“Momma’s going to take us to the Botantical Gardens.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Momma says they got fish. Big ones like at the ‘cation.”
I chuckled. Our first vacation in Okinawa. Quentin mesmerized by the koi pond outside our hotel. We had to pry him away kicking and screaming. “Those fish are pretty cool.”
He coughed. “Yeah.”
I could feel the congestion in his chest. “You getting a cold, Buddy?”
“I got to pee. Bye, Daddy.”
The phone clunked onto the floor before I could stop him.
I exhaled my frustration.
Better that way, really. He didn’t need to pee his pants because I was lonely.
I listened to parts of my real life happening at the other end of the phone line.
Penelope Jane fought her mother’s efforts to dress her. Quentin’s stream echoed from the bathroom across the hall.
Nansi hollered, “Close the door.”
Quentin hollered back “I peeing!”
A laugh jumped out from my chest and broke a teardrop free. I dabbed it with my fingertip. How long should I hang on the line, racking up Mother’s phone bill, before deciding they’d forgotten me? Being in this room, alone and ignored once again, twisted the knot in my stomach. I decided to hang up.
“Connor?” Nansi was breathing hard.
“I’m still here.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize he’d—”
“No big deal.” I leaned my head between my knees and squeezed my eyelids tight.
“I hate this, Connor.” Nansi’s voice softened. “We should have gone with you.” A tiny cry escaped her.
I sat up. “It’s okay, Baby. This won’t take long. I’ll be home.” She was right. I never made enough room for them. “Only a week.”
“Connor?”
My forehead tingled. Apprehension thickened behind my eyes. I could smell the alcohol Renée used to sterilize the phone. Nansi was about to say something upsetting.
“I’m scared.”
“Scared?” I said it too loud. “Why?”
She bit words off in chunks, blubbering between them. “We might not make it. We might end up like them.”
“Them?” My folks. My dad’s screw up had shattered this world. I lowered my tone a couple of notches. “Damn, Nansi, give it a chance.”
“You’re there. I don’t know what might happen there. It’s scary.”
“Nothings going to happen. That was a mistake. Nothing like Sharon’s going to happen here.”
Unregulated sobs swamped the line.
Dammit! Why did I mention her name? “Just a week, Baby.” I raised my voice to overcome her cries. “We can make it a week.” One blunder and God is ready to rip the rug out.
“Okay, Mommy?” Quentin’s voice sounded from behind Nansi’s weeping.
I rocked on the edge of the bed.
Quentin’s voice muffled. I pictured him shoving his frightened head against his mother’s body.
My shoulders knotted like drift wood. My life floated down the river of broken promises, smashing against exposed boulders, sinking under the frozen surface of winter’s revenge.
Nansi took a sharp breath.
I heard some ruffling that sound like hope.
She honked her nose into a handkerchief. After a sniffle she spoke quickly. “Okay. I’ll be okay.”
“One week. We can do that.”
“I’ve got to get Quentin to kindergarten, Love. Maybe call back later. Can you call tonight?”
Hadn’t she said no school? Oh yeah, Friday, late day.
“I’ll call.”
Silence. Like a blade had sliced the line.
My fingers burned. I replaced the phone in its cradle, and flexed my fingers to restart the flow of blood. The ache of my bruised heart had me stuck on the edge of my teenage refuge missing her, missing the children, weeping at my hasty and perverted reaction to Nansi’s gambling. I had ruined it all. Just like my father ruined his life.
Ten minutes rolled over on the electronic dial while I rode my bucking emotions.
“There’s food if you’re eating,” Mother’s severe voice called up the stairs.
“Be right down,” I shouted. Then I went to wash my face.
A different kind of heat engulfed me beyond the threshold of my dad’s old office. The business kind of heat that anticipates a sale. It tickled the hairs of my neck, a very low frequency, erratic hum resonating on the edge the audible range.
It sounded like a giant bumblebee caught in a fan.
Cocking my ear, I tried to recall winter maladies that could generate such an odd rumble. Water pipes expanding. A heating unit grumbling.
Renée sat behind the desk, head down, not noticing me.
“You hear that?” I asked from the doorway.
She remained still, pen poised over paper, head tipped to reveal the jagged part in her stringy hair. The large, dark chair engulfed her tiny, doll-like frame. Her body trembled, reminding me of a leaf on the ground when the train rolls by.
I padded toward her, somehow fearful of discovery.
The mysterious sound grew louder, but only slightly. It clearly came from somewhere nearby.
“Are you alright?” I asked in a near whisper.
Renée gave a small nod, but kept her head low.
I stopped at the desk and leaned over. The bumblebee hum was close. In fact—
Renée’s body gave a violent shake.
I jerked backward.
A bottomless, stifled sobbing bubbled from deep inside of her.
Compassion flooded my throat, choking me for a full five seconds. “Hey?” I breathed it out. Moving around the desk, I put my head close to her cheek. “What’s going on?”
She took a harsh and sudden breath.
The abruptness of it pushed my head back several inches.
“I can’t do it without him! I can’t run this place!” Her sobs expanded to a wail.
Everything nerve in me poised to run, but instinct crossed my arm around her upper back. I latched onto her shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re under a lot of pressure right now.”
Renée sat back, her surprising strength breaking my hold.
I grasped the chair arm for balance, settling into a squat.
She yanked a Kleenex from the small cube on her desk and blew her nose in a loud, obnoxious honk. “I’ve got a lot to do, Connor,” her tone all business.
I stood.
“What can I help you with?” she asked. Only the nasal remnants of a good cry betrayed her.
“I just came by to see how you were doing.” I left out the phrase, And ask you what the hell happened to our father. “Anything I can do?” I turned and casually leaned my butt against the desk next to her elbow.
“No. We’ve got everything handled.” She reached down, shoved my legs aside and grabbed a drawer handle.
It was move or fight her. I stepped away.
“Well,” I tried again from behind our father’s gargantuan chair. “Maybe I can do some of what Dad did. Help carry some of the load.”
Renée spun the oversized chair to face me. Her bony knees scraped my shins.
“Okay!” Her eyes gleamed insanely. “Why don’t you get out on the lot, sell a couple of cars, and then hit the bar to celebrate!”
I gaped.
“I think the Montana was his favorite.” She snarled. “Then he could just crawl up the stairs to bed.”
My mind bounced around on ideas to calm her. Nothing. She had never been quite this vocal growing up.
“And maybe take a chicky with you to keep you warm.”
A chicky? Quiet, somber, passive-aggressive Renée always let her pain escape in tight-lipped ways. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know—”
“It’s a wonder the dealership ran at all with Dixon so busy stinking up the atmosphere with the cheap perfume of some floozy whore and his whiskey stained suit jacket reeking cigarette smoke from the ni
ght before.”
I backed away one step.
“You’d think it would run folks right out of here!” Renée whirled to face her paperwork.
I stared past her shoulder at the neatness that had taken over my father’s large desk. She might be finished. Maybe I’d slip out, let things cool down.
She spun around again, like a wind up clock. A small calendar filled her hand.
“His appointment book. Rather, his pointless book. He never used it.” She riffled the pages. “Not a single business appointment.” She slapped it to the floor. “Not a one! The only thing in there are his church meetings.”
“Maybe he was prospecting,” I tried.
She huffed. “Those people don’t buy cars from Dixon Pierce. Never seen a one of them.” She spun to the desk and then back again. “This place should easily survive without him. We may even flourish without his dramatic antics to distract everyone. Hell, we could have a decent business out of what he left behind.”
I glanced through the large glass wall behind Renée’s desk. It looked like they’d done well. At least twenty new and used cars sat on the lot. Good, clean cars. They had an auto shop with two or three mechanics. And there was always Mom’s New Yorker out front to draw the redneck, buy American crowd. The secret joke forced an uncontrollable smile.
“And you!” Renée’s eyes had dilated, red lines roping her lids. “You think this is funny! You could have helped!”
My hands spread involuntarily out from my sides. “I just asked you what I could do.”
Renée jammed the chair up against my legs, a ploy of our mother’s. Feral madness stared out at me. “I’m talking about the way you picked up and raced out of here without a goodbye or a good luck, no forwarding address or a backward glance,” her hands twirling now, “no sorry I don’t live here anymore you can have this damned place all to yourselves,” her gaunt face stretched thin with anger, “I’ve pushed Momma’s wheelchair for all these years while you were off, gallivanting in airplanes. I’m pushing Dixon’s papers around the desk, and you’re in some exotic foreign land sunning yourself on the beach!”
Those crazy eyes burned into my forehead. I could actually feel the heat and smell the scorching flesh. I half-expected she might reach behind her, grab a stapler, and punch a few metal rounds into my chest.
And I could say nothing. Because she was right.
After a moment of violent silence, Renée eased that engorged chair back and gently turned it around. She began scribbling notes and stuffing sheets into a file drawer.
I slinked toward the door, hoping she would hold that quiet rage a few more seconds. What she needed was a chilling walk around the E-Z Deals parking lot without a jacket. That’d cool her jets. Maybe.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Confusion Says
The freezing air braced me from the showroom to the auto shop.
Dixon’s Bible. Dixon inside a church. Dixon singing hymns. My mind wrestled to pin these images down.
Nansi had dragged me to church every Sunday since Repentance Day, the day I’d been forced to confess my sexual sins to her. The last sermon we attended before I headed for this freezing Montana winter was this crazy story of Jesus raising hell— chasing people with a whip and tossing tables in the church. I didn’t catch much else, but that picture stood out. Maybe they did that sort of thing in Jewish worship services. But I doubted it.
Jesus pissed off. Dixon stepping onto holy ground with his confession of faith. Both events had me stumped. Was God angry at bad people or inviting them into heaven? It spun my brain inside my scull.
Why then, did it give me hope for my father?
I stepped into the open area of the garage.
It smelled of tire rubber, grease and days gone by. Two small bays garaged a Toyota 4-Runner and an Acura Legend. Somebody in this old cowtown was spending money on the foreign market.
That energetic salesman slash mechanic, Zach Polson, was bent into the Acura’s engine compartment. A large, blue EZ branded the back of his smudged and tattered jumpsuit.
At the rear of the shop and facing away from the 4-Runner, stood a smaller man with short and straight, dark hair frosted with white strands. He turned from the workbench to look. His skin had the smooth, caramel tint of an Asian.
Young Zach glanced over his shoulder like he was electronically wired to the older mechanic. He tipped his head before ducking back under the hood.
I returned the gesture, deciding to save him for later. The wisdom of age seemed a more reliable source for Dixon’s recent life habits. Besides, something tugged at my memory. I decided it had to be a craving for something Oriental after the strained words with Nansi this morning.
“Howdy,” I said to the Asian man’s back. Embarrassment heated my neck. I’d been stupid for not asking Renée for information about the workers.
He twisted his neck, and said, “Hi.”
This guy looked so much like the Okinawan man who ran the bento shop I hit every Friday it stunned me out of words. A buzzing filled my head. Okinawan? Here? How was that possible? Parallel universes and shifting geographies from a science fiction novel I had pored over late one night in seventh grade flooded my head. My stomach summersaulted. For a rotor turn, I thought I had never come home, my father had not died, and my sister had not just accused me of abandoning my family of origin.
“Konnichi wa,” I said.
It startled him. He faced me and bowed deeply from his middle. “Hai! Konnichi wa. So des ne!”
As slow and gracious as the move was, I didn’t have time to read his black eyes. I copied his bow, moving slowly to honor his humility toward an obviously younger man. Believing I’d sufficiently respected his traditions, I offered my hand.
He took it without regard to the grease that covered his.
Something in this also telegraphed a modicum of respect. My chest already warming to him, he offered his shop rag.
I accepted with another small bend at the waist. Insincerity can be hidden in language and gestures for Japanese people. Deciphering potential intrigue made my forehead tight. I decided not to question his motives. For now. I read his name tag aloud. “Akira.”
He dipped his chin. “I mus’ wok, Con-noah-son.” He bowed slightly once more, and then turned back to an alternator lying on the bench.
“Uh, yes.” A warm flush spread across my face. Again, I felt esteemed, honored by his use of my given name. Akira’s recognition validated me like no one else since my arrival. “Don’t mind me,” I said. “I’m just wandering. Letting my sister cool off.”
Akira nodded. He poked his index finger into the alternator. After a twist into a more workable position, he probed again.
“What are you doing there?”
“Ah-toe-nay-toe,” he said in Americanized Japanese. “No goo’.”
Akira’s right pinky was missing. Severed. Its absence spooked me. Glancing around the shop, I sought out a more agreeable spot for my gaze. “I like your country.”
“Domo,” he said, and grunted as a piece of the alternator broke free and slipped to the bench. “I rike Ah-may-ree-kah.” He picked up and inspected the loosed magneto brush.
Clearly, language barriers didn’t impede technological comprehension.
“Where are you from?” I said, attempting to engage him. My father had died, leaving him to the mercy of my unstable sister and my disinterested mother. My gaze drifted to the pinky stub. I forced a stare into the brushes of the alternator. “I heard Okinawa. Is that right?”
“Ishikawa.”
“Oh? I’ve been there. On the edge of the Army base, right?”
Akira tossed the alternator brush aside. He peered at me, as if trying to formulate words I could understand. He cracked a sideways smile any cowboy would envy. “Look,” he said in clearly enunciated English. “I’m just an American. I’m from Idaho. Near Boise.”
My head popped backward. “You’re American?”
“From Idaho.” He faced me. The ir
ritation I’d detected behind his pupils earlier had faded. “I apologize. Fooling with you was rude.”
“You’re American.”
“It just gets a little annoying when people make that same assumption every time they meet someone that appears to be different from themselves.”
My eyes had gone dry from holding them wide open. I blinked twice and turned my attention to a grease stain on the cement shop floor. “Sorry. That was childish.”
“Forget it. I should have—”
I lifted my head. “It’s just that I came from Okinawa. I miss my wife. My kids. The thrill of seeing someone from home. It felt—”
He held up the hand missing a finger. “Your father told me. It’s not your fault. I’m overly sensitive. My parents and I were interned during the big war. It grew some bitterness inside.” He slapped that deformed hand against his chest.
I bounced my gaze to his left ear lobe. “A camp?”
“I guess I haven’t gotten over it.”
“A war camp?”
He gave a light nod. “We moved to Idaho after. My dad wanted to separate us from that kind of thinking.” The alternator grumbled as he absentmindedly rolled it over the hammer-dented bench top. “Didn’t work.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“We expected too much. In Okinawa—”
“I thought...” I squinted hard, trying to squeeze away my confusion.
“Yeah, well I went to see the place when I was young. In my twenties. Visit extended family. Had to leave.” He waved it off.
My addled brain struggled to keep up.
“I found out Japanese people are just as paranoid about foreigners as Americans. Maybe more so. They don’t show it much, but when you get below the surface—”
“I like Okinawans,” I said automatically.
He nodded. “Okinawans are all right. Oddly less affected by the war that raped their island than their mainland cousins.”
“Country people. Practical.”
He smiled.
I saw recognition.
“Well,” he said with a bit of a drawl, I thought. “I knew some country folk in southern Idaho whose idea of practical frightened me.”
Murder of the Prodigal Father Page 7
