“I hope they do. It’s completely mutual. Teaching kids to make music is my passion.”
“They would miss you if you left.”
She shrugged. “A few, maybe. Some more than others.” She shrugged. “But a new music teacher would take my place. Life goes on. I think they love the music, not me.”
“Sure life goes on, but my guess is they want to emulate you. Powerful stuff, emulation and respect. You’re a positive example.”
Sandy shrugged, turned, and wiped away another tear—but not before it had run halfway down her right cheek.
The sound of a falling box echoed through the building. Sandy moved quickly around the tall pile to find a long cardboard container. The rotten tape holding it together had ripped open. A pile of leaves had spilled out onto the dirty floor. She spent a few seconds pushing them back into the box and walked back with it to the front of the barn. The chair was folded and leaned back up against the wall. Sam was no where to be seen.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Where has that confusing man gone now?”
Chapter 10
Hands in the air, Sandy was standing in her mom’s small kitchen waving the envelope from the Illinois Department of Revenue as if fanning a fire. Even the smell of her favorite breakfast simmering in a skillet could not calm her down. “And you did what?”
Dorothy left the stove and sat down at the table, folding her hands in her lap after wiping them on her apron. She avoided her daughter’s angry stare. In front of her was a similar tax lien notice, this one against the house. She finally mustered the strength to speak. “Please don’t use that tone with me.” She sounded like she wanted to cry. “You father took the papers we got in the mail and said he had it under control.”
“But he had nothing under control!” Sandy retorted, her face red with anger. “Mom, what were you thinking?”
“Your father handled all the finances. I … I didn’t know he wasn’t paying the taxes.”
“For a few years he didn’t even file taxes, mom!” Sandy picked up the notice off the table with her free hand, shook her head, and threw it back down. “How could you stay married to him?” she demanded. “How could you let him blow through everything and leave you bankrupt?”
Someone on the back porch cleared a throat and pushed open the screen door. The women turned to spot Tracey standing in the kitchen, a wide if wholly fake smile glued to her face. “Hi Sandy, Mrs. Loucks.” She focused her attention on Sandy. “Instead of breakfast, how about we take a walk, girlfriend?”
The girls had accepted Dorothy’s breakfast invitation that Wednesday morning instead of making their usual pilgrimage to Blue’s Cafe. In her anger, Sandy had forgotten all about it.
“Not now, Tracey, I—” Sandy began.
Tracey cut her off. “Your mom needs some time alone, Sandy.” She held the door open. Sandy nodded, shot a look at her mom, and stomped outside.
With a gentle hand on her friend’s elbow, Tracey guided them down steps, around the house, and out to the sidewalk.
“That was uncalled for,” she began, keeping her eyes glued ahead as they took up a slow pace down the block. Sandy remained silent. “Your mom has no blame here and she is not the real target of your anger. Which means,” continued Tracey, “we are back to your dad. So tell me again where all this anger is coming from.”
Sandy stopped walking and turned to face Tracey. “You, of all people, should understand.”
Tracey tugged on her arm and the walk resumed. “Well I guess I don’t. So maybe it is best to just vomit all that poison right now.”
Sandy shrugged. “Why?”
“Because I’m worried about you. This pent up anger you’re carrying around is tearing you apart, and if you haven’t noticed,” she added, gripping Sandy’s arm a bit tighter, “it’s hurting your relationships in every direction—your husband, your girls, and now your dear old mom. And God knows it’s wearing on me,” she admitted. “So let’s get it out. I know you loved your father …”
“I thought the sun rose and set on his command,” blurted out Sandy. “I would’ve done anything for him. But he changed.”
“We all change, Shadow. Life changes us.”
“Not like he changed.”
Tracey chose her words carefully. “Judging other people can be … dangerous. No one is perfect and we have all made mistakes large and small.” Sandy remained silent. Tracey continued. “Your kids are watching and listening. You are teaching them that it is normal and acceptable to be this angry over past transgressions, girl. Fast forward fifteen years. Emiley and Sarah will be judging you harshly like you are judging your dad.”
“That’s ridiculous,” spat Sandy. Now it was Tracey’s turn to remain silent. “That will never happen to me.”
“Years from now, Em and Sarah may be mad at you over something in the past, some mistake or bad decision or some low point in your life and overlook all the good you did,” continued Tracey. “Your relationship with your kids will be destroyed because they’ve seen your example. This is a very unhealthy thing you’re engaged in.”
“My relationship with them is solid.” Sandy dismissed the entire idea with a wave of her hand. “I’m nothing like Tom Loucks. Thank you very much.”
Tracey stopped and turned to face her best friend, this time with one hand on each of Sandy’s arms. “You need to get a grip on this escalating anger! Your dad gave you life! He gave you years of happiness and a home and food and shelter. And then he fell down and it hurt everyone.” She paused, looking into a stone cold gaze. “Don’t you think if he could do it all over he would do it differently?”
Sandy rolled her shoulders to throw off Tracey’s hands. “Maybe our breakfast get-togethers aren’t what’s healthy,” she shot back. “For some reason, they’re turning into ‘Let’s get together and pick on Sandy’ sessions. I don’t need this.” Sandy turned around and started walking back toward her mother’s house.
“You still haven’t told me why.”
Sandy walked a few more steps before stopping. “Why what?” she asked without turning around.
“Why you have so much hate for your dad.”
Sandy’s legs felt suddenly weak, and with a long slow sigh she sat down right there on the sideway. Tracey walked over and sat beside her.
“When he worked at the steel mill,” began Sandy, “he was a normal, almost Father Knows Best kind of dad. We did everything together. He read to me, taught me how to write, tucked me in every night with a story.” She stopped and looked away, quickly brushing away a tear before continuing. “Then he went back to school. He became obsessed with education. Got a bachelor’s degree, then started his MBA. We didn’t…”
“Shadow,” Tracey broke in gently. “Maybe try using I instead of we. Speak only for yourself. I’m not sure your family shares your view of your father.”
Sandy tilted her head to one side and furrowed her brow while considering the suggestion. “I didn’t see him much when I was twelve, thirteen,” she continued. “When I did, he had his nose stuck in a book. Maybe it’s not fair, but before that, it seemed like I was the only person who existed to him. When I turned twelve, it was like he forgot who I was.”
“He was busy doing adult things, Shadow. We all get busy. Providing for a family in that generation when moms stayed home—that put a lot of pressure on the bread winner.”
Sandy shrugged lightly and continued. “He got his Masters and quit his job at the mill. That’s when our lives began to turn upside down.”
“How so?” asked Tracey.
“First, it was ‘no-money-down real estate.’ He was going to make a million buying homes of little value, for nothing down and one hundred percent financing.” Sandy grimaced. “He bought two old deteriorating houses to start and made our entire family scrub floors, paint, and pull weeds to clean them up. When the recession hit, he lost one back to the bank and sold the other at a loss.”
“Entrepreneurs take risks,” offered Tracey.
/> “This particular entrepreneur risked his whole family,” replied Sandy. “Then he bought that little candy shop in Chicago Heights. He hired a manager and left him without supervision. Of course the man robbed my dad blind. He walked away from the candy business,” she continued, “and bought the diner and had us all washing dishes, cooking, and cleaning tables. None of us signed up for that!” she added, the anger in her voice rising. “We rolled with his every whim. We had no say in the matter. Then,” Sandy’s tone took on a bitter edge, “the drinking began. Sure, he drank some all along, but now he was really throwing them back.”
Sandy paused, reaching down to pluck a dandelion out from between the cracks of the cement. “One morning before school I was washing dishes at the diner and heard a woman scream. I ran out of the kitchen just in time to see my dad punch a young customer. I was scared to death. The boy ran out the door holding his bloody nose.” Her words came faster now as the story picked up steam. “Thank God my father didn’t chase him. But keep in mind, it was around six-thirty in the morning. I saw my father pull out a bottle of bourbon from under the sink and take a long swig. He looked right at me.” Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. “He swore and screamed at me to get out. I cried all the way home, his words echoing in my head: ‘Get out! Get out! Get out!’ I never worked another day in that greasy spoon.”
“I remember now,” whispered Tracey. “The family sued, right?”
Sandy nodded. “He was only fifteen. They settled out of court. I don’t know for how much.” She used her sleeve to wipe her runny nose. “Guess why my father hit him.”
“I have no idea.”
“Because he had a German accent.”
“Really?” Tracey’s head fell back slightly and her mouth fell open. “That might explain why he went ballistic years later when you bought that Volkswagen.”
“Exactly!” She brushed back her hair with one hand. “Later when I was in college and home for spring break, my dad asked me one night at the dinner table what I thought about the war in Vietnam. I was so happy he wanted my opinion and I foolishly took it as a sign that he finally respected me as an adult.” She sighed as she shook her head. “I gave him the standard college student answer for everything, ‘Make love, not war.’ And then his onslaught began.”
“How so?”
“He stood up and yelled, ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. Stand for something or you’ll fall for anything. Communism has to be stopped.’ Blah, blah, blah.’ And then, the oddest thing happened.” Sandy stopped to study a thumb nail, which she nibbled on for a few seconds. “He began to sob. I’d never seen him cry. Through his sobbing, he screamed that I had no idea what war was like. He said to take the life of another human being was the worst thing a person could do, but sometimes it had to be done. He knocked the chair over as he left the house. I can still hear the sound of his tires squealing down the street.”
“I had no idea, Shadow,” Tracey said slowly. “You’ve never told me any of this.”
“Dirty laundry and all. My mom always taught us to keep family matters in the family. Mostly that makes sense, I guess. Anyway, he didn’t come home. Mom slept on the sofa that night. The police brought him home about two in the morning, dead drunk. He had passed out in his car behind the American Legion.”
“So this was like, twenty years ago?” asked Tracey.
Sandy nodded. “Things only got worse from there. He could never watch a war movie, but now he would just look at one and start crying. Last year, it all came crashing down when the County Health Department shut down his restaurant.”
“That I remember,” admitted Tracey. “The headline on Chicago News 9 was ‘Seventy-year-old World War II vet arrested for attacking a Walton Center health code enforcement officer.’”
“The outpouring of support that flooded in from all over the country only encouraged him,” continued Sandy. “When we tried to bail him out of jail, he refused to leave. He just kept screaming at the police about how he had been saving the free world from the Nazis before the cops were born. He babbled on and on, something about how he had become a political prisoner of the country he’d fought to save.”
“How embarrassing that must have been.”
“My poor mom.”
“Shadow, what did your dad do during the war?”
“How would I know?” Sandy said, leaning back as if she had been lightly pushed. “He never talked about it unless he was spouting some angry lecture. If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a hundred times. ‘You have no idea what war is like. It’s not like the stupid movies.’” Her eyes narrowed. “Now can we please change the subject? I am exhausted.”
Tracey offered a vigorous nod. “Sure. That’s about all the Family Feud I can take for one day.” Tracey’s face lit up. “Hey, I’m off from my summer job tomorrow. Can I come down and help you with the great pole barn summer cleanup?”
“Seriously? That would be wonderful!” exclaimed Sandy as she leaned forward to hug her friend.
“As a heart attack. Will Mr. Handsomely Mysterious be there?”
“I don’t keep his schedule, dear, but he hasn’t missed a day yet. In fact, if I’m late, he’s usually there waiting for me. In a strange way, he’s sorta’ holding me accountable.”
“Think he’ll hold me?” A smile spread across Tracey’s face. “Accountable. I’m talking accountable here.”
Sandy stood up, reached down, and pulled Tracey to her feet. “Let’s head back. I have an apology to deliver.”
Chapter 11
The pending tax auction, coupled with her promise to her mother to clean the barn, added a new-found sense of urgency to Sandy’s efforts. The first few weeks of summer vacation flew by, fueled by a relentless schedule from which she rarely deviated.
Sandy was up shortly after dawn, made sure the girls were set with their activities, and rarely opened the door to the barn later than 8:00 a.m. The routine was grueling, but the structure helped her stay on course. The junk—stacked high in thick identifiable fingers pointing toward the rafters—helped her determine exactly how many she had to go through each day to stay on schedule. She opened every container of every size and shape, decided what if anything was worth keeping, and dumped the rest in the trash bin outside the door. There was so much to go through that Steve ordered up two more bins, and all three (plus the ground surrounding them) were filled to capacity by the time she left each evening just before dinner time. She had gone through nearly two dozen stacks, and almost nothing had been worth saving.
And on each day, except two, Sam paid her a visit. On those days when he stayed but a few minutes, he would tell her, “I have a lot to do, and just wanted to check in on you.” On others he would pitch in and offer to help, but he talked a lot more than he worked, if he worked at all. When he didn’t appear one Monday morning, Sandy grew concerned. By the time afternoon rolled around, a certain sadness mixed with a fresh sense of hurt engulfed her. She barely slept that night, wondering whether he would ever show up again.
The next morning, when he popped his head around a heap of empty boxes with a smile and a cheery hello, she ignored him for a handful of seconds before relenting enough to put her hands on her hips, blow loose strands of hair away from her face, and demand, “Where were you yesterday?”
“I was busy,” he replied, a faint grin still tracing his face. “Did you miss me?”
“No,” she gasped, bending down to pick up a dirty box. “Too busy to help me?” she asked, tossing the filthy container in his direction.
Sam caught it without blinking an eye. “Even when I am not here, I am helping you.”
Sandy threw back the corner of a black canvas tarp to reveal an old dresser. A hard pull of the handle convinced the warped top drawer to give way against its will to reveal nothing but mice droppings and old nests made of bits of leaves and grass. “How do you figure?” she shot back, searching the next two drawers with the same empty results.
> “You were thinking of me, right?” Sam answered. “Positive thoughts.”
Sandy caught the twinkle in his brown eyes. “Darn it, Tracey,” she thought. “Why do you have me thinking like this?”
Chapter 12
Sandy laughed when she pulled up next to Tracey’s vehicle at the pole barn the next morning. Her friend was still behind the wheel but dancing in her seat, mouthing the words to a muffled song blaring on her radio. When Tracey caught sight of Sandy climbing out of her van, she opened her car door to let “Not Fade Away” spill out into the morning stillness.
“Oh please turn it off!” laughed Sandy. “That old music dates us! Can’t you find something more current?”
“Are you kidding me?” shot back Tracey while she continued bobbing and weaving in her seat. “Buddy Holly is ageless and that song is a classic!”
“Haven’t you heard the stuff they’re playing today on 99.9? Don’t you listen to The Bus?” She was referring to WBUS, Kankakee’s Top Forty station. “‘It’s a double-decker weekend on The Bus,’” she drolled in in her best Top 40 radio announcer voice.
Tracey laughed. “At least I’m not listening to the Macarena. That dance is too hard to do behind a steering wheel.” Flipping off the radio, she got out of her car. “Speaking of our oldie moldy past, our glory days wearing the red and black, look what I have!” She fanned out four event tickets like an expert card dealer in Vegas.
“What are they?” asked Sandy.
“You’ve been working your summer away like a champ, so I decided we all need a break. I bought tickets to Drum Corps Midwest Championships. It’s next Saturday at Huskie Stadium in Dekalb.”
“Four?” The excitement spread across her face as she took the tickets from Tracey. “Who else do we know who is silly enough to want to spend a Saturday night watching Drum Corps Midwest Championships?”
Tracey turned her palms up in surprise. “Hmm. That would be our husbands for four hundred, Alex!”
Sandy rolled her eyes heavenward. “Steve says watching a drum corps is like watching grass grow. He’ll never go. Even if he did, he’d make sure we all felt his misery.”
The Final Service Page 7
