by Karen Harter
Ty glared at him without speaking.
“Normally you would be confined to your own home, but I understand in this case special arrangements were approved. As of today you’re going to start receiving calls at random to confirm your whereabouts. The voice recognition system is set up to call you at this phone number on weekdays and at your home on evenings and weekends.” Millard leaned forward intently as Mark Dane explained the system while Ty feigned disinterest. The probation officer then pulled out some court documents stapled in one corner. He went over community service and the $100 fine that Ty would be expected to pay into the crime victims’ fund, and stressed that Ty must complete and receive passing grades on all his schoolwork. The latter rule pleased Sidney but caused Ty to sink a little lower in his chair, his frown deepening. At least she would have a reprieve from being the bad guy.
“And as I’m sure you’ve read, because your crime was a felony, you’ve lost the right to possess firearms of any kind.”
Ty had not read his court paperwork. His head whipped toward Mr. Dane. “For how long?”
“The rest of your life.”
Sidney was surprised by the way her son’s eyes narrowed, the way this news seemed to affect him.
He shook his head defiantly, huffing an angry breath. “That sucks!”
PEANUT BUTTER, whole wheat flour, toilet paper. Sidney’s shopping-list entries popped out of her head and onto the paper on her desk in random order. If she could pick up some groceries on her lunch hour instead of after work, she would be home that much sooner to relieve Millard of Tyson and vice versa.
She was just reaching for her purse when she heard Micki greet someone who had entered the office. “Does Sidney Walker still work here?”
Sidney’s heart leapt. She rolled her chair clear of her cubicle and waved. “Hi, Jack! Just a minute.” She met him up at the reception counter, where he stood looking a little awkward, his hands thrust into the back pockets of his jeans.
“Hey,” he said, “have you been to lunch yet?”
She smiled and shook her head, wishing Micki would do something about the silly grin on her face. “No. Your timing is perfect.”
She grabbed her coat and purse and followed Jack outside. White clouds stampeded across the sky toward the westerly mountains, and a chilly wind thrashed her hair across her face. She pulled a strand from her mouth so that she could speak. “I’m glad you found me.”
“Yeah, me too. I forgot to ask if you were still working here when I saw you at the market. I had to come to Ham Bone today for a meeting, so I thought I’d look you up.”
Sidney felt a twinge of disappointment. So he didn’t drive twenty miles just to see her. It had been an afterthought. He certainly would have called her if it had been a planned thing; he had her number. Jack’s pale green cotton shirt undulated across his stocky body, but the wind didn’t budge a wiry hair on his blond, short-cropped head. He looked pretty good; it was definitely a better look than the stained butcher’s apron.
“You wanna go to Clara’s?”
Sidney’s mind raced through the vegetarian options on the menu at Clara’s Café. Slim pickings. She’d probably have to settle for a salad. “Sure.”
After driving three blocks to the west end of town in his polished black SUV, they seated themselves at a table against the wall. Jack did not pull out her chair. He immediately sat and flipped his menu open, scouring the entrees. Sidney couldn’t compete with the colorful pictures of patty melts and French dips. She stared at the blue floral wallpaper until he pushed the menu aside. “Okay.” He looked for a waitress. “You know what you want?”
“Yes.” She leaned back casually. “So what is the meeting that brought you all the way to Ham Bone?”
“Peewee football. I’m coaching again this year. The Ham Bone coach lives up on Sparrow Hill. That’s where you moved, isn’t it? Dave Petrie. Do you know him?”
“Petrie. I think his son is in Sissy’s class, and he rides the girls’ bus. Well, sure. David Petrie, obviously named after his dad.”
“Yeah, David’s on the team. He’s a good little kicker. We’re doing tackle this year—no more flag.”
“Really? How old are these kids?”
“Seven or eight years. Eighty pounds or so.” He chuckled in response to her expression. “Don’t worry. They’re fully suited up, shoulder pads, helmets, and all.”
“You’re a good man, Jack.”
His blue eyes sparkled. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you volunteer your time for the sake of those kids. You don’t even have one of your own.”
His friendly smile straightened into a thin line and he shrugged. The waitress came to take their order, returning quickly with a Pepsi for Jack and a cup of steaming chamomile tea. Sidney felt Jack’s eyes on her as she dunked her tea bag, but when she raised her eyes, he glanced away.
She followed his gaze out the window. The foothills rose like dinosaur backs behind the false-fronted shops lining Center Street. Blotches of amber and burnt red marbled through the predominantly evergreen hills. The hot tea was comforting, warm in her hands. “I’ve always loved autumn,” she said. “Especially here in Ham Bone. You can smell the snow in the mountains long before it falls this low.”
“Yeah, but once it covers the ball fields, it’s all over. Nothing to do but order a stack of pizzas and watch sports on TV.”
She scoffed. “You and your sports. Are you still a junkie?”
“Don’t start in with me. What do you want me to do, paint little birdies on junk furniture like you? You still do that stuff?”
She lifted her chin, smirking. “Oh, if you only knew. When I run out of old furniture, I paint cigar boxes, apple crates, you name it.” She lowered her fork and leaned across the table. “People buy my things, Jack! Hannie Mays put one of my chests in the entry of her gift shop and set a lamp on it. She has to tell people all the time it’s not for sale. Hannie says I should get a card made up and go into business.”
“Well, why don’t you?”
“Capital. More specifically, lack thereof. I pick up cheap used furniture at yard sales in the summer, but once school starts, it’s pretty hard to find.” She poured hot water from a tiny teapot into her mug. If she could just save up some money—or if Dodge would ever get around to paying child support—she would start her own business as quick as she could slam the door at Leon Schuman Insurance.
“Don’t you miss good old Ham Bone?” she asked.
“Hah! Not really. Dunbar isn’t exactly a metropolis, but at least we have a semipro baseball team and stadium, a bowling alley with ten lanes, and multiple places to get a steak after
9 P.M.”
She smiled softly. “The important things in life.”
“And my job is there, you may remember. I make almost double what I did at Graber’s. I could commute, but why? No, I made that decision after you and I broke up.” He glanced away again. “Getting out of Ham Bone is one of the smartest things I ever did.”
“I guess it’s different for someone who’s lived here their whole life. After Dodge left, I thought about going back home to Cleveland, but it was too late for me. I’d already fallen in love with this three-lane-bowling-alley-everything-shuts-down-around-dinnertime town. I don’t find it boring, not for one minute. I like the fact that I can go out on my porch and breathe air that’s been filtered by the thousands of Christmas trees on those hills. My children wander the woods instead of city sidewalks and noisy, smoggy streets. I feel safe here.”
Jack grew quiet, chewing, gazing at her face. “What’s new with Ty?” he finally asked. “Is he doing well in school?”
She took a deep breath and blew it out, dropping her head momentarily. Oh, God. It’s time. “He’s in trouble, Jack.”
His eyebrows pinched. “What kind of trouble?”
“To summarize, he shoplifted at Graber’s Market, and when Mitch tackled him on his way out the door, Ty pointed a pellet gun at him. It counts
as a felony because of that. He’s on modified house arrest for fifteen weeks.”
Jack let out a low whistle. “I can’t imagine Ty doing a thing like that.”
“He’s changed, Jack.” She was saying too much too soon.
She stopped herself, relieved when the waitress appeared with their lunches. Jack’s burger was as thick as a cow pie, filling the air with greasy fumes. She squeezed lemon onto her salad, dropping the rind into her water glass.
Jack’s mouth was full when he resumed their conversation. “Changed how?”
She shook her head. “Maybe it’s normal teenage boy stuff. He just seems chronically unhappy, that’s all.” She avoided stronger adjectives like dark, angry, rebellious—anything that might scare Jack off. She guessed that the first thing to assess was whether there was any chance of reviving what she and Jack once had together.
“I’d be unhappy too if I had to stay indoors for fifteen weeks,” he said. “What is that? Almost four months.” He shook his head, the light from the window giving his eyes the look of blue glass. “As I remember Ty, he came out of the woods and ponds only when he was hungry or to show off his animal friends. That kid stalked bullfrogs like a heron. I’ve never seen anybody catch those wise old frogs, the big ones that have been around awhile—not by hand, anyway. Normal people can’t even see them. I watched him wade into a lake at the edge of a ball field once,” he laughed, “back when I was trying to get him interested in playing baseball. He moved about as fast as the hour hand on a clock and came out of the lily pads dangling a big old boy by its armpits, legs like that male ballerina, Baryshnikov. Or is it ballerino?”
That struck her funny and she laughed long and hard. “A bullfrog ballerino. I can just see Sissy dressing him up in a tutu and dancing him around.” She noticed a couple from a nearby table looking over at them, smiling.
Jack grinned. “Anyway, it was all Ty could do to hang on to the thing with both hands. Pretty soon the dugouts were empty and the pond was full of boys in muddy knickers. Ty coached them on the fine skills of frog hunting.” He chuckled. “We had to call off practice for the day.”
She smiled. “He liked going places with you, even though he was never very good at sports. His dad never threw him a ball as far as I can remember. By the time you started taking him to games, all the other boys had been competing for years. Ty didn’t even know the rules. That embarrassed him. He cried in my arms about it one night and it nearly broke my heart. Flying your model airplanes, though, he liked that.”
“Yeah. I should get back to that sometime. I have to finish building this little biplane I’m working on.” He popped a thick french fry into his mouth. “How does this house-arrest thing work? Is he home alone right now?”
She told him the whole story about how poor, kind Mr. Bradbury had been squeezed into this predicament and was now doing time for fifteen weeks behind his own picket fence.
“So, Ty didn’t even know the old man before this?”
“Nope.”
“How does he feel about the arrangement?”
“Oh, he hates it. But that’s tough. He deserves worse for what he did. I just feel bad for Millard. It’s no fun being around Ty right now. He seems set on making everyone around him just as miserable as he is. We met with the probation officer this morning.” She smirked and shook her head. “He’s mean and very blunt. I liked that about him. One of my problems is I’m not mean enough. I don’t know how. So this guy is going to monitor Ty’s community service and his schoolwork. I’ve never been able to get that boy to finish his homework—ever.” Her eyes widened dramatically. “But now if he doesn’t do it, he goes straight to jail.”
Jack grew thoughtful. “Do you still think he has ADD?”
She frowned. “That’s what some people call it.”
“Do you medicate him?”
“No. And I never will. He’s not sick; he’s unique. He’s also extremely intelligent.” She sighed. “Jack, you know I’ve been battling this for years. Since way before you and I were together. He has never fit in at school, and because he doesn’t sit still and learn like other kids, he’s been pegged as a bad kid. He’s been treated like a bad kid, and maybe that’s the one thing he has learned at school. He’s bad.”
“But maybe if you put him on Ritalin or something—”
“No drugs. I don’t know what the answer is, but I know in my heart it is not pumping harmful chemicals into him.”
She glanced at her watch. “Oh, my gosh! My lunch hour was over ten minutes ago.”
Jack paid the bill while she applied fresh lipstick and put on her coat. Ten or fifteen minutes late might be overlooked on occasion. But she had showed up late for work several times in the past few weeks and had taken two unscheduled days off—all on behalf of her rogue son. On the day of Tyson’s arrest just outside their office, Mr. Schuman had allowed her to leave early. Sidney had been no good for anything, as upset as she was. Her employer of three-plus years had exhibited neither anger nor sympathy. Whether he was about to fire someone or give them a raise could never be told by looking at his deadpan face.
Jack drove her right up to the front entrance of the insurance office. “Nice to see you again, green-eyed lady.”
She flashed a smile. “Ditto, dude. Hey, thanks for lunch. That was a nice surprise.”
He clicked his tongue and winked as she opened her own door and stepped out to the curb, then he shoved his Suburban into drive and pulled away. She stood on the sidewalk in shock. That was it? No “When can I see you again?” No “I’ll be calling you.” Nothing. She had done it. She had gone and done exactly what she had warned herself not to do. Spilling her guts about Tyson that way. What perfectly happy single man would willingly subject himself to that environment?
Sidney looked down at herself. She had worn sensible shoes today, her brown loafers with the chunky heels, simply because they were near the front door when she dashed across the street with Tyson to meet the probation officer. She looked like a mom. Her eyes misted up. Like a mediocre agent in a dwarfish insurance office in a hick town called Ham Bone. Maybe that was all she was. There wasn’t time or energy for anything else. She dabbed the corners of her eyes. She didn’t even know how to seduce a man.
She turned to go into the office. Leon Schuman stood at the window, staring at her blankly with his arms folded across his chest.
14
YELLOW LEAVES were losing their grip on Molly’s apple tree, but the red winter fruit hung like ornaments from its spindly branches. Millard snapped off the last bite of a cold apple, letting the tangy juice run down his chin. He stomped down the fresh dirt on the newest molehill, remembering with chagrin when the mole invasion was the biggest worry in his life, then tossed the apple core into his pile of leaves and continued raking. It was a good day to be outdoors. Even a rain squall would be more comfortable than the environment indoors. That kid was sucking all the oxygen out of the house. There was this silent sensation like just before a twister descends, vacuuming you up along with everything you hold dear and dumping you someplace like Oz. Maybe Rita was right. Maybe something was on the horizon that would cause him to regret his involvement with this troubled boy even more than he already did.
But he was a man of his word. Millard Bradbury did not go back on a promise.
A gust of wind stirred his pile of leaves, scattering some across the grass like flitting birds. And then he heard it again—Jefferson’s innocent laughter. It was a sound that rang out in his head when he least expected it, and then he would look around him and remember. It was a day like this, sometime in October, the mountains like purple slate against a hazy blue sky. He leaned against his rake and sighed, blinking at the sting the memory brought to his eyes. Millard had spent all afternoon raking a yard full of leaves into a single pile that day and then had gone into the garage for some matches. He heard his son’s jubilant shouts, ignoring them at first. Jefferson was always celebrating something. It could have been the discovery of an
inchworm or a pot of gold—equal causes for rejoicing in Jefferson’s world. But it had been the pile of leaves. Millard came out of the garage to see flurries of red and gold dancing against the cold sky and Jeff flinging another armload into the air with a loud cheer. His beaming face was upturned, arms spread like a statue in the park inviting autumn birds to land.
Millard squinted up at the weeping birch by the corner of the picket fence, the tree’s branches dripping with leaves that shimmered like gold medallions against a backdrop of pure blue. A breeze sent a flurry of them into the sky and they drifted down to the lawn. Jefferson had turned fourteen that autumn. Millard remembered it with a chill as he watched the leaves stir at his feet. Fourteen and still a child. He swatted in frustration at the pile of leaves with his rake, watching them scatter. He had ranted and raved about the mess Jefferson made of his neatly piled leaves. Oh, what terrible things he had shouted, driving his son back into the house in tears. If he could only get that day back—all of them—he would do better next time. But it was too late. Next time would never come. Millard bent down, scooped an armload of dead leaves against the prongs of his rake, and tossed them violently to the wind.
He suddenly remembered the kid in the house and felt foolish. Raking leaves into neat piles just to spread them over the lawn again could be construed as insanity, and proving to people that he was not losing his marbles had become a preoccupation recently. Millard glanced furtively toward the front window. Tyson was no longer at the dining room table cheating at solitaire. What was the kid doing? With a twinge of uneasiness, he stepped toward the garden for a better view. Not slouched on the sofa. Oh, there he was, standing at the side window. Millard followed the boy’s gaze westward, out to the untamed five-acre field beyond his picket fence. And then he saw what the boy must have seen: a buck emerging from the woods with a rack big enough to display every forgotten hat in Red’s Barber Shop. The deer raised its snout to the wind before dropping its powerful neck to graze. He was majestic, Millard thought, suppressing the urge to grab his rifle and pump some lead into the hide covering the buck’s heart. His days of hanging deer by their hindquarters from the maple tree behind the garage were over. Too much work and too much venison. But if that old boy dared to even look over the fence at his apples, well, that would be a different story.
