Jaguar

by M. L. Hamilton

  Turning left he headed for the hardware store. The glass door read the Hammer Tyme. He pulled it open and heard the buzzer sound. A moment later Tate Mercer, the store owner and part-time deputy, stepped out of the back room. His eyes lit with recognition.

  “Jaguar, what can I do for you?”

  An older man followed Tate out. He wore a ball cap and had a bit of a belly.

  Tate motioned to him. “This is Bill Stanley. He works afternoons for me.”

  Jaguar nodded, pushing up the sleeves on his shirt. “Nice to meet you.”

  Bill gave him that same look that older people had been giving him for years – who is this freak? Jaguar had stopped worrying about it some time ago, but for just a moment, he wondered if removing some of the piercings wouldn’t help.

  He blinked a few times. What the hell was happening to him? He’d never been one to conform to society before. “I need a lock.” He looked away, scratching the back of his neck. “My mom...um, she gets out.” He looked up into Tate’s nonjudgmental gaze. He liked Tate Mercer. He’d always treated him as an equal. He knew about Jaguar’s mother because it had come up in the investigation into Merilee Whitmire’s death.

  He didn’t like to think about the girl who had died. He still felt guilty for it. He shoved that thought away.

  Tate nodded. “You have a deadbolt already, right?”

  “Right.”

  Tate led him over to the section of the store where the locks were stored. “Maybe we need something a little more challenging to open.”

  He looked at the locks that Tate was pointing to, but his attention was distracted by Bill Stanley who stood before the counter, following his every move. Did he think Jaguar was going to steal from them?

  “So I think this would be your best bet.”

  Jaguar forced his attention back to the locks. He hadn’t heard much of what Tate said. He took the lock the other man held out to him and turned it over, scanning the back. He wasn’t much of a handyman, but he and his father should be able to figure out how to install it.

  Tate shifted weight. “Is she getting worse?”

  Jaguar’s eyes snapped to his face. “What?”

  “Your mom. Is she getting worse?”

  Jaguar sighed. “She’s not getting better, but my father won’t entertain any other options. I’ve got to go back to LA at some point and I hate leaving him to deal with this by himself, but we just don’t see the world the same.” He shot a look at Bill Stanley, who had his arms crossed over his chest, a frown on his face. “But then I guess my dad isn’t the only one who doesn’t get me.”

  Tate glanced at his worker, then focused on Jaguar again. “I could come out and help you install this, if you want?”

  “Thanks. I’d actually appreciate it. I could pay you for your time.”

  Tate waved that off. “Totally not necessary. I got a mother too and I’d want to make sure she was safe.”

  Jaguar gave him a faint smile. Funny thing was he wasn’t sure how to keep his mother safe. This whole disease was beyond him and definitely beyond his father, but Henry wouldn’t admit it. Or couldn’t. Maybe that was what it was. As hard as it was for Jaguar to see his mother lose herself, it must be just as hard for Henry to lose his lifelong companion.

  “Then I owe you a beer.”

  “Sounds good,” Tate said, motioning toward the counter. “I can come out tomorrow afternoon if that works for you. Both Bill and Logan will be working then.”

  “Sure,” said Jaguar, setting the lock on the counter as Tate moved toward the cash register. He could feel Bill Stanley’s eyes follow him as he waited for Tate to ring up the sale.

  “You said you’re going back to LA?” asked the older man. “When?”

  Tate went still, but Jaguar turned to face Bill. “As soon as I can, Mr. Stanley,” he said with false politeness.

  Bill just nodded.

  “Although, you know, I was raised here.” He returned his attention to Tate. “Lived here most of my life. I own property here and my family is here.” His gaze lifted to Stanley again. “Sometimes I think it might be nice to come home again.”

  “Naw,” said Bill. “You’d be much happier going back to LA, I’m sure.”

  Tate punched some buttons on the register. “Can you go see if we have any potting soil in back, Bill?” he said, an edge evident in his voice.

  Bill nodded, slowly moving toward the counter to lift it and walk into the storeroom behind the register. He kept his eyes on Jaguar the entire way, but Jaguar ignored him, taking out his wallet and removing his credit card.

  After he was gone, Tate shook his head. “I’m sorry. He’s just part of the old guard.”

  Jaguar shrugged. “I’ve dealt with his kind all my life. Shit, my father is his kind. Don’t worry about it.”

  Tate ran the card and handed it back. “You’re always welcome in this store.”

  Jaguar gave a laugh. “Thanks, but maybe I’ll make sure I come in the morning from now on. Isn’t that when you said the kid works?”

  “Logan, yeah. He’s doing mornings until school starts again in September. Then he’ll switch to afternoons.”

  “Well, by then, I’ll be back in LA.” He took the bag Tate held out to him. “I guess you know where I’m staying, right?”

  “Right.” Tate had come to his parents’ house and stopped a tragedy from happening.

  He forced the thought down again. He knew he’d have to deal with it at some point, but he just couldn’t deal with it now. He needed to figure out what to do about his mother.

  “See you sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I should be able to get away around noon,” answered Tate. “That’s when Bill and Logan overlap.”

  “See you then,” Jaguar said, stepping away from the counter, then he walked to the door without looking back, but he had a feeling that Bill Stanley watched him until the last moment. He almost flipped him off, but thankfully, he stopped himself. No use stooping to the older man’s level if he could help it.

  CHAPTER 2

  Jaguar cradled the coffee mug in his hand and scrubbed his eyes with his other hand, then he pressed the icon on the phone. His mother wandered into the kitchen, shuffling around in her slippers and bathrobe, her hair squashed on one side. This was one of the bad days, Jaguar knew. He’d heard his father pleading with her earlier to eat something, but she hadn’t. The bad days were getting closer and closer to each other.

  The line connected and Desmond Hifler’s bloated face filled the screen. “Jaguar!” he boomed, causing Ida to jump. Her frightened gaze searched the room for the sound. Jaguar held up the phone.

  “It’s just the phone, Mom,” he said.

  She focused on him, the confusion on her face deepening. It was a day she didn’t remember him, a day she’d forgotten she had a son. He tried to ignore the hurt he felt. He knew it was irrational. It wasn’t her fault, but God help him, some part of him wondered if it wouldn’t have been better if she’d died rather than this.

  “Hey, Desmond,” he said, deliberately dropping his voice.

  “I’m glad you called. I thought we could discuss some stuff. I talked with the other guys and we’re thinking it’s time for a greatest hits album.”

  Jaguar frowned. Greatest hits album? Those usually came out when a band was finished. What was Hifler trying to tell him? His attention was snagged as his mother went to the refrigerator and opened it, peering inside.

  “Wait. Why are we talking about that?” he asked Hifler.

  “It’s just another gun in our arsenal,” the manager said. “How’s the song writing coming along?”

  Tate glanced up as Ida took the egg carton out of the refrigerator and set it on the counter by the stove. He wondered what his father was doing. He’d heard the shower running earlier, but Henry wasn’t one to waste water unnecessarily. Surely he had to be done by now.

  “Good,” he said. “I’ve got some ideas. Look, Desmond, why are you guys talking about a g
reatest hits album?”

  “It’s a great way to get Anaconda on people’s minds again. You know, push your best stuff so when the new stuff comes out people are hungry for it again.”

  Ida set milk on the counter by the eggs, then she left the refrigerator open and went to the pantry, pulling open the door and stepping inside. Jaguar picked up the phone and carried it with him as he went to close the refrigerator door.

  “So how many songs do you have written?” asked Hifler.

  Jaguar hadn’t written a damn thing. “A few,” he lied, trying to see what his mother was doing in the pantry, but her back was to him. He went into the living room and crossed to the hallway, listening for his father. He could still hear the shower running.

  “When are you coming back to LA?”

  Jaguar looked down into the phone, then he took a seat on the couch. “I’m not sure. I’m trying to get my dad to realize he can’t keep taking care of Mom by himself…”

  “Hold up, Jaguar,” said Hifler, lifting a hand. “I got another call coming in. Can I put you on hold for a moment?”

  Jaguar shrugged. “Sure,” he said, but before he’d even finished, Hifler was gone, the call disconnected. He rose to his feet and shoved the phone into his pocket. What the hell! There was a time when Desmond Hifler would drop everything when Jaguar called. Once he’d even stepped out of the delivery room on his wife to take Jaguar’s call.

  Walking back to the kitchen, he turned the corner, his eyes widening in alarm.

  His mother stood in the middle of the room, staring at the stove. She’d put a pan on the burner and poured oil into it, then turned on the gas. Fire had licked up the side of the pan and ignited in the oil pooled in the center of it, flames shooting upwards.

  Jaguar grabbed his mother’s shoulders, pulling her back as he dashed into the pantry, searching for the lid. Suddenly the fire alarm went off, the claxon shrieking. Jaguar ran out of the pantry, just as his father came running from the hallway. Slapping the cover over the pan, Jaguar wrenched the knob to off, killing the gas.

  Breathing out a sigh of relief, he turned to find his mother curling into his father’s arms, her hands over her ears. Henry’s eyes were wild with fury. Jaguar calmly walked to the kitchen window and opened it, while the alarm continued to shriek.

  Ignoring the accusatory look from his father, he slumped into his chair at the kitchen table, lifted his coffee mug, and took a sip. Hello morning.

  * * *

  Jaguar handed Tate a beer and took a seat on the steps next to him. Tate lifted the beer to his mouth and took a sip, then he went back to putting his tools away.

  “I appreciate you helping me out today,” Jaguar said, sipping at his own beer.

  “No problem. That should keep her from getting out.” He closed the tool box and set it on the stair before him, then reached for the beer. He gave Jaguar a sideways look. “I mean…”

  Jaguar shook his head. “I know what you mean.” He braced his arms on his thighs and held the beer in both hands, turning it. “She used to play violin. She was good enough to play for the symphony.”

  “That’s where you get your music talent.”

  Jaguar nodded. “But I was never as good as she was.” He glanced over his shoulder at the house. “How does this happen to someone? How do they lose who they are?”

  “I don’t know, but it must be scary for her too.”

  “I know it is. You should have seen her this morning when the fire alarm went off.”

  “We could put alarms on the doors. That way you’d be notified if she tries to open them.”

  Jaguar chewed on his bottom lip, thinking about it. Alarms on the doors, locks on all the windows, next a lock on the stove. He and his father weren’t going to win this battle. He could see her deteriorating daily. The drugs that had seemed so promising weeks ago did nothing to stop the progression of this disease.

  “That’s probably a good idea,” he said, taking a swig of beer. “Actually, it’s not a good idea. We can’t keep doing this.” The anger he felt at his father washed over him. Why couldn’t he face reality?

  Tate fussed with the label on the bottle. “How are you going to go back to LA?”

  “I don’t know.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Not that there’s anything for me there either. I called Desmond this morning and he disconnected the call.”

  Tate looked over at him. “Really?”

  “He’ll probably say it was an accident, but he hasn’t bothered to call me back.”

  “Do you want to go back to LA?”

  Jaguar looked out at the quiet street. He’d thought moving his parents to a gated community was such a good idea, but he always had the feeling people were watching him through the drapes, keeping an eye on Ida and Henry’s tattooed rockstar son.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought much about it.” He met Tate’s gaze. “I’ve had plenty here to occupy my mind.”

  Tate made a grunt of amusement. “I guess so.”

  Jaguar shrugged. “When I was a teenager, this place seemed so stifling. I hated living here. I hated saying I was from Podunk, California. Going to LA was like going to Mecca.”

  Tate laughed, lifting his bottle to his mouth. “And here I couldn’t wait to get away from LA.”

  Jaguar shook his head. “People are just screwed up, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah.” He stretched out his legs. “Everyone’s got baggage, Jaguar. Everyone’s got issues.”

  “I know. Some more than others.”

  “True.”

  “So here’s how screwed up I am. This stuff is happening with my mom, but all I keep thinking about, all I keep worrying about is what if it happens to me. What if I start forgetting things when I’m sixty?” He swigged the beer. “I should be worried about her. I should be thinking about what she’s going through, but here I am worried about me. That’s messed up.”

  “It’s honest,” said Tate. “It’s understandable. I’d be worried about it too. It doesn’t mean you don’t feel for your mom, it just means you’re human.”

  Jaguar rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess.”

  Tate finished off his beer and pushed himself to his feet. Walking down into the yard, he crossed to the side of the house and fussed with the garbage cans to open the bear lock, then he tossed the empty bottle inside. He came back and picked up the tool box. “I better get back to the shop.”

  Jaguar held out a hand and Tate shook it. “Thanks for the help and the talk.”

  “No problem. Let me know if you want to install some alarms on the doors.”

  “I will.”

  Tate lifted a hand, then turned and walked down to his truck parked on the street. He climbed behind the wheel and the truck rumbled to life. Jaguar watched it drive away, but he didn’t move. He didn’t want to go back into the house. He didn’t want to argue with his father or tiptoe around his mother, but there was no where else for him to go.

  He thought about getting his guitar and trying to write some songs, but that didn’t appeal to him. He thought about getting another beer, but he knew that was just a crutch. He thought about calling a taxi to take him to San Francisco for a few days, get away from here and clear his head, but he knew he couldn’t do that. His mother had almost burned the house down this morning.

  He watched the mail truck pull up to the curb and the full-figured mail carrier climbed out. She came around the front of the truck, holding letters in her hand, and waved to him. He waved back and watched her put their mail in the mailbox, then go around and climb into the truck again. A moment later she pulled up in front of the house next door and repeated the process all over again.

  He waited until she’d disappeared around the corner before he rose and deposited his own beer bottle in the trash, then he ambled down the walkway and opened the mailbox, taking out the stack of letters.

  Sorting them as he walked, he found bills with his father’s name on them, a few advertisements, and some credit card offers in both
of his parents’ names. Awesome. Give the woman who couldn’t remember she had a son a credit card.

  He opened the door on the house and found his father reading the paper on the couch. His parents were the only people he knew who still took a paper. Henry looked up as he entered, then went back to reading. Jaguar was just as glad. He’d avoided a fight with Henry this morning, but he knew one thing could set him off again.

  He continued sorting, laying his father’s letters on the coffee table, then his hands stilled, his eyes widening. One envelope was addressed to Jerome Jarvis. Looking at the return address, his mouth went dry. He felt Henry’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look up.

  Staring at the return address, he walked into the hallway and headed for his room. Once inside, he turned the envelope over and stared at the back of it, but he didn’t open it. His hands trembled and his stomach roiled.

  Placing the letter on his dresser, he backed away from it. The return address mocked him where it lay. DNA Diagnostic Center of Visalia. Closing his eyes, he fought the urge to get the joint out of his drawer, but the need was overpowering.

  Yanking open the drawer, he searched through the t-shirts until he located it, then he grabbed his wallet and placed the joint inside. Taking his keys, he snagged a jeans jacket off the bedpost and headed for the door.

  Henry looked up as he moved toward the front door with its shiny new lock. “Where are you going?” his father demanded.

  “Out,” he said, yanking the door open. Away, he wanted to say. As far away from that envelope as he could go. He shut the door behind him and started down the walkway, turning right to head for the gate. Taking his phone out of his pocket, he pulled up a search engine, looking for a taxi company.

  For the first time since he’d sent them back to LA, he missed Maddog and Bruno, his bodyguards, and he missed the limo. If he had it now, he could start drinking right away and drinking is what he needed.

  * * *

  The taxi deposited him at the Rollicking Robin, a country bar at the edge of town. He stared at the low-slung building with its sloped roof, lack of windows, and cedar siding. The parking lot was filled with pickup trucks of every size and not a few of them flew American flags out of their beds.