He’d parked at the far end of the parking lot, mostly because he didn’t want anybody riding by to know he was going to see a shrink. As he approached the truck now, he saw a woman standing beside it, bending down, looking in the open window.
It was that woman from group. What was her name? Grace, yeah. Grace.
He quickened his step until he was right beside her.
“Is there a problem?” he asked gruffly.
She looked up, puzzled. She had nice eyes, Wyatt thought, when she wasn’t pissed off.
“You really do have a bird in your truck,” she said, wonderingly.
“That’s what I tried to tell you,” Wyatt said. “What? You think every man is a liar?”
She ignored that, concentrating on Cookie, who was roosting on the steering wheel, her head tucked under her wing, eyes closed.
“It’s a parrot, right? What kind?”
“African gray.”
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll fly away, leaving the window open like that?”
Wyatt laughed. “Cookie? Nah.”
“You said he’s sick? What’s wrong with him?”
“She. Same old thing,” Wyatt said. “Cookie will eat any damned thing she can get her beak around. One of the kids at the park fed her something today. A gummy worm, probably. It, uh, didn’t agree with her digestive system.”
Grace looked closer at the slumbering bird. “Looks like she pooped all over your steering wheel.”
“Yeah,” Wyatt said with a sigh. “She’s bad to do that.”
She turned and pointed at his right shoulder. “I think she got your shirt, too.”
“I would make a joke about getting shit on by everybody, but I wouldn’t want you to think I’m bitter,” Wyatt said.
Grace straightened. “Are you?”
“Oh yeah,” he said easily. “Isn’t everybody bitter about something?”
She thought about it. “I’d hate to think so, but yeah, it seems that way to me these days. Although maybe my mom isn’t. God knows why, but I really think she doesn’t have a bitter bone in her body.”
“I’ve got enough bitter for both of us,” Wyatt said.
Grace was looking at Cookie again. “You said something about a park. Do you work for the city or the county?”
“Hell, no,” he said emphatically. “I work for myself. At Jungle Jerry’s.”
Her face lit up. “Jungle Jerry’s,” she said delightedly. “I remember that place! We used to go there every year on field trips for school. I used to love the parrots and the little Key deer. They were so adorable. Do you still have the parrot show? Where they ride the little toy bike on the high wire?”
“Yeah,” Wyatt said, feeling himself thaw a little. “Cookie here is the star of the show. When she isn’t eating Popsicle sticks and Happy Meal toys.”
“Jungle Jerry’s,” Grace said wistfully. “I haven’t been there in years and years. In fact, I didn’t even know it was still there.”
“You and everybody else in Florida,” Wyatt said. “But we are definitely still there, right where we’ve always been.
He hesitated, then reached in the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a bright orange card. “That’s a free pass. If you’re not doing anything some day, you get in free with that. Bring your kids, if you want. It’s good for the whole family.”
“No kids,” Grace said lightly. “Just me.”
“Guess that’s just as well,” Wyatt said. “Since you’re getting a divorce, right?”
“Yeah,” Grace said. “Just as well. Since he turned out to be a scumbag.”
Her mouth hardened and her eyes narrowed, and she looked like she had earlier in the evening, when he’d first walked into the therapist’s office. Wyatt found himself missing her smile already, and wishing he could do something to bring it back.
“Guess I’d better go,” he said, unlocking the truck.
“Me too,” Grace said. “Gotta go home and write in my divorce journal.”
“Yeah.” Wyatt opened the driver’s door and slid onto the seat. “Hey, uh, thanks,” he said.
“For what?”
“Covering for me with the therapist,” Wyatt said. “I can’t afford to get crossways with her, or that damned judge.”
“It’s okay,” Grace said. “Sounds like we’re all in the same boat. Divorce-wise,” she added.
“Yeah, divorce-wise.”
She gestured at Cookie, who was awake now, and hopping up and down on the steering wheel.
“Will your parrot be okay?”
“She’ll be fine,” Wyatt said. “I’m gonna pick up some Pepto-Bismol at the Seven-Eleven, and see if that settles her down any.”
“Hey. Does she talk?”
He laughed. “When she wants. If she likes you.”
Grace leaned into the car, and Wyatt caught the scent of her, faintly soft and sweet, like the flowers in the park after a spring rain. She held her hand out, and Cookie happily stepped onto her outstretched index finger.
“Ohhh,” Grace breathed. “Is this okay? She won’t bite, will she?”
“Not usually,” he said.
“Hi, Cookie,” she said.
The bird cocked her head and blinked. “Wassup?”
Grace giggled just like one of the kids at Jungle Jerry’s. “Cookie want a cookie?” She looked over at Wyatt. “Dumb, right?”
The parrot inched her way up Grace’s forearm, until she was perched on the crook of her elbow.
Now Grace was getting nervous. “She won’t try to fly away, will she?”
“No such luck,” Wyatt said. “She knows where her bread is buttered. Literally.”
“Gimme a beer,” Cookie demanded. “Gimme a shot of whiskey. Gimme some peanuts.”
“You don’t really give her beer and whiskey, do you?”
“Nah,” Wyatt said. “She just says that for the shock value. But she really does love peanuts.”
Grace smiled again, and Wyatt found himself smiling back. “I better get going. It’s trivia night.”
“You play trivia?”
“Not really. I’m terrible at it. Actually, it’s trivia night at the bar where I work, and it gets pretty busy about this time.”
“You work at a bar?”
She bristled. “Anything wrong with that?”
“No,” he said hastily. “Not at all. Which bar?”
“It’s just a hole in the wall. Over in Cortez. You never heard of it.”
“Try me.”
“The Sandbox.”
He grinned. “I know that place. My whole softball team used to go there after games. So it’s still there? I heard the owner died a while back. What was his name? Butch?”
“Butch Davenport,” Grace said. “Yeah, he’s been gone a couple years now.”
“You knew him?”
“He was my dad,” Grace said. “My mom runs the place now. I moved in with her, after the split with my ex.” She held her arm out straight and laughed as the bird waddled down her forearm and back into the truck.
“Good night, Cookie.” She looked in at the bird’s owner and was surprised to see him smiling at her, flashing those choirboy dimples.
“Good night, Wyatt.”
“See you next week,” he said.
13
Wyatt found his father asleep in the battered leather recliner in the tiny living room, the remote control still clutched in his hand, the television turned to the Cooking Channel.
“Pop.” He shook the older man gently. “Hey, Pop. C’mon. Why don’t you go on to bed now?”
Nelson yawned and stretched. “I’m waitin’ for Rachel Ray to come on. I like those quickie recipes of hers.”
“You like that cute ass of hers,” Wyatt retorted. “Anyway, her show just went off. Go on to bed, okay?”
Nelson pulled himself out of the chair with effort. He was only seventy-four, but a lifetime of physical labor around the park had left him feeling every ache and pain this time of night. “I gotta make B
o’s lunch and put a load of clothes in the dryer.”
“I’ll do it,” Wyatt said, giving his father a gentle push in the direction of his room. “Everything go okay around here tonight?”
“Sure thing,” Nelson said. “Bo and me, we had some hot dogs and coleslaw for dinner. He ate up every scrap I fed him. That kid’s got a hollow leg for sure.”
“Don’t I know it,” Wyatt said ruefully. “He’s already outgrown the pants I bought him at Easter. And his toes are coming out of the top of his sneakers.”
“How’s Cookie?” Nelson asked. “The vet fix her up?”
“The damned vet tech closed up before I got there,” Wyatt said. “Anyway, I think she’ll be all right. I just put her up for the night. Anything else going on in the park?”
“Slow,” Nelson said. “Like all week. No sense in staying open when there’s nobody around. I locked up the gates around seven thirty.” He brightened. “We got that Brownie troop coming tomorrow. Fourteen little girls, and the troop leaders and some mamas. I put some sodas in the snack-bar fridge, and I thought I’d go pick up some candy to sell in the morning.”
“Skip the candy,” Wyatt advised. “Just get some fruit—maybe some grapes and apples and stuff. These scout leaders don’t let the kids eat the kind of junk we used to eat.”
“It never killed you,” Nelson pointed out. He started toward his room, then turned around.
“Callie called.”
Wyatt sighed. “What now?”
“I don’t know,” Nelson admitted. “She wouldn’t talk to me. Just ordered me to put Bo on the phone. I did, and when he hung up the phone from talking to her, he burst out crying. I should’ve told her he was outside playing and couldn’t come to the phone. That’s what I get for being honest. And stupid.”
“Did he say why he was so upset?” Wyatt asked, his heart sinking. Callie knew damned well he’d be out of the house tonight, at his so-called divorce recovery group. She’d been sitting right there in the courtroom when the judge ordered him to attend.
“Oh yeah,” Nelson said. “Callie told Bo she and the asshole are picking him up right after school on Friday, because they’re going to Birmingham this weekend, to look for a new place to live.”
“Dammit,” Wyatt said. “I told her it’s Scout’s birthday party Friday. Anna’s taking all the kids to that new water park, and then they’re going out for pizza afterwards. Bo’s been talking about it for two weeks now, ever since he got the invitation in the mail.”
“Remind me who Scout is?”
“She’s Bo’s best friend, and she’s our shortstop on the T-ball team. Anna is her mom.”
“That’s right,” Nelson said. “Bo’s had his bathing suit laid out on his dresser since Saturday. Poor kid. Now he’ll have to miss it. All because Callie can’t stand to see him have a good time unless it’s something she engineered. Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“I doubt it,” Wyatt said, his jaw tensing. “It’s her weekend. Technically, it starts as soon as he gets out of school on Friday. Never mind that most Fridays she calls me at the last minute and has me pick him up because ‘something’s come up’—like she wants to get her nails done, or she and the asshole are slugging down margaritas at The Salty Dog.”
“Damned shame,” Nelson muttered.
“And I can’t call her anyway,” Wyatt said. “Since she got the judge to forbid me to contact her, unless it’s in writing.”
“I know she’s a woman, but she oughtta be horsewhipped,” Nelson said angrily. “And that’s my opinion on the subject.”
* * *
Wyatt opened the bedroom door and undressed in the dark. He heard the soft rustle of sheets.
“Dad?”
He went over to the narrow twin bed and sat on the edge. He ruffled his son’s light brown hair. “Hey, buddy,” he said. “What are you doing awake?”
“I tried to wait up for you, but I fell asleep,” Bo said.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Wyatt chided. “You’re a little kid. You need a lot of sleep so’s you can grow another six inches before tomorrow morning.”
“I’m really mad at Mom,” Bo said. “She says we have to go to dumb old Birmingham this weekend, and I have to miss Scout’s birthday party.”
“I know,” Wyatt said. “Granddad told me, and I’m so sorry. I know how much you wanted to go to that water park.”
The little boy sniffed. “Cory went there for his cousin’s birthday. He says they have a killer wave machine that’ll make you pee your pants just looking at it. And water cannons. They have water cannons so strong you could knock a kid down with ’em. I told Mom I didn’t want to go to Birmingham. I told her I don’t want to move there, and I don’t want to live with you know who.”
“Oh, Bo-Bo,” Wyatt said. He rubbed his son’s back, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his Lightning McQueen pajama top.
“Dad?”
“What, buddy?”
“I got so mad at Mom, I called her a bad name. Did Granddad tell you that?”
Wyatt had to stifle a laugh. “He didn’t mention it. What kind of bad name did you call your mom?”
The child hesitated. “Granddad told me if I said it again, he might have to wash my mouth out with soap like he did when you were a kid.”
Now Wyatt did laugh. “I’ll tell you a secret on your granddad, Bo. He’s all hat and no cattle.”
“Huh?”
“That means he just talks a good game. He never washed my mouth out with soap. Not ever. Now, what kind of name did you call your mom? Just between us guys?”
Bo dropped his voice to a whisper. “I called her a shit.”
Wyatt was glad for the cover of darkness, because his grin split his face in two. Then he forced himself to sound stern.
“Well, son, that’s not a very nice thing to call your own mother.”
“I was very, very, very mad at her.”
“I know you were. But you can’t go around calling people a shit, just because they made you mad.”
“She called me a shit first,” Bo said.
“When was this?” Wyatt asked, surprised.
“Right after I told her I wanted to stay with you this weekend and go to Scout’s birthday party. She said, ‘listen, you little shit. I am picking you up Friday right after school and that’s final.’”
Wyatt tried to choose his words carefully. Betsy had warned him that he was on thin ice with Callie, now more than ever.
“I don’t think your mom should have called you that, Bo,” he said finally. “But that doesn’t make it right for you to use bad words. Right now, your mom is really mad at me, too, because I don’t want her to take you so far away from me. So, she might say some stuff to you that she doesn’t really mean, because she’s actually just mad at me. But, Bo, even if she says mean things sometimes, your mom really loves you. We both do. Right?”
“I guess so. But I still don’t want to go to stinkin’ Birmingham.”
Wyatt leaned over and kissed his son’s cheek. “Sleep now.”
He climbed into the matching twin bed and pulled the worn sheet over his chest. The old walls in the mobile home were paper-thin, and he could hear his father snoring in the room right next door. A moment later, he heard the soft in and out of his son’s drowsy breathing. For once, he was glad of the cramped quarters in their makeshift house. He reached out his hand and let it rest lightly on Bo’s wrist. For tonight, anyway, Callie could not pull them apart.
14
On only their second night of what she’d begun to think of as divorce camp, their counselor, Paula Talbott-Sinclair, looked, Grace decided, a hot mess. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her thick black mascara smeared. She seemed not to notice that her haphazard topknot of blond curls was coming undone or that a fine sprinkling of crumbs adorned one strap of her turquoise tank top.
She’d lit a stick of incense, and the pungent white smoke drifting through the room made Grace’s eyes water and
her nose itch.
“Everybody here?” Paula asked, looking around the room. She gave Wyatt Keeler a droopy-eyed wink. “Wyatt, I see you made it on time this week. That’s good. Verrrry good.”
She was slurring her words, Grace thought. Was she drunk, stoned? She looked around the therapist’s office. Nobody else seemed to notice Paula’s condition. Maybe it was just her imagination.
“Now,” Paula said, giving her hands a clap that sent her half dozen bracelets a-jingle. “Who wants to read from their recovery journal?”
Silence.
“Nobody?” Paula frowned. “Friends, we have to share here. It’s part of our healing process. So who will break the ice? Am I going to have to call on somebody, or will you volunteer?”
“I’ll go,” Camryn said. She was dressed in gym clothes tonight, a snug-fitting fuschia Nike shirt, black bike shorts, hot pink running shoes. She’d wrapped a hot-pink scarf around her hair and had ditched the false eyelashes.
Camryn opened her black-and-white notebook and cleared her throat. “Okay,” she said hesitantly. “Here goes.”
She traced a line of writing with her fingertip, took a deep breath, and began reading.
“I feel like a victim. It’s my job as a journalist to interview people, to tell their stories, convey their experiences. So here is my experience, and I am going to tell you exactly how it happened and how it makes me feel, and the hell with anybody who wants me to say I am sorry, because I am not sorry.
“My husband, Dexter Nobles, is scum. He lied to me, he lied to our daughter, he lied to all our friends. Bad enough he cheated on me, but no, he had to do it with our daughter’s best friend. A twenty-year-old! So how do you think that makes me feel when I look in the mirror? When I look at this picture of myself, I’m reminded of the victims I interview at a crime scene. Like the old lady who gets pistol-whipped by a thug on a street corner, or the guy whose car is jacked at a gas station. I used to wonder, what was that old lady doing out that time of night? Or why did that guy drive through that part of town in a new Mercedes? Were they that clueless? But now I know, a victim isn’t asking to be jacked or pistol-whipped, or cheated on by somebody they used to love. I know it because I’m a victim. I’m somehow less than I used to be. And I don’t like it worth a damn.”
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