can call? A relative or neighbor?”

  “Mrs. Alvarez, maybe. Or my teacher, Mrs. Jackson.”

  “I’ve got them both in my cell.” Bo navigated to one of the numbers and hit Send. Both numbers went straight to voice mail. “We’ll try them later,” he said gently. “So, how about your...stepdad?” Yeah, how about him? Yolanda had married Bruno, and they’d moved to Houston. The guy had played the role of AJ’s father for several years. He might not be able to help with the current situation, but it could be reassuring for the kid to hear a familiar voice.

  “I can’t call him,” AJ said.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know his number.”

  Son of a bitch. Bo bit his tongue. What kind of loser just fell out of touch like that? He flinched, feeling a sting of guilt. He liked to think he’d have stuck around, but would he?

  He grabbed a thick Irish fisherman’s sweater and put it on. His best friend’s wife, Sophie, had given him the sweater for Christmas. Bo wasn’t Irish and he wasn’t a fisherman, but she had told him there was some quality of the wool, from blue-face sheep, that kept a man warm and dry. The pattern of cables and other fancy stitches used to be the knitter’s signature, surrounding the wearer with her spirit, protecting him from harm and bringing him luck.

  He hoped like hell the sweater would bring him luck today. He and AJ were going to need it.

  “Damn, this thing itches,” Bo said, running his index finger around the neckline of the sweater.

  “Then why are you wearing it?”

  “Because Sophie gave it to me. And we’re going to see her about your mama today and it’s always a good idea to wear something a woman gave you when you’re going to see her. Women like that. Yeah, that’s a good rule. One thing I know for sure is that when a woman gives you a sweater, you’d better by-God wear it.”

  “Even though it itches.”

  “I’ve suffered worse than that to please a woman,” Bo said, with a flash of memory he’d thought long gone. “Do you know, I used to eat hominy grits for breakfast every time my mama fixed them. You like grits?”

  AJ clutched at his throat and made a gagging sound.

  “My thoughts exactly. Speaking of food, let me get you something to eat.” He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. “We got that pie we brought home from Friendly’s, and... You like pepperoni pizza?”

  A nod.

  “Then get over here and eat. You sleep okay?” he asked the boy.

  A shrug. “It’s kind of noisy around here, so—” A loud beeping from outside drowned out the rest of his words. The racket came from a garbage truck backing up, and the beeping was followed by the hiss of hydraulic lifts and the crash and bright clatter of the Dumpster being emptied.

  When the racket subsided, Bo said, “At night, the bar downstairs can get pretty rowdy, especially on the weekend.” Living over the bar used to feel like the best of all worlds. Now it made him feel...inadequate, somehow.

  “Tell you what,” Bo said to AJ, trying to sound cheerful, “how about you get dressed and we’ll head over to Sophie’s, and she’ll get to work figuring this out.”

  AJ grabbed some things out of his suitcase and headed into the bathroom. The shower hissed to life.

  Then, a few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom, backlit by a cloud of steam from the shower. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, the garments wrinkled but clean-looking. His hair was slicked into place, parted on the side with knife-blade sharpness. His olive-toned skin glowed from a vigorous scrubbing. In the diffuse light, he looked like an angel, so beautiful Bo was momentarily speechless.

  * * *

  Their bellies full of cold pizza, apple pie and Orange Crush, which was the closest thing to juice Bo had, they headed downstairs. It had snowed all night, and the car’s windshield was crusted with ice and dusted with snow.

  Bo swore, then caught himself in mid-cuss, inventing a new word on the spot. “Fuuu—dge-a-mania,” he improvised, retrieving a scraper brush from the trunk of the Z4. “Hard to believe people choose to live in this sh—stuff.” He shut up, realizing AJ wasn’t listening at all.

  The boy was scuffing his feet across the crusty surface of the parking lot. His eyes shone with fascination. Steam rose from his still-damp hair and puffed from his mouth. There were tall heaps of snow from the plows, blanketed by a fresh coat. The snow had nearly buried a couple of cars, which had been left by regulars who knew better than to drive themselves home after they’d had a few too many. From the hilltop vantage point, there was a long view of the town below and the lake in the distance, the rooftops dusted with more snow.

  He tried to imagine what this world was like for AJ. No one had asked his permission to pluck him from the southern metropolis of Houston and plunk him down in the small snowed
-in town of Avalon. He was a stranger in a strange land.

  “Crazy, huh?” Bo said. “All this snow.”

  “It’s so cold,” AJ said. He all but disappeared inside Bo’s olive-drab parka, size Large–Extra Tall. The parka reached AJ’s knees, the sleeves hanging well below his hands.

  “Damn cold. Especially for a Houston boy.” Bo wondered if saying “damn” was okay in front of a kid. “Be careful on the ice,” he added.

  AJ slid his feet across the crusty surface of the parking lot. His low-top Chuck Taylors had no traction at all, and he held his arms out to steady himself. “I’ve never seen snow before,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, you’ll see plenty of it in this town,” Bo assured him. “Can’t stand the stuff, myself.”

  AJ scooped some off the hood of a parked car, flinching at the cold as he watched it melt from the palm of his hand.

  “We’ll get you some warm clothes and boots right away,” Bo promised. “And I need a cup of coffee, bad. Then we’ll go see Sophie and figure out the best way to help your mom.” He finished brushing the snow off the roadster and they got in. He showed AJ the button to push to heat the seat. The boy’s startled expression when he felt the heat come through made Bo smile.

  “Can we have the top down?” asked AJ.

  “It’s freezing out.”

  “I’m plenty warm in this coat.”

  Bo hesitated. It was the boy’s first snow, he reminded himself. Bo had never had a “first snow” as a boy. He’d had hurricanes and hail storms, floods and plagues of fire ants, but he’d never seen the snow until he was an adult. “Just remember,” he warned, blasting the car’s heater, “you asked for it.” He pushed a button on the console, and the canvas top of the convertible retracted, neatly folding itself away. He steered out onto the street and headed toward the center of town. “People are going to think I’m outta my gourd,” he muttered.

  It was worth it, though, to see the way AJ’s eyes sparkled. It was one of those rare winter days that was as clear as the air was cold. The sky shone with a depth and clarity that seemed sharp enough to shatter. The sun laid golden fronds over the brilliant white landscape. Too bad it was so freaking cold. The heated seats and warm air blowing from the vents kept them from freezing to death as they rode with the top down on and the radio turned up loud, playing Stevie Ray Vaughan.