by Dan Walsh
“Well, I don’t know what God’s doing in Rick’s heart,” Andrea said. “He does seem to have changed some since the first day. He’s a little . . . softer, I guess. Easier to talk to. But I’d need to know he’s got a lot more than that going on before I’d feel okay starting a relationship with him.”
“I understand. I’m right there with you on this.”
Andrea looked off to the side. “I know Amy is totally smitten with him.”
“Really?” Leanne asked.
Andrea nodded. “Both times she’s been at the store, he’s the only thing she talks about the rest of the night. But I can’t let that matter. I don’t want her getting hurt.”
Leanne put her hand on Andrea’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Andrea. Amy has to come first. You’re just being a good mom. We’ll just have to give it to God and pray that he does some kind of major surgery on Rick’s heart. That’s the real problem. What he needs most is out of your reach . . . and mine.”
Rick locked up the store for the night, an hour past the normal time. He’d gotten sucked into that bookkeeping project for Art. As he climbed the cement steps, he heard someone talking around the rear corner of the building. He instantly knew who it was, that stupid JD talking to himself again. He was arguing with someone named Taylor about which charity they should mooch off tonight.
Rick had enough.
He walked around the corner, saw JD on all fours about to climb back into his box. “Yo, JD,” Rick yelled.
JD looked at him, his face instantly gripped with fear. He crawled the rest of the way inside his box.
“Go ahead and hide,” Rick yelled. “But I know you can hear me. I want you off this property by morning or I’m calling the cops. I know Andrea gave you a McMuffin on Saturday, and Art’s supposed to be on the mend. Maybe they’ll let you come back later. But while I’m here, I want you gone. When I come back tomorrow morning, if you’re still here, I’ll have you arrested. You got that?” Rick waited for an answer.
“I know you heard me,” he said and headed toward his car.
38
The next morning, Rick pulled up to his parking spot next to the Book Nook. He set his coffee on the little wall bordering the steps and walked to the rear of the building. The big box was still there. He walked up to it and started banging on the side. “You in there, JD?”
He waited. No answer.
He banged on it again. “JD?” He lifted up one side. It was empty. He wished they had a dumpster so he could get rid of it altogether. Maybe later he’d call the city, see if they could do something. He walked back to the sidewalk, grabbed his coffee, and opened the store.
The rest of the day went as expected. By now, Rick had settled into a predictable routine. He still couldn’t tell someone which book to read, but he’d gotten a pretty good handle on the rest of the inventory, including the record albums. He knew where most things were, what aisle, what shelf. Of course, he realized this was no great achievement. It was the expectation of every boss who’d ever hired a high school kid to work retail, given the same amount of time.
But Rick had to admit, he liked it. Liked the pace, liked the routine. Even the customers, somehow they had become only half as annoying. On the whole, they were a pleasant lot. Even the ones who brought things back never complained. If anything, they blamed themselves for picking the wrong thing and taking up his time running it back through the register. Most felt guilty enough to go back in the store and buy something else that cost just as much.
And every single one, without fail, asked about Art and his mom. How’s Art doing? What’s the latest? How’s Leanne holding up? Tell them we’re still praying. And every single one made a separate point to talk about how much they loved coming into the store, how wonderful Art and his mom were.
At the moment, Rick was sitting in the back office, trying to finish up that bookkeeping project. Andrea had come in around 2:45. Their conversation at the counter had seemed a bit strained, at least for him. She seemed fine, like there wasn’t a problem. Pretty as ever. Nice as ever. Rick tried to pretend he was fine. Kept it light. But all the while there was this pressure building inside him. He just wanted to know: Why won’t you go out with me? Why won’t you give me a chance?
There was no way he’d say it.
So when the store traffic quieted down, he’d told her he should head back to the office, work on this project. For a moment, he’d thought she seemed disappointed. Probably just his imagination.
“Hey, Rick.”
He looked up. Andrea’s head poked through the doorway. “Quitting time. I’m going to start shutting things down, if that’s all right. Got to go pick up Amy.”
“No, that’s fine,” he said.
“Your mother called from the hospital. Guess you didn’t hear it.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, she said Art’s had a good day. She’s still trying to get used to him wearing a turban.”
“A turban?”
“His head, it’s all bandaged up.”
“Oh, right.”
“I asked if she wanted me to come get you. She said she didn’t want to interrupt you but wondered if you’d call back before you left.”
“Sure. You have a good night,” Rick said.
“You too.”
“And say hi to Amy for me.”
“I will.”
As soon as she’d left, Rick realized something. He hadn’t asked about Amy for Andrea’s sake, trying to impress her. It came out on its own.
But Rick hated kids, didn’t he? It was almost a policy.
39
This was going to be strange.
Rick drove his Celica to a part of town he hadn’t seen in over ten years. On purpose. He remembered feeling the sensation of fleeing the last time he’d been here.
Just before leaving the store, he had called his mom back. She’d asked him for a favor. She knew it was a big one and apologized for even asking. Would he stop by her house—his old house—to pick up some prayer journal Andrea had forgotten yesterday and bring it out to the hospital?
He was in the neighborhood now, just a few blocks away. Nothing had changed. Except all the trees were bigger. It was an older section of town, the homes all built shortly after World War II. Rick thought they certainly knew how to build things in those days. Seabreeze had been hit by at least a half dozen big hurricanes since then, but every house still stood strong. Most were in pretty good shape. He found himself admiring the homes, the manicured yards, the flower boxes in the windows. He waved at a number of middle-aged and elderly people as he drove by. He wondered how many might be older, balder, grayer versions of people he’d known in his teens.
He turned right onto his old street, Waverly Road. His eyes instantly veered to the left, to the fifth house. Right where it was supposed to be. He pulled into the driveway, stopped the car just a few yards in. He sat there a while to take it in.
Why had he hated this place?
It might be the cutest house in a neighborhood of bungalows. That’s what they built back then. Art hadn’t changed a thing. Even kept the same shade of yellow. The house sat comfortably on the left side of the driveway, surrounded by large shady oaks, moss hanging down from every limb. It had this high-pitched gable roof with dark green shingles. A charming little dormer poked out, facing the street. A porch stretched across the front. The whole thing trimmed in white. The driveway went straight back to a freestanding garage, a small replica of the house itself.
He got out of the car and walked toward the front door. Four steps led up to the porch. On opposite ends of each step sat large clay pots, the flowers shriveled from last week’s freeze. He found the front door key under the second pot on the left. Right where his mom said. He opened the door and stepped inside.
My, Rick thought. Nothing had changed. All these years. Except the sofa and recliner. But even they were the same color. There was the stone fireplace in the corner. Art’s old wooden rocker off to the
side. He used to hate what he saw in here. Embarrassed at how small it was. He’d never invite in friends from high school. Most of the time when he’d catch a ride, he’d have them drop him off at the corner. All his friends lived in modern subdivisions, miles from here. Closer to the beach. In ranch-style houses with central heat and air. More than half had pools.
He walked through the living room all decorated with Christmas colors and knickknacks. Santas and snowmen sitting on every shelf. It was small, so was the dining area. He looked at the kitchen. His condo kitchen was bigger than this. But none of it seemed to matter now. Instead of feeling small, it felt . . . cozy. That was the charm of a bungalow. Nice little home with nice little rooms. No wasted space. Was it a memory or did he smell coffee? His mom always made the best coffee.
He looked over at the little dinette set, where he’d eaten ten thousand bowls of cereal.
That’s right, the prayer journal. Mom said it was in her bedroom, next to the nightstand or on her chest of drawers. He walked back through the living room and into the small hallway connecting the two bedrooms, the one bath in between. He flicked on the light and was almost startled by the dozens of picture frames hanging in the hallway.
He took a few minutes to study them. Art or his mom, or the both of them, were in every one. They all seemed to have been taken since Rick had left. He wasn’t in a single one. But then, why would he be? There were pictures of them at the store. Gardening in the backyard. In St. Augustine. At Disney World. Standing next to Niagara Falls. When did they go there? On a big fishing boat; Art was helping his mom hold up a three-foot-long fish. There were several pictures of them with Father Charlie and another woman. Rick supposed his wife.
Rick couldn’t help but notice how happy they were. His eyes zeroed in on his mother’s face, beaming in every shot. He was about to turn, head into their bedroom, when one picture caught his eye. It was a picture of them in the living room, standing in front of the Christmas tree. Had to be taken the past year or two. Art stared ahead at the camera, smiling away. But his mom was looking sideways at Art. She was smiling, but she had another look on her face. Rick knew what it was.
The look of a woman in love. Art really had made his mother happy. All these years. And he had taken really good care of her.
Rick stepped into their bedroom, grateful that Art seemed to be pulling through this ordeal. He looked to the far side of the bed. There was a little black book, too small to be a Bible. He walked around the bed and picked it up. As he flipped it open, he instantly recognized his mother’s handwriting.
Mission accomplished. He closed the book and headed for the door. He stopped in the hallway, aware of a strong curiosity to open the journal and read a few pages. Just a few. No, you can’t do that. That’s like reading someone’s diary. He walked a few more steps and stopped. Just a look, what could it hurt? He opened it from the back, flipped till he came to the last entry.
At the top, she’d written “Thanksgiving Day, 1980.” The day before Art had collapsed.
Thank you, Lord for a wonderful day. Thank you for giving up your life for me.Thank you for Art, for giving me such a wonderful man. Thank you for giving us so many good friends. Thanks for helping us get the store all decorated yesterday. Thank you for the store itself, for using it to provide all our needs and allowing us to be a blessing to others.
Thank you for my wonderful son, Rick. Be with him today. Open the eyes of his heart, Lord. I pray he would know you and know all that you have done for him. I pray I’d be able to talk with him today. Please have him call or let him be there when I do . . .
Thank you for my wonderful son, Rick?
How had he been a wonderful son to her? Rick felt a ripple of guilt as he realized where his head had been on Thanksgiving Day. For starters, he’d woken up with a hangover. He’d watched the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade in his pj’s, then eaten his Thanksgiving dinner with some friends. He’d hardly thought of his mom, except to dread the inevitable phone call with her that day.
He closed the journal. Just before he entered the living room, another surge of curiosity came over him. His old room. The door was half open. He walked in, flicked on the light switch. It was remarkable. Like the day he’d left it, everything the same. Even the surf posters thumbtacked to the walls. The big Atlanta Braves pennant over his bed. His bedspread was the same, light green with little cottony puffs. He used to pull them apart when he talked on the phone. Sitting on the nightstand was the same phone, the old rotary kind.
He walked to his dresser, a dark wooden thing, probably an antique. If not then, certainly now. He wondered what was inside. He yanked on the knobs of the top drawer. One side came out first, the other side stuck, same as ever. He pushed it back and pulled harder on the weak side till the drawer broke free.
What he saw surprised him. It was filled with greeting cards. He grabbed a small handful and set them on top of the dresser. They looked familiar. As soon as he opened the first one, he knew why. They were cards he’d sent his mom over the years. On her birthday, Mother’s Day, her and Art’s anniversary. After opening a few, he put them all back. He knew there was nothing to read. He’d never written a single note in a single card. Just signed them “Rick.” Once in a while, “Love, Rick.”
He’d never spent more than a few moments picking out a card. Sometimes he wouldn’t even read what the card said. Just signed it. Sometimes he’d forget to mail it. Then send it days later.
Thank you for my wonderful son, Rick.
He couldn’t believe she’d saved every single one. He closed the drawer, but it stuck as usual. As he shoved it harder, a small wooden box sitting inside the drawer slid forward. He opened the drawer the rest of the way, lifted the box, and set it on the dresser. Looked like the kind of box you put keepsakes in. But it wasn’t his. He’d never seen it before.
He wondered what was inside.
40
Rick lifted the box lid. He was immediately disappointed.
Even though he didn’t recognize the box, he still expected to find things about him inside. Maybe things his mother had saved through the years, little gifts he’d given her that he’d forgotten about. Instead, he saw a handful of cards paper-clipped to a thin stack of papers. Next to it, a set of keys. He picked the keys up; a dozen of them were hooked to a rusty ring. The biggest was definitely to a car. He turned and held it up to the light.
“Toyota,” he mumbled aloud. It was etched in the plastic, almost rubbed off. Art and his mom drove a Buick, as he recalled. Didn’t remember them ever owning a Toyota. He tossed it back in the box and took out the papers.
“What?” he said as his eyes caught a few words. This can’t be right. He pulled the paper clip off and walked over to the bed, where the light was brighter.
“How is this possible?” he said, setting all but the first item on the bed. What is this doing here? It was an old Social Security card, wrinkled and yellowed at the edges. He read the name below the nine-digit number:
James Michael Denton
That was his father’s name. It was his father’s card!
He set it down and grabbed the second card in the stack. A library card, just as old, bearing the County Seal of Cobb County, Georgia. And the name:
James Denton
Is that where his father had gone? Cobb County, Georgia? Is that where he’d been all these years? He was pretty sure Cobb County was somewhere near Atlanta. But why is it here? he thought, eyeing the card again.
He set it down and reached for one of the papers. It was almost tissue thin, so he unfolded it carefully. He felt his stomach turn. It was his father’s birth certificate. There was his full name—James Michael Denton. And his birth date. The hospital in Dayton, Ohio, where he was born. It wasn’t a copy; it had a raised seal.
Rick’s heart began to race, one step ahead of a thought that began to form. Why would original cards and papers like this be in this box, in this room . . . in this house? It could only mean one thing
. Tears welled up in his eyes as the realization struck home.
His father was dead.
What else could it be? He hadn’t talked with his mom about his father for years, but the last time he had, she’d said she hadn’t heard from him since that first year he’d left. These were the kinds of documents you keep in a safe place in your own home, or a safe-deposit box. Not at your ex-wife’s house. He must have died, and some lawyer had sent his important documents to her.
He wiped his eyes and sat up straight. Now he was getting angry. Why hadn’t she told him? He had a right to know. He wondered when it had happened. There must be a death certificate in here somewhere. He started leafing through the other documents but couldn’t find one. Just a letter to his father from a life insurance company saying his policy had expired, and a car insurance document for a 1971 Toyota Corolla. Rick looked at the date. Also expired. But no death certificate.
He had started gathering everything back together when he noticed what looked like a driver’s license at the bottom of the stack of cards. He pulled it out and instantly saw his father’s name: James Michael Denton. Then looked at his picture. It was like looking at the face of a stranger. He tried to make the connection between this image and his childhood memories, but he could barely see it. The man was so much older, his hair mostly gray on the sides, deep shadows under his eyes. He wasn’t smiling; his mouth hung slightly open.
Rick looked at the issue date—almost four years ago. The license was from the state of Georgia as well. So . . . he had died sometime in the last four years. He looked back at his father’s picture. He didn’t look well; you could see it in his eyes. What happened to you? Sadness pushed his anger aside. He stood up, then paper-clipped everything together, except the license. He wanted to keep it to show it to his mom when he confronted her.