“What?” Andy said.
As she started to talk, Mr. McIntosh showed up at the table with an order pad in his hand.
“Hello, Andy,” he said, giving him a little wink, approving that he was sitting next to Chelsea. “Sorry about the wait, folks. We’re missing a waitress tonight.”
They had to be, because Andy had never seen Mr. McIntosh play waiter before.
While they ordered, Andy noticed the guy who had called him “Scarface” walk in with another dude. The second he spotted Andy, he glanced warily around, said something to the other guy, and they left. Andy laughed under his breath. Thanks, Uncle Rip.
By the time the food came, little Marjo had tried and failed twice to tell Andy something. And when she tried a third time, the final interruption came from Mr. Cochran.
“Excuse me?” Andy said, praying he’d misunderstood Mr. Cochran.
“Would you like to say grace, Andy?”
Andy’s mouth felt like it was filling with sand. He’d heard Uncle Rip say grace about a million times, but Andy couldn’t seem to find any of the words. It was like his brain went on vapor lock until he felt Chelsea’s leg bumping against his.
“I’ll do it, Dad,” she said, coming to the rescue.
Chelsea said grace and as they quietly ate, he thought about her asking, in prayer, that they all be thankful for what they had. The family seemed game to try, which impressed him. Even with all they had to deal with . . .
Little Marjo nudged his shoulder. “Sorry again for what I said earlier about your face,” she said. “But you should be thankful you don’t have what I have. I heard Dr. Shepherd tell my daddy that I could die.”
Andy wasn’t sure how long he and Marjo stared at each other. Her little eyes seemed to look right through him. “You’re right, Marjo,” he managed to say. But as they all resumed eating, he realized that with each second he passed with the Cochrans, his own problems did fade in comparison.
He sneaked a look at Marjo, partly appreciating her, partly irritated by her. The little girl’s bravery was raining on the party, his own pity party, that he’d been throwing for himself for a lot of years.
When Mr. McIntosh came back to the table with the bill, Andy reached in his pocket to retrieve the twenty he’d stashed there. He figured that with his employee discount, he could at least help the Cochrans with the bill, but Mr. McIntosh beat him to the punch.
“Dinner is on Andy and the staff here at Mack’s,” Mr. McIntosh said, giving Andy another little wink and plucking the twenty from his fingers.
Mr. Cochran looked at Andy, then Mr. McIntosh, while reaching for his wallet. “We don’t expect you guys to pay for our meal. We appreciate it, but—”
“Andy and I insist,” Mr. McIntosh said, holding up his hand, putting what Uncle Rip would call the “kibosh” on any money coming from the Cochrans.
“We can’t tell you how much we appreciate this,” Mrs. Cochran said. “What do you girls say to Mr. McIntosh?”
“Thank you,” Chelsea said.
“Thank you,” Marjo echoed. “And thank you too, Andy.”
Andy had a hard time looking away from her again.
“No, Marjo,” he said, running his hand across the top of her head. Her courage had him feeling like a complete tool, but a thankful tool. “Thank you.”
TWENTY-THREE
DO YOU BELIEVE IN THE SUMMER SANTA?
Brianna Bruley—TBW Reporter
Benning—He comes silently, swiftly, and does so in the night, providing for those who are in need.
Grocery store gift cards for a struggling young mother.
A custom wheelchair for an elderly war veteran.
A paid dental tab for a new set of teeth.
Who is responsible for these things?
Benning Township Police and two of the “victims” have described the “Summer Santa” as a six-foot-tall male with a penchant for all black clothing, including gloves and a ski mask.
Officer Heather Gerisch has confirmed that the department has made little progress in solving these cases, which, in a small town like Benning, raises an entirely different set of questions.
Are police turning a blind eye to this anonymous benefactor, aiding him in his flight?
The Benning Weekly has been made aware of similar incidents, including a woman reportedly waking to find new tires on her car, the Benning Little League miraculously starting a day with a storage bin full of new equipment, and a massive cash donation appearing at a local food bank.
Why are police not investigating these incidents further?
Is it because they approve of what’s happening, or is the Summer Santa truly that elusive?
Is their handling of these incidents right or wrong? Let us know what you think, but until then, maybe you just need to ask yourself another question, and we’d love to know your answer to that as well . . .
Do you believe in the Summer Santa?
The Benning Police Department sure seems to.
Anyone with any information regarding these incidents involving the Summer Santa is asked to contact the Benning Police Department or the Benning Weekly’s anonymous tip line.
Heather tossed the paper down on Judi’s kitchen table, and Rip thought he heard her swear under her breath.
“Pardon me?” he said.
Andy was on his way out the door and stopped. “Heather said that—”
“I heard her,” Rip interrupted.
Andy put his helmet on and then glanced at Rip. “When you goin’ to the park, Uncle Rip?”
“Pastor Welsh and I are meeting at five thirty, right after I get off work. You want to join us?”
“Okay,” Andy said on his way out the door. “I’ll meet you near the baseball fields.”
Heather had picked the newspaper back up. “Sorry about the cursing.”
“No worries,” Rip said, watching Andy as he headed up the road. “I actually used to teach that language in my previous life.”
“It’s just irritating,” Heather said. “I specifically asked that Brianna girl from the newspaper not to mention any of the Summer Santa rumors that we haven’t made official reports on yet. I look like a complete idiot.”
“Exactly why haven’t you looked into those rumors?” Rip asked, raising one brow.
“Shut up, Rip,” Heather said.
“I’m being serious,” Rip said. “Why aren’t you looking into the rumors or making reports on everything you hear about? You know, besides a certain seven thousand dropped in somebody’s family room . . .”
“Could something be going on between Brianna and Kevin?” she asked, clearly in another world.
“It wouldn’t be his first trip outside the corral,” Rip said and laughed.
“And we are checking out every story. It’s just that the Summer Santa is too good at what he does,” she said. “No fingerprints, no clues, no nothing. The only evidence he leaves is whatever gift he is giving. I already told you about the gift cards and how they were bought on several different occasions. None of the local banks have had any major cash withdrawals, all four tire shops have no leads for us, and there are twenty-nine sporting goods stores within a fifty-mile radius we have called that didn’t sell the Little League equipment. However, we did track down the wheelchair by its serial number and I went today to the store that sold it up in Detroit.”
“And?” Rip asked.
“They sold it to some homeless guy who came in and paid $6,200 in cash for it. Obviously, our man in black took care of the homeless guy so he would go in and get it.”
“How about identifying the homeless guy and taking it from there?” Rip asked.
“Medical supply stores aren’t exactly a hotbed of criminal activity. They don’t have any surveillance cameras at the store, and good luck finding a specific homeless guy up in Detroit. Needle in a haystack.”
“True that,” Rip said.
Judi came back in the kitchen with two handfuls of burs and Milo at her side. He wa
s dragging his yellow blanket in his mouth and looked like he was ready for a nap.
“I think I got all the burs out,” she said. “When he came back from his little vacation, he was loaded with these things.”
Rip reached down and scratched the top of Milo’s head. “I was starting to think that you’d finally bought it, Milo. Gone and off to canine heaven.”
Heather stood abruptly and rushed out the kitchen door to the porch.
Judi held up her arms as if to say, What was that all about?
“No idea,” Rip whispered, walking to the kitchen door to look outside. Heather was down at the left end of the porch, standing up against the railing, looking away.
She was crying.
“Hey,” he said, walking toward her. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” she whispered. “No biggie. Just thinking about my dad again.”
“What do you mean no biggie?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you cry in about a million years.”
She wiped a tear from her cheek and studied it. “I thought I cried myself out when my dad was killed. I haven’t cried much since then.”
Rip had gone to her father’s funeral. Closed casket. Rumor had it that the intruder had shot both him and Mr. Hart in the head, but Heather’s dad had taken it in the face. Mr. Hart’s funeral was the day after her father’s. Open casket. Fifteen-year-old Kevin had to be medicated and sat like a zombie in the first row.
“I know a cool place we can pray about this someday,” Rip said.
“You want to pray with me?” Heather asked.
“Yeah,” Rip said, “I was thinking we could pray over near the wildflowers.”
“Back at McLouth?” Heather said. “I’ll admit it feels great just looking at those flowers, but I am not going back over to the McLouth side. If all those chemicals from the plant are making those flowers come and go, who knows what it can do to us?”
“Then we’ll stay on this side of the canal,” Rip said. “And you can believe what you want, but I don’t think chemicals have anything to do with what’s going on with those flowers. I’m tellin’ you, it’s a good place to pray.”
“You really think praying about my dad will help?”
“It won’t hurt.”
“Okay,” she said, sounding like a little girl. “I’m sorry about this, Rip. I feel like an idiot, getting so worked up about something so long ago.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said. “Obviously you have some unfinished business.”
“I wish I could get a little of that magic out of Andy’s iPod,” she said. “A nice little word that would maybe give me some direction.”
“If you did, it’d be wise to pay attention,” Rip said. “I think Andy’s messages are from God.”
Heather dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her index fingers. Rip put his arm around her, and for the first time in over a decade, she leaned back against him.
“God is using Andy to help us,” Rip added. “He’s putting things in Andy’s heart to share with us.”
She looked up at him with those pretty, light green eyes of hers and they stared at each other for a long moment. If they had been talking about something else, he might have planted that kiss on her that had been floating in the air between them for as long as he could remember. But between her dead dad and Andy’s odd new gift, the moment—no matter how intense—just wasn’t right. But man, if she kept looking at him like that . . . he didn’t know if he’d have the self-control to avoid it. He forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying, rather than thinking about her lips.
“You really think it’s God who’s talking to Andy? To us?” Heather asked.
“Judi and I had a nice talk about this,” Rip said. “And I talked about it with Pastor Welsh too.” He tapped lightly at his own chest. “You’ve heard the Spirit’s voice inside of you, haven’t you?”
She nodded. “That’s the voice that keeps asking me where my father is, what I’m gonna do about that seventy-five hundred bucks I didn’t tell the department I was given, why I’m still a cop, and also about . . .” Heather stopped and frowned.
“What?” Rip said.
“About us.”
“What about us?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“We’ll pray about all of that stuff,” Rip said shyly. “Just keep talking to God, but most importantly, listen, and I think you may get the answers you’re looking for before you know it.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said.
“Heather,” Rip said. “What would it take for you to be certain your dad is in heaven?”
Heather was silent. The question clearly had her wheels turning. He was surprised that, for as much as she seemed to think about the subject, she didn’t have an answer ready that didn’t include actually seeing her dad taking harp lessons on a fluffy white cloud.
She went out from under his arm and took a few steps down the porch, toward the front door. She crossed her arms and then turned back around. “How can any of us be certain that someone we love is in heaven?”
“Faith,” Rip said.
Heather looked away as if the word were a fistful of pebbles he tossed at her. “Are you saying I don’t have faith?”
“I don’t know, Heather,” he said gently. “Do you?”
“I have faith,” she said quickly.
“I believe you,” he said. “Answer the question, then, because it’s pretty hard to hit a target you can’t see. What would it take for you to know your father was in heaven?”
“A miracle.”
“That’s not what you need,” Rip said, smiling and shaking his head. “Let’s just see what happens.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.
Rip didn’t answer. He just thought about the iPod and the flower garden . . . and what fueled them. What seemed to be at work all around them this summer. He pointed behind her to the far end of the porch. Three deer had come around the corner of the house and were just standing there, staring right at them.
“What do you mean when you say ‘Let’s just see what happens’?” Heather persisted.
“It means be patient,” Rip answered. “Because God works in mysterious ways.”
Andy didn’t really care that the blue team was losing 8–0 or that Chelsea’s little brother had struck out twice and made an error that cost the team three runs. Her brother could have been abducted by a UFO during the national anthem and Andy wouldn’t have noticed.
He didn’t care because he was sitting next to Chelsea in the bleachers and nothing else in the world mattered.
“Can you believe we are going to be starting high school in September?” Chelsea asked, giving his leg a playful bump. “I’m looking forward to going to school in Benning again.”
“It’s crazy,” Andy said, noticing how neatly polished her pink fingernails were.
What was even crazier was the fact that out of all the pretty girls he knew who would be in high school, he couldn’t imagine a single one he’d rather be sitting next to than Chelsea. And here she was, sitting right next to the friendless kid with the burned face.
Rip closed the driver’s side door of the Pacer and then grabbed the Dairy Queen bag off the roof of the car. It was another hot one, about three hundred degrees in the shade, so he figured Andy wouldn’t put up too much of a fight if he asked him to knock down a banana split.
Lakeside Metropark was one of the skinniest, yet longest, parks in the state. It started about twenty miles south of Detroit, up in Trenton, then trickled down through the townships of Gibraltar, Carlson, Benning, and then Huckabone, before ending on the border of North and South Rockwood. Rip liked the park, and so did Andy. He figured his nephew easily spent three-quarters of his time there during the summer, riding on the winding trails that cut throughout the woods, hanging out near parts of the park that ran along the lake, or even watching Little League games, which he seemed to be doing a lot more of lately.
It didn’t take Ri
p long to spot Andy. His nephew was sitting on the motorcycle and leaning up against the backstop of the ball diamond, talking to Chelsea Cochran.
Go, Andy.
By the time Rip had walked the fifty yards or so to reach them, he was surprised at how winded he was, and how that nagging little hack he had developed was starting to sound like the kennel cough Milo had picked up from the vet’s office when he was just a pup.
“Pound it, bro,” Rip said, walking up behind Andy.
“Pound it,” Andy echoed, immediately eyeing the DQ bag before tapping knuckles with his uncle.
“How are you, Chelsea?” Rip asked, glancing at the scoreboard. He wasn’t sure which team was home or away, but the home team had been punished, 15–1.
“I’m doing good,” Chelsea said. “But my brother’s team got killed.”
“Crushed,” Andy added, and Rip laughed. It didn’t seem like a word Andy would use. It seemed like it was part of the vocabulary of someone much more confident.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Rip said. “I’m gonna go sit in the car and wait for Pastor Welsh.”
“That’s okay,” Chelsea said. “I have to take off. I’ll see you around, Andy.”
As Chelsea walked around the backstop to meet with her little brother, Andy stared at her like he’d never see her again, and Rip felt a little bad.
“Sorry about that, bro,” Rip said, opening the bag and handing Andy the banana split.
“About what?” Andy said, glancing back at Chelsea.
“Nothing,” Rip said, shocked that Andy wasn’t miffed at him. “Let’s go find Pastor Welsh. I’ll push your bike.”
“Okay,” Andy said. Chelsea was officially out of sight and he started shoveling down the banana split like the world was about to end.
As they walked behind the backstop, Kevin Hart pulled up next to them in his Mercedes.
He powered down the driver’s side window. Hart was wearing sunglasses, and something about the way he looked had him more suitable for a Hollywood movie lot than the park in Benning.
“Hi, Rip!” Hart said in a purposefully cheery, yet phony voice.
“Hey, Kevin,” Rip muttered, glancing over at Andy. The boy had taken a couple steps away and stopped eating. Rip looked back at Hart. “What brings you up here?”
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