Mississippi Nights

by D. M. Webb

Maggie continued staring at him for a moment before she spoke. “I . . . you deserve a second chance. Everyone does.” She smiled. The soft look in her eyes sent a warm, fuzzy feeling through his gut. “Thank you for telling me the truth. I know it had to have been hard.”

  David sighed. He laid his head back on the black rubber. “It was very hard, love. But it’s so easy to talk to you.” Her fingers tightened in his. His heart thudded.

  It was so easy. She had sent Poppy on an errand, and he had poured out his sins while sitting on a stump in the backyard. She threw no angry or ugly words at him. Tears pricked her eyes, but she had brushed them away and rushed into his arms. He gazed at the stars. He didn’t deserve her. Not at all.

  A streak flew across the sky, burning a white path.

  “Look! A falling star!” Poppy pointed and bounced the trampoline. “Make a wish, make a wish!”

  David’s eyes met Maggie’s. She smiled at him. “I did, Poppy. I did.”

  Poppy flopped over on her stomach, bouncing the trampoline so hard that their hands came apart. “What did you wish? You can tell falling star wishes. They’ll still come true. You just can’t tell birthday candle wishes.”

  David laughed and brushed a strand of bangs off her forehead. “And you know this how?”

  “Really, Mr. David. Everyone knows that.” She rolled her eyes at him.

  “Yeah, David.” Maggie rolled over onto her elbows. “Everyone knows that.”

  He grinned. Gals were ganging up on him. “Maybe girls do, but us guys, we don’t care about such silly things.”

  Poppy gasped and poked him in the side. He laughed. Maggie nodded at Poppy, and the little redhead prodded him again. He grabbed his side, laughing. Shame on Maggie for telling his little flower he was ticklish. Poppy squealed and pounced. Their bodies flopped around on the bouncing trampoline as he pushed the skinny, little hands off his side and dodged Maggie’s searching fingers.

  “You have to tell your wish, Mr. David. Promise?”

  Wicked girls. He laughed and nodded. “Okay, okay. But you first, little flower.”

  She brightened at his nickname for her.

  He stretched out his arm, and she nestled against him. Maggie fought the bouncing trampoline as she scooted closer to them. Her head came to a rest on his arm as Poppy moved her head to his chest.

  He sighed. This was what it was supposed to be like. This was what he almost had. He fought down that thought and the anger that rode with it. That was the past. This was his future. Here. At this moment. Here with his girls.

  “I wished,” Poppy’s whisper drifted across them, “that I could have lots of nights like this. What did you wish, Mr. David?”

  He stroked her hair with his free hand, smoothing the errant wisps. “I wished . . .” He looked at Maggie. She watched him with a half smile on her beautiful lips. “. . . same as you, little flower. More nights with my favorite girls.”

  Poppy’s arm tightened around him. “Miss Maggie?”

  Maggie draped her arm across Poppy. “Me? I wished for someone to tell me what happened to my gnomes.”

  David returned his gaze to the stars. Oh, boy. He was definitely in for it now.

  “Mr. David moved them.”

  “Oh, little flower, you weren’t supposed to tell.”

  Maggie rose to her elbow. Her eyes gleamed as she stared down at him, one brow arched. “Uh huh. Where are they?”

  Poppy rolled over. She pressed her back against his side. “He put them under the hedge bushes.”

  “Really?”

  David grimaced. “Yeah.”

  “Whatever for?” Her eyes widened so fast, they nearly shot her eyebrows into her hairline.

  “Um.” Poppy elbowed him. “You tell her.”

  He pushed back at her. “It was your idea.”

  “I ain’t telling. I didn’t do it. You did. You just asked me where a good spot would be.”

  Maggie drummed her fingers along his arm. “Well, why?”

  He sighed, and he and Poppy spoke at the same time. “They stared at me.”

  Chapter 16

  THE TOOL BOX CLATTERED as David pushed it across the bed of his truck and strapped it down. He pulled off his work gloves and threw them into the cab. Even with that protection, small blisters had formed on his palms.

  He eased his body onto the seat and opened his checkbook. This was going to hurt. A wry chuckle escaped him. Penitence for being an idiot. He scribbled his signature and tore the slip out of the book.

  A flash of red caught his attention. Mr. James pushed the Harley toward him.

  “She’s a beauty, David. You did good work on her.”

  “Thanks, Mr. James.” David held the check out as the bar manager lowered the kickstand. “Here’s the money for the windows and mirrors.”

  “I thank you.” The older man tucked the check in his breast pocket. “Those tables and chairs you brought are nice. You make them?”

  “No, sir. Found them at a yard sale last week. Did make the stools, though.” He smiled and perched on the lowered tailgate. “If someone else acts stupid like I did, those stools should withstand the onslaught.”

  Mr. James laughed. “Well, you did great work. What about the flooring? You and that man really tore up my boards.”

  Heat rose up David’s neck. “The installers should be out tomorrow to do the measurements. Should be installed in a few days. I got it covered.”

  The man nodded. “Well, let me help get her up in the truck.”

  David slipped off the tailgate and dragged the ramp out of the bed. He and Mr. James pushed the bike into the truck. As Mr. James slid the ramp back into the bed, David hopped up and secured the tie-straps over the bike. He finally got her back and wasn’t going to take the chance of something happening to her.

  He gave the straps one last tug and jumped down.

  Mr. James thumped his shoulder as David slammed the tailgate shut. “Come have a drink.”

  David arched his brow. A drink? Man, he needed one–that was for sure. He followed the older man. Mr. James pointed to the steps of the porch.

  “Have a seat. I’ll bring it out.”

  David sank down on the roughhewn boards and wiped his hands on his jeans. The sun beat down on him. His shirt stuck to him. After four hours of heavy labor, he definitely could use a cold beer.

  “So, tell me, young man,” Mr. James let the door slam behind him, “how’s the help coming along?”

  Water droplets dripped off the cold can. David pursed his lips and then chuckled and accepted the can of root beer. “Guess this’ll be the only kind of beer I’ll ever get from now on.”

  The old coot smiled and flashed the gap in his front teeth. “You better believe it. A man falls like you did, and he should never have the thing that made him fall in the first place. That’s what makes the man. Whether he can walk away or whether he gives in.”

  The pop-hiss from the can sliced into the silence of The Mudslide’s parking lot. David chugged a long drink. The vanilla taste of the soda refreshed him. He could get used to this eventually, although it did nothing to quiet the longing for a really good, ice-cold beer.

  “So, I’ll ask again. How’s the help coming along?”

  David shrugged. “Okay enough. Family and Bro. Johnny are trying to help me. Staying back at Dad’s again. Jeremy keeps a close eye on me, like the good big brother he is.” The bitterness in his voice left an odd taste, so he swallowed another hit of root beer. “Bro. Johnny also has me reading in this little devotional of his.”

  He rolled the can between his palms. The cold and smooth surface soothed his blistered skin. “I won’t lie to you, Mr. James, I hate being watched. Every move I make is catalogued, summarized, and judged.”

  Mr. James huffed, took out a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the sweat from his exposed head. “It’ll seem that way at first, son. But it isn’t. There’s two types of men I see come to my bar. Those who enjoy a nice beer or whiskey an
d then go home. Then there’s those who try to drown themselves, thinking that the alcohol will erase their troubles. And it will for a while . . . until you wake up the next day.”

  David avoided his gaze. An ant traversed across the white rock gravel, scurrying away on its mission. His eyes followed it as the man continued. “Like I told Jeremy that night, I’ve known you since y’all were little tykes. I seen you two grow up and become fine men. Your daddy did good on raising his two boys. But–”

  Silence reigned for a few moments. David looked up at the old man. No. Not old. Just old eyes. Mr. James had to be about the same age as David’s dad.

  Scarred and callused hands busied themselves rolling a cigarette. He scratched a match and lit the rolled tobacco before turning back to David.

  “But with you, you took your pain and doubled it.”

  David nodded. Same ole song and dance. He watched a car zip down the highway. There was nothing to say. Mr. James and everyone else could talk until there was no air left in the world, and they still would not get it.

  “You might believe that no one understands, young David.”

  David closed his eyes. Science fiction come to life. How was everyone reading his thoughts?

  Mr. James blew a cloud of smoke. “I’ve seen it many times. You have a blessing, though.”

  “How so?” David forced down the lump in his throat with the last swallow of root beer.

  “You have family. You have friends. Without them, you would never be able to make it. Don’t fight against your family’s help. Not everyone has that.”

  The man’s words drove a spike into him. His nostrils flared. He stood and threw his empty can in Mr. James’ blue recycle bin by the steps. “I’m aware, Mr. James, that not everyone in this world has family to fall back upon.”

  He stalked to the truck and opened the passenger door. One too many talks. He didn’t need another lecture. “I’ve got something for you.”

  David handed a silver aluminum bat to the bar manager. “To replace the one I busted.”

  Mr. James grinned around his half-smoked cigarette. “Thank ya. It’s a nice one.”

  “My bat from high school. Last game when I hit the grand slam.”

  “I remember that night.” Mr. James propped the bat on his shoulder. “Jeremy couldn’t stop talking about it all night. Brought his buddies here that night and gave a toast to you. Bragged how you upped the ante and busted his record.”

  The sly dog was determined to remind him of his brother. David closed his eyes against the small amount of pride that rose from somewhere deep down. His brother had been proud of him.

  The wind picked up. Dust blew across his face. David sighed and slammed the truck door. He knew there was a reason why he drank. To bury those memories and the ones that they inevitably led to.

  Mr. James slapped his shoulder and interrupted his thoughts. “See ya around, young man, but you are no longer welcome here in my bar.” He looked up at the sky. “You better get, though. Looks to be a storm coming in.”

  Yeah, he wasn’t kidding.

  “Well, thanks for the lecture, Mr. James.” David rounded his truck. “And call me if the installer doesn’t make it out here.”

  “Will do. And David?”

  David arched his brow as he slid onto the seat. Mr. James leaned against the passenger door. “Remember what I said about family. They’ll be there for you.”

  : : : : :

  A blast rattled the window panes. David leapt from the bed and yanked on his pants. What the–?

  He stood, shoes in hand, in his bedroom. He hurried to the window and looked out. A flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by the crash of thunder. He wiped the sweat off his lip. His chest heaved from a heavy sigh. The shaking wouldn’t stop. He pressed his fist against his mouth and bit his knuckles.

  It wasn’t an explosion.

  It wasn’t the car.

  David melted against the side of the bed, knees pulled to his chin. Like the rain that ran down his window, tears ran down his face. It had been months since a thunderstorm caused him to dream about that night. An onslaught of feelings launched their barrage at him. When would the dreams stop? How could he still miss Rebecca? If he missed Rebecca, then how could his heart long for Maggie? The pain of that question gnawed his gut.

  He chucked his shoes across the room. His hands scrubbed his face, erasing the tears. Something else was needed to push this aside. He hadn’t touched a drink in the week since he had arrived back at his parents’ house, but he wasn’t stupid. At the very back of one of the kitchen cabinets, the least used in the entire house, he had stashed some Grey Goose. In case that was found, he had a fifth of Glen Livet on top of the cabinets hidden behind the lip.

  David rose from his position and eased his door open. It creaked softly. He froze. There was no movement. He tiptoed down the hall, keeping to the wall to avoid stepping on any loose boards.

  The carpeted stairs muffled his steps, and David slid around the corner into the kitchen. He paused. A sound reached his ears, something upstairs maybe, but the silent call of the drink was louder.

  He slinked around the bar, knelt down, and opened the cabinet. His mom’s food processor, an old blender, and Tupperware items rattled as he reached past. His hand met only the back wall of the cabinet. A curse flew from his mouth, and David fell to his knees and pushed the appliances out of the way. There was no Grey Goose bottle. Did he put it somewhere else?

  David pulled the next cabinet open and cast the pots to the floor. No bottle. The next one only revealed cleaning items. He pushed across the floor on his knees and practically ripped the next door off its hinges. Nothing but casserole dishes and pie pans. It had to be somewhere. He needed it.

  He surveyed the empty cabinets in the dim glow of the security lights outside. Fine. Then he’d just settle for the whiskey. He hopped up on the counter and reached above the sink. His fingers found nothing.

  Another curse flew from his lips. Maybe it just slid down a little. He reached further down and smiled as his hand encountered the smooth feel of the bottle. He gripped it tightly and eased down off the counter. Yeah. Outsmarted them this time. He risked turning on the sink light. The little fluorescent bulb flickered. David looked at the green bottle in his hands and then smashed it into the sink.

  Glass shattered, but there was no liquid in it.

  He whirled, vile curses spewing from him. Somewhere he was sure he used God’s name.

  How could they? He needed the drink. He needed to wash it all away!

  The lights above him blasted to life, and he jumped when he heard his father’s voice.

  “Son?”

  David bit back a sob. His hands clenched and unclenched. Tears burned his face. What a mess he stood in. What a mess he must look. But they had to understand. They just had to. He needed that drink. It was the only thing that would take all the pain away.

  His dad walked into the kitchen, sidestepped a mixing bowl, and set a frosted bottle of Grey Goose on the bar. “You were looking for this?”

  Like a zombie in a movie, David felt his feet walk to the bar, saw his shaky hand reach and grip the bottle, and felt his mouth water at the thought of the taste. His dad took the bottle from him. He whipped his head up to shout a curse, but he stopped when his dad placed a drinking glass down in front of him.

  David swallowed hard as he watched the clear liquid splash into the glass, but his dad was pouring too much.

  “Wait. That’s enough.” His voice croaked, dry and raspy. Thirst gnawed at him.

  Dad’s eyes were fathomless. His face expressionless. The liquid still poured until it reached below the rim. “Is it? That’s what you tore the kitchen up for, isn’t it?”

  His voice didn’t rise one octave; nevertheless, David shrank away. He backpedaled until his back pressed against the sink. His dad held the glass out to him. The liquid danced and shimmered, calling out to him.

  Taste me. Savor me.

  “
Take it, Son, and be damned.”

  David craved it, but why did his father curse him for his need?

  Didn’t he crave his father’s love more than the drink? The question entered his mind, and David couldn’t push it aside.

  “If you drink it, your life will be over. You will not stay here any longer. You will be a part of the world. If you drink this and give in to its pleasure, you will lose yourself, your soul. Is that what you want?” His father pressed the glass into David’s hand. He grabbed David’s other hand and wrapped it around the glass.

  Yeah. Sweet feel of vodka. The pain will be gone tonight. But what about tomorrow? David stopped the glass at his lips as the thought came to him. Tomorrow it will be the same, pain and anger. When will it end?

  When you drown it in forgetfulness.

  David tipped the glass. The liquid touched his lips, and it burned. It burned as if he were thrown into hell itself. Where was the sweet touch he savored? It wasn’t supposed to burn. Yes. It always burned. His soul burned.

  He paused and pulled the glass away. His father reflected in the vodka. David raised his head and gazed into his eyes. Love pooled in their depths, and David saw his reflection stare back. A crazed man looking for his next fix, his next liquid sin. A man who lost his way, who fumbled, not seeing, and cursing the dark.

  The glass slid from his hands and crashed against the tile, vodka pooling against the broken shards. The glass was broken. He was broken.

  He landed on his knees and pressed his face against the cool tile. “Oh, God, forgive me. Dad, help me.”

  His dad’s arms wrapped around him, and together they rocked back and forth. Tears poured from David’s eyes and heart. The craving still lashed at him, but it was no more than the soft rain that lashed against the house, an annoying gnat of a thought that could be crushed on a whim.

  The sound of soft-soled house slippers reached him. He dared not look up. He didn’t want to see the disappointment in his mother’s eyes. She knelt down, her rubber ducky nightdress coming into view. Her soft, cool fingers brushed against his hot brow. David broke down again. Quiet sobs racked his body.