A Man of Honor

by Loree Lough

  “So what’s on the menu for lunch?”

  “I picked grilled cheese, mac and cheese, and tomato soup. And hopefully, the Jell-o won’t be green for a change.”

  Dusty laughed. “Hopefully.”

  “So you need anything, kiddo? Magazines? Puzzle books? A squirt gun to torment the nurses with?”

  When Jesse giggled, it reminded Dusty just how young he really was. He’d escaped the Grim Reaper this time; if it came calling again, he wouldn’t be as lucky. Not that enduring a pounding that crushed bones and shredded tissue was luck. But maybe this had taught Jesse that he could enjoy the benefits of a family atmosphere without getting his head bashed in.

  “Can I ask you another question?”

  He smoothed his covers. “Shoot.”

  “What happens if Gonzo comes back?”

  “He won’t.”

  “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

  “I am.”

  “Mind if I ask why?”

  “What are you, a lawyer in disguise or somethin’?” Jesse snickered. “You sure are fulla questions today.”

  Dusty pocketed his hands. “Sorry. Don’t mean to be nosy.”

  “Aw, I was just kidding. I really don’t mind answering.” He took a pull from the straw poking out of the green plastic cup on his tray. “I know he won’t be back ’cause I heard him telling the others that I was weak. ‘Put him someplace the cops will find him,’ he said. ‘I ain’t gonna face no murder rap ’cause this skinny, li’l white boy can’t cut the mustard.’ ”

  Ah, Dusty thought; Jesse had failed the “are you tough” test. Ironic—that pack of two-legged wild dogs felt superior enough to reject “a skinny white boy” because he couldn’t handle a beat-in.

  “You ask me,” Dusty said, “this was a blessing in disguise.”

  “Didn’t ask.” He laughed again. “Kidding. Just kidding.” But he grew completely serious when he said, “I know I’m lucky. You don’t have to worry . . . I’m not retarded. No way I wanna go through this again.”

  “That’s good to hear. Real good,” Dusty admitted. Then, “Well, better get back. Make sure those guys didn’t get too serious about those rough and ready splints.”

  He turned to leave when Jesse said, “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure. Long as you don’t mind me sayin’ ‘none of your business’ if it’s none of your business.”

  “You gonna teach me that CPR stuff when I get back to Angel Acres?”

  “Yep.”

  “So I am going back there, then?”

  “You bet.” Dusty winked, snapped off a small salute and said, “Catch you later, kiddo.”

  He was in the doorway when Jesse called his name. “Can I ask you one last question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “You gonna marry Grace?”

  The mention of her name sent his heart into overdrive. “That’s the plan.”

  “What happens to us, afterward?”

  “Nothing changes for you guys. Nothing.”

  “So, is the reason I’m going back to Angel Acres because there are no foster homes available?”

  Translation: when a space opens up, will you kick me to the curb?

  “To tell you the truth, I never looked into it.” He winked. “And that was three questions, not one.”

  Jesse shrugged. “So . . . are you going to?”

  “Wasn’t planning on it. I like things just the way they are. Besides, with you in the house, we have an even dozen kids.”

  Grinning, he said, “That’s good to hear. Real good.”

  They shared a laugh over the one-liners they’d repeated. Then, on a hunch, Dusty walked to the bed and gave Jesse a hug. “See you tomorrow, kiddo.”

  He’d carry the memory of the look his hug had induced for a long, long time.

  31

  You know what I wish?”

  “What?”

  “That one of these old rocking chairs was a two-seater.”

  He’d been sitting there in the dark, eyes closed as the summer breeze riffled through the porch, enjoying the rhythmic sound of tree toads and crickets, and the occasional katydid. “You know what my uncle used to say?”

  “Hmm . . . ?”

  “That when you hear the katydids, it’s only eight weeks until winter begins.”

  “Weird.”

  “No it isn’t. It might be off by a couple days, but I kid you not, it’s not just an old wives’ tale.”

  “No . . . I said ‘weird’ because my grandfather used to say the same thing. And follow it up with stuff about the width of wooly worms’ stripes and how lots of acorns on the ground are signs of how severe the winter will be.”

  He reached for her hand. “I wish one of these squeaky old things was a two-seater, too.”

  Somewhere in the far distance, a siren wailed. A dog barked. A truck horn blared. But here, at Angel Acres, it was quiet enough to hear the wind rustling the tree leaves. He liked it here. Once the back-and-forth shuffle of visiting Jesse in the hospital was over, he’d see what she thought about selling the old, drafty house in the city, and living here.

  “So how was Jesse when you saw him earlier?”

  “Looking better every day. And what’s this he tells me . . . you think I’m incapable of holding my own in the dark?”

  Her voice was stern, but that shaft of moonlight, falling across her face, told him otherwise. “Only if you stepped into a bear trap. Or drove the wrong way over those “don’t go here” spikes in a parking lot.”

  “Hmpf.”

  “Well, can you blame me? You’re barely bigger than a minute. What do you weigh . . . a hundred pounds soaking wet?”

  “Never got on the scale soaking wet. I have no idea.”

  He liked this . . . the quiet easy way they were together. Even with a houseful of boys of all shapes and sizes, colors and ages, the place pulsed with peace. “So have you thought about a date yet?”

  “A date. . . .”

  “Don’t gimme that. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  She laughed, and oh, how he loved the sound of it. A strange little prayer popped into his head, and made him laugh, too: Please Lord, don’t ever let her get laryngitis; I’d miss that voice and that giggle like crazy!

  “I was thinking maybe December. You know, so I could wear satin and you could wear velvet.”

  That sat him up straight. “Velvet? You’re kidding, right?”

  “One of those fancy tuxedos with tails, and a ruffled shirt. A black satin bow tie. And oh! A top hat!”

  He leaned forward, to get a better look at her face. Thank the good Lord, he thought, she was joking. “And here I was going to suggest a drive to the Inner Harbor tomorrow. Just the two of us. An early dinner in Little Italy. A walk around the promenade. Maybe stop in a jewelry store so you can pick out your engagement ring. . . .”

  Now she was leaning forward, too, and smiling, the moonlight flashing like white lights in her dark eyes. “Was?”

  “I just recited half a novel, and you focus on was?” He laughed. “Life with you will be a lot of things, Grace soon-to-be-Parker, but boring sure ain’t one of ’em.”

  “You’re going to think I’m crazy. . . .”

  “Ha. What’s this ‘going to’ stuff? I already think you’re crazy.”

  Her eyes widened as her brows disappeared under dark, curly bangs.

  “Well,” he said, getting onto his knees in front of her chair, “you said yes to a future with the likes of me. How sane could you be?”

  She pressed a palm to each of his cheeks. “You know, when you’re right, you’re right.” Then she kissed him, long and slow and sweet, leaving him too breathless to respond when she said, “I’m crazy about you, that’s for sure.”

  Dusty would have kissed her again . . .

  . . . if his cell phone hadn’t buzzed in his pocket. Grumbling under his breath, he flipped it open. Nah, can’t be, he thought, reading the caller ID line. But how many Rand
i Fletchers could there be in the world, with a New York area code?

  He couldn’t imagine why she’d be calling after all these years, but as usual, her timing stunk. “I’d better take this,” he told Grace.

  She didn’t ask who it was. Didn’t tell him it was too late for phone calls. Didn’t ask him to hurry inside. Not Grace. She stood, and pressing a loving kiss on his chin, went inside without a word. A moment after he said “Hello” into the phone, she whispered through the screen door, “When you’re done there, we need to pick up where we left off. Which, if memory serves, had something to do with engagement rings?”

  She disappeared down the hall as Randi said into his ear, “I know it’s been a long time, and I wouldn’t have bothered you now, but. . . .”

  Why the slight hitch in her husky voice? Maybe she’d run out of friends who’d cough up bail money, and thought maybe he’d come through for her in a pinch . . . for old time’s sake.

  “I’d really rather not do this over the phone,” she said. “Is there any way you can meet me tomorrow?”

  “Randi, you’re in New York. I’m in Baltimore. How’s that possible?”

  “No need to speak to me as if I’m a three-year-old,” she snapped, reminding him of the arguments that far outnumbered the good times they’d shared. She’d been a darned capable partner . . . until she got into the bad habit of snorting cocaine.

  “I’m in town,” she said, “staying at the Sheraton downtown.”

  Keep your big yap shut, he told himself. The less you say, the sooner she’ll hang up and get out of your life. Hopefully this time, for good.

  But he’d said that the last time they were together, and here they were, embroiled in the beginnings of a bickerfest.

  “Same old Dusty, I see. . . .”

  He didn’t have to ask what that meant. Wait long enough, experience had taught him, and she’ll tell you. A couple dozen times, if memory served.

  “Don’t you care why I’m here?”

  On the heels of a heavy sigh, he asked, “Why are you here, Randi?”

  “Because I have cancer. And I’m dying. And with no family to turn to, there’s no one I trust to take care of Ethan.”

  Dusty’s heart skipped a beat, remembering the night they’d gotten plastered, when she asked him what he’d want to name his son, if ever he had one. He’d said Ethan. And if he had a daughter? “Brigid,” he’d said without thinking, “because it means strong.” And Randi had said, “Done!” It had been good for a laugh at the time. But now? “What are you trying to pull?” he demanded.

  “Look. I know this is a shock, and out of the blue and all that. But I swear on my mother’s grave, everything I’ve said is the gospel truth. If you’ll just meet with me tomorrow, I can prove it.”

  Half of him believed her; her voice had sounded a bit hoarse. The other half remembered all too well lies upon lies that she’d told while they were together. Lies that not only ended her police career, but ended them, as well. “Did you fly into town?” he asked

  “No. I drove. And Ethan is here with me.”

  Ethan again, he thought. It was tempting to say . . . is Ethan my son? Instead he said, “I’ll meet you in the hotel restaurant. Say, ten o’clock, to beat the lunch rush.” He wondered, if the boy was with her, what she planned to do with him while this get-together took place.

  She didn’t answer right away, and that worried him. “I’m hoping your cell provider didn’t drop the call. . . .”

  “No. I’m here,” she said. “Ten is fine. But in the lobby, not the restaurant.”

  “Fine.” He didn’t ask why, because he didn’t care. If she had some convoluted need to be in control, so be it. She’d called the meeting, after all.

  Ethan, he thought, listening to the silence. Was it possible that he had a son?

  She’d always been easily distracted, especially with a nose full of coke. Was she high, now? “Here’s a question for you,” he said. “How’d you get this number?”

  Randi snickered, but he didn’t hear any humor in it.

  “I was a cop, which, as my partner, you know better than just about anybody.”

  Former partner, he wanted to say. But he didn’t.

  “You really aren’t a hard man to track down. I Googled you, and something like ten thousand links popped up . . . one, an article about you in the Baltimore Sun, where the reporter quoted you as saying the city needs more places like the Last Chance.” She paused. “What kind of name is that, anyway? Sends a pretty bleak message to those kids you say you’re trying to help, don’t you think?”

  He and Mitch had had the same argument no fewer than a dozen times over the years, and he’d won them all with pure, simple logic: “The church I bought the house from is called Last Chance for God. Made sense to hold on to the connection.”

  More silence. This time he filled it with unasked questions: If Ethan was his son, how old would he be? Dusty thought back, trying to remember the last time he and Randi had been together. Sometime after Christmas, six—no, seven years ago—near as he could recall. A party at their sergeant’s house; he’d brought enough beer for everyone, Randi . . . enough cocaine to get her through the night. If he allowed nine months for nature to take its course, that would make the boy nearly six years old, come September.

  Enough of this hanging on to dead silence, he thought. “See you at ten, then, in the lobby.”

  He was about to hang up when she said, “He’s yours, Dusty, and I can prove it.”

  And then she hung up.

  32

  He hadn’t even stepped out of the revolving doors before a kid said, “Hey. Mom. Look over there. Is that him? Is that my dad?”

  Several hotel guests frowned. One woman clucked her tongue. Even the concierge looked a bit put off by the question. He did his best to ignore the judgmental stares, and resisted the urge to say, I only just heard about this yesterday. Give me a break, folks!

  He crossed the room to where Randi and a small boy sat side by side on one of the lobby’s brown leather sofas, staring at him as if he’d grown a second head. Dusty couldn’t think of a situation when two heads were better than one. “No,” he said, hand up to stop her when she started to stand. He sat in the chair across from them, looking from her haggard face to the boy’s. What was he supposed to say now? “It’s good to see you”? “You’re looking great”? Neither was true, so he said, “So. This is Ethan.”

  He leaned close to his mom and whispered in a voice loud enough for the desk clerk to hear. She shot Dusty a dirty look when Ethan said, “He really does look like me, doesn’t he, Mom!”

  Her expression said told you so. But her mouth said, “He saw a picture of you, years ago. Hasn’t cut his hair since.”

  He wanted to deny it, but the boy was right. He looked exactly like Dusty had at that age, right down to the gap between his two front teeth and the big dimple in his right cheek. He even covered his top teeth with his bottom lip when he grinned. If Dusty had a dollar for every time someone said, “Nice Stan Laurel impression,” he’d have enough money to buy DVDs of the 1930s and 1940s movie comics, Laurel and Hardy.

  “Mom is sick,” Ethan said. “She’s trying to make an appointment with some big-shot cancer doctor at Hopkins.” He shrugged. “So far, no luck.”

  Well, there was a character trait that had changed in the years since he’d been with Randi: back then, she’d been the most guarded woman he’d ever met. More than once, he’d compared getting anything out of her to trying to break into the Pentagon’s innermost ring. The fact that she’d been that honest with him about her condition? A surprise. A big one.

  “You feeling up to a walk?” he asked her.

  “I suppose. Where to?”

  He heard the more important, unasked question: Why?

  “Thought maybe we could browse the shops. Let Ethan, here, play some games in the arcade while we, ah, have coffee and, um, catch up.”

  Half an hour later, Randi was using a French fry to
draw squiggles and curlicues in the puddle of catsup on her plate, while Ethan pounded the controls of an ancient Miss Pac-Man machine. Already, Dusty had grown tired of waiting for the proof she’d promised to deliver.

  Look,” he said quietly, “I’ll grant you he looks a lot like me.” The truth was, they shared a dozen mannerisms, too, but he couldn’t admit it. Yet. “But short of a DNA test, I don’t know how you hope to prove he’s mine.”

  “I’m okay with that . . . if you are.”

  Her directness unnerved him, but he couldn’t admit that, either.

  “So tell me about your, ah, illness.”

  “Cancer,” she said. “It’s okay to say it. Nothing politically incorrect about calling a spade a spade.” Then she shrugged, and with a nod toward Ethan, said, “He knows the obvious stuff, but all the gory details? I’ve turned myself inside out, trying to spare him that.”

  It started with the smoking, she told him—cigarettes, pot, half a dozen other recreational inhalants that kicked off a host of benign symptoms. Coughing and wheezing, shortness of breath, a raspy voice. “If I didn’t have bronchitis, it was pneumonia,” she said, “and after a couple years of that, my oh-so-alert GP ordered a battery of tests. Sputum screening—I know, gross—X-rays, CT scans, MRIs. Finally, I ended up in Sloan-Kettering, where they lopped off some of my left lung. And then the real fun began. . . .”

  Chemotherapy, radiotherapy, heated cisplatin, she added, none of which put a dent in it, because the cancer had spread to her liver and diaphragm, lymph nodes, and chest wall. “Nothing to do now but wait for that bright white light everybody says they see when it’s ‘time.’ ” She drew quote marks in the air.

  “I’m sorry, Randi.” And he meant it. Sorry that she’d suffered. Sorry that she’d gone through all that—pretty much alone. Yeah, she’d caused him tremendous heartache and more misery than anyone he’d ever known, but he still had a soft spot in his heart for her.

  “Knock it off, Parker,” she said, frowning.

  “What?”

  “Looking at me as if I’ll fall over dead, right here.”

  “I’m not. Am I?”

  “Have you ever known me to beat around the bush?”