"That was your momma, Molly. Your daddy's not going to be able to pick you up. I'll get one of the boys to drive you home." She disappeared back into the house.
Molly sensed the unspoken sympathy in the kindly woman's voice and heard what had been left unsaid. Your daddy's passed out drunk in the middle of the day, again, Molly. If she was lucky, he was at home this time. Not with one of his lady friends. Feeling things couldn't get much worse, she turned her forehead to the post and closed her eyes.
Moments later, she jumped as the screen door flew open and banged against the siding of the house. Charlie stormed out, hopping and stomping into his boots. "Why can't Cleeve go?" he yelled over his shoulder.
"Don't take that tone of voice with me, young man," Mrs. Cochrane hollered back. "You want to use the pickup to haul your gear Friday night, you can do me a favor now. And put a shirt on," she added as he reached the steps. "You're not escorting a young lady anywhere looking like that!"
The glare he threw her way told Molly exactly what he thought of this particular young lady, but he headed back into the house and returned, pulling on a blue chambray work shirt. Still defiant, he left it unbuttoned.
"Kick?" His mother's voice drifted through the screen once more.
"Yeah?"
"You clean up that mess on the porch. If you're gonna read magazines like that, you don't go leaving 'em around to offend the girls."
Molly rose and began gathering the scattered paper. "Leave it, brat," Charlie muttered, already loping down the stairs. "I'll get it later."
He stood next to the truck, cupping his hands around a cigarette, while she got in on the passenger side. Then he climbed in beside her, blowing smoke. Silent all the while, he pulled the visor down, narrowed his eyes against the low hanging sun, and drove with an intensity out of all proportion to the sparse traffic on the quiet neighborhood streets.
Molly cowered in her seat, arms crossed in front of her chest, miserable beyond words. To add to her mortification, one fat tear slipped down her cheek and landed on her bare arm. Charlie chose that moment to slide her a glance.
He hissed a long breath out through his teeth, flicked his cigarette out the window, and turned his eyes back to the road. "Don't cry, Molly," he said at last. "It's not you....you're okay. I'm not mad at you. It's..."
He paused and she looked over at him, seeing his Adam's apple bob and his face redden. He's embarrassed, she realized.
"It's...dammit, Moll, we're not little kids anymore. We can't fool around like that." He downshifted, turning a corner.
Molly felt hot color flood her cheeks as his meaning came clear. She lowered her head and stared at her lap. A shuddering sob escaped, despite her furious efforts to hold it in.
"Aw, hell. Don't cry, Molly. It's not your fault." He threw her a panicky glance. "You wanna shift for me?"
Molly scrubbed at her cheeks and choked back another sob. "Huh?"
"You wanna shift for me? You know, handle the stick?" "I don't know how—"
"It's easy. Pay attention. This here's first, second, third." He ran her through the positions on the gearshift knob. "Only when you see my foot go down on the pedal on the left, now." He gave her his crinkly-eyed smile. "Try to stay out of reverse."
Deep in concentration on her task, she forgot how humiliated she was. She kept her eyes on his legs, anticipating when he'd depress the clutch by the curves and dips in the road. Only a time or two, when she wasn't fast enough, he closed his hand over hers to assist. Just once, he winced at the ragged grinding of the gears. "No, Moll, only when I put the clutch in," he said.
Before she knew it, they were pulling into her drive. Charlie guided the pickup to a stop and idled it at the bottom of her front steps. He looked past her to the house, then brought his gentle gaze back to her. "You gonna be okay?"
She shrugged and nodded. She was used to her home life.
She knew what to expect when she got inside.
"Friends?"
She smiled a real smile and dipped her head. "Friends."
He reached over and stroked a long finger down her cheek. "You're turning into a real pretty girl, Molly. I just noticed, is all. I didn't mean to scare you."
She nodded again, smiled a farewell and scrambled from the truck. Once inside, she made her way up the wide front staircase to the second floor. She tiptoed past the closed door of her mother's room and noted the closed door of the room facing it. Daddy was home. Reaching her room in the turret at the front of the house, she climbed on the window seat and pushed the lace curtain aside. She spotted Charlie's truck as it turned from her drive onto the main road and followed its winding progress until it dipped out of sight. Only then did she remember the wadded paper she had stuffed into the pocket of her jeans.
She pulled it out and smoothed it flat on the windowsill. Lucy was right. It looked like some kind of poem. Then she saw the other markings. She had studied enough music to recognize the chords for guitar. Charlie had written a song.
She read the words he had scrawled and they were like an epiphany to her. All the vague, ephemeral yearnings of her heart were there in black and white, expressed in Charlie's spare lyrics. She saw him, then, no longer as a playmate, not yet a lover, but as a soul mate.
Later, if she were asked to define the precise moment she had fallen in love with him, she would say that one. She recognized the change in her feelings, the slow segue from the affection of a child to the first seeds of a woman's love in her budding woman's heart.
She watched him with new eyes and new awareness over the next weeks and months and years, as he grew into manhood. His mother still cleaned the Doyle house, and Charlie took over the yard work, so he came by often.
From the glider on the screened porch where she'd retreat with a book, she'd watch him peel off his T-shirt and use it to towel himself down in the blistering heat. She observed the play of muscles across his shoulders and back when he'd pull the cord to start that old gas mower.
He was the embodiment of temptation. The devil in blue denim. She was a churchgoing young lady and she believed in the devil. Her momma had warned her about him. But if it had ever occurred to momma that he might show up in tight jeans and Tony Lama boots, she'd neglected to mention it.
So Molly watched, and worshipped, and waited for the day when Charlie Cochrane would once again place his hand upon her naked breast.
"You need plugs somethin' awful. When was the last time you changed the oil?" Turning his gaze from the highway for a moment, Charlie watched her eyes flutter open. She must have fallen asleep. Probably hadn't been getting too much of that lately. "When's the last time you had the oil changed?" he repeated.
She pushed herself up straighter in the seat, blinked a few times, and sighed. "I've had other things on my mind."
He shook his head, exasperated. "Ballpark figure, Molly."
She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, thinking. "March, I believe. Last year. After that really rough winter."
Last March. A year and some. That didn't sound like the Molly he knew, no matter what else was on her mind. He considered the shabby—there really was no other word for it—condition of her car and her clothes and wondered again about her finances. "Is money a problem?"
She pokered up even more. "I have a reliable job."
Her damn pride. They were approaching the Fort Pitt Tunnel, which opened on the Pittsburgh skyline. He'd have to start thinking about a place to stay. "Which way now?"
"It's too late to go to the hospital, Charlie. Tobie'd be asleep. We wouldn't be able to see him."
"You don't stay with him nights?" It was just a question. He didn't mean any criticism by it, although he allowed it might be taken that way.
She shook her head. "I did at first. The nursing staff discourages it. They say we need a break from each other. Some separation." From what? she had thought. As preparation for that final separation? She would sleep better, they told her. But she hadn't. She hadn't slept since the day she learned
she could be of no use to Tobie.
"Where do you want me to take you?"
His words interrupted her dreary thoughts. She directed him to her apartment. Suddenly it occurred to her that he hadn't made arrangements for the night. "Do you want to stay at my place? We could get an early start in the morning." She gave him a cautious look. "You can use Tobie's room."
What? Did she think he was gonna jump her? All he'd been interested in was a beer and a bed alone, hours ago. That hadn't changed. "I appreciate the hospitality," he said tightly.
He turned into a street of rambling old frame houses, many of which had been converted into apartments, judging by the number of mailboxes on the front porches. Shabby about summed up this neighborhood, too. Not seedy, exactly, just a little tired and run-down. The area seemed strangely familiar, until he realized he'd grown up on a street much like it
Molly lived on the second floor of a three-flat. Charlie waited next to her while she gathered her mail. She ushered him into a common vestibule, casting her eyes about as they headed for the stairs leading to her floor. "I'm not in the habit of bringing men home with me in the middle of the night," she said by way of explanation.
"I'm happy to hear that. We'll be respectable real soon." He watched her stiff back precede him up the stairs. "What do the people here think of Tobie?"
She turned and looked down at him. "They love Tobie."
She gave him the silent treatment while she unlocked the apartment door and switched on some lights. The place looked pretty much like what he expected to see at this point. Pin-neat, but modest. Cheap, if you were of a mind to be unkind, which he wasn't. The main living space could be described as spacious or sparsely furnished, depending on your point of view. But he knew what Molly had been raised with, and this wasn't it.
She led him down a short hall, where two bedrooms were separated by the single bath they would share. She moved past him into the room on the left and turned on a lamp shaped like an airplane on a wobbly table next to the narrow bed. This was cozy, at least. Cluttered, like the rooms he remembered as a kid. He'd never had his own room, growing up. Molly had never had anything else.
"I'll change the sheets." She started out the door, but he grasped her arm.
"Leave 'em. I haven't slept with jungle cats in a while."
She shook his hand off and left the room. So much for his attempt at humor. He should have remembered Molly's sensitivity about females of the species. Any species. How many times had she accused him of catting around?
He found her on the phone in the kitchen. From her end of the conversation, he gathered she was talking to someone at the hospital. Probably the last thing she did every day.
She hung up and glanced at him, her face expressionless. "He had a good evening and he's asleep now. They're expecting us in the morning." She looked about to say more, then reconsidered. "Good night, Charlie," she said. Brushing past him, she went to her room and closed the door.
He'd been dismissed. Casual as you please. He felt like a fool standing there, so he moved about the apartment, shutting off lights. He wandered back to Tobie's room, tired but charged. He knew he wouldn't sleep now. He poked around, trying to acquaint himself with his son.
The closet didn't reveal much. Jeans, mostly, and some flannel shirts on hangers. One blue suit and a white shirt with the tie already under the collar. Molly took him to church. He smiled, remembering when he'd slicked back his hair and worn the same getup himself on Sundays. The boy was maybe a little tall for seven. That didn't surprise Charlie, given his height, and Molly's.
He pulled open the top drawer of the dresser and grinned wider. The junk drawer. Tobie had quite an accumulation for his tender years. Some handheld electronic games, action figures—these were Power Rangers, he thought. G.I. Joe must be pass6. Rocks! Now there was an old favorite. A magnifying glass. He wondered if Tobie used it to burn holes in leaves like he had done.
He shoved the drawer shut, the bookcase under the window catching his eye. Tobie had a taste for the kiddie thrillers, but there was a decent sampling of the classics, too. Molly must read to him a good bit. They appeared to be beyond the reading level of the typical seven-year-old.
He squatted down and pulled a battered box from the bottom shelf. Magic tricks! He laughed to himself, sifting through the assortment of cards, strings, and rings. What gene had this particular interest been passed down on? He remembered amazing a freckle-faced Molly with his feats of prestidigitation. There'd been a time when Molly thought he could do anything.
With a heavy sigh, he replaced the box and sat on the edge of the bed. This room and what it represented were as familiar to him as his own hand. What else had his son inherited from the father he'd never met? He unsnapped his shirt pocket and slipped the photograph out. His prayers had become few and far between over the last Hectic years, but he prayed now. He wasn't exactly sure what Tobie needed from him, but he hoped to God he had it.
He propped the picture against the airplane lamp and yanked off his boots. Drawing the comforter back a little, he pulled the pillow out and plumped it. Then he laid himself down among the jungle animals, locked his eyes with those in the picture and, after a time, he fell asleep.
Charlie was up at first light, as was his habit. If memory served him, it would be a while before Molly put in an appearance. He showered and shaved and rooted around the kitchen for something to eat. Slim pickings, he concluded, peeling a banana. Molly was a light eater and Tobie wasn't home for the present. He'd have to do something about that if he was going to be here for any length of time.
He prowled the apartment, trying to refamiliarize himself with the woman who resided there. His initial impression the night before had been on the money. Nondescript would best describe the place. They had the basic necessities and not much else. A couple more pictures of Tobie were all that personalized the space. He was a cute kid, even if it did seem the height of conceit to say so.
No evidence of another man's presence around anywhere. He was a little surprised that the possibility hadn't occurred to him before this. It had been eight years, after all. Molly was an attractive woman. A marriage or a solid relationship would have been the best thing for her in her situation. But Molly had been his, in his mind at least, as far back as he could remember. And he'd been hers. Not that he'd been a monk in the past years. But there had never been another Molly.
One corner of the room was noticeably bare, except for some shelving that housed her stereo system. He strode over and hunkered down to take a look at her CD collection. Music had been as important to her as it was to him, and he was glad to see she still managed this one extravagance. Let's see...she liked Garth. She liked Reba. She liked GeorgeStraita lot. He pulled out about a dozen of his CDs, feeling maybe a tad jealous. Then he came to the Kick Cochranes. She had them all, every single one. Whatever it was about him she'd decided she couldn't stomach anymore, it hadn't been his voice.
He picked up the first one, Bad For Each Other, and half laughed, half winced as he regarded his image on the cover. God, if he didn't look full of himself. Hip cocked, jeans low-slung despite the tooled leather belt with the hammered silver buckle, big as a hubcap. Black hat, black hair, black eyes, affecting a lazy half grin that proposed to look both sexy and sweet as he peered out from under the wide brim of his Stetson. He'd never been able to take his public persona too seriously.
Remembering how he and Molly had laughed over the title song, a wave of nostalgia washed through him. It was everyone's opinion about them—"Bad For Each Other." He was from a hardscrabble background. Hardworking, hard-fighting, and hard-loving. Redneck and proud of it.
She was a daughter of privilege. Her daddy was the owner of the biggest furniture and appliance store in Wheeling and a councilman to boot. Of course, he had his hard-drinking and hard-loving side, too, but that was generally forgiven, considering the shrew he'd married. But he'd had no mind for business, was way too easy with the credit customers and died under a m
ountain of debt. Charlie did wince when he recalled that hellacious night.
He slipped the CD back into its slot. He'd always felt he owed her a big share of that album, and from the look of things, she could have used the money. He ran his fingers along the rest of her collection. She still liked Mozart and Chopin, too. Piano was her first love.
As that thought struck, he glanced quickly around the room. That's what was missing. As long as he'd known her, she'd always had a piano. Even in that ramshackle hole-in-the-wall they'd shared for a time, she'd brought her little spinet from home.
He stood, hands on his hips. That empty space along the adjacent wall now looked suspiciously bare. He moved to the spot. Indentations from the heavy piece of furniture remained in the carpet. A dull heaviness settled in his chest. He strongly suspected Molly had resorted to selling her possessions to care for their son.
Suddenly, he needed to get out, to be off to himself, to think. It was early yet. There wouldn't be many people about. And Molly was still asleep. He grabbed her keys from the counter where she had dropped them, and left the apartment.
Molly shrugged into her robe and belted it tightly. She put her ear to the door and listened for a few moments before opening it. This is stupid, she told herself. You're in your own home. But she wanted to meet Charlie on her terms, and before she'd showered and dressed wasn't her best time.
Cautiously, she stepped out into the hall. The door to Tobie's room stood wide and the bathroom was empty. He'd already been in there, she realized, seeing his shaving things on the shelf above the toilet tank. He was still an early riser. He'd never required much sleep. She remembered when his restlessness caused him problems in school, but it probably worked to his advantage now.
He still used a safety razor, too, she thought, lifting his and turning it in her hand. She recalled clearly the day when he had switched from the electric shaver he'd gotten as a present from someone. He had noticed the marks left on her breasts from his whiskers and decided an electric didn't get close enough. She replaced the razor, swamped with an overwhelming regret for those lost times. How had it come to this?
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