Shadowshift

by Peter Giglio

  The ammo case clanged open, and Chet’s hunch bore fruit. Within the box, a half dozen thick stacks of rubber-banded cash. Several gold eagles in coin-store sleeves gleamed. And cased in hard plastic, three Topps bubblegum relics from the ’50s and ’60s—rookie cards of Pete Rose, Nolan Ryan, and Hank Aaron. Not mint condition, but remarkably clean for their age.

  Ray Mitchell, Chet’s father, had collected cards like these—no, he had coveted them—and Chet was filled with the urge to snap the cases and destroy the cards within. But, even in a depressed memorabilia market, these iconic offerings stood evergreen, and Chet feared how long it might be before his next windfall. Besides, destroying the cards would never do anything to fuck with dear old Dad. Maybe he’d deface them with a ballpoint pen, write lewd messages across their once glossy surfaces and mail them to his father’s address in Ohio.

  Although dismissed faster than hatched, that idea made Chet grin.

  Box in hand, he rushed from the room. At the back of the house, he turned the dead bolt, flung the door open, and heard the unmistakable bleating of a tripped alarm.

  Running toward his car, he thought about the mystery this would leave for the cops. They’d probably determine he—the perp—entered and laid low with the resident present. He hoped that’d be the case. That shit would heap plenty of fear on Phil Wise’s already paranoid psyche.

  Chet hated people, and killing the tattered shreds of a man’s remaining sanity was always a sweet bonus. Especially when the man reminded him so much of dear old Dad.

  He laughed as he drove.

  Halfway home, he covered his eyes and sneezed, and that made him laugh harder.

  Ten minutes after Chet’s departure, the Savannah Police Department responded to the scene of the crime. And, as Chet had hoped, they were mystified.

  CHAPTER 2

  The sun is a sliver on the western horizon as Tina’s Corolla enters the city limits of Springfield. More than fifteen hours on the road, minus a ten-minute stop for gas and McDonald’s outside Nashville, and she’s exhausted. She’s also excited and hopes the same can be said for Hannah, who stares blankly out the passenger window.

  “Wait till you see your new room,” Tina says, trying to jar her daughter out of her head. “Big windows, great view of the park. And you’re going to love the park. There’s a bike trail and a running track.”

  Hannah turns, now facing her mother, and shrugs. At least she’s smiling—sort of. Perhaps it’s a trick of the light, dusk’s shadows lengthening. “That’s nice,” she says.

  “Come on,” Tina says. “Look at us, moving halfway across the country, going on the greatest adventure of our lives, and that’s all you can say?”

  Without responding, Hannah returns to the blur of passing trees outside her window.

  Don’t push too hard, Tina thinks. This isn’t the greatest adventure of her life, it’s yours. Her moment’s yet to come. From a cup holder, she grabs an e-cigarette and takes a long drag. The short black cylinder’s tip glows blue for a moment, then Tina exhales vapor, which lingers on the air before dissipating.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that in the car,” Hannah chides.

  “Why?” Tina protests. “It’s scentless. At least it’s supposed to be.”

  “Well, it’s not. And you can’t tell me nicotine is good for you.”

  “Keeps me from losing my cool, and I’d say that’s good for everyone. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Hannah moans.

  “Hey, I gave up smoking cigarettes for you, sweetheart.”

  Hannah shakes her head. “You know as well as I do, you quit for Kevin.” This comes out flat, matter-of-fact, no trace of anger.

  Hannah’s emotional intelligence never ceases to amaze—and sometimes piss off—Tina, who thrusts her e-cig back into the drink holder with a loud clatter. Immediately ashamed of this show of anger, she takes a deep breath. “Well, are you at least looking forward to seeing Kevin? I know he’s anxious to see you again.”

  “Of course I am, but I’m also ready to get out of this car.”

  “Yeah, that makes two of us.”

  Tina thinks her daughter’s enthusiasm might be too much to wish for. Although she’s glad Hannah doesn’t waste copious time playing fast fingers with her cell phone, like most kids her age, sharing banal emoticons that express feelings she may or may not genuinely feel, she wishes Hannah had friends, even if that came at the price of joining Generation Text. After all, aren’t adults supposed to despise the normal things children do? Just like Tina’s mother hated combat boots, dark lipstick, and the off-tune crooning of Robert Smith and Morrissey, her mother’s mother had probably taken issue with Mick Jagger. That’s how it’s supposed to work.

  Then again, Hannah’s favorite bands are Muse and Death Cab for Cutie, and Tina likes both. Go figure. Tina asks, “Wanna listen to some music, Han?”

  “Please don’t call me that, Mom, unless you want me to start calling you Chewie.”

  Tina growls, her best impression of the Millennium Falcon’s co-pilot. They both break into laughter. A nice moment, erasing the solemn shroud that fell over the car somewhere in Kentucky. Tina loves laughing with her daughter.

  More than that, she loves most everything Hannah does—straight-A student, keeps her room clean, selfless, empathetic toward the plight of strangers. Other than her tendency to brood—something Tina’s keeping a close eye on—Hannah’s an angel. A blessing, yes, but also more than a little frightening. Although off beam, and she knows it, Tina hopes Hannah does something wrong soon. Something bold. Nothing that’ll hurt her, of course. Just enough to say, Hey Mom, I’m fucking normal, and I’ll be okay.

  Yeah, that’d be nice.

  As Tina merges onto an exit ramp, Hannah sits up straight. “Is this it? Are we here?”

  A modicum of excitement lights Hannah’s oceanic irises, bringing a much-needed smile to Tina’s mouth. The tension of the last nine hundred miles lessens, Tina’s grip no longer tight on the steering wheel. “Almost, sweetie. We’re in Springfield.”

  “Oh jeez, I must have missed the sign. Why didn’t you say something?”

  As strip malls and fast-food joints unwind along Sunshine Avenue, Tina considers her response. Finally, she says, “I growled it.”

  “Hey, I don’t speak Wookie.” Hannah’s smile widens as she shakes her head. This is followed by another period of silence, but this time the silence is free of tension.

  Tina gestures at the world beyond the windshield. “Well, how does it look?”

  “Like everywhere else I guess, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Well, it’s new, at least to me, and…and, well, that’s good.” Hannah nods. “Yeah, it looks good. Good enough.”

  “A place to start over?” Tina says. She’s asked herself this question hundreds of times today already, and the answer is always the same: The right place to start over is anywhere new.

  Hannah’s reply doesn’t come quick. “Yes, a great place to start over.”

  This affirmation bolsters Tina’s mood even further, and she starts talking excitedly as places that Kevin introduced her to glide by. “Oh, wait until you try Andy’s Frozen Custard,” she says.

  “I think custard is nasty,” Hannah says.

  “Well, what about Culver’s? You’re gonna love the butter burgers there.”

  “Mom, we ate at a Culver’s in Charlotte when we went to Carowinds. Remember that? Wasn’t anything all that special.”

  “You’re no fun,” Tina says, but her smile doesn’t fade.

  Hannah chuckles. “I just told you that Springfield is a good place to start over, didn’t I?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “Do you really think I need to be charmed with new food options?”

  “I don’t know. Oh, hey, they have this special kind of cashew chicken the Chinese restaurants invented here a long time ago. Kevin loves the stuff—it’s his favorite!—and we ate it a lot the last time I flew here to see
him.” Tina still feels guilty about leaving Hannah in Georgia the two times she flew to Springfield and the three times she drove to Chattanooga to meet Kevin, but the long absence of physical intimacy in her life had given rise to strong urges that screamed anything but, Bring the kid! Besides, Hannah had enjoyed staying at the palatial home of Terri Farnsworth, Tina’s literary agent in Atlanta. Terri had a trio of beagles—Larry, Moe, and Curly—and Hannah absolutely adored them.

  “Well, is this cashew chicken any good?” Hannah asks.

  “Honestly, I didn’t care for it.” Tina laughs.

  “So why are you telling me about it?”

  “I don’t know, maybe I’m just hungry.”

  “Sounds more like you’re excited.”

  “Yeah, I am, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  Slowing the car, Tina turns into Kevin’s subdivision. No, she thinks. Our subdivision. “You know,” she says, “I wouldn’t be doing this if you and Kevin didn’t get along so well. The few times he visited us in Savannah, you really took a shine to him.”

  “Well, he’s kind of amazing. I guess you can say I love him.”

  Like always, Hannah’s tone is matter-of-fact, but the preteen’s affection for Kevin never ceases to shock Tina. While Hannah expresses love for Tina with regularity—the two have always been close—she never conveys such strong feelings for anyone else; rarely for anything else, unlike so many other tweens. Until now.

  Empathy seems to come easy for Hannah, as does intelligence. Love, however, does not, which hardly surprises Tina, whose daughter has been given every reason to harbor distrust. But Kevin is different. There’s a childlike quality to him. An innocence that Tina finds hard to define. Not neediness exactly, because Kevin doesn’t cling or push or force things. She suspects other women have been driven away from him because of it.

  The house comes into view, and Kevin, dressed in a Violent Femmes T-shirt and tattered jean shorts, stands on the porch, grinning. When he spots his new arrivals, he strides to greet them.

  Without killing the engine, Tina pulls the parking break and bounds from the car, running into Kevin’s waiting arms.

  “Moving truck already came and left,” he says.

  Waving fast with a chest-high hand, Hannah sidles up to Kevin. “Hi,” she says.

  “There she is,” he exclaims. “Princess Hannah.”

  “So everything’s already inside?” Tina asks, looking up at him. She can’t believe this is real. She’s finally broken free of Savannah. She’s finally home and in the arms of a man who loves her.

  “Not the most important cargo,” he says, extending an arm and bringing Hannah into the hug. “The most important cargo just arrived.”

  Yes, Tina thinks, we’re finally home.

  CHAPTER 3

  Legs crossed in a plastic chair, Tina rested her elbows on an old Formica table. In one hand, a neglected Pall Mall burned toward the filter; in the other, she clenched her throbbing head, certain it would explode at any moment.

  The central air system sputtered and clanged, causing Tina to glare at the thermostat in a futile effort to will things right. The control panel was set to 70°, but the damn temperature in the apartment read 85°. She’d left three messages for the maintenance man—polite and soft-spoken on the first, shouting by the third. The fourth would be time to get fake lawyered-up.

  It was hard to like Savannah. Hot as hell was one thing; she could make peace with the weather. But Low Country apathy, prevalent in the service industry, was downright maddening. If Southern hospitality were ever a real thing, Tina suspected it had died long before her arrival seven years earlier.

  When she’d gotten pregnant, Chet was hell-bent on moving. Starting over, he’d called it. But his technique for choosing their destination left something to be desired in the sanity department. He’d thrown a dart at a map of the U.S. She should have protested then, but the notion had seemed strangely romantic at the time.

  “Let fate decide,” he’d said. “Then the three of us will grab life by the balls! We’ll make a winning team, always watching each other’s backs. We can be the family neither of us ever had!”

  Chet wasn’t without his charms, and she’d been in love with him. Despite erratic fits of rage, a massive unearned ego, and his constant exaggerations, she hadn’t been able to resist his wounds. Always her weakness: the need to fix. And the dark stories of his abusive childhood wrestled with her heart. He’d needed her as much as he needed a new beginning, and she had needed one, too, so she had agreed to flee the Midwest in favor of the Georgia coast, all because of the trajectory of a little red dart.

  Now, here she sat, broke and broken, waiting for his return. Always waiting, even when he was there. What she waited for exactly—him to grow up or to keel over from a massive coronary—she didn’t know. Either would come as a blessing. And even though she still loved him on some dim obligatory level, gone were the days of trying to heal him.

  A flash of physical pain jarred her from her mental anguish. A red welt shined from her middle finger (my fuck-you finger, she thought), a burn from the forgotten cigarette. She crushed the butt into the ashtray, then lit a fresh one and drew a deep drag. Normally, she hid her smoking from Chet—took it outside—but not tonight. She’d had enough. Felt rebellious. Ready to make it clear she was a person with needs, and the days of him controlling her were over.

  The kitchen clock read 11:20. From the open bedroom door, she heard Hannah sneezing and blowing her nose. Her little girl’s allergies were worsening. Chet had promised to pick up Hannah’s prescription on his way home from work, but that had been hours ago. Tina knew he wouldn’t have it when he walked through the door. And without the car, she couldn’t pick up Hannah’s Veramist herself. Besides, the pharmacy closed over an hour ago.

  She dragged her TracFone across the table. Chet’s name glowed from the directory. Then, just before she pressed SEND, the dead bolt rattled and turned.

  Tina stood and braced herself, and her defiant resolve withered. The door whooshed wide, and there he stood. His grin appeared implacable, despite the blue smoke serpents swirling though the kitchen and the half-full ashtray on the table, which normally would have set him off. A rectangle of metal—some kind of box—hung from his white-knuckled grip. He kicked the door shut and approached, then put his free arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head.

  His embrace went unreturned.

  He took a step back and glared at her. “Shit, can I get a welcome home? Come on now, don’t leave me hanging.”

  She shrugged and drew deep from her cigarette, then blew smoke in his face, her will to fight coming up for air. It was hard not to stay mad at Chet.

  “Goddammit!” he shouted.

  “Did you pick up Hannah’s Veramist?”

  The metal box clanged and clattered on the chipped linoleum. He threw his arms in the air and began circling Tina.

  “Keep it down,” she said. “Hannah’s trying to sleep. So did you pick it up? You didn’t, did you, you fucking bastard. I ask for so little, and you can’t even—”

  “Do I have to do everything for this family?” he growled. Without waiting for a response, he added, “Well, do I?”

  “You promised you would, Chet. Besides, I’m happy to get a job, pull my weight around here with the bills. Maybe we could afford a second car. It’s not fair to leave me cooped up around here all day, and this fucking apartment is driving me crazy. Do you know what it’s like to be a prisoner?”

  “Do I have to remind you of all the shit I endured as a kid? You think you’re a prisoner? You think you have it bad?”

  “I’m getting tired of you using your childhood as an excuse. That was then, this is now, and I need you to pull your head out of your ass and start thinking about someone other than yourself.”

  Snarling, he leaned forward, his face coming as close to hers as it had on their wedding day. “And what would you do with a car, Tina? Run away? Leave me and
Hannah to fend for ourselves. You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

  A snide chuckle, then she said, “I’d never leave Hannah.”

  “This is ridiculous. You’re at my throat the moment I walk through the door.”

  “You’re damn right it’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.”

  He yanked the metal box from the floor, then strode into the living room and plunked onto the couch. He snatched the remote control and starting scanning through channels. When he landed on Pawn Stars, his favorite show, he threw his feet up on the coffee table, stuck a pillow behind his head, and leaned back.

  “So that’s it?” she said.

  He heaved a sigh, then pointed the remote at the screen, cranking up the volume. From the TV, a dimwitted argument between Rick and Chumlee blared.

  “I told you to keep it down,” Tina said. “Hannah is trying to sleep.”

  “Can’t a man get a moment’s peace in his home anymore? Give me a break, Tina, and shut the hell up.”

  “So it’s fine for you to come home five hours late with no explanation, to forget your daughter’s medicine, and what, I’m the bad one? Do you see how fucked up that is, Chet?”

  “You don’t understand me,” he groaned.

  “No,” she admitted. “I don’t understand how anyone can be so thoughtless. Please enlighten me. Give me something. Anything. Hell, make something up. Just don’t—”

  “You’re shouting,” he said. “I thought we were trying to keep it down. Or do the rules only apply to me?”

  “Where were you, Chet?”

  “I was working,” he snapped.

  “Your shift ended hours ago. I called the store and confirmed—”

  “Do you think I don’t know when my shift ended? I said I was working, not that I was at work, and while you were smoking you precious cigarettes, right here in the same home where my sick little girl struggles for air, I was out making moves for us.” Grabbing the metal box, he rose from the couch, then he bolted back into the dining room and slammed the box onto the table. He struggled with the latch for a moment, his hands shaking from anger, but soon he popped the lid open. He pulled out a rubber-banded stack of cash and slapped it down in front of Tina, then he pulled out more. More money than she’d ever seen.