A New Leaf

by Thomas Kinkade

  Matt laughed. “Go on. That’s only five.”

  “I’m counting the market twice. But never mind. The car wash, the dog groomer, the fast-photo place, the fast-food place, the slow-food place, baker’s helper, mother’s helper, hamburger helper—”

  “Hamburger helper?”

  “I just tossed that in to see if you were really listening.” Her eyes sparkled, framed by thick dark lashes. He hadn’t noticed those dimples before. Very fetching.

  He looked back down at the box and cleared his throat. “Go on. I think that’s twelve.”

  “Okay, let me see. I have more.” Molly squeezed her eyes shut, thinking. “I nearly forgot, hostess at the funeral parlor.” He shot her a puzzled look. “You know, arranging the flowers, showing people which room to go in, that sort of thing. I didn’t really have the personality for it. It was the only time I was ever fired before for smiling too much on the job.”

  “Quite ironic,” he agreed, with a grin.

  “The delivery service, the shoe store, the movie theater, the answering service, one of those women in a department store who squirts you with a bottle of perfume. I had to quit that one before lunch hour. I had a monster allergy attack.”

  “That must have been rough,” Matt said sympathetically.

  “No great loss.” Molly shrugged. “It was on to bigger and better things, the giant hardware warehouse—paints and floor coverings. How many is that?”

  “Nineteen,” he said, feeling awestruck.

  “Oh, yes, census taker. That was actually fun. Once you get some people talking, it’s hard to make them stop.”

  “I’m sure they must have enjoyed talking to you,” he said sincerely. He caught her blushing again, and she turned back to the silverware.

  “You have quite a résumé.”

  She shrugged. “That’s what happens when you don’t go to college. That’s what I tell my girls. You have to stay in school. Get a good education. Find a real career. Don’t end up like me.”

  He could see she was sensitive about the topic and felt self-conscious with him now. She had no need to be. He didn’t think any less of her for not having a college degree. Her persistence and willingness to try just about anything to earn a living was impressive.

  “From what I can see, your girls would do very well to end up like their mother.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “Oh, dear . . .” Molly stared down into the box she was unpacking. “I think something broke.”

  “My fault probably. I’m not a very good packer, I’m afraid.”

  Molly drew out the broken article, handing it to him with a look of concern.

  It was a framed photo, one taken years ago when his family vacationed in San Diego, about a year before his wife got sick. Amanda looked so different then, like a little girl. They were all smiling brightly, the white-capped waves of the Pacific in the background. Were they happy then, he and Sharon? It was hard to remember now. Were they ever really that happy with each other?

  Even on that trip, he remembered now, he was at a conference and had to attend meetings. Or he thought he did. Sharon wanted him to go sightseeing with them, but he let them go alone. She was mad at him after. He hadn’t been a good husband to her. Not really. There was no making up for it now.

  “It’s just the glass. You can have it repaired in town,” Molly suggested. He looked up at her. He’d almost forgotten for a moment that she was there.

  “Oh . . . sure. I’ll have it fixed.” He wrapped it in another sheet of newspaper and put it aside. He felt Molly quietly watching him. She didn’t say anything, but he felt that the light mood between them had suddenly shifted.

  “I guess that’s it for the kitchen. Let me show you where I put everything.”

  “Sure, fire away.” He tried to concentrate but knew he wasn’t going to remember half of it. The cupboards and drawers looked so neat and orderly, though, that he felt as if half the work of moving in was done.

  “Thanks. This is great. It would have taken me a month to get it looking so organized.”

  Molly shrugged but he could tell she was pleased by the compliment. “No problem. It’s just a kitchen.”

  The doorbell rang. Matthew was surprised. “I wonder who that is?” he murmured, stepping over a mound of newspaper as he went to answer it.

  He pulled open the front door to find Dr. Elliot holding a large green potted plant decorated with a ribbon. “Welcome to Cape Light,” the doctor greeted him.

  “Ezra, come on in.” Matthew felt happy to see his father’s old friend. Happier than he would have expected.

  “Well, looks like you’ve landed, bag and baggage,” Ezra said, gazing around.

  “It’s a mess. But I’ll get it sorted out.”

  “Moving—what a headache. I could never face it. I guess that’s half the reason I stayed put so long.”

  Matt smiled. “What’s the other half?”

  “Oh, that’s a secret,” Ezra said, with a twinkle in his eye. “Everybody needs at least one to keep life interesting.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Matt said, grinning.

  “Enough philosophizing. I just stopped by to see if you got in okay. Here’s a little something to brighten up the place,” Ezra added, handing him the plant.

  “Thanks. Very thoughtful of you.”

  “Don’t mention it. That’s a philodendron, by the way. It can survive all kinds of neglect. A popular choice for waiting rooms, I might add. But you keep that one here. I’ve already put one in your office, which, I might add, is shaping up nicely.”

  “Yes, I know. I stopped by quickly yesterday. It looks great. Sorry I didn’t get to call you.”

  Ezra had been kind enough to oversee the work on Matthew’s office while he was still in Worcester. Matt knew the older doctor was eager to bring a new physician to the town. Still, his help had gone well beyond the call of friendship. Matt was starting to think that going out of one’s way for a friend or neighbor was not the exception but the rule around here.

  “That’s all right. I’m glad you’re pleased. What else does a fellow like me have to do? I like to make myself useful when I can,” Ezra insisted.

  Molly came out of the kitchen carrying a plastic bucket. She looked surprised to see Ezra, Matt noticed, and not very happy.

  “Molly Willoughby, I didn’t know you were here,” Ezra greeted her. “Working hard as usual, I see.”

  While Matthew was sure Ezra’s comment was innocent, maybe even a compliment, he could see Molly felt stung. She glanced down at the bucket with a tight smile.

  “That’s me. Have bucket, will travel. How are you, Dr. Elliot?” she asked politely.

  “Fit as a fiddle. How are the girls? No colds this winter, I hope.”

  “Very well, thanks. You can see for yourself. They’ll be down in a minute.” She turned to Matthew. “I guess I’ll go now,” she said. “Unless you need more help. I can work upstairs on the linen closet or make up the beds.”

  He felt sorry to see her go but didn’t want her to do more unpacking. She’d already been too generous with her time. “That’s all right. Amanda and I can do all that. Would you like to take a coffee break, though? If I can find the coffee,” he added with a smile.

  She looked about to agree, but then he saw her reconsider. “Thanks, but I really should go. The girls have a ton of homework, and Lauren has to do some research at the library.”

  “Oh, yes, the electrified worms. Some other time, okay?”

  “Sure, some other time.” Molly nodded and dropped her bucket at the door. “Jill, Lauren, time to go,” she called up the stairway.

  The three girls quickly appeared, galloping down the stairs. To his amazement Amanda looked cheerful and relaxed. He’d envisioned their moving day as being difficult, even traumatic for her. Somehow it had turned out quite the opposite.

  As Amanda swung by he noticed a long thin braid in her hair, a colorful bead fastened to the en
d. It wasn’t exactly like the one Lauren wore but a homemade variation. He met Molly’s amused expression, realizing she noticed it as well and had decided not to say anything about it.

  As Molly said her good-byes and shepherded the girls toward the open door, Matthew found himself at a loss for words. He felt he should say something more than the usual, but what?

  He suddenly spied her vacuum cleaner on the porch and jumped to pick it up before she could. “Here, let me carry that for you.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Molly glanced at him, sounding surprised. They walked out together toward her car, a worn-looking blue hatchback. He loaded the vacuum into the trunk, then stood by Molly’s open door.

  “I know I keep saying it, but I really appreciated all your help. And talking with you, of course. I’ll see you around town, I hope.”

  He inwardly cringed at his own words. As Amanda might say, how lame was that? Wow, he was rusty at this stuff. He hadn’t had a date in decades. This was harder than he remembered.

  “It’s a small town. You won’t be able to avoid me,” Molly replied, with a wry smile.

  “Right. Of course. Well, I wouldn’t want to.” He stared at her for an awkward moment, then realized he was holding on to the door and she wasn’t able to close it. He let go and took a step back. “Well, good-bye now. Thanks again.”

  “Bye, Matt. Good luck with the rest of the unpacking.” Molly smiled at him, closed her door, then quickly pulled away.

  He stood on the sidewalk and watched her drive off, sure he’d forgotten something important he needed to tell her. But he couldn’t think what. Once in the house, he shut the door, then noticed the bucket by the stairway where Molly had left it.

  He picked it up like a prize, realizing he now had the perfect excuse to call.

  THE CLAM BOX WAS NEARLY EMPTY BY THE TIME TUCKER FOUND HIS usual seat, a stool at the counter behind the grill. He’d purposely taken his lunch break late to miss the rush, but so far Charlie had been busy in the kitchen with some emergency, and Tucker hadn’t spoken to him.

  He ate a bowl of chowder, paging through a copy of the Cape Light Messenger. He stared at the front page, fantasizing for a moment that the headline read “Ex-convict Returns to Town, Breaks into Church,” but he knew he was just being paranoid. Even if the paper reported the incident, they wouldn’t word it quite that way.

  They wouldn’t need to, he thought grimly. That news would travel around town in no time.

  Charlie appeared and set a dish down in front of him. “Are you sure I got this right? I’ve never seen you order a grilled chicken sandwich before.”

  “Fran’s been after me to watch my cholesterol. Says I eat too many cheeseburgers.”

  “Well, you’ve got to eat something tasty. What’s the sense if you don’t enjoy your food?”

  “Good point.” Tucker stared at the sandwich, which did not look at all appealing. “This would go down a lot easier with a few slices of bacon on top.”

  “Coming right up.” Charlie turned and arranged bacon slices on the grill, then set the metal press on top of them, making them sizzle.

  “Listen, I had some news I wanted to tell you about,” Tucker began. “A homeless man broke into the church last night. The reverend found him and took him to the hospital in Southport. Says he’s real sick. The guy gave his name as Jones. But Reverend Ben thinks he’s my half brother, Carl. He wants me to go down and see him.”

  Charlie turned and stared at him. “Your brother, Carl? That’s a wild one.” He shook his head.

  Tucker knew Charlie wasn’t much of a churchgoer and didn’t have a high opinion of the reverend. Not the way Tucker did. But that was another matter.

  “Well, what if it is Carl? I’m thinking I ought to at least find out.”

  “What the heck for? You don’t owe him anything. All he’s ever given you is trouble and aggravation.” Charlie turned briefly to flip the bacon. “I thought you washed your hands of good old Carl years ago.”

  “I did. In a way,” Tucker admitted.

  “When did he get out of jail? Do you know?”

  “A fellow I know in Paxton called me when Carl got out on parole. I guess that was about ten years ago.”

  “He never tried to get in touch with you, all that time?” Charlie asked, glancing back to check on the bacon.

  “No, none of us ever heard from him. Not a word. I tried to find Carl when the old man died, but I didn’t have any luck. I can’t say I really blame Carl for not keeping in touch. The old man was too hard on him. I wouldn’t treat a dog the way my father treated Carl. That was a lot of the problem right there.”

  Charlie laughed harshly. “Plenty of boys don’t get on with their fathers. Plenty got disciplined with a belt or the back of a hand. But they didn’t turn out like Carl. You can’t blame your old man. Carl was a bad apple from the word go. Always in trouble at school. It’s amazing he didn’t wind up in jail long before he killed that man.”

  “Yeah,” Tucker agreed. “He was always pulling some stupid stunt, and people always looked the other way, gave him another chance. Until he found a mess he couldn’t talk his way out of.”

  “But how about the time he broke in here and emptied the cash register? You consider that just another stupid stunt?”

  Tucker met Charlie’s eye and looked away. “You know it was never proved Carl did that. It was just your father who suspected him.”

  “Everyone in town suspected him, Tucker. Except maybe you and your mother. Carl was just lucky there was no evidence and that the police back then were too lazy to follow up.”

  The bacon sizzled noisily, and Charlie turned again to check it. Tucker considered Charlie’s words and decided it was wiser not to reply. This debate was decades old, and he knew he’d never win it.

  Charlie was referring to the time years ago when the Clam Box was robbed. Tucker and Charlie were just kids, and Carl was in his teens, already known as the worst kid in town. There wasn’t much in the till, so it wasn’t a great loss that way. The police were never able to figure out who had broken in, but Carl had already been caught once that summer breaking into a house with his gang of friends, though he hadn’t actually stolen anything. Otto Bates, Charlie’s father, was convinced that Carl was the culprit. Otto had no evidence, just a gut feeling and a deep distrust of Carl. He’d told everyone in town that Carl was to blame, and everyone believed him. It was nearly as bad as if Carl had been arrested and convicted.

  Charlie set the improved sandwich down in front of Tucker and disappeared to take a phone call. Tucker pushed the sandwich away, his appetite suddenly gone. It was easy to sit here and bad-mouth Carl. Other memories came to mind, though, images of his tough, older half brother scaring off a bunch of kids who were bullying Tucker after school. Or Carl tossing a game-winning pass on the high-school football field.

  Due to their seven-year age difference, their relationship was never a close one. But they still spent time together, especially when their mother—who was actually Carl’s stepmother—worked at the cannery and Carl was left in charge.

  Tucker remembered now how he had once broken the windshield of his father’s car when a baseball bat had slipped out of his grasp. He must have been about nine and Carl, who was pitching, about sixteen at the time. Tucker had been so terrified imagining their father’s reaction, he’d thrown up on the spot. Carl calmed him down, saying he’d take the blame as long as Tucker would keep the secret. Tucker gratefully agreed. But when he saw his father lash into Carl that night, he couldn’t keep the pact. By then, his father was in a mindless, drunken fury and hardly heard a word Tucker said. He felt grateful to this day for Carl’s selfless action . . . and still a little guilty.

  Tucker had looked up to Carl as a little boy, that was for sure. Then later, when he saw Carl’s flaws all too clearly, he felt embarrassed by his misplaced admiration. Still, there was some spark of feeling left for his half brother, if only a sense of shared history and duty.

  Charlie return
ed and started working on another order. Tucker watched him a moment before he spoke again. “Come on, Charlie. He wasn’t all bad. The way he played football, we thought he was something else. Scouts from all the big schools came to check him out. They came as far away as Chicago,” Tucker reminded his friend. “He had some arm. Could have made pro.”

  “He was good,” Charlie acknowledged. “But they all knew he was trouble. Carl had a self-destructive streak a mile wide. You talk about your father mistreating him, but he gave Carl his fishing ticket,” Charlie went on, referring to the lobster-fishing permit. “Would have set him up with a nice income if he worked at it. Carl managed to mess that up, too.”

  “Nobody ever proved Carl was poaching.” Tucker found himself coming to Carl’s defense again. “He was accused. It was never proven.”

  “Accused is as good as proved in my book. The state permit board seemed to think so, too. He lost his ticket, didn’t he?”

  Tucker didn’t answer. Everything Charlie said was true. Carl’s losing his lobster-fishing license wasn’t the worst thing he’d done, but it was the beginning of the end, Tucker thought now.

  The waters in New England were crowded with lobster men and the waiting list for a license was long. The valuable lobster-fishing permits were handed down from father to son. Each lobster fisherman marked his traps with a colored float, uniquely his and registered with his license. The float’s design stayed in the family for generations, like a crest. The Tulley float was yellow with a white stem striped with pink, black, and green. When Carl lost his license, the colors were given to another fisherman. Losing the permit and the float for poaching—or even the accusation of it—was a family disgrace. That’s the way Tucker’s father saw it. His threadbare relationship with his firstborn finally reached an end. As far as Tucker knew, Walter Tulley gave up on Carl that day and never spoke to him, or of him, again.

  It wasn’t long after that, Tucker recalled, that Carl got into a fight in a bar that ended when Carl felled his opponent with an unlucky punch to the head. The man died in a hospital a few hours later, and Carl was arrested on charges of second-degree murder. He claimed he acted in self-defense, that the man had been coming at him with a knife. But eyewitness testimony was shaky and the case was prosecuted by an aggressive D.A. who was trying hard to win convictions and make a name for himself in the county. Tucker had tried to get Carl a good lawyer, but his brother had stubbornly chosen the court-appointed attorney who was well-intentioned but sorely inexperienced. Foregoing a trial, Carl entered a guilty plea. He was sentenced to fifteen years in jail and drew parole in ten.