Autumn Blue

by Karen Harter

  He nodded as he pulled a fresh supply of frozen leftovers and a bag of store-bought bread from a sack on the counter. “Fine, fine.”

  “Have you had any trouble with him?”

  The scene from last Wednesday night down at the freight yard flashed into his mind. The boy shouting, “Go to hell!” Millard remembered the pounding of his heart, the terror he had felt as he thrust their bodies from the moving train. His hand went to his left shoulder, which had pained him ever since. “No trouble that I can recall—other than motivating him to do his schoolwork.”

  Rita’s lips clamped into a dissatisfied line. “Well, just watch him, Dad. You’re so trusting of everyone, and believe me, there are a lot of people who can’t be trusted out there. They’re out to take advantage—and I hate to say it, but I’m afraid that’s exactly what’s happening here. This Sidney woman—you hardly know her. She lives in a trailer; she drives that broken-down old car; her kids are out of control. But she’s not stupid. She looks out her window at your nice, well-maintained house and car, and it’s like she’s peeking right into your bank account. Has she asked you for money yet?”

  Millard glared at his daughter before dropping his head in utter disappointment. Had he raised her to think like this? He sat at the small table, just big enough for two, which was pushed against the wall beneath a window looking out on the field and the woods. She didn’t get this suspicious, critical attitude from her mother; that was for sure. Molly could find something good to say about an ax murderer. Perhaps Rita had learned it from him. He had always been one to speak his mind freely. Probably too freely, he thought with regret.

  Rita misinterpreted his silence. “Oh, Dad. You have given her money, haven’t you.” It was not a question. She sighed, turning her back and placing both hands on the edge of the counter. She took a deep breath. “Dan and I think it might be a good idea to sit down together and discuss your finances. I mean, I know you’re secure, Dad. But we don’t know any of the details. God forbid, if something should happen to you—if your health or mental condition should fail . . .”

  Obviously she thought his mental capacity had already failed. He didn’t fling out his usual retorts. He felt too hollow. Instead he waited, knowing the truth would leach out of her if he only held his tongue.

  She turned to face him. “I should have power of attorney for you, Dad.”

  He studied the veins in his hand, the long, wrinkled fingers spread flat on the tabletop. It was about his money. She was terrified that it might get away from her. She had determined that his days were winding to an end, his useful life over, and now all that was left to do was to plan accordingly. She was full of advice, too full of her own to ever seek or accept any from him. She couldn’t hear him, couldn’t really see him, because he was fading away. He pushed himself up from the table. “Your containers are in the dishwasher. I’ll be going to the market on Saturday. Don’t bother bringing anything next week.”

  After Rita left, Millard sat in his chair with the crossword puzzle in his lap. He had felt fine that morning, but now it was as if someone had pulled a plug and drained all of his energy away. His daughter and her kids were all the family he had left, but they didn’t need him anymore. He had become a useless burden. Rita came by only out of a sense of obligation. The frozen dinners were her guilt offerings. If he would no longer accept her frozen sacrifices, how would she purge her soul?

  She had still been sputtering as he ushered her to the door, nervous and confused by his somber silence. He too felt confused. Was she right? Was his bank account and the real estate that he sat on more valuable now than he was?

  “What did she say to you?”

  Tyson’s voice surprised him. The boy was no longer at the dining room table, but lying on his stomach on the sofa, dangling one arm to turn the pages of a book on the floor.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you’re just sitting there. I know you’re not reading the paper because you don’t have your glasses on.” When Millard didn’t respond, the boy rolled over, pulling himself up and hugging his knees. “Was it about me? I know she doesn’t like me.”

  Millard shook his head. “No. It was about Rita.”

  Tyson seemed to study his face. “Are you sad or mad?”

  An empty laugh crept from Millard’s throat. “A little of both. Mostly sad, I think.”

  The boy nodded as if he understood. They didn’t speak for about a minute, caught up in an almost reverent silence, both possibly aware that they were sitting on common ground. Millard wanted to ask about the pain behind Tyson’s eyes, but held his tongue intuitively, knowing that neither of them was ready to go under the knife and allow their twisted guts to be exposed.

  “What are you reading there?”

  Tyson glanced down at his open book with disdain. “Poetry. Word slime.”

  Millard chuckled. “That was poetic. Maybe you’re a poet and don’t know it.”

  A corner of Tyson’s lip twitched. “It’s so stupid. I’m supposed to find one I like and try to make up a poem that’s like it in some way. But I don’t like any of them. They’re all about love.” He rolled his head, feigning a feminine voice. “And pretty leaves and daffodils.”

  Millard closed his eyes and dropped his head to the back of his chair. Could he still recite it? The first line came to him and then the next:

  There are strange things done in the midnight sun

  By the men who moil for gold;

  The Arctic trails have their secret tales

  That would make your blood run cold;

  The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

  But the queerest they ever did see

  Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

  I cremated Sam McGee.

  Millard paused, glancing over to see that the boy’s eyes were riveted on his face. “That’s the beginning of a poem written by a man named Robert Service. He wrote a whole slew of them, put them in a book called The Spell of the Yukon.”

  “Say the rest of it.”

  Millard rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Should he give it to him or make him dig? “Let’s see if I can recall some more.

  Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,

  Where the cotton blooms and blows.

  Why he left his home in the South to roam

  ’round the Pole, God only knows.

  He was always cold, but the land of gold

  Seemed to hold him like a spell;

  Though he’d often say in his homely way

  That he’d ‘sooner live in hell.’”

  Millard sighed, searching his brain for a tantalizing bit. “There’s this one part further on; how does it go? Something like:

  The flames just soared

  And the furnace roared—

  Such a blaze you seldom see;

  And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal

  And I stuffed in Sam McGee.”

  Tyson was practically drooling, his head stretched toward Millard like a coyote poised outside a rat hole. Millard shook his head. “Wish I could remember the rest. I’ve got that book around here somewhere.” He glanced around the room as if it might be in plain sight, his eyes falling on the clock. “Look at that. It’s almost noon and I haven’t even done the crossword.” He shook his paper open. “You might want to get yourself some lunch.”

  Ty stood and stretched before heading for the kitchen. “Do you want me to bring you some chili?”

  Millard looked up, surprised by the offer. Spring thaw. The ice had begun to melt the night he and the boy wrestled down at the freight yard. Ty’s tears had fallen on the cold ground between them, and there had been a gradual thinning and cracking ever since. “Yes, that would be fine,” Millard said. “There’s some of your mother’s bread in the freezer. Why don’t you pop a couple of slices in the toaster, and I’ll see if I can’t find that book.”

  AFTER DINNER that evening, Millard took his garbage out, dropping the neat bundle into a can next to the b
ack porch. The temperature had dropped to thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit according to the thermometer mounted by the door. Stars shone against the black sky like ice crystals. He inhaled the scents of mountains and woodlands, exhaling a fog of steam. A hoot owl called from the woods. Millard cupped his hands together at his mouth and blew out a mimicking call. He waited. A few seconds later the owl answered. Millard stepped up to the back door, pushing it open a crack. “Hey, Tyson. Come out here for a minute.”

  The boy joined him on the porch, shivering. “What’s up?”

  “Listen.” Millard raised his hands and wooed the owl again. A hollow answering call came from the darkness. Was it closer this time? He repeated the plaintive sound and waited until they heard the owl’s response. “He’s moving in,” Millard said before blowing another note between his thumbs. The owl answered. “He’s in the middle of the pasture now. Probably in that lone maple.”

  “Do it again.”

  Millard complied. This time they heard a distinct flapping sound and then saw the massive white wings gilded in moonlight. The owl lit in the spruce tree at the corner of the backyard, bouncing a limb like driftwood riding a wake of water.

  “That is so cool,” Tyson breathed. “Show me how to do it.”

  Millard took the boy’s hands in his, shaping them into a sort of conch shell. “Make your lips like this,” he demonstrated, “and blow from your cheeks.” They worked on it for several minutes, but the strange sounds that came from Tyson did nothing for the owl. Disappointed by not finding the mate of its dreams, it soared down toward a fence post and then out of sight. “You can work on it tomorrow,” Millard said.

  As frigid as it was out there, Tyson seemed in no hurry to go inside. He stood staring into the glittered sky with his arms wrapped around himself, his breath dissipating like smoke in the glow of the porch lamp.

  “You got a good lick in today,” Millard said. “Two pages of math and the start of a poem. I knew you could do it.”

  Tyson shot him a sideways glance. “Thanks for the help.”

  “Anytime.” Millard too was under the spell of the starry sky. “I’m proud of you, son.” As soon as the words came, he felt an uncomfortable sensation, like pit gravel had just passed through his throat. Had he ever said them to Jefferson? Ever?

  Ty looked up at him, seemingly surprised, and a guarded softness fell over the boy’s face. It was the look of a battered dog on the verge of taking bread from a kind stranger, his heart pulling him forward, every muscle in his body reining him back.

  Millard cleared his throat. “And I want you to know something. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe I’m just a gullible old man, but I don’t think so. I can’t figure it out, but I don’t think it was you who stole from your mother—or the woman in town.”

  Moonlight glistened from the wetness brimming in the boy’s eyes.

  “I believe you, Tyson. God help us if I’m wrong.”

  20

  SIDNEY FORCED A SMILE, giving her son a little wave as his head disappeared inside Deputy Estrada’s patrol car. Ty had been ready on time that morning, his lunch packed and all set to go. Sidney had ushered him out the door to meet the deputy before the man had any reason to tread again on her front steps.

  Just as the deputy reached for his door handle, Micki drove into the driveway. He pressed his body against the side of his car as she pulled around him, parking her boxy Ford SUV to one side. He opened his door and began to slide in.

  “Wait!” Micki called as her blond head popped out of her vehicle. “I could really use some muscle before you guys get away!”

  Sidney groaned. Oh, Micki. She trudged reluctantly down the steps.

  “Hi, Sid!” Micki ran around to open the back of her Expedition while Ty and the deputy came around. “My husband helped me get this in here,” she said. “It was a lot heavier than I thought.” She turned to face the deputy. “I’m sorry.” She held out her hand. “I’m Micki, a friend of Sid’s.”

  He dipped his head as they shook hands. “Alex Estrada.” He glanced back at his vehicle briefly, a subtle sigh and squaring of his shoulders indicating to Sidney that he really didn’t have time for this. “What have you got here?”

  “It was my grandmother’s buffet.” She tousled Ty’s hair. “Sidney’s going to help me paint it. You know, with birds and vines and things, although I’m thinking maybe a rooster theme on this one. She’s never done roosters, but she’s an artist. Have you ever seen any of her work?”

  Sidney attempted to give her friend the glare that meant “Shut up,” but Micki didn’t look at her.

  Deputy Estrada glanced at Sidney. “Did you paint that furniture in your house?”

  “Oh, she did all of that,” Micki answered. “I love the way she antiqued it by rubbing black over the red.”

  “I noticed that,” he said without smiling. “Nice job.” He pushed up the sleeves of his dove-gray sweatshirt, revealing solid, muscular forearms, then lifted and yanked the buffet toward him, acknowledging Tyson, who stood off to one side. “I’ll slide it out. You get the other end.”

  Sidney could see that it was going to be too heavy for Ty. She stepped forward, reaching for a corner of the heavy piece.

  “He doesn’t need your help,” the deputy barked.

  Ty flashed an angry scowl at Estrada as Ty got between his mother and the end of the buffet. She stepped back, watching him hoist it with a strength that must have come from his hatred for the deputy, every visible muscle in her son’s neck and even his face rigid. She wanted to step in to help if for no other reason than to defy the deputy, but something held her back.

  “Where do you want it?” Estrada asked. He swung the furniture around as if it were made of Styrofoam and began stepping backward.

  Sidney had hoped to work on the back porch, but she didn’t want them to have to carry it that far. “It’s not going to rain. Right here in the front yard is fine.” Ty grunted as he lowered his end to the sparse lawn near the front walk.

  “Thanks, guys,” she said.

  “You saved the day,” Micki said. She tried to pull Tyson into a hug but he went as rigid as a totem pole. “What’s the matter, tough guy? Are you too cool for me now?”

  He gave her a patronizing half smile, obviously embarrassed, his eyes darting toward the deputy.

  Estrada dipped his head toward Ty. “Okay, let’s go.” He turned back toward the car and Tyson followed.

  “I’ll pick him up today,” Sidney called after them. “What time?”

  “Three o’clock.” The deputy gave a slight, almost indiscernible wave, slipped into the car, and pulled out of the drive.

  The sight of her son in the patrol car still made her stomach clench.

  “Oh, my gosh,” Micki breathed as the car rounded the bend. “He is an absolutely beautiful hunk of man!” She idly ran her hand over the smooth top of the buffet. “I saw him in uniform that one day, the day Ty got arrested, but of course I didn’t notice then. I was too busy trying to hold you together. I noticed he’s not wearing a ring.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake! I can’t believe you’re even going there. He’s a jerk, Micki. I don’t care what he looks like; it’s what’s inside that counts. He’s a dark and bitter man. Can’t you see that? I don’t know what his problem is, but it runs deeper than this thing he’s got against Tyson. It emanates from him—like when you eat too much raw garlic and everyone around you knows it for days.” She shuddered. “I don’t want him around here. Ty has to deal with him, and so be it. This process is supposed to be painful. But I don’t want the girls exposed to the man’s negative aura. I can’t wait ’til Ty’s community service hours are fulfilled. After today he’ll have done twelve out of forty.”

  Micki shrugged. “Any word from Jack?”

  Sidney raised an eyebrow as she pushed herself up on top of the buffet. “He called last night and I invited him over to watch football on Sunday. We talked for a long time and he was so sweet. I feel like he’s opening up more, starting
to trust me again. Up until now he’s been smart, like a big fish that’s been caught before and thrown back. A little wary. I could tell he was keeping his options open.” She flashed a wry grin. “You’d be shocked by the number of manipulative single mothers out there who would do just about anything to get Jack Mellon walking behind their lawn mowers.”

  Micki snickered. “But you have a prior claim.”

  “I have no claim. All I know is he was great with the kids last Saturday. He insisted on taking the girls bowling after his peewee game got washed out, and then he brings them home and plays Sorry! with them while he watches the sports channel. He even got Ty to sit out in the living room with us for a while. He was certainly in no hurry to leave.” She raised her eyebrows. “And I got the look.”

  “The look?”

  Sidney nodded. “You know what I’m talking about. The way Richard Gere looked at Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when she wore that classic polka dot dress with the white gloves and wide-brimmed hat.”

  “Oh. What were you wearing?”

  “My jeans and a T-shirt. But that’s not the point. It’s that look of appreciation—and longing. That’s it. Lancelot and Guinevere. Did you see the original Camelot?”

  “Okay, I think I’ve got the concept. But he hasn’t kissed you yet.”

  “He hasn’t so much as held my hand. I’ve considered sticking a slice of pepperoni on my forehead to speed up the process.”

  Micki snickered. “Give it time. If it’s meant to be, it will happen. Where are the girls?”

  “At soccer this morning and then skating over in Dunbar this afternoon. Gena Denton picked them up. It’s Kayley’s birthday.”

  Sidney’s eyes swept the panorama of blue-green mountains and blazing fall leaves against a clear blue sky. Autumn had always been her favorite time of year. She made a mental note to snap some fresh branches from the red vine maples along the east fence to replace the ones on her dining room table, which had curled into crisp fists on spindly arms. With a deep breath of cool mountain air, a rush of joy tingled through her body. She stood, lifting her face to the sun and twirling. “Woohoo! It’s Saturday! No work, no kids, no nasty sheriff. It’s just you and me, girlfriend. How about a cup of hot spiced cider?”