by Ellen Parker
Laura focused her mind on the game and began to filter Amy’s rambling narrative. Ten youth and two adult figures moved from one end of the court to the other, swirled around the basket, and dashed off in the opposite direction.
“They’re putting in Eric.”
“Who?”
“My youngest, number eight,” Amy pointed at a public school player.
Laura began to pay special attention to a youth with a mop of sandy hair falling low enough to brush his eyebrows as he trotted down the court. His long arms and thin body with uneven coordination fit her memory of Brad during her last few summer visits.
Her gaze shifted back and forth between uncle and nephew as they dashed around the floor. Once she actually lost track of the ball. Her ears tuned in to the official whistle while the scoreboard and clock faded in importance. Her attention fastened on the ball as if she moved among the players. “Go Cougars.” Amy stood and clapped as Eric took the free throw line.
Laura’s back and shoulder muscles aped Eric’s movements as he bounced the ball twice, paused, and shot. The ball caressed the backboard, hesitated, and dropped through the net.
Laura exhaled and risked a glance at the score as the spectators around her erupted in cheers. Eric’s point put the Cougars three ahead of the opponents with one minute remaining.
“He’s going to be one happy boy tonight.” Amy beamed as Eric went to the bench a few seconds later.
“Does he get much playing time?” Her attention remained on Brad tossing the ball to the sideline player. She didn’t see anything uneven in his movements as he sprinted around the teens. Shiny stainless steel yielded to flesh colored fiberglass with a hint of metal at the elbow. If he felt shy with his prosthesis exposed in the short sleeve shirt he didn’t telegraph it to the public.
Laura allowed Amy’s words to wash over her now, willing to sort out anything important later.
Brad’s movements held her attention and soon her imagination put her on a court with him. She reached out, attempted to steal the ball he controlled expertly with one large hand. Her hand swatted air. He pivoted. The ball bounced once and he released a shot.
The final buzzer burst the scenario.
• • •
Brad steadied the bottle of Gatorade on the counter with his hook and broke the seal with his right hand. An instant later, he closed his eyes in pleasure as cool lemon lime bathed his throat. He relaxed among the activity in the commons area as basketball fans took advantage of the break before the main attraction to purchase snacks, sign raffle tickets, and play the several carnival style games set up. One more game to go.
Frequent glances to the entrance failed to give him a glimpse of Laura. The last time he’d seen her was … at the farmhouse? Only yesterday morning? When would he get a chance to continue that conversation? Ask his own set of questions about her previous sixteen years? Well, not the obvious one, her marriage and how it ended lay out in public view.
“Evening, Myles.” He saluted the insurance man with his half empty drink.
“New shirt?”
“Keeps me from getting confused with the junior high students.” Brad mentally compared the man in front of him with the photo on Sharon Starr’s wall again and confirmed his opinion the two men could pass for brothers if not twins.
“As if that would happen. You got any particular information on the main event? Have you managed to pick up the odds in your official capacity?”
“Odds and the referee in the same sentence? That sounds like a betting man.” Every month or two, a rumor surfaced that Myles visited a bookmaker in St. Paul. Until this moment Brad considered the information interesting but now he began to weigh the amount of truth in it.
“Only a fool would wager on a charity game.” Myles came close to mixing a laugh into his words.
Brad nodded agreement and waited while Myles purchased a large square of homemade fudge. “Question for you. Ever deal with Jim’s Gun Shop outside of Wagoner?”
“He carries a lot of used equipment.”
“Figured that much. Ad in yesterday’s paper caught my attention. Listed a re-loading press at a price that’s tempting. I’m thinking it might be worth a drive and a look see.”
“If you’re into that sort of labor, it could be a good deal.”
Brad gave a silent nod and swallowed the last of his drink. “It can get tedious, I’ll grant you. And over the counter can get pricy.”
“I get most of my ammo from the dealers at the competitions.”
“Is the public welcome to buy at those events?” Brad swung into an easy gait aimed toward the gym.
“Certainly. Rather like a miniature, mobile gun show at every match. You interested in joining us? Grapevine claims you’re good.”
“You’re smart enough to not believe what you hear in this town. But I’m good enough,” Brad tossed his empty bottle into a recycle bin. “I’ll get back to you for details in a couple of weeks. Now, it’s time for me to go earn that big paycheck the shirt represents.”
“Stripes look good on you, Asher.”
“I aim to keep them vertical.” Brad controlled the laugh at his own joke while enjoying Myles’ brief smile.
He walked along the side of the court shaking his head. Time with Daryl plus studying the private investigation trade was making him overly suspicious. Until proved otherwise, he needed to continue his belief that Myles was merely another village businessman. Insurance sales still strikes me as an unusual occupation for anyone private or reticent.
Brad reminded himself he wasn’t an expert in these things. His psychology training focused on getting a team of men to place an objective and the group above safety and self. Vocational selection didn’t enter into things months after basic training and the Army’s shuffling of personnel into specialties.
The barbershop conversation and the incident at the airport threatened to replay in detail. He pushed the thoughts back. The next time he worked at the office computer, he’d dig deeper into Brian Klipper’s background.
He checked in with the timekeeper and focused on the task at hand. The teams were starting their warm-ups and showing off for their friends. Mayor Miller clicked one switch after another at the aged sound system panel until her “Welcome neighbors” threatened to drown out the pep band.
While answering questions from the novice statistician, Brad scanned portions of the bleachers. A smile formed easily when he spotted Laura and Amy sitting together across the court. Amy pointed toward her husband Jim in the line of firemen doing lay-ups. Laura raised her arms high and clapped as if among friends.
He lingered his gaze on the pair and realized Laura needed a female confident in Crystal Springs. The girl full of giggles and the joy of life still lived under that stiff, proper widow façade. He’d sensed laughter simmering just below the surface after their breakfast conversation left his injury for lighter topics. And her eyes actually sparkled during his tale of armored personnel carrier driving lessons. He intended to learn more of the current Laura. The woman asking him questions yesterday remained to be reconciled to the mythical creature he’d turned her into over the years. Amy would be perfect for the task of breaking Laura out of her invisible prison. After all, his sister had experience. She’d drilled a few holes in the shell he’d retreated into when he first came home from the army.
“Now please rise and join in our National Anthem.” Mayor Miller released the microphone button as the stands rumbled with movement.
“ … home of the brave.” Brad’s hand trembled against his chest by the time they reached the last phrase. He couldn’t stare at the flag these days without seeing damaged and fallen soldier friends among the stars. Blinking fast and skimming the back of his hand across his face to obliterate any final trace of public tears, he swallowed hard.
After the final note
faded, he picked up the game ball, nodded to the second referee, and walked to the center circle. As the starting players for each team were introduced and took their places, he moved his gaze around the gym, locating family members and special friends. His gaze touched Amy and Laura then stuttered.
Myles leaned close and spoke into Laura’s ear before moving to a seat two rows higher.
Chapter Eight
“No. No. No.” Laura jerked away from the pillow at the sound of her own voice. She pushed against the mattress with both arms, gasped for breath, and gathered bits of drifting information to orient herself to the farmhouse guestroom.
Her dream changed tonight. After three hundred sixty-nine consecutive nightmares with the same incident waking her, tonight a different image broke what passed for sleep.
She sighed defeat, arranged her body into a yoga Cobbler’s Pose and pulled the quilt high. A trace of cedar from the blanket chest reinforced reality. Her imagination packed her dreams with many things, including colors and the occasional sound, but never scents.
Tonight’s mirage took her back to Scott’s funeral. In daytime the ceremony survived as a portion of a blur. According to others’ accounts, she figured her lost time had lasted twelve days. Almost two weeks before the mist lifted from her emotions and memory enough to trust her recall of events.
But the initial horror stood clear and sharp. Her entire world changed with a single push of a plain wooden door. One moment, she opened Scott’s office with an invitation to begin their New Year’s Eve party an hour ahead of schedule. The next instant, she stared at his dead body.
It was a dream. A new twist because I’m in a new location. Only part of her believed the rationale.
A tiny lamp on Roger’s desk made soft shapes of the furnishings around her. She waited for the digital clock to change a number. Is that what she did best?
Wait for the police.
Watch the seasons change.
Work with robotic motions until her employer closed down around her and a dozen others last week.
Sit passive while the world moved around her.
“I don’t want to.” Her soft words settled on the quilt. “I want … I need … to get on with my life. Isn’t that why I’m here? In Crystal Springs instead of St. Louis? I made plans. I put effort into modifying Scott’s dream — our dream — for a bookstore.”
The new nightmare came back in small scenes. Her back rippled with cold under winter pajamas as each image paraded across her memory.
Her hand brushed against smooth, dark wood. She looked up from the bouquet of six red and six white roses on the sealed casket. All the relatives and friends wore the same face. Scott’s.
Or was it Myles?
What did the man mean at the basketball game? “Are you enjoying the nightlife?”
She calculated an hour to the alarm and lowered the quilt. A shower, a cup of tea, and a confession in her journal would fill the time until the farm animals expected their breakfast.
Twenty minutes later, Laura clutched a mug of orange spice and stared out the front window. Across the road and fields, the security light at Asher’s shone as a sign of civilization. She added the low profile of farm sheds and outbuildings from memory.
Do nightmares visit Brad? Warm, sweet tea bathed her throat while she lined up her micro-sample of combat veterans. Without exception they admitted to night terrors. One comment from John, a neighbor three doors away, stood out. “Experts say they fade. Four years on, I’m tempted to say they’re wrong.”
She closed her eyes and conjured an image of Brad awake in the night staring off in her direction. He fears fire. Do other combat images frighten him? Aware that he’d answered many of her questions with incomplete responses she kept her eyes closed and drew completions where his burn scars disappeared under his shirt. He’d admitted to six months at Brooke, the army’s top medical facility for burn patients. How many surgeries and skin grafts? Exactly where between elbow and shoulder did the prosthesis and stump meet?
She grasped the chain resting against her skin and listened to her heart throb three times for each shallow breath. Scott’s wedding band felt strong and permanent next to her thinner one with the three tiny diamonds.
Talk to me. Point me in the right direction, Scott. Where is justice for you? She’d made a promise — her one clear memory standing before Scott’s casket — to remain the faithful wife until his killer was arrested.
A little later, Laura propped her chin on one hand and scrolled down the collection of emails from Scott. They spanned the final three weeks of his life. Typical for him, they dealt with his work schedule, reports on errands, and ended with a computer smile before his sign-off. She read the familiar tag line finalizing the first one again: “Ever and always, ST.”
In the middle of the fourth message, she spotted it. The word “project” paired with noon, or lunch, or late appeared in each one. Immediately she copied them and consolidated them into one long document. Next she highlighted “project” plus the immediate modifier.
“My conceit got in the way of his message,” she admitted to the empty room. The first time — every time — she’d interpreted “private” or “secret” with Scott hatching some sort of Christmas or New Year’s plan. He had surprised her in the end with tickets to a concert they didn’t get to attend and a set of kitchen knives she’d hinted about for months. “That wasn’t the project at all.”
Tonight, with clear hindsight for the first time, she understood the words connected with something more important. The flash drive she’d given to the police? How long had Scott been collecting that data? Did he understand the meaning? Did he transfer all of it?
The clock radio blurted an advertising jingle into the quiet.
Laura saved all of the files, debated for about a second if she should send any to Daryl before closing them. He could look at them later today. They had talked about going out for lunch. She’d take her computer along and show him what she found. No doubt he’d think of the next step. Now the question became — could she get him to share?
• • •
“We’ll be back within the hour.” Mary Asher waved to Brad and Laura standing at the large kitchen table now cleared of supper dishes.
“Don’t worry, I remember the house rules.” Brad gave a lopsided shrug and re-tucked his empty sleeve against his six-inch stump.
“This is so lame,” Eric grumbled as his grandmother urged him out the door.
“The boy’s right.” Laura giggled after the door banged shut. “No way does it take both grandparents to drive him home. But I appreciate it.”
“They give it their best. It must be awkward for them at times, having a grown son living at home.”
“How many years were you gone?”
“Depends on how you count it. Ten. Maybe closer to eleven. I didn’t come home much from Madison.”
Awkward for more than his parents. She trembled at his touch on her arm.
“Let’s go sit in the living room. I don’t want you to think this house is only kitchen.”
“I’d never assume that.” Conversation over a savory pork roast supper included a recounting of the remodeling after Brad’s injury. She formed a vivid image of Brad’s bedroom, a guest room, the handicap accessible bathroom and storage area on the second floor. Like many farmhouses of this era, the floor plan included one downstairs bedroom.
“The view of the road is better in daylight.” He opened the drapes at a large window. “We took down the holiday lights on New Year’s Day. Did you get a chance to see them?”
“One trip past, on our way to the party in town the day I arrived.” She made out shapes and struggled to ignore their reflections in the glass. Since she’d walked in to find the family gathering for supper, she’d been conscious of how long at a time her gaze remained on Br
ad’s shortened arm. “I recall one tree with multicolored lights and shrubs with lighted netting. How close did I come?”
“Accurate observation. Do you put up outside decorations?”
“Dad always insisted on a star above the garage. We also propped up a plywood trio of carolers every year until it became so battered and faded it embarrassed Mother.” She breathed in a trace of cinnamon from dessert blended with sea breeze after-shave.
“And your house?” Brad prodded.
“I put a wreath on the door. The holidays … they were hard this time around.” An image of Scott mounting a heralding angel on the roofline intruded. She sighed quiet thanks to the neighbor who finally removed it three weeks after the funeral. In early December, she’d found the box in the garage and shed tears over it. “Does it get better?”
His hand pressed against her waist, heating her with a safe, reassurance.
“Cream rises to the top.”
She turned her head to him. “What?”
“Raw milk,” he began. “If you let it sit, the cream, the portion used to figure the milk price, rises to the top. Think of it as the good part.”
“And how long does this take?” She followed him to the sofa and sat close, enjoying the warmth of his large hand resting over her own.
“Too long.” He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “Why don’t you tell me about Laura Starr, college student?”
“She made several quality friends on campus, the sort that keep in touch, pick up conversations where they were interrupted months ago. Have you ever been to Columbia, Missouri?”
As they traded stray bits of the years missing between them Laura relaxed. Brad prodded memories from pre-Scott years to the surface. Her face exchanged the customer service smile for a smaller, genuine model. Moments before she noticed a car slow and turn into the drive, she felt a seed of optimistic dreams within her germinate and put out delicate rootlets.
Chapter Nine
“Do you have limitations on interior painting?” Laura stilled her pencil on a checklist and raised her gaze to Mrs. Gladys Schmitt.