Dreamspinner Press Year Four Greatest Hits

by Felicia Watson

  “Sorry we’re a little late,” called Nick, though Logan looked anything but relieved to see them. He noticed that Logan immediately pinched off his cigarette and slid it back into the pack which he then hurriedly stuffed into the pocket of a black, short-sleeved shirt hanging open over a white, sleeveless T-shirt.

  Nick introduced Logan to his new students. “Logan, meet Letisha Wilson and Cheryl MacLean. Ladies, this is Logan Crane.” Tish offered her hand while raking the mechanic up and down appraisingly; Cheryl merely uttered a barely audible hello, which Logan returned, only slightly louder.

  Nick noticed Logan giving him the once-over and wondered if there was something about his navy polo shirt and tan chinos that the man found objectionable. What do I care? he reminded himself sternly, feeling that responding to this man in the presence of “his girls” would be a betrayal of sorts. Steeling himself against any attraction, Nick shifted his soft-sided briefcase from his hand to his shoulder, fumbled for the keys, and quickly unlocked the shop door.

  The four of them trooped inside, where Logan immediately raised the bay door. Looking at Nick, Logan asked, “Where’s the car?”

  “I don’t know. Norah should have been here by now.”

  Logan nodded and wordlessly turned his attention to selecting a few tools, which he neatly laid out on the workbench. While Tish and Cheryl popped outside for a smoke, Nick went over to the small, messy desk shoved in a corner that apparently had been Dave Acken’s office and removed his laptop from the case. His plan was to work on case reports while he “chaperoned” this module, since he could ill afford losing two hours out of a workday.

  A minute later, the girls came back, announcing that it looked like Norah was heading up the driveway, an unnecessary chore since the sound of her car straining up the incline was evident to all. After pulling into the garage, she bounced out of the driver’s seat, exclaiming, “Hey guys—’the late’ Norah Seebold, at your service.” After more formal introductions, Norah aimed a brilliant, apologetic smile at the group, explaining, “I’m sorry. I got soo lost.” She pointed to her soft blonde curls, saying, “Guess I proved this is my real color, huh?” While Nick and the girls laughed and even Logan cracked a smile, she added, “I think I took the wrong bridge over the river.”

  “Which one?” Tish asked.

  “If I knew which bridge it was, I probably wouldn’t’ve gotten so lost,” laughed Norah.

  “That ain’t what I was askin’,” Tish corrected. “Which river?”

  “Isn’t it all kinda the same river?” Norah wondered.

  While Tish gaped at her in amazement, Nick hastened to explain, “Norah’s from New York.” He turned back to the transplant, saying, “You may not know it, but you just committed heresy. There are three rivers in Pittsburgh. There’s the Allegheny, the Monongahela, and those two join together to form,” Tish and Nick finished together, “the ‘Mighty Ohio’.”

  Tish explained to an amused Norah, “Growin’ up in Western P.A., ya hear that every fuckin’ year of grade school.”

  “Okay, geography is over. Time for basic automotives.” He turned to Logan, who had been watching the exchange in expectant silence, saying, “Mr. Crane, they’re all yours.”

  Nick had been wondering how Logan would introduce this group of neophytes to car repair. Upon seeing him start by demonstrating the basic tools they’d be using, Nick begrudgingly acknowledged it to be a logical and savvy move. By the time Tish was asking who this guy “Allen” was and why he had so many goddamn wrenches, Nick thought it was safe to leave the group alone and get some work done.

  Ninety minutes later, Nick had polished off five reports, and Logan was having the girls take turns removing the lug nuts from one of the tires. Tish’s extended and effusive swearing when she broke a nail eroded Nick’s concentration; he decided to take a break and see how the training was going.

  Tish had retrieved a nail file from her bag and was repairing the damage while she watched Norah take her turn at the stubborn lug nuts. “So, you moved here from New York? Are you crazy?”

  “Upstate New York, not New York City,” Norah explained, as she rolled her cornflower-blue eyes. “And if you ever saw Arkport, you’d understand.”

  “Bet it was for a man, wasn’t it?” Tish countered.

  “You got it,” admitted Norah.

  “How’d you meet ’im?” Cheryl asked.

  “On the Internet. I was seventeen and knew my mom wouldn’t let me talk to a grown man in person, but online, I thought, was okay—besides, she wouldn’t know.” Norah finally broke the first nut and looked up at Logan for approval.

  He smiled encouragingly before saying, “Good job, but you gotta get ’em all.”

  Norah went back to work and back to her story. “I met him for real about six months later, and he was so handsome, with this sexy Russian accent—and real sweet at first.”

  “I hear that,” Tish interjected. “When’d he start beatin’ on you?”

  “When I moved down to Monroeville to be with him. My parents tried to stop me, but I was eighteen by then. Things were okay for a while, but then he started calling me names and beating me up. That went on for over a year. I even left and went back home for, like, six months, but he kept calling, promising to be good, so I gave him another chance. He did let me get a job at the Uni-Mart, but I had to check in with him twice a day. After a while he wanted it to be every hour. If I didn’t do it, he’d beat me up pretty bad when I got home.”

  Nick could see that Logan was looking distinctly uncomfortable, but he shrugged off a faint stab of pity, knowing that abused women often derived comfort from exchanging stories. Sting of conscience, Logan? And if ya notice, Alex was a real cutie too….

  Norah was working on the fifth lug nut as she finished, “One day I was so busy I didn’t call at all, and Alex came to work screaming his head off—demanding to see me. I ran into the office, and my boss finally got ’im to leave by threatening to call the cops. I was too scared to go home, so my manager’s wife called ACC, and I went straight there. Never even went home to pack.”

  “How long ago was that?” Cheryl asked.

  “Little over a year.” She triumphantly held up the hub cap containing all five lug nuts, saying, “Ta da!”

  Logan said, “Okay, now, Cheryl, I’ll put ’em back on, and you have a go at ’nother tire. Then I’ll show yuins how to put the spare on.” He looked relieved that Norah’s story was done, but his reprieve was short-lived since Tish launched into her own narrative as Cheryl worked at the front tire.

  “My bad luck started four years back when I met Joe,” she reminisced. “He was one of my bosses at the restaurant where I worked. And yeah, he was real nice at first, too. Until I found out I was pregnant and I didn’t wanta have it. I already had a son, and I thought havin’ another baby at my age would be crazy. But Joe beat me up good and said I was havin’ his kid. I was eighteen and he was thirty—what was I gonna do?” She looked at the other women as if seeking affirmation; Norah nodded knowingly while Cheryl seemed solely intent on the tire.

  Tish gave Logan a lightning-quick sideways glance before continuing. “The beatin’s got worse even though I did what he said. I had that baby thinkin’ it might help us, but it didn’t; it just meant I was stuck with him. Last year I got pregnant again; this time he was pissed ’cause he said we couldn’t afford ’nother one, but he still wouldn’t let me get rid of it. He left me black an’ blue almost every day of that pregnancy. When I finally delivered, one of the nurses in the hospital asked if I needed help, and I said I sure did. She got me in touch with ACC, and two weeks later, me and the kids all got away.”

  Luckily for Logan, Cheryl showed no inclination for sharing her story, so the rest of the class was mainly filled with chatter about which was worse, Norah’s job with Merry Maids or Tish’s current stint at Applebee’s.

  While the women washed up and gathered their things, Nick uncovered the vintage Thunderbird that fascinated him so. Tha
t past week, he’d even called Dave Acken to inquire about the car, so he now knew that Dave was willing to let it go as is for a mere eight thousand dollars. Of course, that was eight thousand more than Nick could afford, but he was still tempted. Something in the car called to him, and it wasn’t just because he had wanted one so badly back in high school. Nick was sure that beneath that rusted body and corroded engine, a thing of beauty waited to be renewed and released.

  “You thinkin’ of buyin’ it?” Lost in his reverie, Nick hadn’t even heard Logan walk up beside him.

  “Yeah, how did you know?”

  Logan just shook his head and shrugged, mumbling, “Just a feelin’.”

  “Not sure it’s a good idea; it’d take a lot of work to restore it, I guess.”

  “You bet. More ’an you even think right now.”

  “You ever done anything like that?”

  Storm clouds gathered in Logan’s eyes as he answered, “Yeah. Long time back.”

  Nick had no intention of asking, but he knew with an inexplicable but ironclad certainty that buried underneath those four simple syllables lay a heartbreaking memory for Crane. The man was an enigma for sure; that was why Nick couldn’t help thinking about him all the way back to ACC. That was the explanation Nick gave himself, at least.

  Chapter 4:

  Bridges to Cross

  The hardest thing in life is to know which bridges to cross and which to burn.

  —David Russell

  EARLY ON Saturday evening, Nick stirred together a quick barbeque sauce and dumped in a pound of Isaly’s chip-chopped ham. It wasn’t the healthiest meal he could have prepared, but it had been on the table a lot when he was a kid, since his mom was inordinately fond of the cheap and easy local specialty. Agnes had eaten little of the chef’s salad he’d picked up for lunch; therefore, Nick was hoping an old favorite would tempt her flagging appetite.

  As he set the table, Nick was torn between having dinner with his mother and going for a long run. He could go later, but he hated running right after a meal, just as his mom hated eating after six p.m. The August evening had cooled a bit, making it especially tempting; the recent streak of sizzling weather had by and large confined him to the use of his rickety treadmill in the basement. Musing that Agnes seemed pretty “with it” and that a hectic week had left him in dire need of the Zen found in an extended run, Nick decided one dinner alone wouldn’t hurt his mom.

  “Hey, Mom,” he called up to where she was puttering around in her room. “Are you ready to eat?”

  When she appeared a few minutes later, he showed her the pan of liberally sauced meat. “I’ll get you set up, and then I’m gonna go for a run. ’Kay?”

  Agnes shooed him out of the kitchen, briefly assuming the role of the mother she still was, despite everything. “Go and have your run; I can do the rest. Buns’re in the cupboard, right?”

  Nick gratefully took off, heading up Matson Boulevard until he could cut over into Riverview Park, where he spent some carefree time racing up and down the hilly trails. Drenched with sweat and feeling pleasantly exhausted, he arrived home well over an hour later. He could see the light on in the kitchen at the back of the house and hoped his mom wasn’t still toying with her food.

  Nick popped his head into the room, saying, “Mom, I’m back.” As soon as he saw the table set now for four rather than two and his mom stirring the pan that had been placed back on a burner, Nick knew Agnes was in the middle of one of her “episodes.” He advanced into the room, asking, “Didn’t you eat?”

  She turned her frowning face on him, answering, “No! I’ve been waiting and waiting. Where were you? Hetty and Frank are late, and I’m worried sick.”

  Oh no. Not this again. Through gritted teeth, Nick admonished, “Mom, Aunt Hetty is dead. You know that; she died six years ago. And Uncle Frank is in Freeport living with Marcy.”

  Slowly taking the pan off the heat, Agnes wiped her hands on the ancient apron she’d donned. After a second of visible concentration, she replied, “Hetty died?” Tears sprang up as she rambled on. “Yes… Hetty died. You’re right. She did, didn’t she?” She wandered over to the table, rubbing shaking hands together as she asked, “So… they aren’t coming to get me?”

  “No, you’re staying here.”

  Agnes plopped down into one of the kitchen chairs, wailing, “What am I gonna do? Where will I live?”

  Nick sat down across from her, feeling his patience worn thinner than his mom’s apron, and repeated, “I told you, you live here.”

  “But, Nick, I can’t live with you forever.”

  “Of course you can. It’s what I owe—it’s where you belong.”

  Suddenly Agnes’s tone turned almost instructive—one she’d used when teaching him the alphabet twenty-eight years earlier. “What about when you get married? Believe me, son, your wife ain’t gonna want her mother-in-law in the same house with her.”

  Okay, that’s a new one. Nick was slowly shaking his head, bemusement having submerged exasperation when he remembered what Adam had said. Maybe this is my chance. Maybe it could be a good thing to her. Figuring he had nothing to lose, Nick sat back and calmly announced, “I’m not going to get married. Ever.” He could see his mom was about to protest, so he hurriedly added, “Because I’m… I’m gay.”

  Immediately and sternly, Agnes snapped, “No, you’re not. What a thing to say! Why would you say a nasty thing like that?”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “No, it’s not. You’re sayin’ that to get back at me, aren’t you? You’re mad ’cause I left you.” Indignation melted into sorrow as she tearfully assured him, “I was gonna go back for you, Nick. I was. Please don’t be mad at me and say somethin’ so awful.”

  Nice try, Zales. Well, at least it brought her back to one you know. Nick nimbly jumped to his feet and embraced his distraught mother from behind. “Mom, you didn’t leave me. You never left me, okay? I’m not mad and… and I’m sorry I said that. Just forget it, all right?” He patted her arm, saying, “Let me wash up real quick, then we can eat.” Forcing cheer into his voice that he couldn’t feel in his heart, he said, “We’ll see if my ham barbeque is better’an yours.”

  Nick ran up to the bathroom, feeling his warm, loose muscles tensing with stress he had just tried to sweat out. He peeled off his damp shorts and T-shirt, puzzling yet again about this obsessive notion his mom had that she had “left him.” He always figured that there was a part of her that recognized her dementia as a form of abandonment. But why couldn’t he convince her that it wasn’t her fault? Was it because she couldn’t face blaming his dad… or him?

  BY MONDAY morning Nick had put his mom’s troubles out of his head so he could better deal with the problems of his clients. Nine thirty a.m. found him in the center’s small library, trying to wrap up a tutorial on Money Management so he could grab a cup of coffee and a doughnut before his counseling session with Norah at ten. Five minutes later, coffee in hand and pastry in mouth, Nick headed for his office, currently occupied by Irene Taylor, the volunteer who coached clients in resume writing, interviews skills, and the like.

  Before he got within six feet of the door, Irene’s megaphone voice let Nick know she wasn’t quite finished with Tish. Her bellow of “Fine, don’t listen to me! You can work at Applebee’s forever” also let him know that things had hit a snag. Irene, a sharp, successful marketing executive, provided invaluable expertise to women who had been unemployed or underemployed for most of their lives. Unfortunately, she was also tactless, abrasive, and insensitive.

  Nick lounged against the corridor wall, munching away at his doughnut while he tried to ascertain if his intervention was required. When Tish’s response contained several paint-peeling expletives and the phrase “Stone Age crone,” he decided to step in. After cautiously swinging the door open, Nick surveyed the tense combatants and, in his most calming tone, inquired, “Okay, what’s the problem?”

  Tish spread her hands out, exclaiming,
“Tell her! Tell her there ain’t nothin’ wrong with this outfit.” While Nick inspected her attire, which consisted of an orange satin polyester blouse and a red pleated skirt, Tish added, “She said I looked like a hooker on my way to clown college.”

  Nick stifled an inappropriate laugh as he turned to Irene, asking, “Wouldn’t it be fine if she just buttoned up the shirt a little more?”

  “Were you suddenly struck blind on your way in here?” Irene snapped. “She has an interview at The Carlton.” She enunciated the name of one of Pittsburgh’s finest restaurants with the slightest trace of condescension before adding, “Not Chuckie Cheese.” Irene swiveled her chair towards Tish, saying, “I can get you a nice white blouse and a suit from The Closet.” The Closet was the term ACC used for the on-site collection of clothing and shoes that Irene maintained for her protégés to wear to interviews. All were donations from her wide circle of contacts.

  Though he couldn’t really see what was wrong with Tish’s choice—other than it being a bit bright—Nick stepped in and soothed ruffled feathers on both sides, eventually convincing Tish to take Irene’s advice.

  After Tish had flounced out, Irene collected her Furla handbag and file folders while shooting Nick a sardonic look. “For a gay man, you know dick-all about clothes, you know that?”

  “How about just ‘for a man’? How does my sartorial knowledge stack up then?” Nick retorted. “Despite what you may have heard, the ‘gay’ part does not negate the ‘man’ part.”

  Fortunately, Irene, along with all of her other bruising traits, was almost impossible to insult. “Okay. Point taken.” She leaned her tall, athletic frame briefly against the doorjamb, saying, “I promise I’ll never again accuse you of being fabulous.”

  Despite her imperious nature, Nick couldn’t help liking this difficult woman—and it wasn’t simply because she devoted countless unpaid hours to ACC, though he would have been hard put to give another concrete reason. “Thank you,” he laughed. “You get Tish that job, and I’ll forget it ever happened.”