by Raen Smith
“I know it’s probably hard to believe, but Jack wasn’t that bad of a guy. I can’t see him leaving you all unless he had a reason,” she said. “Doesn’t seem like something he would do.”
“Well, he did.”
“It had to be for a good reason. Jack didn’t seem like the dead-beat type who wouldn’t take responsibility for his family. He talked about Helen and asked for her at least twice every single day for the last year. She was the love of his life. He was alone for the rest of his life after she died.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died over twenty years ago, but I don’t know what happened. He never said anything about it. It’s like the actual death never happened. When I first met him, he didn’t want to talk about it. And later on, I think he just forgot she was dead. He always asked where she was.”
“But he never said anything about his sons?” Liam asked.
“Nothing about his sons,” she said with a shrug. She left out the part about the boy and the suitcase and the rest of his crazy ramblings before he died. It would only muddy the situation, and this situation definitely didn’t need any more muddying.
“Have you seen any pictures of her?”
“Only one.” She got out of the chair and disappeared down the hallway. She went into her room and dug through a box of belongings she had marked with an X, the things she intended to take with. She couldn’t bring herself to throw away the picture of Helen and Jack. Somehow, she thought disposing the picture would erase the existence of Helen and Jack’s love.
She returned with the framed picture and handed it to Liam. “Here. It’s yours. Keep it.”
“Helen and Jack,” he said, turning over the picture in his hands. “My biological parents.”
Charla sat down next to him and looked at the picture. They were both beautiful, young and full of life. “I can see you in Jack. You definitely have the same hair. The same eyes.”
“Yeah, I guess I can see myself a little,” he said, turning over the frame in his hands. He began to bend the clips in the back. “It’s strange to think my dad was only thirty minutes away. I wonder if our paths ever crossed. I could’ve passed right by him and never known he was my father.” He popped off the cardboard backing to pull out the picture. A small, thin piece of paper fluttered out.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“It looks like a receipt from a restaurant,” he replied, taking the paper in his hand. “It’s from 1989.”
“A first date maybe?” She shrugged her shoulders.
“Maybe,” he said, turning it over.
“Jack could be sweet when he wanted to be,” Charla said, taking a drink. Somehow the bottle was half gone already. She had grown accustom to drinking Guinness regularly, although prior to moving in with Jack, she had despised most beer and alcohol in general. With an alcoholic mother, avoidance seemed like the best route. She had to limit Jack’s intake by hiding beer in the garage. He’d always forget he had one and always asked for more, even after she showed him the empty bottles. The role was a familiar one for her, except this time around, Jack had an excuse. Her mother didn’t.
Liam pulled out the photo, running his finger along the edges before tucking it back into place. He set the receipt on next and then placed the cardboard backing on top, folding over the tabs. He turned it around and gave it another look before setting it on the couch next to him.
“I should check in at the bar,” he said, pulling out his phone. “What’s your number, by the way? I want to be able to call you if I have any questions about Jack.”
“Is that your sly way of asking me for my number?” she asked. “You could have just asked without pulling the whole I have to call the bar thing.”
“Well, I didn’t know if you’d want to give me your number after pushing me away,” he said, holding his finger poised over the keypad. She recited her number, watching as he punched it in. “And I really do need to call the bar. Do you mind if I take it outside?”
“Not at all,” she replied as he stood up. “The reception’s better outside anyway.” He disappeared through the front door and stood on the front porch even though the rain had stopped. She watched the glow of his cell phone light up the darkness. She smoothed out her dress and tucked her hair behind her ear.
Damn it, she chided herself. She didn’t know why she even cared what she looked like. Nothing was going to happen between them.
He walked back through the door, letting it slam behind him. “I’ve got to go. Some guys had too much to drink and are getting rowdy, but I’ve got your number.” He held up the phone.
“Yeah,” she said, sliding her beer on the coffee table. She tried to ignore the pang of disappointment she felt. “I’ll get your clothes from the dryer.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get them another time. Will you walk me out?” Liam said, opening the door.
“Sure,” she replied as she walked through the door. She didn’t know what to think about the idea of seeing him again. As far as she was concerned, their business should be done, but she felt an inkling of intrigue about a possible next encounter.
“Maybe you should buy a new car with the money you get from the house,” he suggested. She cringed at her beat-up Corolla parked in front of his shiny black Audi. He unlocked his doors with a chirp from the key fob.
“Yeah, I was thinking about it,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. A hint of his cologne drifted toward her from the night breeze.
“Let me know if you need any help moving some of the heavy stuff,” he said, standing by his opened door. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt or anything.”
“Lift with the legs, not the back. I know the drill. Jack was a good forty pounds heavier than me, and believe me, he needed some coercing at times.”
“If he was anything like me, I bet he did. Some of my fellow squad members can attest to that,” he replied, twirling the key fob in his hand. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Charla Taylor.”
“You too,” she said. “Drive safe and call me if you need anything.”
“Anything?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “That’s a pretty wide open invitation.”
“You know what I mean.” She let out a nervous laugh. “I still have your clothes.”
“Good night, Charla,” he said with a smile that made her knees weak. Then he opened the door and climbed into the car.
“Good night,” she whispered as he shut the door. The bang rattled the summer night and echoed in her heart. She watched as he backed out of the driveway, his headlights shining on her the whole way down.
Maybe she could stand a little brooding Irish gunslinger in her life after all.
Chapter 3
The faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room hummed in Charla’s ear like a lullaby. She turned on her side, gazing out the window of her bedroom at the glimmering shadows of the lake. The full moon reflected on the surface in a sweeping line of pale white. She closed her eyes, listening closely to the quiet thud that echoed with each bang of the canoe against the dock.
Liam.
She couldn’t get him or his lips out of her mind. She was still wearing the cotton dress she’d put on, not wanting to part with the idea the night was over. She slid her hand under her head, and tried to let go of the notion of having a relationship or anything with Jack’s son. She wondered what Jack had said in the letter. Had the events he spouted off before he died actually happened? It was more than twenty years ago, but she wondered if people were still looking for Jack. Things like this just didn’t go away. There were legacies to fulfill. There were vengeances to be paid. People like this didn’t bury the hatchet; they didn’t forget. If any of it was true, she might be in danger, and Liam might be, too.
She considered calling the Dirty Leprechaun, but she didn’t know what she’d say. How could she explain over the phone that Liam was the son of a long-time-ago mafia errand boy? He’d probably laugh it off, just like she had. He wa
s delusional. It was the Alzheimer’s, Charla reminded herself. None of it made any sense. She had called one of her old nursing instructors about it the day after he’d passed, and she confirmed the delusional or fantasy world of Alzheimer’s patients. His mind couldn’t distinguish between reality and fantasy. She had told Charla not to worry. It was all part of the process.
Some process, she thought, looking back at the gentle shimmer of the lake. She’d miss the sounds, the smells, and the serenity the cottage offered. It was off the beaten path, tucked into a deep corner hidden by massive evergreens. She’d slept with the curtains closed for the last two years, but tonight she wanted to hang on to the view of the lake just a little bit longer. The only thing missing was Jack’s laborious snores. She never thought there would come a day when she’d miss that sound.
Her eyelids became heavy, blinking slowly as the ticking of the clock softened in her mind. She could feel her breathing slow and her body fall deeper into the bed. Then she gave one last desperate plea for her step-father to leave her alone tonight. All she wanted was to sleep peacefully, just one night. She caught a final glimpse of the canoe, its hull gleaming in the moonlight, before her lids closed for the final time.
Then she saw herself in her dream like she had every night since Jack’s death. She was standing in the living room of the run-down apartment on Fifth Street. It was the one with apple wallpaper in every room. When she thought of the apartment, that’s all she could remember: the faded apples she could peel off the wall with a scratch of her fingers. She could see her mother passed out in her bedroom down the hallway. Charla could see the latest ring of black around her eye.
She looked down at the straps of her coveted Steve Maddens. She worked extra hours at the hospital just to get these shoes. She was proud to wear these shoes. All the others were a complete embarrassment to her as a sixteen-year-old. She learned early that she’d have to take care of herself if she was ever going to make it through school without being completely harassed. She threw away the box and blacked out the label on the instep of the shoe before her mother could get a glimpse. Her mother would make her return them if she knew how much they’d cost.
Charla reached down to touch the shoes when her eyes fell on a body face down just a couple feet ahead. She watched his back for a minute, not seeing the slight rise and fall of the intake of oxygen. She recognized the blue pin-striped shirt and the faded jeans. He wore that shirt every day even though he’d long ago lost his job as a mechanic. She knew she should feel a sense of urgency or a jolt of panic rush through her body, but all she felt was this sudden warmth of relief. A sudden sense of liberation and hope. She waited for another minute, still not seeing any sort of movement. She knew she should call an ambulance, and she would, eventually.
She crept forward and bent down near her step-father. He’d made her life a living hell for the last seven years. He never laid a finger on Charla, but he unleashed all his anger on her mother’s face, arms, or whatever he could get a hold of. He had beaten down and broken the woman who was supposed to take care of her. Now here he lay, broken on the floor of the living room. Charla had no will to fix him. She lifted his shoulder an inch off the ground, but quickly realized she would have to put more weight into it. She moved down to his torso and yanked with all her might, slowly gaining enough momentum to flip him over.
The body flopped on its back, his chest still not moving. Her eyes moved up to see the blank stare of Jack’s face…
Charla gasped, flicked open her eyes and shot up in her bed. Her chest heaved in and out and sweat dripped down her forehead.
“Just a dream. Just a dream,” she whispered in a chant, hugging herself. She knew it was time for Jack to go. She had done everything she possibly could to help him. There was, however, more she could have done for her step-father. She had found her step-father choked to death on his own vomit after a night of drinking when she was fifteen. She had known she should turn him over and swipe out his mouth, but she couldn’t. Instead she’d stood paralyzed in the middle of the living room, unable to do anything but feel overwhelming joy. As his lips turned blue, all Charla could see was light. She had waited five minutes before calling an ambulance. Every second had ticked like a step closer to freedom.
As she wiped the sweat from her brow, a loud creak sounded in the house. She lay back down heavily on her pillow, ignoring the songs of the old cottage. They no longer startled her like they had when she first moved in. She pulled the covers up to her chin and stared at the shadows on the ceiling, wondering if the memory of her step-father would ever disappear. They had been quiet for the past three years as she cared for Jack and enjoyed the solitude of the cottage, away from her past.
A quiet thud sounded through her opened window and then a clutter of frantic steps followed. She sprang up. It seemed too loud for a deer or other critter. She listened again, hearing what she thought were footsteps again, but this time they were softer. She flipped the covers off and crept through the dark bedroom into the hallway.
Charla was used to taking care of herself and tonight would be no exception. She grabbed the baseball bat tucked in the corner of the dining room and gripped it tight. Jack used to bang on the railing of the back deck to keep the occasional black bear away. She scanned the shadows of the living room before turning to the back deck. She peered through the glass door, her adrenaline coursing through her body. She wound her fingers tighter around the handle and listened.
Nothing.
She reached for the light switch, her index finger shaking. She hesitated for one second longer before she flipped it and illuminated the back deck.
“Oh!” she yelled as the beady eyes of a raccoon stared back at her. She loosened her grip on the bat and clutched her chest. “Jesus Christ. Just a raccoon.”
She double checked the rest of the yard, scanning down by the lake and the steps. It was empty. So she flipped the switch, leaving the raccoon back in the dark. She ran her fingers over the smooth wood of the bat before turning back to her bedroom, the bat still in her hand.
“For safe measure,” she whispered as she walked into her room. She closed the door and locked it. Then she pressed her back against the door, trying to steady her breathing. She used to sleep with her door locked since she could remember, but it was different here at Jack’s cottage. She hadn’t slept one night with her door closed or locked. She had always felt safe here. It was home.
But tonight it didn’t feel like home, and she realized it was time to move on. She eyed the folded fleece pajamas on the dresser with disdain before she shoved them into the garbage below and crawled back into her bed, still clutching the bat.
***
The morning sun streamed through Charla’s window, making her squint as she opened her eyes. It was 6:30 a.m. on the dot. Her body was accustomed to the exact moment of Jack’s waking. He knew no holiday or weekend. Every day was the same. He’d wake up, shuffle down the hall, and stand in the doorway. After a few seconds, he’d ask if she was awake to which she would reply, “You bet I am.” For the past few months, he’d ask who she was. She always responded with, “The woman of your dreams, Jack.”
But she didn’t hear his shuffling this morning, and she didn’t see his outline in her doorway. All she could feel were her hands still loosely holding the baseball bat. She sighed and rolled out of bed, leaning the bat against the wall. There was no sense in leaving the bat in the dining room anymore. Her phone chirped, indicating she received a text message.
Liam? Her stomach flipped with the possibility of Liam thinking about her already this morning. She’d thought about him more than she would have liked to admit. She looked down at the dress she was still wearing before grabbing her phone. She slid through the screens to see the text from her best friend, Jill.
Of course, it’s Jill. No one else would be texting her so early. Jill already had a personal training workout in with a client and was gearing up for her first kettle bell class of the day. She’d sent a
reminder text to Charla for the class at 7:30. The class and short shopping trips were about the only thing Charla felt comfortable leaving Jack for in the last two months. Any longer and she had worried Jack would burn the cabin down. She’d missed the last few classes, but now that Jack was gone, she didn’t have any excuses. Jill was on her case to get back in the gym.
She texted back that she’d go to the next class. She held her phone, knowing Jill would reply within seconds: One last free pass. No excuses on Friday. Lunch today?
At least Jill let her off the hook for today’s class. She knew Jill was worried about her so she texted back: 11:30 Tigerwood Cafe.
Jill: CU there.
Charla tossed her phone on the bed and wandered into the kitchen to start the coffee. She’d never been a coffee drinker, but Jack had insisted he drink one cup every day. She started to enjoy a cup with him every morning, most of the time on the back porch overlooking the lake during the warm months. She smiled at the thought of Jack leaving her with habits of coffee, Guinness, and 6:30 a.m. wake-ups. She leaned against the counter, waiting for the Keurig when she noticed the door to the cellar was open a crack. She didn’t remember leaving the door open. She’d only been down to the cellar a handful of times in the last two years. There wasn’t much down there besides a few old boxes, a dirt floor and mess of cobwebs so rampant you had to walk down with a stick to clear a path. She’d learned her lesson the hard way the first time she went down. It only took her one face full of webs and a creature scurrying across her feet to hightail it back upstairs. Heading back down to the cellar wasn’t number one on her priority list. She had planned on getting those last boxes once she had the rest of the house cleaned up.
She walked toward the door and placed her hand on the knob. She wasn’t in any condition to go down with her bare feet and exposed skin so she pushed the door shut with a small click.