by Karen Harter
Alex Estrada stood to his full height and took a deep breath, studying her. He had seen her laugh; she was sure of it. “I can only imagine what else Amilia said.”
Sidney smirked as she placed the candies in his open hand. “I’ll never tell.”
18
HALFWAY THROUGH the peewee football game, it began to rain. Not the usual drizzle that Sidney was accustomed to, but shafts of steel shooting down from the heavens like a barrage of medieval spears. Jack blew a whistle and with a violent throwing motion of his arm sent the entire field of mini football players scurrying toward the parking lot. Sidney and the girls scrambled down from the small bleachers, laughing and dashing with the rest of the crowd toward the protective cover of their vehicles. The black sky above them made a blanket statement: the game was called.
The girls piled into the backseat of her car. Sidney watched through the streams of water on the windshield for Jack, using a napkin from the glove box to blot her face. “Mom, look at my pom-poms. They’re ruined!” Rebecca dropped her wet head against the back of the seat with a dramatic sigh.
Sissy waved her feather dusters. “Too bad you don’t have some of these.” She glanced down at the clumps of wet crepe in her sister’s lap and then brushed her legs with her wet yellow feathers. “But mine don’t paint.”
That comment made Sidney take a second look over her shoulder.
“Oh, no!” Rebecca wailed. Just as Sidney had suspected, the red dye in the pom-poms had bled into Rebecca’s pale blue jacket and pants. “Mom, will it come out?” she whined.
The rain pounded on the car roof like hail. Sidney tried to peer through the downpour. Where was he? How long could it take to gather up a football? Surely Jack wasn’t standing out there in the torrent discussing the game with the other coach. “Sissy, take your things out of that plastic bag and put those pom-poms in it before they touch anything else. Becca, stop pouting. You don’t even like that jacket, remember?” Both girls looked like half-drowned cats. She pulled the visor down to look at herself. Her mascara had run, and her hair lay flat and dark, dripping like syrup from her head.
The knock on her window startled her. Water poured down Jack’s forehead and cheeks. She cranked the window open, laughing at the sight of him. “Hey,” he said. “A bunch of us are going to meet at Jimmy’s for pizza. Do you want to go in my car?”
She remembered that Ty was due back at about three and she would have to be home. Hopefully they had enough work to do under the cover of Amilia’s porch roof to keep busy until then. “We’ll meet you there.”
He peered in at the girls, grinning, and slapped the car door. “Okay. See you there.”
She watched him dash to his dark SUV and followed him for three blocks. Jimmy’s Pizza was attached to the three-lane bowling alley on the west end of town. They parked around back, darting inside and heading straight for the circular fireplace in a sunken area in the middle of the restaurant. They were in luck. Some people who had been sitting by the crackling fire were just getting up. Sidney peeled off her wet jacket, running her hands through her wet hair. “Girls, hang your jackets on the coatrack to dry.” She smiled at Jack. “I’ll be right back.”
In the restroom she wiped the mascara smudges from her eyes, ran a comb through her hair, and applied lip gloss. Another young woman slid in next to her, leaning over the sink to paint her full lips a deep rose. “I saw you at the game,” she said, blotting her lips on a paper towel. “Aren’t you Tyson Walker’s mom?”
Sidney smiled. “Yes, I am.”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “I heard all about what happened. God, you poor woman! I don’t know what I’d do if one of my kids went off the edge like that. Luckily my boys don’t have a mean streak in them.” She shook her head. “They’re both as good as gold. I hear you feel a lot safer now that he’s in jail.”
“Oh, really? Who told you that?”
She scoffed. “Well, who knows who told me first? This is Ham Bone, for God’s sake.” She put on a sympathetic expression. “How much time did he get?”
“My name is Sidney Walker.” She didn’t offer her hand. “What’s yours?”
“Oh.” She looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Patty Polanski.”
“Well, Patty,” Sidney said as she zipped her purse closed and headed for the door. “See you around.”
Jack had saved her a chair next to him. The place buzzed with voices; kids whose spirits were not dampened by the rain begged their parents for quarters to play the video games in the back corner of the restaurant, and as always there was the distant sound of bowling balls striking pins in the alley next door. “What’s wrong?” Jack said.
She tried to shake it off. It didn’t matter what people said. She inhaled deeply, willing her face to soften. “It smells wonderful in here, and we got the coveted chairs by the fire where we can warm our toes. What could be wrong?”
Jack grinned. His blond hair had recently been buzzed down to about a quarter inch all the way around. The jock look. “Always the optimist. I ordered a veggie pizza for you and the girls.” Sissy and Rebecca, along with a couple of friends from school, were revolving their bodies in front of the fire across from them like chickens roasting on a rotisserie. “I can’t believe how big the girls are. Sissy was missing her front teeth the last time I saw her.”
“She’s almost eight now; Becca’s ten.”
“How are they at soccer?”
“Sissy is pretty good. That girl has no fear, and she’s as tenacious as a terrier after a rat. Becca could be better if she wasn’t so afraid of getting muddy.”
He shook his head with a frown. “That’s not good.”
She chortled and slapped his leg. “Don’t get all in a tizzy. There’s more to life than sports, you know.”
“Like what?”
“Well, drama, for one thing. I’ll bet you anything we’ll see Becca parading across our TV screen some day.” Our TV screen. She hadn’t meant it to sound like that. This was only their second date, after all, if one could qualify it as a date when she had driven her own car and had her girls in tow.
He shrugged his stocky shoulders. “Well, what if she stars in a movie about a soccer player? She’s going to have to know all the moves to be convincing. You can’t fake skill.”
Sidney leaned toward his face, which was rosy from the weather and the fire. His blue eyes were like ice in contrast. She could feel the warm glow emanating from her own skin. “Thank God for doubles, or stunt women, whatever you call them,” she said. “I don’t care if my kids win any trophies. All I care about is that they have fun.”
He shook his head, clicking his tongue. “You still don’t have a competitive bone in your body.” It was not meant as a compliment. A number was called from the service counter and he stood. “Number nineteen. That’s us.” He bent toward her face, placing his hands on the little table next to her. “Winning isn’t everything, green-eyed lady, but if you’re not doing it, you’re the loser.” He leaned into her ear, repeating the word in a teasing whisper. “Loser.”
She laughed and smacked his arm. It was as solid as a fire log. “Why don’t you go get those pizzas before they get cold?”
What a perfect way to spend a rainy Saturday afternoon. Sidney kicked off her shoes, propping her stocking feet on the brick hearth. Within minutes steam began rising from her toes. What was taking Jack so long? She turned and stood to peer over a planter full of fake ferns behind her. Jack was still up by the counter, two pizza boxes in his arm, talking to, of all people, Patty Polanski. A nasty feeling ran down Sidney’s backbone. Patty was all smiles, talking to Jack with animated gestures as if they were longtime friends. She kept touching his arm. Sidney looked at his face. He was definitely into the conversation, not just waylaid, no furtive glances toward the fireplace where Sidney waited. That little gossip was charming him so skillfully that even the scent of the pepperoni pizza just below his nose couldn’t lure him away.
Sidney couldn’t bear to wat
ch the pathetic scene. She went back to her seat, returning Rebecca’s wave from where the girls now sat at a table with friends. Was this a date or not? She had no idea. Jack had asked only if she’d like to come to the game. So maybe they weren’t even officially together here. Should she pay for her own pizza? A thought occurred to her. She stood again for another peek. Patty’s good-as-gold little boys had joined them, looking up at Jack like he was some star quarterback. And aha! Just as Sidney suspected, their charming mother was not wearing a wedding ring. Sidney saw right through Patty’s little game. She plopped down in her seat again while an uneasiness seeped like heartburn into her soul. How was she different? Jack was probably every single mother’s dream. She glanced around the crowded restaurant. How many more of them were out there drooling for the opportunity to share a slice of pizza from his box?
And then his words came back to her. You still don’t have a competitive bone in your body. Loser!
She jumped to her feet. Sidney Walker was not a loser! She stepped up the two steps from the sunken fireplace area and walked directly up to Jack. “Hey, did you get lost?”
“Oh, sorry. Hey, Sidney, this is Patty Polanski”—he gestured then toward each of the boys—“and Jacob and Jason. I was their coach last year.”
Patty faked a half smile, which Sidney ignored. She smiled down at Patty’s boys. “Was he a good coach?”
“Yeah!” they said simultaneously. “But now he coaches the Dunbar team,” one said.
Patty pushed her stylish brunette hair upward as if to gain volume. “So how do you two know each other?”
“Oh, we go way back,” Jack said, glancing at Sidney. “From when I lived here in town. I guess we met at Graber’s Market, didn’t we?”
“Yup. You were the produce manager back then.”
“And you were what we called a melon-knocker. Sniffed and squeezed everything.” He turned his head toward Patty. “I had to watch her like a hawk to keep her from bruising the avocados.”
That brought a deep laugh out of Sidney, partly from embarrassment. There was an element of truth to it. “I do not abuse vegetables. I like them too much.” She lifted the top of one of the pizza boxes in Jack’s hand. “Speaking of which . . .”
“Yeah, hey, let’s eat. It’s getting cold.” Jack patted the boys’ shoulders. “I’ll see you around, guys. Coach Petrie will let you know when we play each other again.”
Sidney turned to head back to their seats by the fireplace, glancing over her shoulder, expecting to see Jack on her heels. Instead she saw Patty stretch out her hand to touch Jack’s arm. Sidney read her lips. Call me. She saw the back of Jack’s head drop in a quick nod. He gave Patty a midair salute before walking away.
19
ON MONDAY MORNING, Ty arrived on Millard’s porch with a Crock-Pot full of his mother’s chili. The boy slid his heavy backpack from his shoulder onto the sofa on his way to the kitchen to plug the cooker in. “I guess you’re stuck with me ’til about eight-thirty,” the boy said in passing. “Mom has to go to open house at the school tonight.”
Millard nodded. “That’s right. She told me last week and I almost forgot.” Tyson returned to the living room, where Millard sat in his chair with the Herald and his second cup of instant coffee. “I saw a man bring your sisters home on Saturday.” Millard had planned to wait awhile longer before casually bringing it up, but the curiosity had tormented him like an itch on a palace guard’s foot. “Was that your father?”
The boy shot him a strange look and scoffed bitterly. “No.”
Millard waited.
“That was Jack. An old boyfriend of Mom’s. I guess they met him at Jimmy’s because his game got rained out. He coaches peewee football. Anyway, Mom had to come back here because of me, but Jack took Sissy and Becca bowling.”
One of Millard’s legs was crossed over the other, his brown leather slipper bouncing rhythmically in the air. “Oh. Nice guy?”
Tyson shrugged. “He’s okay, I guess.” He kicked off his shoes without untying the laces and flopped onto the sofa, pulling his backpack close as if to open it, then apparently thinking better of it and pushing it to the floor. “But he’s a sports junkie. That’s all he can talk about.”
“He stayed a long time.”
“Yup.”
Millard hoped that more information might be forthcoming. He really didn’t like to pry. He pulled out the tail of his cotton shirt and began polishing his reading glasses. “I thought maybe that was your dad.”
Tyson glared at him and looked away.
Apparently he was trespassing on forbidden ground. Millard slid his reading glasses onto the bridge of his nose. “How did the first day of your community service project go?”
“The stupid sheriff made me work in the rain.” He dropped onto his back, staring at the ceiling with his hands under his head.
“In that downpour?” Millard unwittingly shivered, thinking for a moment that it was cruel and unusual punishment to make the boy work in that deluge until a memory crossed his mind. “My father sent me out to round up his horses in a squall like that once. I was about twelve, I think.” He had been lost in his own pasture, pelted by watery bullets that stung his face. He remembered crying. “We had a farm on the Skagit River. The spring snowmelt from the mountains had swollen the river near the tops of its banks and then a storm came along to beat all. I’ll never forget that one.” He took a sip of lukewarm coffee, dropping his head to the back of the chair. “The rain was so thick that I couldn’t see the horses.”
“Well, what happened?”
Millard opened his eyes to see Tyson up on one elbow. “My father and the neighbor men were a half mile away filling gunnysacks with sand and stacking them into a wall along the dike. We’d never seen the river get that high and everyone was scared. We knew that if it got over the dike, it would wash our houses and barns clean down to Puget Sound. Anyway, my father was depending on me to get the horses to higher ground. The wind knocked me around like a battering ram, but I finally found our little herd all huddled together in a cottonwood grove. Seemed like I was half-drowned before I got a rope and bridle on one mare and managed to climb bareback onto the alpha stallion so that I could lead them out of there.”
“Did the river flood?”
Millard dropped his paper to the floor. It had been a long time since anyone cared to hear any of his stories. “It seeped over the dike in places. Enough to turn the pastures into shallow lakes, a foot or two of standing water in the barn. The good news was that the rain stopped when the water was an inch or two shy of the top step on our front porch.” He chuckled. “Caught an eight-pound steelhead trout out by the chicken coop the next day with my bare hands.”
“Dude. I wish something like that would happen around here.”
“I thought you didn’t like the rain.”
Ty rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t exactly having an adventure out there. Estrada is a jerk. There was no reason for me to stand there handing him boards when I could have just stacked them up on the porch for him. He hates me.”
Millard pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow into a thoughtful expression. “Why do you think that is?”
Ty scoffed, shaking his head. “For one thing, he says I stole this old lady’s wedding ring and she’s like some close family friend, plus she can hardly walk.”
“Well, did you take her ring?”
“No!” Ty sat up and leaned forward, his eyes riveted plaintively on Millard’s. “Nobody believes me, but I didn’t take her jewelry or my mom’s.” His face went dark. “That’s why I need to get out of here. Everybody’s going to blame me for everything that goes wrong for the rest of my life.” He kicked at his backpack where it lay on the floor. “It sucks.”
Millard was struck by something in the boy’s face, in his voice. Against all reason, he found himself believing Tyson. He suddenly wanted to, anyway. But he was puzzled.
“What about your mom’s money?”
Tyson stared at the fl
oor, slowly shaking his head. “If I wanted to steal her money, I could have done it a long time ago. I figured out how to open her stupid little box when I was about eight.”
That seemed like an honest comment. The logical stance would be to plead ignorance. While Millard pondered this, his eyes fell on the face of Molly’s grandfather clock. Eight fifty-five. “Confound it!” He jumped to his feet. “Help me out, son. Rita’s due here in five minutes!”
“What?”
“I have to make it look like I’ve been eating her crappy frozen dinners all week!”
Tyson joined him in the kitchen. “What do you want me to do?”
Millard was already frantically removing plastic containers from the fridge and freezer. “Dump the stuff in the garbage. I’ll rinse the containers.” Tyson pulled out the kitchen trash receptacle and began popping hard clumps of broccoli and bricks of stew from the plastic cartons. Millard snatched one from Tyson’s hand and put it back in the fridge. “Not the squash. She’ll get suspicious.”
Just as Rita pulled into the drive, Millard dropped into his chair and reached for the paper. “Why don’t you get some books out of that backpack and look busy?”
Rita bustled in, a lock of her red hair falling over one eye. She closed the door behind her with one foot as Millard stood to help her. “Here, let me take those bags,” he said.
She glanced at Tyson’s back where he sat at the dining room table with an open book and frowned. “Hello, Dad.” Tyson glanced up, but she did not acknowledge him. “What’s that I smell?” She followed the scent into the kitchen, opening the lid of the slow cooker. She sniffed, pulled a spoon from the drawer for a taste, and replaced the glass lid with a slight shake of her head. “Is she trying to kill you? That’s too spicy for a man your age. It’ll give you acid reflux so bad that you’ll have to eat baby food for a week.” She walked over and pulled the kitchen door closed. “How’s it going?” she whispered, gesturing toward the door with her head.
