Dreamspinner Press Year Four Greatest Hits

by Felicia Watson

  The last thing Nick wanted was to relive that awful period when his mom finally woke from her coma and kept asking for the bastard who was the cause of all her ills. “Mom, don’t—”

  “He’s still my husband.” A bony hand reached out and clutched Nick’s arm as Agnes stubbornly continued, “And he’s still your father.”

  “The hell he is!”

  Agnes shook her head, insisting, “You think you can just wish him away like that? Well, you can’t. Hetty said he’s been askin’ to see you. You should go.”

  “You think I’m going up to Fayette County for him?” Nick felt himself slipping into the fantasy with Agnes and fought the regression to his agonizing twelfth summer—but the pull was too strong. “No way, let him rot in prison. It’s where he belongs.”

  “Son, he’s not all bad.”

  “How can you say that? He’s the one who did this to you.” Nick’s tone grew louder as his unbearable memories grew stronger. “Over a stupid hammer! Just ’cause I left it out in the rain.”

  “It’s not all his fault. I left and—”

  Nick jumped to his feet and paced beside the bed, ranting, “Not until he was in prison, you didn’t! No matter how bad it got, you stayed and stayed. Until the son of a bitch tried to cave your skull in, and you wound up here—” Nick caught himself, suddenly realizing that he sounded every bit as crazy as Agnes. “You wound up like this,” he added more calmly as he shook off the delusion and dropped back into the rocking chair.

  Watching his mom’s hands shake as she placed the empty cup on the bedside table, Nick felt a sharp stab of remorse. He reached over and settled the covers back around her and then relaxed back into the squeaking rocking chair. Both sat in private contemplation for a few minutes. Nick’s mind strayed to Logan, and he spent the time toting up all the ways Logan wasn’t really, had never been, couldn’t be, anything like Sam Zales.

  Softly, and almost against his will, Nick asked, “What did you ever see in him, Mom?”

  “Oh, Nick,” Agnes breathed, abruptly shedding her lethargy. Her eyes sparkled as she explained, “He was like no other boy I’d ever met. He had so many dreams and plans… about startin’ his own contractor business and makin’ somethin’ of himself.” She turned a wistful smiled on him, adding, “And he could charm a bird right out of the sky.”

  It was impossible for Nick to reconcile Agnes’s description of Sam Zales as a charming, ambitious man with the ill-tempered, erratically employed handyman Nick remembered.

  At least he doesn’t sound anything like Logan. The more cynical part of his mind briefly took the helm, asking, You sure about that, Zales?

  Nick noticed that Agnes had dropped off to sleep and quietly left the room, his mind still on Logan—and his father. As he padded down the staircase, an impulse wholly foreign to Nick swept over him, a need to visit Sam Zales at last and see for himself. The idea was discarded as quickly as a flaming ember, but the smoke from it lingered, swirling around him all day.

  LATER, EARLY in the evening, Logan was heading home from work when his cell phone rang. Never one to answer the blasted thing when driving, he let it ring, figuring he’d check the message when he got home. As he sat idling at a light, it did occur to him that the call might have been from Nick. He has my number now, could’ve been him. Maybe he’s callin’ it off for tomorrow… or maybe he just wanted to ask something about the car…. Unable to resist, Logan pulled the phone out of his pocket and flipped it open to check the number.

  What he found on the face of the phone sent a shock wave through his body. He hadn’t seen that number in a long time. It was Linda’s. The surprise bled away gradually, leaving only dread in its place. He semi-deliberately stretched out his trip to the grocery store, all the while feeling the phone like a lead weight in his pocket.

  As he loaded his two bags—containing little more than cold cuts, bread, chips, coffee, and two six-packs of Iron City—into the truck bed, he considered simply pretending he’d never noticed the message. The thought that Linda had some news about his daughters squelched that idea, and twenty minutes later, after stowing away his groceries and popping open a beer, he settled onto his worn loveseat and returned the call without bothering to listen to her message.

  She picked up on the third ring and answered, “Hello, Logan.”

  He was momentarily stunned speechless until he remembered that, like him, she could recognize her spouse’s number—after all, she had bought the damn phone for him as a Christmas present three years past. Finally he croaked out, “Hey, Linda.” The line crackled with static before he added, “I’m returnin’ your call.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” More static, and then she asked, “How are you?”

  “I’m good. The girls okay?” Belatedly, he added, “And you, hope you’re doin’ okay.”

  “Yeah, we’re all fine. Krista and Meghan, they told me ’bout… about what you said yesterday.”

  “Uh, good. I said they could.”

  “I’m glad you did that; it was good for them to hear.” Irritation honed an edge to her voice as she continued, “And it was nice they finally got a apology.”

  Wearily, Logan answered, “I said I was sorry, Linda. In court.”

  “You told the judge, not me,” Linda shot back. Logan was still searching for a response when Linda went on in a more conciliatory tone. “I guess that’s one of the things we’ll talk about in therapy. That Dr. Gerard you been seeing wants to start that next month.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Logan sighed, though the September timeframe was news to him. “Is that why you’re callin’, to tell me that you’re gonna do the counseling?”

  “Yeah… but I also wanted to tell you…. The girls told me about what you said, about not wanting to leave Elco. And I thought you should know, I ain’t goin’ back.”

  “I’m not so keen on the idea, myself. I just wish we hadn’t… well, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. You never told me. Anything. But that ain’t all of what I meant; it’s not just Elco I’m not goin’ back to.”

  Rolling his eyes as he slurped his beer, Logan finally said, “Well, ya lost me now.”

  “I’m not goin’ back to the way things were in Elco—ever. I’m not goin’ back to you hiding out in some garage twelve hours a day, seven days a week—”

  “Is that what you call me tryin’ to make a livin’?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m not stupid. I figured out a long time ago that you were usually happier in your shop than you were at home. Just like I figured out that you’re still blamin’ me for ruinin’ your life.”

  “I never blamed—”

  “The hell you didn’t,” Linda interrupted firmly. “You blamed me for gettin’ pregnant when you was the one didn’t wanta wear rubbers.”

  “Just like your big sister put all the blame on me!” Logan suddenly wondered if their counseling sessions were going to consist of re-fighting every disagreement of the past twelve years. Suspiciously, he asked, “Why the hell are we even talkin’ about this now? Where’s all this comin’ from?”

  “I’ve been in therapy, too, you know. If we get back together, it’s gotta be different this time, Logan. You gotta start tellin’ me what’s going on inside your head so I don’t have to guess all the time. I don’t wanta go back to bein’ two strangers who live in the same house.”

  “Just ’cause I wasn’t runnin’ off at the mouth all the time doesn’t mean I treated you like a stranger.”

  “Say what you want, but you gotta know before we even start counseling that I’m aimin’ for something different this time.”

  “Okay.” Logan was too busy dealing with warring emotions to develop any better response. He saw some hope that their joint sessions wouldn’t be dominated by recrimination, but he was unnerved by Linda’s new demands.

  Hesitancy and hope bloomed in her voice as Linda asked, “Does that mean… you want that too?”

  Cornered by h
er directness, he felt compelled to say, “Yeah… I guess I do.”

  Later, as he chewed their conversation over, Logan was surprised by the thought that maybe he hadn’t been simply fobbing her off. Maybe he, too, wanted a change in their status quo. The unacknowledged truth Logan could barely face was that, as ever, he and Linda wanted very different things.

  LOGAN LOOKED around for Nick’s Jeep as he pulled onto Arlington Avenue that Sunday, knowing that they both always parked on the street to leave the entire shop floor open for working on the Thunderbird. He was slightly irked that the black vehicle was not in evidence, since it was already after nine. As he loped up the steps, Logan set aside any disappointment, figuring the time could be put to good use grabbing a smoke and settling the nerves he was trying hard to ignore. When he got to the landing and found one bay door wide open, Logan stopped short in mild surprise. Must’a missed his Jeep.

  Upon entering the garage he was greeted not by Nick Zales but by a rotund stranger who had his feet propped up on the corner desk and his face hidden behind the Sunday Post-Gazette. Logan cleared his throat loudly in an attempt to get the oblivious man’s attention. It must have worked, since the paper was slowly lowered to reveal a round, creased face topped by a shock of white hair.

  “Hey there. You must be Crane.” The man rose unhurriedly to his feet and offered his hand, explaining, “I’m Dave Acken.”

  Logan shook his hand, mumbling, “Good to finally meet you.” He gestured at the shop, wincing internally at the mess they’d left in the main bay but managing to say sincerely, “Nice place ya got here.”

  Dave seemed unfazed by the disarray. “Thanks. Nothin’ fancy, but suited me for thirty years.” The white hair grazed his bushy and equally white eyebrows when he shook his head, musing, “Thirty years… don’t seem possible.” A chubby hand brushed the hair back as he exclaimed, “Oh hell, what’s wrong with me? You must be wonderin’ what I’m doin’ here.”

  “Yeah,” admitted Logan, glad to be relieved of the burden of asking outright.

  “Nick called and asked if I’d shoot over and let you in. He’s runnin’ late—some trouble with his mom.”

  “Oh, that’s a damn shame.” Logan shuffled his feet nervously while wondering if that meant Nick had headed home to… Kittanning, wasn’t it? “Wish he’d called me.”

  “He would’ve, but he doesn’t have your number.”

  “He should. I called him just a few days ago,” Logan answered, feeling ever so slightly defensive for reasons he couldn’t understand.

  “I think he said he left it at work or somethin’. Well, no big deal. I didn’t mind. Gave me a chance to see what you’re doin’ with the T-Bird.” Dave scratched his stubbled chin while gazing intently at the car and motor. “Looks like you boys got a good start there. I’m itchin’ to jump in and help, but my doctor’d have my hide, I guess.”

  Logan was stunned that the man was neither annoyed nor surprised at the chaotic scene on his shop floor. As Dave went on to leisurely and cheerfully describe several rebuilds he’d done over the years, it occurred to Logan that, from the looks of the desk alone, Dave Acken was a man who could live with a mess.

  When Nick finally showed up at ten a.m., Dave’s monologue was still going strong as he scrutinized Logan’s technique for removing the cylinder bore ridge. Logan turned and watched the two men shake hands, noting that Nick was wearing a loose, raggedy pair of chinos topped by a faded, untucked, blue oxford. He swore there was some sort of message in Nick’s choice of attire, but he wasn’t going to examine the matter too closely.

  Nick rolled up the sleeves slightly while saying, “Sorry I’m late. What can I do?”

  “Plenty,” Logan answered with mock ease. “But how’s your mom?”

  “She’s okay. She’s got this cold that’s wearin’ her down, and I just had to make sure she drank plenty of juice and got some protein….” Nick trailed off, apparently reluctant to give more detail. Logan had a few follow-up questions he would have liked to ask, but Dave’s presence made him skittish.

  And Acken showed no inclination to leave. He kept up a running commentary while Nick and Logan rolled the engine over again to remove the pistons and rods and finally the crankshaft. When Logan started his examination of that last part, carefully searching for any deep grooves or excessive wear, Dave finally took off, saying that he didn’t want to miss out on Sunday lunch at The Liberty Grill.

  Nick walked him to the shop door and waved Dave off with the exhortation, “Say hi to Larry for me.”

  Logan’s stomach performed somersaults as Nick strolled over and leaned casually against the workbench. There was a streak of grease on Nick’s cheek, and Logan dug his fingers into the engine part he was holding to resist the temptation to reach over and wipe it off. Nick nodded at him, asking, “How bad is it?”

  “Huh?” Logan gulped, fearing his thoughts were that transparent.

  “The crankshaft—can we get away without regrinding it?”

  “Oh, yeah… looks like I can just polish it up some and cross drill it, and it’ll be better than new.”

  Nick’s smile looked like it had cost him some effort, but he said cheerfully, “Good news.”

  Noting the strain, Logan asked, “You worried ’bout your mom?”

  “Always.” A shrug punctuated the response before Nick added, “She has dementia, so a cold is the least of her problems.”

  “Geez, Nick. That’s rough.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  Ready to examine the condition of the pistons, they needed Dave’s micrometer set. While Logan was rooting through the tool chest, Nick said, “Speaking of rough and family members, how’d it go with your daughters yesterday?”

  Emerging with his prize, Logan opened the micrometer case, saying, “It went real good.” He was tempted to leave it at that but couldn’t resist the chance to unburden himself on a sore point. He put the tool kit down gently and turned to face Nick. “There was this…. Krista did ask me if I was ever gonna do anything like that again.”

  Nick shrugged, apparently unfazed by Logan’s revelation. “That’s a fairly common fear. It’s good she was able to articul—to tell you that right out.” He straightened and trained a suddenly intent gaze on Logan. “What did you say?”

  “I said I was gonna do my damnedest to make sure nothin’ like that ever happened again.” Logan started his examination of the pistons but kept one eye on Nick, measuring his reaction as minutely as the condition of the pistons.

  “Good, but she’s gonna need to hear that again. They both will probably need to hear that a few times.” Nick picked up one of the micrometers and examined it idly. “That’s the worst part, you know.”

  Logan studied Nick’s unusually blank face, asking, “What do ya mean?”

  Eyes still on the delicate instrument, Nick answered, “The waiting and wondering. ‘When’s it gonna start again? Tomorrow? Next week?’ Even when nothing’s happening, there’s always this fear….” He shook his head, finishing, “You can never relax.”

  “That’s what it was like for you, huh?”

  “Yep.” Nick put the micrometer down and leaned back against the bench, his eyes directed towards the window but unfocused. “The worst times were when he was between jobs. See, he was a contractor. Well, he claimed to be a contractor, but he really just picked up odd jobs, painting, putting up sheds—stuff like that. Anyway, when he was outta work for a couple of weeks, it was inevitable….” Suddenly he turned to Logan, saying, “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this… it’s not like you’re….”

  Logan gave him a few seconds, but when there was no continuation, he demanded, “What?”

  Nick’s voice got more formal as he answered coolly, “What I mean is, your girls will have this fear, and you’re going to have to deal with it. Especially when….” The dark eyes slid sadly away from Logan’s face as he finished, “When you get back with your wife.”

  Anything but grateful for that reminder
, Logan managed to choke out, “Yeah, I understand. Thanks for the advice; I’ll remember that.” He resumed silently examining the pistons but felt the air between them fairly crackle with tension. Logan wondered if Nick joined him in cursing fate or if he had a more human target for his frustration.

  Nick broke into his reverie, drumming his fingers on the workbench, asking, “What can I do while you’re doin’ that?”

  Glad to put some distance between them, Logan dredged up his best instructor demeanor, saying, “You can look the block over real good, see if there’s any wear, scratches, or cracks. Then we can put the lifters in that box with dividers. That’ll be enough for today.”

  “Sounds good.” Nick worked in silence for a few minutes, then affirmed that the block was in reasonably good shape. He moved on to the second task and asked over his shoulder, “How was class on Thursday? Everybody ready for graduation?”

  “It was good. I’d say they’re ready.” Logan withheld the news that he’d missed Nick’s presence keenly—didn’t seem like something one friend said to another. “It’s weird though. I think I’m actually gonna miss doin’ it.”

  The only immediate response was the soft thud of metal against cardboard, but then—Reluctantly? Tentatively? Logan wasn’t sure which—Nick offered, “You don’t have to. If you’re willing, I could set up more modules. I have plenty of other clients who need to learn about cars.”

  Trying to hide his eagerness, Logan strolled to Nick’s side, casually answering, “Okay.”

  “Really?” Nick directed a wide smile—the first of the morning—up at him. “You’re willin’ to be a permanent volunteer?”

  “Sure.” Logan crouched down to join Nick in his task. “Why not?” The idea of having this lasting connection with Nick—one that would stretch out past finishing the T-bird—gratified Logan in a manner he was unwilling to scrutinize directly.

  Together they quickly polished off the chore of numbering the lifters and stowing them in the box. As they were finishing up, Nick gave him a sidelong glance and said, “Look, I’m not trying to recruit you or anything—I already have my ‘Queer Scout’ merit badge—but there’s somethin’ I gotta ask.”