One Foot in the Grave

by C. C. Hunter

  I scan one where William Fredrick Griffin caught poachers shooting deer in a state park in Tennessee. One where he worked with a wildlife rescue at the gulf to save animals after the oil spill.

  There’s nothing here that tells me he’s anything but an upstanding guy. But everything inside me tells me he’s a murderer.

  I glance over at Hayden, who’s reading over my shoulder. “I don’t buy it. Something’s wrong.”

  Going back to the main list of links, I scan down. One is a wedding notice from California. Another is located in Ohio. Then I see one that . . .

  I almost pass it, but the familiar word I regularly search makes me stop.

  Obituary. And it’s from Tennessee.

  It’s from a small-town newspaper outside of Knoxville. It’s actually more recent than the other links. I open it. The black and white picture of man staring back at me has dark hair and light eyes. He’s Evil Bill. Or I think he is.

  I read the obituary for William Griffin. It states he worked as a park ranger and donated time to save wildlife.

  It states he died three years ago.

  I swallow a gulp of air and look at Hayden again. “How could he be . . . ?”

  “This is weirder than shit,” Hayden says.

  I squint at the picture beside the obituary, thinking I’ll see the face and realize it’s not him. But I swear it’s him. Same eyes. Same jawline.

  “Something isn’t right.”

  In spite of the sheer befuddlement ping-ponging inside of me, I look back at Hayden. He gives me a reassuring smile and my heart skips a beat.

  My doorbell chimes. I get up, my mind flipping from Dead Evil Bill, to Dead Sweet Hayden. I move into the entryway. There’s only one person this could be.

  Kelsey.

  It rings again. “Coming,” I call out.

  She didn’t tell me she was stopping by, but she’s surprised me before.

  I open the door. My breath catches.

  It’s not Kelsey.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Hi.” Jacob, soft brown eyes, hair a little mussed, wide shoulders, and wearing a warm smile, stands there.

  I’m numb. I don’t know what to say. My feet feel nailed to the floor. My mind nailed shut.

  “Is this a bad time?” he asks.

  Yes, but to say it sounds rude and requires my mouth to move. Nothing seems to be working at the second. So I don’t say it. I just stand there like a bump on log. Snap out of it!

  “Hi,” I finally manage. The polite thing to do would be to step back and let him come in, but Hayden’s here.

  Jacob shifts nervously from one foot to the other. I’m making him uncomfortable. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  He runs a hand over his mouth. “I was . . . working on my dad’s old Falcon and somehow our 7/8 socket must have up and walked out. You mentioned your dad was a mechanic and had a bunch of tools. I was hoping I could borrow one.”

  He just wants to borrow a socket. It’s going to be okay. Hayden can’t be upset.

  “Sure. Let me see if I can find it. I’ll be right—” My plan had been to shut the door, walk through the kitchen and into the garage, then open the garage door to let him in. But he didn’t know that.

  And when I step back, he steps in.

  He’s so close, I’m staring at his chest. My hand’s still on the door. I ease back and claim a few inches of breathing room. “This way,” I say, because shoving people out the door isn’t my thing.

  When I get past the entryway, my gaze goes to the dining room table. Hayden’s gone.

  Jacob follows me into the kitchen, looking around at the bare walls and sterile-looking furnishings. I wonder what he’s thinking. That I’m motherless, that my life is empty. I open the door that leads to the garage and hit a switch to lift the garage door and shed some light on the darkness.

  The door groans loudly as it rises. “What size was it you needed?” I look around. Thankfully, Dad spent some time last weekend getting his tools organized.

  “7/8.” My heart’s thumping. I open up a drawer in one of Dad’s toolboxes where he keeps all his sockets. There’s clinking and clanking while I search through the tools for the socket Jacob needs.

  “Here,” I say.

  “Thanks.” His hand touches mine when he takes it. It’s a casual, accidental touch, but the way his thumb brushes across my wrist doesn’t feel casual. Or accidental.

  I offer a quick “you’re welcome”, nod, and rub my wrist over my jeans to stop the tingling.

  “You wouldn’t want to come over and help me, would you?” Hope plays in his voice.

  And there it is. He didn’t come here to just borrow a socket. Part of me had that figured out, but the other part just didn’t want to face it. Not now. Not when . . .

  “I . . . can’t today.”

  “Tomorrow?” He smiles and only the slightest bit of insecurity shows.

  “Oh, I . . .”

  He scrubs his tennis shoe on the concrete floor. “I’m not going to stop asking. I like you, Riley. A lot.”

  I cringe. Because deep down, I know I like him, too. But then there’s Hayden. Incompatible Hayden. Oh, but there’s other reasons. “You just broke up with your girlfriend.”

  “So I’m free and so are you, right?”

  “She thinks I was trying to break you two up.”

  “But it’s not true,” he says

  “She thinks it is. And if you and I . . .”

  “I personally don’t care what she thinks. We didn’t do anything wrong. Yeah, I admit I noticed you the first time I saw you. It . . . would’ve been hard not to.”

  Seriously? He’s throwing a compliment at me. I hate compliments. Or maybe I just hate the possibility that Hayden might hear them.

  “Then I learned you drove a Mustang, and you actually know about cars. Then I was impressed how you owned that black eye and how you walked into a roomful of guys in auto tech and didn’t care if they wanted you there or not. You’ve got guts. I like that.”

  I shake my head. “No guts.”

  He grins. “That’s another thing I like. You don’t . . . Most pretty girls think they’re . . . all that and a Big Mac. And to us guys, they kind of are, because pretty girls are our kryptonite.” He chuckles. “But you don’t act like that. You have power but you don’t use it. At least not like other girls. I haven’t ever seen you judge anyone either. Everyone at school is still talking about how you took up for Kelsey.”

  “What? No. Kelsey was taking up for me.”

  “At first, but then you went to bat for her. Took a fist in the eye instead of her. And see,” he says. “You don’t want credit for it. I like that about you. And I’m hoping in time you’ll see I’m not a bad guy either.” He holds up the socket. “Thanks. I’ll bring it to school tomorrow. Or . . . I could bring it back tonight and we could hang out.”

  “I don’t . . .”

  “Okay, I’ll bring it to school tomorrow.” He dips his head, looks up at me through his dark lashes and smiles. “Later.” Then he turns and walks out.

  I watch him leave. Slowly. My heart’s moving faster than he is. Why didn’t I tell him it wasn’t happening? Not to waste his time? That I’m unattainable?

  Because just like Hayden, I need to move on too. I haven’t given boys a chance since Carl. Well, except Hayden. And maybe the reason I let him in was because I knew the relationship was doomed from the start.

  I fist my hands while uncertainty rushes through my veins. When I turn around Hayden’s there, leaning on the doorjamb, looking too good, and offering me a smile that doesn’t just tug at my heartstrings, but practically rips them out.

  “He’s right about you.”

  I catch my breath. “I’m not—”

  “You should be. You deserve someone who appreciates you, Riley. Who can really protect you. Who can be there for you. You shouldn’t be lonely.”

  “And you deserve to cross over and be with your dad,” I counter.

  He moves in. “The
n we’ll make a pact. We both have a plan. But first let’s help Abby.”

  I don’t say anything. He takes another step and is right in front of me. “Promise me, Riley.”

  “Promise you what?”

  “That the next time Jacob asks you to do something, you’ll say yes.”

  “I don’t—”

  He places his index finger on my lips. “Promise me.”

  I get tears in my eyes. “I just wish—”

  “He’s a good guy,” he says.

  “How do you know?”

  “The way he talks to you. Looks at you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Stop,” he says. “You do like him. I see it. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I wasn’t thinking when I started this. You are . . . you are in a different place than me. This was . . . It was fun. But like you say, I have to move on. And so do you.”

  I nod. There’s tears in my eyes. I feel as if I’m losing something special. But he was never mine and I need to remember that.

  “Now promise,” he says.

  “I promise.”

  • • •

  That night, I set the napkins on the table and join Dad there. He came home early with dinner. Hayden and I were still sitting at the kitchen table, trying to find other links on William Griffin. We came up with nothing. We were no closer to finding the truth.

  The smell of fried rice and sesame chicken fills the kitchen. All I can think about is the conversation Dad and I need to have. But I hate conflict. The dread curls up in my chest and makes it hard to breathe.

  Dad looks at me. “You really worried me when you left without speaking to me today.”

  I swallow nervously. “You really worried me this morning when you acted . . . like you didn’t feel good.” I watch him spoon some fried rice onto his plate. Then he pushes it over to me. The conversation we might be starting makes my hunger vanish, but for show, I spoon a few bites onto my plate.

  He helps himself to sesame chicken. “I’m pretty sure I told you I was fine.”

  I set my fork down. “But you weren’t,” I say and tell myself it’s time. “Your eyes were bloodshot. You looked extra tired. You looked . . .” Say it. Just say it, “hung over.” I did it. And I’m proud I did. It had to be said.

  Dad looks shocked. “How do you know what a hangover looks like?”

  Since I’m expecting him to be honest, I go for it myself. “Carl sometimes had too many beers.”

  Dad’s eyes round. “I knew I didn’t like him.” He starts eating as if the conversation is over. It’s not over.

  I chase a pea through my fried rice. “This isn’t about him,” I say, my heart thumping in my chest.

  “You need to stop worrying. I’m the parent.” He points his fork at me. There’s a touch of anger in his eyes. Anger that I’m afraid means guilt.

  “You’re my only parent. I have a right to worry.”

  “I had a sleepless night. With my job, I’m allowed.” He says it with a little too much force. He says it without looking at me. “Let’s change the subject.”

  “Dad?”

  “I said change the subject.”

  I pick up my fork and scrape the rice from one side of my plate to the other. I don’t even mind the screeching sound the utensil makes on the ceramic plate.

  Dad does mind. “Stop that.”

  After several slow minutes, he speaks up. “I reserved us a spot at the car show in Dayton.”

  I nod even though the car show isn’t what I want to discuss. But when he shuts something down, it’s closed. But I’m proud of myself for starting the conversation and if I have to, I’ll start it again. Somewhere inside me there’s a tiny bit of hope that maybe this is all it takes. That he’ll realize his mistake and refuse to let his only daughter down. That he loves me enough to stop. Like he loved Mom enough.

  “Why don’t you see if Kelsey would like to go with us to the car show?” he says, in an attempt to make peace, but it’s a half-ass attempt, because I can still hear the tightness in his voice.

  “Sure.” I know my answer comes out sounding sullen. I guess I’m not quite ready to make peace either.

  “Eat,” he says. “Then let’s watch something on television.”

  “I have homework.”

  “Then stay up late and get it done,” he says. “Since you are so concerned about me, maybe a few hours in my company will show you I’m okay.”

  I force myself to take a few bites and fight back the need to cry. It’s going to be a long night.

  • • •

  It was after ten before Dad allowed me to go to bed. The tension between us lingered and hurt more with every tick of the clock. I felt as if he was punishing me. Punishing me for caring. I was halfway up the stairs when his words, “Love you,” caught up with me and hit a sore spot on my heart.

  “Love you, too,” I reply, and by the time I step into my room, I’m crying.

  I crawl into my bed, hug my pillow, and stare at the picture of Mom’s and my feet. “Did he do this to you?” I ask. “Make you feel guilty for loving him?”

  Rolling over, I run my hand on the spot next to me in the bed. How many times have I woken up to find Hayden there? But damn, I’m gonna miss him. I already miss him. And my tears over Dad turn into tears over Hayden.

  • • •

  Low on sleep, high on emotion, I’m dragging on Saturday morning.

  Dad’s up and running with energy to kill when I mosey downstairs. It’s almost as if he’s rubbing it in my face a bit. I’ll take it if it means he’s not drinking. The fact that I’m not one hundred percent sure he ever was drinking isn’t important. I’m thankful he’s acting normal.

  “I have to work today,” he says. “You got any plans?”

  “I might go see Kelsey,” I say.

  “Just call me when you leave and get back,” he says.

  When Dad leaves, I go up to my room and sit on my bed, wishing Hayden would show up. He doesn’t.

  Bored, I get up and find my sketchpad and charcoal pencils. Drawing calms me.

  My hand hangs above the paper. I don’t even stop to think about what to draw. I just do it. When the face starts to form, I feel an ache in my chest. I have to redo the eyes several times before I get them just right, but I eventually nail it. Then I get out my chalk pastels and I add color here and there. I finish with the eyes. Blue.

  Hayden’s blue. But damn, I miss him.

  I spend the rest of Saturday afternoon searching for more William Griffin links. I’m still looking for an answer.

  I don’t go to see Kelsey until Sunday, while Dad’s working on the lawn.

  I meet her mom. She’s pretty and nice. But I sense some unease between her and Kelsey. Part of me wants to shake my friend and insist she appreciate the fact that she has a mom.

  Later, reclined on Kelsey’s bed, I tell her about confronting Dad. She assures me I did the right thing. I want to tell her about Evil Bill, about the huge freaking mystery of the obituary I found. But that stems from the secret part of my life. I can’t share. Not with anyone.

  Well, anyone. I shared it with Hayden.

  • • •

  Monday morning, I get through auto tech with Jacob. I’m nice, but not too nice. Jami and her friends are eyeballing me in the hall after second period. When I walk by them, I smile just to throw them off. I’m not going to let them intimidate me. Or rather, I’m not going to let them know they intimidate me. Truth is, I’m intimidated.

  At noon, I’m running low on energy, and I’m late getting to the cafeteria. I’d texted Kelsey and told her go ahead and get her food and I’d be there shortly. Arriving five minutes later, I hurry to the food line. I wave at Kelsey and ignore the almost appetizing smell of spaghetti, because I know it doesn’t taste nearly as good as it smells. Instead I go for a turkey sandwich and some chips. A few feet away from the cashier, I feel and then see her smiling at me.

  Not again.

  She hands change to the p
erson in front of me then quickly turns to me. “You don’t give yourself nearly as much credit as you deserve.”

  “Credit about what?” I ask.

  “Everything.”

  Okay. Her level of weirdness just shot up a notch. I hand her a five for my lunch, wanting to just be done with her. She takes the bill, makes change, then looks up.

  “Do you have siblings?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “You know, it’s amazing how much siblings can resemble each other. I’ve met some that you could barely tell apart.”

  “Yeah,” I answer, unsure what to say to that.

  “Have faith.” She smiles. It’s creepy. “It’s all going to be okay.”

  “What’s going to be okay?”

  “Everything.” She turns to the next person in line.

  I pick up my tray and hurry away from her to go sit beside Kelsey, who’s laughing when I sit down.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You should’ve seen the look on your face when you were talking to your weird friend. What did she say?”

  “Just more crazy shit.” I moan. I make little quotes with my fingers. “‘It’s all gonna be okay.’ Oh, and . . .” More finger quotes. “She added, ‘Did you know siblings can look alike?’ I swear she has some screws loose.”

  “Yeah,” Kelsey says, “but for some reason you’re the only one who rattles those screws.”

  She’s right, and that’s starting to concern me.

  • • •

  Tuesday, after another day of school, Kelsey asks if I want to come over to her house and do homework. I agree to hang for a short while but suggest we go out to the ice cream shop and do our homework there instead.

  When we get to the parlor, we order ice cream and spread our books out on a table. Kelsey starts stabbing her rainbow sherbet and finding the history questions we need to cover. All of the sudden, she looks up. “You were worried Jacob might come over if we stayed at my house. That’s why we came here, isn’t it?”