Inked Up

by Terri Thayer

  She found herself humming along with her father, even breaking into the chorus of “The Weight” when her father starting singing about pulling into Nazareth about half past ten. When he started on James Taylor, she surprised both of them by knowing all the words to “Sweet Baby James.” They’d spent many hours listening to his favorites: Carole King, Janis Ian, The Band.

  A longing for the way things used to be washed over her. It was so strong, she had to turn away from her dad to hide the tears in her eyes. She didn’t want him to think she was unhappy. Just the opposite. Moments like this, when they were working together, in sync, she felt so close to him. She loved that she knew him well enough to know that he would launch into “Sweet Home Alabama” right after “Sweet Baby James.” Well enough to know he wouldn’t mind if she took her time looking for the right size screw but would go nuts if she handed him a hex wrench instead of a socket. Well enough to know that he was happy to be building things with his daughter.

  Her heart filled with joy and she smiled at him.

  “What?” he said, looking up from the knob he was tightening.

  “I just love working with you,” she said. “I’m glad to be back home.”

  He sat back on his heels. She worried about his knees. Bending so much at his age couldn’t be good for him.

  “Ape, you coming back to Aldenville is the best thing to happen in years.”

  Within the hour, they had the place semilivable. The couch and chair had been moved under the loft. Ed hooked up the Campbells’ TV close by. April had been getting by with the small TV built into the kitchen wall. She wasn’t big on watching network TV, preferring to watch movies on her laptop in bed or catch up on series online.

  Now she’d have two elderly people living with her. She was only glad that she hadn’t planned on bringing Mitch home anytime soon. Talk about awkward.

  One last problem remained.

  Ed and Vince had moved their office out of the barn several weeks earlier, so the bed fit nicely on the opposite wall. The Campbells could warm their feet by the gigantic stone fireplace on the northern side. One dresser fit next to the fireplace, but the other was too large to go anywhere, unless she took down her drafting table.

  It sat in the middle of the floor like an accusation.

  “I’m going to have to take the drawing table apart,” April said, standing back, hip cocked. She didn’t like the idea but was determined to do whatever was necessary. She knew she could do without her table, sketching stamps in the loft or at the kitchen table, but it still felt like a wrench to take it down completely. A real reminder that she didn’t live here. Not really.

  Her father said, “We can find a place for it.” He looked around the room, moving in a circle. His finger was at the ready to point out possibilities. But he couldn’t come up with any. The once vast space had filled up with the large ornate furniture the Campbells favored. He pointed at the barn doors.

  “If you keep them closed, you could put the table in front. Just use the kitchen door.”

  “Winter’s coming, Dad. I doubt it would be comfortable to sit there. Look, it’s no big deal.”

  Ed looked at his daughter, his worry lines as pronounced as a pulsing vein. He was really stuck between a rock and a hard place.

  She flipped over the drafting table and worked out the first screw that held the legs on. “No worries, Dad.”

  The kitchen door opened just as she was stashing the pieces of her table in the closet next to the bath. She and Ed greeted the new arrivals.

  Vince led his mother in gently. She was soft and pink, her hair a nest of curls. She was dressed in polyester pants and a well-worn sweatshirt with a bear dressed in a plaid shirt on the front. Her black sneakers were practical, laced tightly with neat, double-tied bows. Above the tongue were bright orange socks. A pin shaped like a ghost on her lapel blinked off and on.

  She eyed the six-burner stove. “Vincent, I don’t think I could cook on this. I would be afraid to push the wrong button.”

  Ed kissed her cheek. “You’ll be fine, Mom. I’ll give you a lesson or two and you’ll be good to go. You know April, my daughter.”

  “Call me Charlotte, dear,” she said, smiling at April. She touched her cheek. “You’re a pretty girl. Took after your mother,” she said with a baleful glance at Ed.

  Ed rolled his eyes.

  Vince leaned out the door and yelled, “Dad!”

  A line of profanities turned the air blue. Vince winced. His mother seemed oblivious. She put her purse down on the kitchen table and started opening the cabinet doors. She was a natural nester.

  April was a little ashamed of how bare her cupboard was. There was no real food, only things that could be microwaved, usually in a cup or a bowl. Sometimes she added water.

  Vince went back outside. They could hear him clearly. “Leave the damn car alone. I’ll take it into the shop next week.”

  A strong but quavery voice came back. “You can’t let it knock like that, boy. You’re just asking for trouble.”

  “Here comes Grizz,” Ed said. She and her father were lined up as though in a receiving line.

  “Grizz?” she asked. “I thought his name was George.”

  “That’s his given name. He’s an old Marine. They nicknamed him Grizzly Bear in the war. Most people call him Grizz.”

  He might have been built like a bear at one time, but the man who came through the door, still stewing about Vince’s dieseling engine, was hardly ursine. He was only about five-foot-six, the same as Clive on a good day. His barrel chest had sunk. The only thing grizzled about him was his facial hair, which looked like it needed a good shave.

  “Grizz, you’ve met my daughter, April,” Ed said.

  “I don’t remember,” he said with a wave of his hand. “You need to have your timing checked.”

  “Got it,” Ed said.

  Vince was clenching his teeth when he gave April a hug. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in her hair. “If there was any other way . . .”

  She kissed his cheek. For the first time, she wondered what Vince would be like in thirty years. Did he have a choice or would he grow into this irascible, grumpy old man? April hadn’t considered what a household of two old men might look like. She stole a glance at her dad. He was already full of complaints and worries. What would thirty more years of life do to him?

  The thought gave her a stomachache. She was an only child, with two sets of aging parents. Yikes.

  Living with the Campbells would be good practice.

  An hour later, April was wondering if she’d make it through the first day. The TV was blaring downstairs and April couldn’t concentrate up in the loft. Why did it get louder and louder when they broke for commercials? She blew out a breath, trying to calm herself, but felt herself tense up again as someone downstairs changed channels.

  Then she checked her phone. Mitch hadn’t called. She knew he had his hands full with the Homes for Hope houses and Valdez, but no text, no calls. She’d even checked her e-mail although she knew he hated using e-mail for personal use. Nothing. She wanted to tell him about this newest wrinkle, and let him know not to come over later.

  She gave up and climbed down, using the bathroom, splashing cold water on herself and staring at herself in the mirror. No answers there. She walked into the living room. Grizz was in his corduroy recliner. Charlotte was on the high-back sofa, crocheting.

  Scott Ferguson was on TV. He was smiling at the camera, seated in a chair on a stage. Another chair was empty alongside him. He looked seriously like an actor in a SNL sketch. A crawl on the bottom of the screen told the viewer that his annual telethon raising money for the Widows and Orphans was this weekend.

  “Whatcha watching,” April said, sitting next to Charlotte, figuring if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.

  Charlotte said, without missing a stitch, “It’s a repeat of Scott’s Highland Fling show. We never miss it. He gives such good tips on how to live life.”

  He soun
ded more like a evangelist than a TV personality. April was intrigued. Ferguson wasn’t dressed in a kilt today. Maybe the prospect of crossing his legs on live TV was too daunting even for him. His suit was plaid though, and the effect was mesmerizing. The lines in the plaid seemed to shimmer on screen.

  April turned her attention to Charlotte’s crocheting. It seemed to be a sweater with an intricate pattern and popcorn balls. She picked up the far edge. Charlotte smiled.

  “Do you want to learn to crochet, dear? I could teach you. Considering we’re going to be spending so much time together.”

  April fought the urge to flee. She could see the nights spread out in front of her. Mitchless, she’d crochet afghans and sweaters that Ed wouldn’t wear. The idea was so depressing.

  “Send him some money,” Grizz growled. “He’s got those damn kids on again.”

  “I will, honey, don’t worry.”

  On cue, pictures of smiling little kids standing in front of a dilapidated building flashed on the screen.

  “Don’t forget the telethon this weekend, people,” Scott said. “Saturday, beginning at noon. All the money will go to the AIDS Widows and Orphans. It’s all hands on deck.”

  “We’ll be there,” Charlotte said earnestly to the TV. “You can count on us.”

  April went over to Bonnie’s to give the Campbells some time to settle. She still had the box of deliveries from Trish in her car. Maybe Bonnie would know where to find Xenia’s sister.

  Again Bonnie and Clive were in the backyard, surrounded by kids. Vanesa sat alone at the picnic table, which looked forlorn without its summer tablecloth and umbrella.

  “April,” Clive managed to get out, puffing with exertion.

  “April!” mimicked one of the boys. He had a dimple in his cheek and a mischievous glint in his eye. He clearly hadn’t figured out his mother wasn’t coming back.

  “Lovely to see you,” Clive said, scrambling to his feet, brushing the dead grass from his khakis. He had dirt on his knees, and his hair stood on end, as though he’d put it through a Flowbee. The little girl, Erika, helped to clean him up, slapping his knees firmly, a determined expression on her face, her cheeks reddened from the play, her bird-like chest heaving.

  “Lovely to see you,” the boy echoed. His British accent was pretty good.

  “Knock it off, Greg,” Vanesa said. “No one likes that game.”

  Greg pouted, his lower lip jutting out a good inch. He had huge brown eyes with long eyelashes, and April suspected he was used to getting his way with that pout. She hid a smile. She doubted that Xenia had been immune to his charms.

  Greg and his two brothers, one taller and skinnier, and the other shorter, looked like three stair-stepped versions of the same child. Erika, the youngest, circled the boys, tapping a shoulder, a knee, trying to get a rise out of one of them.

  “What are you guys doing?”

  Clive peeled Greg off his arm. “We’re just going in to play some music.”

  “Nooo,” Jonathan, the youngest boy, wailed. “Hide-and-go-seek,” he cried.

  “Shut up, Jonathan,” Greg said.

  Jonathan punched Greg and wrestled him to the ground. They rolled around like puppies. Tomas, the oldest, watched them. He looked like a referee, ready to step in if he was needed.

  Erika toddled over to Vanesa, and hanging on to her leg, began to suck her thumb. She rubbed the hem of Vanesa’s knit shirt rhythmically. Vanesa ignored her but didn’t push her away. April felt tears push to her eyes as she thought of these kids growing up without a mother. This teen was bound to bear the brunt of it.

  “Let’s show Aunt April what we sing,” Clive said. “She looks like she could use some cheering up.”

  April raised an eyebrow at her mother. “Aunt April?” she mouthed. “No way.”

  “They are the closest I have to grandchildren.”

  Bonnie laughed and linked her arm in hers.

  “Mom,” April said as they walked behind Clive and the kids toward the house, “have you seen Xenia’s sister?”

  “She has to keep on working. She drops the kids off, but that’s all. We don’t really talk. She’s trying to cope, but she’s pretty out of it, poor thing.”

  Vanesa hung back, letting the kids run ahead. She was eavesdropping. April lowered her voice a bit more.

  “The thing is, I have this box of stuff for Xenia’s clients. I was hoping her sister could help me figure out what to do with them.”

  “You don’t have much choice, do you? You’re going to have to deliver them.”

  Vanesa stopped and let them catch up to her. “I can help you,” she said. “I helped my mother all the time.”

  “Would you?” April said.

  Vanesa nodded.

  “Great.”

  Wanting to lead the way into the house, Greg pushed Jonathan aside as the two reached the back door. Jonathan began to wail.

  Clive patted his shoulder. “No worries, mate. Being first don’t mean nothing. Being last is the best.”

  Erika, who was being carried by Vanesa, climbed down. She stood by the door, giving each of her brothers a gentle push through the door. Then she piped up, “I’m last. I’m best.”

  Clive scooped her up and she giggled. “You get to pick first, Erika. Tambourine or bells?”

  “Bells, bells,” she shouted, dropping out of his grasp and heading for a wooden trunk that April had never seen before. It was standing in the middle of the living room. The kids must have been spending a lot of time here.

  Erika opened the trunk with help from Tomas. He hadn’t said a word, but he’d been observing. April wondered if he’d always been so solemn. He held the lid open so his sister and then his brothers could pick out their instruments. Jonathan pulled out a washboard and a stick, Greg a pair of maracas. Erika rang her bells, racing around the room.

  Tomas handed the tambourine to Vanesa, who took it gingerly. She stopped the noise it was making with the palm of her hand. April recalled watching Clive on his old TV shows, spinning the tambourine, twisting his body as he tossed the disc in the air and caught it behind his back.

  He had the same sparkle in his eye now.

  “Tomas,” Clive said, bending with a flourish. “Maestro.”

  Tomas sat at the piano, with his fingers poised to strike. Clive sat next to him. Bonnie settled into her favorite chair and picked up her knitting.

  “He’s a natural,” Clive said to April.

  Jonathan, Erika and Greg were getting maximum noise from their instruments. April began to wonder if Clive had any earplugs around. He was already half deaf himself.

  “Okay, kids,” he said quietly.

  The cacophony, miraculously, ceased. Vanesa raised her eyes up from the floor for a moment.

  Clive raised his hand like a concertmaster. All ten eyes were on his fingers. He pointed to Erika, who jingled her bells. Next was Jonathan on the washboard. Each of the kids took turns, making their instrument sing until Clive stopped them with a crisp snap of his hand.

  April clapped.

  “That’s just our warm-up,” Clive said with a grin. “Wait until you hear this.”

  He sat next to Tomas on the piano bench. “One, two, three . . .”

  He began playing. Tomas played along. Clive sang, his voice still strong and easy on the ears. The kids joined in, blending their voices with his, hitting the high notes Clive could no longer manage.

  It was a song April hadn’t heard before, reminiscent of his old stuff but with a modern twist. She found herself moving her hips along with the beat.

  Vanesa closed her eyes and sang, her general sullenness forgotten as she caught harmonies with Clive. She had a lovely voice. Her face was transformed from sad to beatific. Erika tucked her hand into her sister’s and watched her as she sang along in an earnest, piping tone.

  “Wow,” April said, clapping. Her hands seemed inadequate to make enough noise to truly appreciate what she’d just heard. “You guys are amazing.”

  �
��I wanted to sing ‘Banana Pancakes,’ ” Greg said solemnly. “But Clive made us sing his song.”

  “I’ve never heard that song before. New?” April asked.

  “I’m working out some stuff,” Clive said. He looked away, suddenly shy. He turned his attention to Jonathan, who had come over to the piano and was pounding the keyboard.

  Greg, on the floor, had untied Clive’s shoelaces and was retying them to each other, sneaking glances up at Clive, who remained oblivious. Tomas stopped his brother and fixed Clive’s shoes.

  Greg looked up. “Clive says we’re his music,” Greg said.

  April turned to Clive with a question on her face.

  “My muse,” he said.

  April laughed. Greg shrugged comically, his skinny shoulders rising up to meet his ears.

  The doorbell rang. Bonnie started out of her chair, but April gestured to her to stay put.

  “I’ll get it.”

  She’d barely gotten across the living room when two men entered from the little-used front door.

  Her heart leaped when she recognized Mitch. She couldn’t see who was behind him. She felt a rush as the kids ran past, Greg shoving Jonathan, Tomas right behind them and little Erika trying to catch up.

  “Daddy,” Erika screamed.

  Vanesa stayed where she was, but April was glad to see a smile grow on her face.

  Pedro Villarreal was nearly knocked over by his children’s joy at seeing him. He took it in stride, grabbing Jonathan by the arm and lifting him and Erika up without a struggle. Tomas and Greg stood at his feet, jockeying for position, but not fighting.

  “I got him a lawyer,” Mitch whispered to April as Pedro’s kids jumped on him.

  April felt her own frown lines deepen. “How? With what?”

  Clive tinkled on the piano, joyous music underscoring the sweetness of the reunion.

  April led Mitch to the kitchen where they could talk in relative peace and quiet.

  Mitch crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. Bags had formed under his eyes and his skin looked sallow. April didn’t like how tired he looked.

  “What did you use to retain the lawyer?”