by R. A. Evans
Puzzled, April hesitated to collect her thoughts before continuing. Kids are renowned for their imaginative storytelling, an exasperating skill that Abby had already mastered at the ripe age of five.
“I didn’t know there was a man who lived with Brady,” April stated as she rolled to a stop at the traffic light. “He must be awful good at hide-n-seek.”
Abby rolled her sky-blue eyes and giggled, “Now you are being silly, mommy. He doesn’t play hide-and-seek.” Abby’s childish laugh drifted into silence. “I don’t think he plays games at all.”
April’s reply was interrupted by the sound of an impatient horn. Shifting her gaze in the rearview mirror from Abby to the SUV hovering precariously close to her car’s rear bumper, April scowled at the driver before pressing her foot down on the accelerator.
Train of thought derailed, April’s convoluted thoughts drifted from Abby’s outlandish tale of a mysterious and unseen roommate and returned to planning the romantic evening ahead.
Frank Griggs sat in his leather recliner, clad in only a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, watching the morning news on television. The fresh-faced weather girl was doing her best to navigate the map, not stare too blindly into the camera, and maintain her balance atop ultra-high heels; all the while butchering the pronunciation of nearly every town and county in northern Michigan.
New to the station and fresh from college somewhere in Missouri, the retired lawman doubted that Miss Rhonda Fleming possessed any meteorological experience; beyond the blond hair, spray on tan, and large chest that seemed to be the credential of choice these days when it came to local news. Frank grumbled his protests, but like most others in the important 35-65 male age demographic found himself tuning in each morning nonetheless.
This morning, as Miss Fleming promised continued sunshine and warm temperatures extending well into the following week, Griggs found himself massaging the stiffness from his knuckles. His rheumatoid arthritis was a much better weather predictor than the WTRC Weather Center Doppler Radar, and if the pain and swelling in his joints were any indication, a storm was brewing on the horizon, and it promised to be a bad one.
Maddie was in the kitchen paging through the Bedlam County Banner when Frank made his way in to freshen his coffee. Unlike himself, Mrs. Frank Griggs preferred The Banner’s coverage of church pot-lucks, friends of the library used book sales and local high school sports over watching the beautiful people of the world perform voice-overs against “B-Roll” of car accidents, burglaries, and rising unemployment. Miss Fleming’s assets held no sway over Maddie Griggs.
“Barn doors open,” Maddie commented, looking up from her reading. “No worries, that pony went lame years ago and doesn’t have the strength to run.” She smiled from behind her own cup of coffee as Frank adjusted his underwear.
“I’ll have you know, young lady,” came Frank’s quick reply, “Budweiser just contacted me for their next Super Bowl ad. Apparently one of their horses came up lame and they need a new Clydesdale; my name was first on their list.”
Maddie rolled her eyes, sliding a plate heaped with bacon and scrambled eggs across the table. “Okay, Mr. Ed, eat up. You’ve got a busy day ahead.”
Frank took a seat at the table and began shoveling the food into his mouth. At sixty-one, he still ate like a teenager – anything and everything – and was as healthy as a bear. After thirty-two years as one of Bedlam County’s finest, the last fourteen of which he had worn the badge of Sheriff; Frank Griggs was a physical specimen. An avid outdoorsman, he remained fit with daily five-mile walks, fifty pushups each morning, and a shot of Jack, or two, at The Hayloft. Just sprinkle in a little fishing, hunting, and plenty of time with Maddie and Frank had the recipe for perfect health.
“Busy day?” he asked, gulping down his second cup of coffee. “We’re not going to the flea market today, are we? I swear, woman, your fascination with looking at other people’s junk is something that would have been a deal-breaker if I had known about it when we first met.”
Maddie took the good-natured ribbing in stride and with a smile. Managing her husband was a science which basically consisted of letting him talk until he wore himself out. His nervousness over today’s plan was completely understandable, and if she were to be completely honest, shared, as well.
“Don’t you think it’s time you pay Brady a visit? It’s been two weeks, I’m sure he’s settled in by now.”
Frank grunted something unintelligible as he chewed on his last strip of bacon.
“Just go check on him,” Maddie continued, setting the newspaper down on the table. “He’s all alone in that house, probably bored to death. Take him fishing.”
Frank smiled and nodded, unsure of how to share with his wife that despite the death of both of his parents, Brady was far from alone in the Up North House.
Brady walked from his parent’s bedroom two hours later, arms laden with files, papers, and other miscellaneous items. Still puzzled, the one-time reporter now, at least, had some idea of what his father was doing with his retirement. As for the Scrabble Board’s mysterious journey from the trash can to the room upstairs, Brady chalked it up to sleepwalking and did his best to put it out of his mind; no mysterious messages laid in waiting for him, this time. For now, the board can stay right where it is, Brady promised, but if the damn thing shows up anywhere else or starts spitting out random messages again I’m torching it!
The music from his phone, his standard selection, Pearl Jam’s Wish List, coursed through the empty house as he piled his research on the coffee table in the family room. The lyrics were the story of his life; every emotion he had ever felt condensed into three minutes and thirty-four seconds of pure genius, “I wish I was a neutron bomb, for once I could go off. I wish I were a sacrifice but somehow still lived on.”
Fishing the phone from his pocket, he glanced at the caller ID and smiled. “Frank Griggs, I was just thinking about calling you.”
“So what you’re telling me is that my grandfather wasn’t killed in the line of duty,” Brady was shocked beyond belief as he listened to Frank’s long and confusing story.
“I’m telling you what the State Police concluded, Brady, not what I believe.” Frank was working on his fourth Pabst Blue Ribbon and was sweating profusely. The two men had spent the better part of the last four hours digging through his father’s files and notes. Frank was proving invaluable in helping Brady connect the dots, but much was still a mix of conjecture and in some instances complete insanity.
“The official report lists your grandfather’s cause of death as suicide,” Frank replied, holding up his hand to ward off Brady’s protests. “But it’s complete bullshit, Brady. You tell me how a man drives himself off the highway at sixty-five miles per then decides to take his own head off with a .44?” Frank winced as soon as the words left his mouth. “Sorry, son, that was uncalled for.”
Brady was stunned. His father’s notes on the accident were vague and made no mention of the official State Police report. The thought of his own grandfather ending his life under such circumstances was disturbing to say the least.
“I’m confused, Frank. If what you say is true, and I have no reason to doubt you, what you describe sure as hell doesn’t sound like suicide. Besides, I always thought he was killed in the line of duty?”
Frank took a long pull from his beer. In many ways he felt like he was betraying John by revealing family secrets. Some memories are best forgotten, he thought, mulling over where to start.
“Yer’ daddy ever tell you how he got those scars?” Frank was staring out the window and across the lake. Never one to avoid eye contact, the man’s body language did much to reveal his discomfort.
“Mmm….no, not really,” Brady responded, trying to recall the brief conversations he had shared with his father about the scars that marked his chest and face. His father had laughed off Brady’s questions with stories of shark attacks, rescuing kittens from trees, and even a wild story that involved cow tipping, a barbe
d-wire fence, and a bottle of Wild Turkey. Even his mother was no help.
“He didn’t talk about them.”
Frank remained silent. “I’m gonna grab another one,” referring to the empty beer can in his hand, “something tells me we’re both gonna need one….or three.”
Brady watched the old man walk from the room and make his way toward the kitchen. A million different thoughts were rattling through his brain and he was pretty certain that another beer wouldn’t help, but given the subject matter it probably wouldn’t hurt.
Frank returned a few minutes later carrying the rest of the case of PBR, a wide smile splitting his lips. “No sense trekking these old bones back and forth.” He sat back on the sofa and handed Brady a beer. “You are so much like ‘yer old man that it’s ridiculous,” laughter followed a long swallow of beer. “You guys and that damn Scrabble Game. Spelling’s not really my strong point. I much prefer cards. Give me a case of PBR and my Cribbage board and I’m as happy as a pig in shit.”
Brady smiled as he popped the top on his beer. “Yeah, we’ve always played Scrabble. Dad said mom taught him how to play back when they first met.” Brady hesitated as the familiar tingle found its way up the back of his neck. “What made you think of Scrabble, Frank?”
Frank finished the rest of his beer and reached for another, letting out a long and arid belch. “Saw it on the counter in the kitchen. Who ya been playin with?”
Frank’s hand froze in mid-reach as he saw the look of dread pass over Brady’s face. “Son, you ok?”
Brady wasn’t sure how to respond. Tomfoolery with the Scrabble Board aside, he had felt something in this house since the day he had arrived.
“Frank, you and Maddie come by here now and then, right; to check on things?” Brady rose to his feet and walked to the window. “And even before…mom and dad, ya know. You guys would visit, right?’
Frank’s hand dove into the case of beer and returned with a fresh can. Popping its top he raised it to his lips and nodded. “Yeah, we’ve been here a time or two.”
“Ever see or feel anything…strange?”
Frank laughed nervously, “Hell, son, when you get my age everything seems strange.” After another long drink, he continued, “Did ‘yer dad ever tell you about the time I shot that deer from my car…”
Brady interrupted, “Yeah, Frank, he did. It’s hanging over the bar at The Hayloft. He told me all kinds of things…about you, about himself, and even about my grandpa; but what the fuck, Frank. How do I know what’s true and what’s not?”
Frank lurched to his feet, careful not to spill his beverage. At well over six-feet-tall he towered over Brady. The younger man didn’t blink.
“What do you want me to tell you? That your grandpa went crazy and blew his head off? How about I explain in excruciating detail how your dad was a certifiable loon who locked himself up in that room chasing after ghosts until he just happened to find one? Is that what you want to hear?”
Frank’s raised voice boomed across the family room. “Ah, hell,” he muttered, finishing another beer and tossing the empty can onto the coffee table.
“I want the truth, Frank,” Brady urged. “I want to know why I wake up every night from nightmares I can’t remember. Why my dog is afraid to be more than three feet away from me in this place. But mostly, I wanna know what the fuck is going on with that Scrabble Board!”
Frank stared long and hard into Brady’s tired eyes. So much like his father, he thought. “Fine,” Frank relented, “you want to know what I know or what I think I know?”
Brady returned Frank’s stare, “I want to know everything.”
“Grab the rest of the beers and take a walk with me,” Frank added on his way to the kitchen and through the French doors leading outside before muttering under his breath, “I knew I should’ve brought more beer.”
Frank was right, one case of beer hadn’t been nearly enough; a dire situation which had been rectified with a quick trip to the corner store. Brady had waited on the dock, feet dangling in the warm summer water, trying to piece together what had turned out to be a very complex and mystifying puzzle.
Sadly, Frank’s more beer prescription wasn’t exactly what the doctor had ordered. The pair’s rambling conversation drifted from Brady’s past and current domestic and familial entanglements to the current price of gas and the sad state of Detroit athletics. All talk of things that go bump in the night and sometimes during daylight hours, too; ended with that first case of beer. Everything after was a feeble attempt to put some distance, via alcohol, between that uncomfortable conversation and what would surely come next. Too many beers later, the afternoon ended with a phone call to Maddie. With Frank safely tucked inside, Brady stood at the end of the driveway and watched Maddie’s dust covered Cherokee disappear from view.
The ground rolled beneath Brady’s feet as he made his way back to the relative comfort of the Up North House. For the time being, the alcohol outweighed the influence of whatever seemingly dark yet thankfully still unseen force that was trying desperately to fuck with his mind.
Brady’s liquid bravado, however, soon evaporated. His search for something to help soak up the alcohol pooling in his empty stomach, drew him into the kitchen where atop the counter, exactly as Frank had described, rested the Scrabble Board. The damn piece of cardboard was quickly becoming the bane of his existence. Brady tried resisting the temptation to look, but his curiosity got the better of him. It took a moment for his drunken mind to focus, but the message spread neatly across the game board finally became clear.
Brady clung to the slippery walls as he stumbled from the kitchen, his uneasy mind clumsy from both beer and fright. Finding his way into the family room, he collapsed onto the couch. As his spinning head relented to the drunken blackness that awaited him, Brady heard the crying of the seagulls over the lake and for the briefest of moments felt the touch of an unseen, calloused yet comforting hand on his shoulder.
Brady was late for dinner. Not by much, but enough to make an already nervous April even more so.
“You and your damn fashionable entrances,” she teased as she greeted him at the door. Again, she looked amazing. Her hair hung at to her shoulders in a pair of matching braids. A very comfortable pair of jeans and black tank top completed her style. It clung to her in all the right places.
The mobile home was smaller than Brady had imagined, but held a coziness that his own home, although much larger, severely lacked. “Had trouble choosing between white and red,” Brady laughed, presenting the wine, “So, I brought both.” His PR smile camouflaged the nausea that was eating away at his insides. Frank and his damn Pabst Blue Ribbon had done quite the number on him.
At the sound of Brady’s voice Gruff came galloping in from the next room, Abby trailing close behind. The dog paused a few feet from Brady, cocking his furry head to one side and giving his two-legged friend the once-over. Finally, Gruff’s tail began to sway back and forth as he rushed forward to rub against Brady’s legs.
“He likes you,” Abby stated, as if this were Brady’s first introduction to the dog. “Come on Gruff, let’s go make a puddle.” Gruff released himself from Brady’s legs, emitting a soft whine, and followed Abby outside. Brady took note of the plastic band encircling the girl’s wrist. It was all he could do to not rush forward and examine it more closely.
“That dog is amazing,” April declared, taking the wine from Brady’s hands and moving towards the kitchen. “I swear he puts up with way too much from her. Abby was literally putting ribbons and barrettes in his hair today and he just sat there like it was the most normal thing in the world.”
Brady smiled as he followed, “Well, he did get his balls cut off about three months ago; maybe he’s finally discovering his inner-dog.”
April’s snorting laughter eased the throbbing in Brady’s temples. “We’ve definitely go to do something about that laugh.” He drew her into his arms, holding her tightly. April could feel him trembling.
> “You alright,” she whispered from his shoulder. “You look awful.”
It was Brady’s turn to laugh, “Yeah,” he replied, planting a kiss atop her head. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.” Pausing, before shifting his embrace into a tickle, “And I will have you know, nine out of ten chicks agree, I rock this t-shirt.”
April pushed him away playfully and continued into the kitchen with the wine. “The red will be perfect; I’m grilling ribs with caramel asparagus. And for desert…banana splits, of course!”
The thought of eating, let alone more alcohol, made Brady’s stomach do somersaults. “Mmmmm can’t wait,” he lied. “So where’s your dad?”
“He’s out back manning the grill. He won’t let anyone else handle the meat,” April laughed again, cutting it just short from another snort. “Seriously, he’s like Rain Man when it comes to the grill. Come on; let’s go see how he’s doing.”
Brady followed April through the mobile home and out the sliding door leading off the den. The room had obviously been added on since his last visit and really provided a nice open area. He was surprised by the green grass and fence that greeted him outside.
“Daddy,” April called, moving toward the grill where Henry Mayer stood brushing sauce onto a slab of ribs. “This is Brady Tanner. Do you remember me talking to you about him?”
Henry Mayer turned at the sound of his daughter’s voice. Stooped-shouldered with red suspenders keeping his loose-fitting pants from pooling about his ankles, Mayer’s bushy gray eyebrows framed his cloudy eyes. He looked like a muppet from a TV show Brady had watched as a child.
“Yes, yes, ‘course I do.” Henry’s voice boomed from his frail body. Brady noticed the hearing aids encircling the man’s oversized ears. Setting his jaw, and pointing the grilling tongs at Brady’s chest, he continued. “You got a job, son?” Henry Mayer was ready to grill more than meat. “How ‘bout drugs? I don’t want my June Bug ‘round no drugs.”
