Legacy

by Tom Sniegoski

  Lucas cleaned up and tossed the trash into the barrel. He saw his bloody T-shirt among the discarded air filters and auto-parts packaging.

  Pulling his eyes away, he went outside to find Jeb.

  At first he didn’t see Jeb anywhere, but then he caught sight of the large man ambling across the parking lot of the Good Eats diner with an iced coffee.

  “Truck’s all set,” Lucas called out, wiping his hands on the bandanna from his back pocket.

  “Good job,” the man said, eyeing him curiously. “You sure you’re all right? That was a helluva lot of blood.”

  Lucas forced a smile. “I’m fine. Think I just got a good scrape when me and Richie were fighting. You know how those things bleed.”

  Jeb nodded, but Lucas could see he really didn’t understand. Truth be told, neither did he.

  Lucas was writing up Jeb’s receipt and collecting his cash when it came over him. He was suddenly absolutely ravenous. As he said goodbye to Jeb, he actually stumbled a bit, catching himself on the corner of Big Lou’s metal desk. His legs were shaky, and he wasn’t sure he had ever been this hungry before.

  Placing the BE RIGHT BACK! sign on the door to the office, Lucas made his way across the street toward the diner, wondering if there was enough food in the place to satisfy his hunger.

  As he stepped into the air-conditioned space, his eyes scanned the crowded diner for a place to park himself. His mother stood at the back of the restaurant, a full pot of coffee in one hand.

  Cordelia Moore was staring at him with eyes that just about screamed he was in trouble. She pointed to a spot that was being vacated by an old man and his wife, and shot him a look that said Lucas had no choice.

  The smells inside the diner were overwhelming, and Lucas’s belly gurgled and growled uncontrollably. He had to eat soon.

  His mother approached the table, rag in hand, and started to wipe it down.

  “Hey,” he said by way of greeting.

  “What’s this I hear about a fight over at the garage?” she asked.

  “You talked to Jeb, eh?” His stomach was aching, and he almost told her to knock off the small talk and bring him one of everything on the menu.

  Almost.

  “Yes, I did, and he seemed to think you might’ve been hurt pretty bad.”

  She’d finished the table and stood staring at him with those angry eyes, hands on her hips.

  “I’m fine,” he said, frustrated that he had to explain himself again. “He knew I was fine. … I told him I was fine.”

  “Well, he didn’t seem to think you were fine.” She reached out and grabbed his face. “Let me see.”

  He wrenched his face from her hand. “I told you …”

  “I know, you’re fine.”

  His stomach grumbled so loudly that his mother heard it over the din of the crowded diner.

  “Sounds like somebody’s hungry,” she said.

  He nodded, pressing a hand to his aching abdomen. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “How’s about the Hungryman’s Platter and a cup of coffee?”

  “As fast as you can get it,” Lucas said, looking up to meet her gaze. “Please.”

  She gave him the look again, then turned and headed toward the kitchen to place his order.

  “And he wonders why I’m so upset about him dropping out of school,” Lucas heard her grumble as she walked up the aisle. “Big trouble is going to find him one of these days.”

  Lucas shook his head as he watched her go. Diners seated nearby had heard her scolding him and were casually looking his way.

  “Big trouble, huh?” he called after her. “What kind of trouble would come looking for me here?”

  The private jet taxied down the single runway of the La Cholla Airpark, coming to a gradual stop in the blazing Arizona sun.

  The door opened and a retractable stairway unfolded to the tarmac. Within moments a tall, white-haired figure leaning on a silver-topped cane stood in the doorway, looking out across the private airfield.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  The gentleman looked over at his pilot, who had joined him at the door.

  “No need, Jeffrey,” the man said, limping from the door-way and slowly making his way down the steps.

  “Should I arrange a ride for you?” the pilot asked, following.

  “I’m way ahead of you,” the white-haired man said from the bottom of the stairs.

  A navy blue Crown Victoria appeared just then, driving across the airfield toward them.

  “Very good, sir,” Jeffrey said.

  The man waited until the driver emerged, walked around the car, and opened the back door.

  “Any idea when you’ll be wanting to return to Seraph?” Jeffrey asked as the old man was about to climb into the car.

  The old man stopped, considering the question.

  “If all goes according to plan, it shouldn’t take long,” he said, then entered the coolness of the limousine.

  But one can never tell with things like this, the old man thought as the driver climbed back inside.

  “Take me to Perdition,” the old man instructed.

  And without a moment’s hesitation, the car was on its way.

  2

  Lucas considered heading over to the Hog Trough for a few drinks after work but thought better of it.

  The business with Richie was still gnawing at him, and then there was his mom. Did he really want to have another run-in with her tonight?

  Nope, he just didn’t have the patience.

  He sat behind the wheel of his truck, windows rolled down to catch the breeze as he headed home for an early night.

  This is a good thing, he thought, driving fast down the bumpy dirt road that would take him to the Perdition Trailer Park (also owned by Big Lou).

  Lucas’s mind scrolled through all the things he could do with the extra time tonight—stuff he’d been meaning to do but never quite got around to. He could start the Lord of the Rings books. He’d read The Hobbit, but not the Rings trilogy—although he had seen the movies and thought they were awesome. Or he could catch up on his laundry. Not as fun as reading, but it had to be done. And then there was the whole just-spending-time-with-his-mother thing.

  She was a good mother, and she had done a lot for him, but they’d sort of drifted apart in the time since he’d left high school.

  He drove slowly through the metal arch that served as the entrance to the trailer park, watching for stray kids and animals. It wouldn’t be the first time one or the other had darted out in front of him.

  He pulled up beside the powder blue double-wide he and his mother called home, and saw old Mrs. Taylor sitting in front of her place across the street. By the way she was staring, he knew she was waiting for him.

  “Hey, Mrs. Taylor,” Lucas said as he climbed from his truck.

  She was wearing a lovely flowered housecoat and a blond wig that sat crooked on her head, like some sort of furry hat, with tufts of gray poking out underneath.

  She got up from the white plastic lounge chair and motioned for him to join her.

  “What’s up?” he asked, crossing the dusty street.

  “Somethin’s wrong with my AC,” she said, bony hands on even bonier hips. “Take a look at it, will ya?”

  Lucas didn’t know squat about air-conditioning, but there was no sense in arguing with the lady. As far as she was concerned, he could fix just about anything.

  “Sure, no problem,” he said, climbing the three steps to the front door.

  He stopped short, peering through the screen at Fluffles, Mrs. Taylor’s nasty cat. The thing had more attitude than a pit bull with a toothache.

  “Fluffles is at the door,” he told Mrs. Taylor.

  “He won’t hurt ya,” the old woman said. “You just gotta show ’im who’s boss.”

  She was standing beside him, looking in through the door.

  “Why don’t you show ’im?” Lucas suggested.

  Mrs. Taylor went in f
irst, kicking at the cat with her slippered foot. “Go on, shoo!” she said.

  Fluffles hissed like a cobra, trying to get around her to come at Lucas, but the old woman managed to block the attack.

  “Behave yourself, cat!” she exclaimed. Her foot connected with the side of the white-furred beast, sending it running with a shrill squeal.

  “I’ll be payin’ for that tonight,” Mrs. Taylor said, walking from the entry through the tiny kitchen and into the living room. “Damn thing will probably suffocate me in my sleep.”

  The idea was horrible but not all that far-fetched.

  It was stiflingly hot inside the cramped living room. The news blared from an old twenty-five-inch television set in the corner.

  “There it is,” Mrs. Taylor said, pointing out the old air conditioner in the wall. “Nothing cool comin’ out of that.”

  “Not sure what I can do,” Lucas said, walking over to give it a look. The machine was old, and he was surprised that it had worked as long as it had. When he turned it on, it made a low humming sound, sending warm air out the vents.

  On the news, a Chicago woman and her child were describing how they had been saved from an apartment fire by a superhero called the Winged Champion. Lucas looked up, finding himself pulled into the story. He watched the grainy cell phone footage of the superhero with enormous white wings swooping down out of the sky to pluck the woman and her daughter from the rooftop of the collapsing building.

  “Wow,” Lucas said.

  “Yeah,” Mrs. Taylor agreed. “Wonder if one of them super-types could figure out what’s wrong with my AC.”

  Lucas took the hint and returned his full attention to the old woman’s air conditioner. He pulled the plastic face from the front of the unit and curled his nose with distaste.

  “Fluffles doesn’t happen to like sitting on the AC, does he?” Lucas asked.

  The inside of the unit was clogged with tufts of white fur, the old filter completely covered.

  “Matter of fact, he does,” Mrs. Taylor confirmed.

  Lucas pulled the filter from inside the AC and brushed most of the fur into a barrel that Mrs. Taylor brought from the kitchen.

  “This might help,” he said, putting the filter back. “I think it might’ve just been clogged.”

  He reattached the unit’s front piece. “Fingers crossed,” he said, flipping the switch and feeling a blast of much cooler air flow from the vent openings. “I think that did it,” he said proudly.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” Mrs. Taylor said happily. She reached inside the pocket of her flowered housecoat and removed a change purse. “How much do I owe you?” she asked, unzipping the purse and removing a wad of crumpled bills.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” he answered.

  Every time he did something for the woman, she tried to pay him. But Lucas wasn’t interested in taking the old lady’s money. He knew she barely had enough to support herself as it was.

  “What, do you think you’re one of them super-types?” she asked, gesturing toward the television. “Swoopin’ in to save the day?”

  Lucas laughed. “Not me,” he told her. “Think of me more as a Boy Scout.”

  “You’re too good to me, Lucas,” she said with a smile, returning her small purse to her pocket.

  “My pleasure.” Lucas cautiously headed for the door, watching for Fluffles.

  “Word to the wise,” Mrs. Taylor whispered. “Think your mom’s been hittin’ the hooch.” She made a gesture as if drinking from a bottle.

  Lucas nodded and his stomach sank. He hated when his mother drank; it always ended with her crying.

  As he crossed the street toward their trailer, he’d almost decided to take his truck and head to the Hog Trough. But then he saw her, glass in hand, standing in the doorway waiting for him.

  And he didn’t have the heart to leave her alone.

  * * *

  Lucas leaned into the refrigerator, looking for something to eat. He found some old pizza and leftover spaghetti and meatballs.

  “Did you eat yet?” he asked his mother, carrying the leftovers to the microwave.

  Cordelia was sitting at the small kitchen table, a nearly empty glass of whiskey in her hand.

  “I had a big lunch,” she answered, her eyes riveted to the melting ice in her glass.

  “Lucas, do you hate me?” she asked suddenly.

  He rolled his eyes as he put the spaghetti in the microwave and hit the two-minute button. He hated when she got like this. It didn’t happen very often, but when it did, it was the worst.

  “No, I don’t hate you. Why would I?” he said. He could hear the ice in her glass tinkle like Christmas bells. He tried to concentrate on the spaghetti.

  “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be in this place,” she said, her words slightly slurred.

  Lucas wondered how many drinks she’d had.

  “It’s fine, Ma,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. All I know is Perdition. I don’t know what I’m missing.”

  She nodded, getting up from her chair and going to the counter, where the bottle of whiskey was waiting.

  “And that’s exactly it,” she said as she unscrewed the cap and splashed more of the golden liquor over the ice. “You are missing stuff … lots of stuff. … You’re wasting your life away working in a crappy garage because I wasn’t strong enough to—”

  The microwave alarm went off.

  “Ma, enough,” Lucas said, replacing the spaghetti in the microwave with a paper plate that held three slices of cheese pizza. “I don’t know why you keep blaming yourself for coming here.”

  This was the pattern. She got a little bit drunk and started talking about how she had to run from her past in Seraph City. No matter what he said to console her, it never helped.

  And really, Lucas had never blamed her for leaving. Sure, he was curious about the specifics, about a father he knew nothing of, but he always figured she had done what she had to do, nothing more or less than that.

  She was adding ice to her drink as he sat down to eat. He didn’t want to talk about this stuff anymore, but when she was like this, there was no stopping her.

  “You know how sorry I am, right?” she asked, practically falling into her chair.

  “Be careful,” Lucas said, spearing a meatball and starting to eat.

  She reached out to touch his hand. Hers was damp and cold from the condensation on her glass, and Lucas almost pulled away, but then realized how that would look to her.

  “There’s no reason for you to be sorry,” he said, grabbing a slice of pizza with his other hand.

  “I always wanted the best for you.” She had tears in her eyes now. “But I had to get away from the city … as far away as possible or …” She fell silent, staring into her glass once again. And then she had some more to drink.

  “Ma, I don’t know how many more times I have to tell you this,” Lucas began. “But I like it here. This is my home. It’s the only home I’ve ever known.”

  “But—” she started to argue.

  “No buts,” he interrupted. “Perdition is fine. Everything I could ever want is here.” He got up and took his dirty dishes to the sink. “End of story.”

  He returned to his mother, put his arm around her, and gave her a kiss on the top of her head.

  “You might want to think about making yourself some coffee or something,” he said, heading toward his room. “I’m gonna call it a night.”

  And he left her there alone.

  Alone with the memories of her past, and what she believed to be her failures.

  Shaking off the cobwebs of deep sleep, Lucas pulled himself from beneath the sheet and saw that it was after eight.

  The garage was supposed to open at eight.

  He threw on some clothes, grabbed his wallet and his keys, and pulled open the door to his room.

  He half expected to see his mother still sitting at the kitchen table, but from the looks of it, she’d managed to get up and make it
out to the diner on time. Lucas half recalled somebody knocking on his door and telling him it was time to get up, but he had decided it was only a dream and had rolled over.

  Locking up the trailer, he went to his truck.

  Mrs. Taylor was outside again, this time watering her plants in a spectacularly colored housecoat and a new, brunette wig. “Late again,” she called out, and began to cackle.

  Lucas shrugged and climbed behind the wheel of his truck. Within seconds, he peeled away from the trailer and was on his way to work.

  3

  Lucas breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled into the gas station and saw that Big Lou’s gas-guzzling SUV was not in its usual spot alongside the office.

  But then he noticed the black Ford Mustang parked in front of the garage doors.

  A customer, waiting.

  Lucas parked his truck in the back and quickly ran to the front, searching through his key ring.

  He unlocked the door to the main office first, then flicked the switch to raise the doors to the service bay.

  A man had stepped from the waiting car, watching Lucas with an intense stare.

  “Morning,” Lucas said, walking around the garage and flipping on the lights. “What can I do for you?”

  The older man was dressed in black and walked with a cane. The haircut, clothes, and car all screamed that the guy was from the city, maybe from Texas.

  “It says you open at eight,” he said.

  “Yes, it does,” Lucas agreed with a polite smile.

  The man looked at his fancy watch. “And here it is close to eight-thirty.”

  Lucas looked at an imaginary watch on his own wrist. “Huh,” he said, tapping his wrist. “Must be slow.”

  The man chuckled. “I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just that I’ve been waiting for some time.”

  “Yeah, and I’m really sorry about that,” Lucas said. “Why don’t you tell me what I can do for you?”

  The man looked from Lucas to his car and back. “My car seems to be running a bit rough.”

  Lucas nodded. “Would you mind driving it in?”

  The older man limped back to the car, got behind the wheel, and drove the Mustang inside.