by Nick Adams
I stopped by my parents’ place to see how the evening had been. It was hot and stuffy inside, as usual. Doreen Warner was reading one of her Fabio paperbacks in her rocking chair. Jack Warner was sleeping in his recliner with his shotgun across his lap. An episode of Sledge Hammer was playing on the boxy 90s TV.
Sledge was one of my father’s favorites out of his collection of 80s television shows he kept on VHS. Come hell or high water, Dad was bound and determined to hold onto his VCR. DVDs and digital copies were sacrilegious apparitions to his eyes, foreign and untrustworthy. He was old school. Appliances were supposed to be purchased once and last a lifetime. Like a Craftsman screwdriver or an Estwing hammer.
Personally, I enjoyed those silly old shows, even though I had a great time ribbing Dad for his devotion. The humor was more relaxed, less forced. Many of the plots were steeped in intense cold war paranoia. Shows like Airwolf and the A-Team. On top if it all, the 80s commercials were priceless.
“Quiet night?” I said to Mom.
“Thankfully,” she said.
Dad snorted himself awake at the sound of our voices and looked at me.
I said, “Don’t get up.”
Before he could speak, Frank charged over and gave him a giant kiss. Dad battled his way to a vertical position and said, “Evan. Yuck. A box got delivered for you. Frank, ugh. Good grief. I forgot to tell you earlier in all the excitement.”
“It’s a huge box,” Mom said, just before Frank got to her. “We left it in the corner of the garage.”
I turned and went out to the garage and found the box. I knew exactly what awaited me. After dishing out a silly amount of money, I’d been waiting weeks for my prize to cross the Atlantic. Mom and Frank followed me out. They watched me tearing into the box with Christmas morning fervor.
Inside the shipping box was a much narrower box wedged between wads of plastic bubbles. I extracted the narrow box. Laid it on the floor and, kneeling, carefully cut the tape with my Swiss Army knife. I rolled back the cardboard flap and my heart skipped a beat. An instant lump formed in my throat. It was even more beautiful than I’d expected.
“What is it?” Mom asked.
I stood up with a heavy scabbard in my left hand and a Scottish claymore broadsword in my right hand. Not a scale replica. The real deal. I shook off the cardboard blade guard and admired the shine of the polished steel and the leather grip. The craftsmanship and attention to detail was stunning. It was a menacing instrument of death. Fashioned beautifully with the utmost care and skill.
“Good lord,” Mom gasped.
Frank sniffed the empty box.
“See that?” I said to Mom. “The sword William Wallace used to decimate King Edward’s northern army.”
“Who?”
“You know, Braveheart …”
“Oh …”
I slung the scabbard strap over my shoulder and gripped the sword with both hands. Held it high, like Lion-O wielding the Sword of Omens. It was six pounds of steel designed specifically for dispatching enemies with a single blow. An astonishing weapon. The sort of weapon wielded by fearless men who defended their families and defied tyrants, and in so doing redirected the course of history. The mere sight of it was enough to conjure up boyish delusions of joining history’s great fraternity of legendary warriors. Hefting it made me feel like Conan the Destroyer.
“Is it real?” Mom asked.
It took me a moment to step back out of my thoughts and say, “Of course it’s real.”
“W-w-what do you need a huge sword for, honey?”
I looked at her as I lowered the blade, pondering her and her strange question. What didn’t I need this sword for?
“I can wear it while I patrol the grounds,” I told her. “It’ll be a deterrent and a conversation piece in one. And, if the need happens to arise, I can cleave a man’s limbs clean off with this baby. One swing.”
Up till then my mother had stood calmly, wearing an expression of surprise and confusion. But then all at once she lost her composure and a sort of sad despair took her over. Like she’d tripped and fell suddenly into a hopeless pit. Her breathing changed. She swayed slightly, as if she’d just been confronted with some devastating news.
I wasn’t exactly sure what was happening. Obviously it had something to do with my sword. So, being the good son that I am, I slid it carefully into the scabbard and pushed the whole apparatus behind me, across my back. Out of sight, out of mind. Then I went over and put my arm around her. She’s barely five foot two. It felt kind of like hugging a kid.
“You okay?” I asked.
“N-no,” she said in a shaky voice.
I leaned over for a closer look. Her eyes were welling up. She was sniffing. Within seconds I figured there’d be a waterfall.
Frank, with his acute canine senses, detected the coming storm as well. He nudged her hand with his cold nose and whined.
I gave Mom a little squeeze and said, “Hang in there. Okay?”
“No,” she said again, slowly shaking her head. “That’s just it. I keep hoping it will be okay. I keep hoping you’ll grow out of this fascination with weapons and—”
“I doubt it,” I put in, but she couldn’t hear me.
“—battles and fistfights and confrontations. Guns, knives, axes. Now swords. Treating the campground like a warzone. It’s always something! And I just keep dreaming that you’ll settle down with Laney Holt before she gives up on you completely. And move out of the cabin and into a regular house. And have a child. At least one child. I’ve always wanted grandchildren, Evan. You know that. I’m not asking for three or four. Only one!”
I said, “Mom, you’ve gotta be reasonable.”
“You be reasonable! I’ve got a husband watching Sledge Hammer with a shotgun and his belly sticking out. And my son is unboxing medieval weapons in the middle of the night. I’m not the crazy one!”
“In all fairness,” I calmly pointed out, “Dad’s belly is only sticking out because you feed him too much. And because you keep the house as hot as a Mexican prison. No way can the poor guy button his shirt. Cut him some slack, ma. You’ve been roasting him for the past thirty years. He’s done well to last so long in that oven. Realistically, you should be thankful he wears pants.”
After that she started sobbing and sniffing to the point where I couldn’t understand her. I had to walk her back into the house. Frank remained in the garage to sniff all the empty packaging. Dad sat up sharply in his chair when he realized Mom was crying.
“Good Christ,” he said.
“Just us,” I assured him.
“What’s wrong?”
Mom tried to answer, but only managed to muster a few squeaky sounds before she darted to the kitchen for a box of tissues.
I said, “She’s just a little nervous about my new toy.”
Dad leaned way over in his chair, straining to see into the kitchen, where Mom was blowing her nose. Then he looked at me.
“What the hell have you got now?”
I turned my back towards him and said over my shoulder, “William Wallace’s claymore.”
“No kidding,” he grinned.
“Don’t even ask what it cost.”
“I don’t wanna know.”
That was no understatement. Aside from the considerable costs of building and maintaining the campground, my father was famously tight with money. In a little wooden box on his dresser he stored some keepsakes dating back to his youth. Including a tarnished quarter minted in the late sixties. One of two he’d earned at ten years of age, in the early seventies, as payment for mowing old Jon Stall’s massive lawn with a manual push mower. More than once he’d proudly shown me that quarter. It was an example to prove his great understanding of the value of a dollar.
All joking aside, I respected him for it. Usually I’m cheap with my own money. Except for certain necessities.
I looked into the kitchen at my mother. She was leaning against the counter, dabbing her eyes. Probably wishing s
he could go back in time thirty years and join a nunnery.
“She’s a little tense about today’s incident,” Dad said quietly.
“Understandable.”
“Well, not only because of the kidnapping attempt. She’s afraid that one of these days, one or the other of us will get hurt.”
“We haven’t yet.”
“But you could!” Mom said. “That’s the point.”
Dad said, “We were very lucky today. Things could’ve gone very badly for both of us.”
I argued, “Luck had little to do with it. If those guys had any brains at all, they’d have waited till dusk to make their move. Inept, bumbling amateurs.”
“Maybe. But your mother has a legitimate point. Did I tell you that the trooper found a pistol in that van? That’s serious business. We both need to be more cautious around here. Times are changing. Too damn fast.”
I said, “Look, if a SEAL team parachutes in to overthrow us, then we can panic. Until then, it’s just business as usual. No worries.”
“Evan,” Dad sighed. “If your mother wants to worry, let her worry.”
“Why would I want my mother to worry?”
He waved his arms and said, “Maybe it makes her feel better. Hell, I don’t know!”
“You’re not a parent,” Mom put in. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
“I’m a dog parent.”
“That’s not the same.”
“It’s very similar emotionally,” I said. “Science agrees with me. Yahoo! it if you don’t believe me.”
Mom made the last ditch response, “But you’re not a spouse. Or a mother.”
That was true. I never had to worry about being a mother. Unless something very weird happened involving a space ship and an experiment. I looked back and forth at my parents for a moment. Mom appeared very satisfied after her final verbal jab. Dad just wanted the whole thing to go away.
“Listen to yourselves,” I said. “Have you both gone insane in this heat factory? What is it, eighty degrees in here?”
“Evan,” Dad said. “That’s enough. Let it go for now. Willya?”
I shrugged and said, “Okay. Have a good night.”
As the door closed behind me, I heard Dad saying, “Damn it, Doreen, I know you’ve got sweaters in your closet. The kid’s got a point. It is hotter than hell in here.”
17
Will was asleep in my rocking chair. My headlights washed over him as I turned into the drive. His big frame was reclined as far as the rocker would allow, with one foot propped up on the side railing. The lights roused him. By the time Frank and I got to the porch he had gotten to his feet and was stretching.
“Exciting night?”
“Very,” he grunted.
“Nothing at all?”
He shook his head as he scratched his chinstrap beard. Said, “Everyone’s pretty charged up about the kidnapping. I heard you really rocked one of those guys.”
“Not really,” I said.
“Some woman,” he said. “Linda, I think. She said you dropped him like a sack of potatoes.”
“It took two swings. Didn’t land my punches clean. I was too eager.”
After a pause he asked, “Did you talk to Uncle Danny?”
“He told me they found the kid’s father.”
Willie nodded. He’s twenty-two, the younger son of my father’s older brother, my uncle David. Big Willie has been his nickname since he played high school football. He’s an inch or so taller than me and at least fifty pounds heavier.
If not for a catastrophic knee injury sustained in his third season of college ball, Willie might have had a shot at the NFL. Or at least a practice squad. He was a damn good center to build a line around and several scouts had spoken with him. But that part of his life ended abruptly when a teammate fell and caused Willie’s knee to bend in a direction it was never meant to. Now he spends half of his time playing video games. Either football or shooter games.
I went into the cabin and found an empty pizza box on my little kitchen table. A large box. Empty. Not even a stray peperoni to give Frank. I gave Willie a funny look.
“Your Mom brought it for me,” he said. “I was gonna save you a piece. But, you know …”
“It’s your waistline, man.”
He nodded proudly. Then he noticed that I was carrying a broadsword. He looked long and hard at it with sleepy eyes. Like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
I unsheathed the claymore and assured him that it was real.
“Holy. Shit.”
“It’s nice, right?”
“That is boss, man. Can I hold it?”
“No way. Get your own.”
I replaced the sword in its scabbard and passed through the kitchen to the living room. There were three doors leading to two bedrooms and a bathroom at the back of the cabin. I went through the left door, into the smaller of the two bedrooms. Years back I removed the bunk beds and now use the space for a personal armory. I leaned the claymore against the back wall. Beside Gimli’s battle axe. Someday I plan to get a nice display cabinet. But there just never seems to be time.
“You been with Laney?” Willie asked when I came out to the living room.
“Not since dinnertime. Why?”
He shrugged. Said nothing. Then he sat on one end of the couch. I took the other end. Frank settled on his blanket by the fireplace. The small living room was pretty much full with the three of us. We were quiet. I was glad to be home and so was Frank. Willie was bored and sleepy and curious. It was a strange mixture of differing vibes.
“What are you looking for?” I finally asked.
He shook his head and tried to act disinterested. But I could see by his expression that the wheels were turning.
“What?” I said again.
“Nothing, nothing. It’s just that your mom was sort of worried. We were talking earlier. She thinks you might get obsessed with the missing girl again.”
“Lucy Kurtz.”
“Yeah, her.”
“You really wanna know?”
He looked at me intently. Obviously he wanted to know.
“You want to help me?” I asked.
“Hell yeah.”
“Great. If I need you, I’ll let you know.”
“Now? Tonight?”
“Not now. I’m in for the night.”
We fell silent again. I guess I was being a jerk, stringing him along. And it was working. Willie was concentrating hard to try to guess what I’d been up to. He was leaning forward, wringing his hands. I was tired and ready to quit for the day. Willie had absolutely nothing going on in his life.
“So,” he finally said.
Willie’s not a gossip. I know for a fact I can trust him with just about anything. So I gave in and told him the whole story of my evening. Everything from meeting Kendra to checking out the house of horrors. The only detail I held back was the amount of cash I recovered.
“You really trust this girl?” he asked. “I mean, you’re sure she’s not playing you for some reason?”
“I couldn’t detect any acting when we spoke. Yeah, I trust her.”
He leaned back and settled deep into the couch. I could feel the poor frame and springs straining and buckling under our combined weight.
“It sounds funny,” he said. “She picks you out of a crowd to ask for help.”
“I was standing by the bulletin board. She saw Frank’s hair on my shirt.”
Frank lifted his head momentarily. Once he realized he wasn’t being directly addressed, he settled back down with a sigh.
I resumed, “And she didn’t come right out and ask for my help. I offered.”
“Maybe that was her game. To recruit someone sympathetic. Maybe she’s got a grudge against those boys and needed a guy to set them straight.”
“Maybe she really misses her dog.”
“I like dogs,” he said. “And I don’t think those guys should get away with fighting them. But they sound like the wrong
guys to mess with.”
I laughed.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Maybe they are a couple of idiots, but they might have friends. They could be into bigger stuff than dogs.”
It was a legitimate point. One I had already considered. But I didn’t care. My mind was already made up. They were at my mercy now. Not the other way around.
“Real big stuff?’ I asked. “Like big money?”
“Maybe.”
“And they stay on Bow Street?”
“Could be good cover.”
“They’re nobodies. Just dirt bags slithering around in their comfort zone. That’s all.”
“All right,” Willie said. “If you’re not worried, then I won’t worry.”
“I’m not worried,” I assured him.
With that Willie heaved himself up off the couch with a grunt, said, “It’s getting late.”
“I’ll call you if I need you.”
“Boot your ass if you don’t,” he said on his way through the kitchen.
“Take your friggin’ empty pizza box,” I called. “Or I’ll boot your ass.”
He grabbed it, said, “Peace,” and went lumbering out the door.
I got up and went to the screen door and called, “Wait.”
He came back in a hurry. I met him at the door. He looked hopeful. Like something big was about to happen. Until he saw that I was in the process of tying a bag of trash. Which I then handed to him.
“Here, toss this in the dumpster on your way by.”
“Gee, I’d love to,” he said and trudged away with the bag in one hand and the pizza box in the other.
I give Willie a hard time now and then. But really I love the big ogre and he knows it. He looked like a paler version of Shrek marching away in defeat into the darkness. He slid into his truck and the whole thing rocked on its old springs.
I went back to the living room and flopped on the couch. I was drained from the long day and the excitement of the evening. A few minutes on the couch made that very clear. I considered turning on the TV, but instead reached up to the shelf at the end of the couch for a book. The Call of the Wild. One of my absolute favorites.
