by Karen Harter
They brought a tray of cider and sliced pumpkin bread out to the small porch, setting it on a wooden step a safe distance away from the paint project at hand. Micki brushed the worn and slightly battered oak buffet with a watermelon green base, while Sidney practiced painting colorful roosters onto a piece of board with her acrylic paints.
“My landlord agreed to buy some shrubs for this place as long as I’m willing to plant them. I tried for a real lawn, but he claims that all these patches will eventually fill in.” Sidney dabbed rusty red onto her current rooster’s flowing tail. “What I really want to do next spring is get some used brick somewhere and make a little patio. Then I’ll get some of those sawed-off oak barrels for planters.”
Micki stood back from her buffet, paintbrush in hand. “Does this need two coats?”
“No; let it dry. We’re going over the whole thing with a glaze after I get the roosters on, remember?”
“Okay. So what are you going to plant in your barrels?”
“Geraniums, sweet alyssum, cherry tomatoes, basil. I like marigolds, but so do the slugs. I swear they even get into my hanging baskets somehow.” She pushed the board away to critique her work. “We must have jumping slugs around here.” A vision of the slimy creatures springing like jack-in-the-boxes from the damp ground on a moonlit night made her laugh. “If I could catch them, they’d make a great circus act. The Leap-ing Slugs of Ham Bone and their daring trainer, Ms. Sidney Walker.”
Micki guffawed. It was never hard to get Micki chortling right along with her, even when something wasn’t all that funny. Sidney held her rooster sampler up for her friend’s inspection.
“I love it!” Micki pointed at the one in the middle. “This is my favorite. I like the shading.”
“Okay. I’ll make that the large one in the center.” She wiped her hands on a damp towel and tossed it to Micki. “The cider’s cold. You want some anyway?”
They sat on the porch, sipping spiced cider while crumbs of moist pumpkin bread fell between their legs. “You know what else I’d do with my trained slugs? I’d take them over to Deputy Estrada’s house, wherever that is, in their fancy custom-made circus slug carrying case and command them to slime his windows.”
Micki’s giggle burst out in a spray of cider and she began to choke.
“Really,” Sidney continued after patting her friend on the back. “Being highly intelligent, above-average slugs, they would write in cursive ‘Bad cop’ on every windowpane, even the windshield of his car.” Now Micki’s titters had Sidney chortling, too.
“What is your problem with him?” Micki asked when she could catch her breath. She was still snickering, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. “You haven’t told me one thing that he’s done that’s outside the line of duty.”
Sidney’s laughter was subdued as she searched her brain. “I don’t know how to explain it. I guess it’s not so much what he does as how he makes me feel.”
“How does he make you feel?”
“I don’t know. Bad. Mad. Sad.”
“Do you think he’s hurting Ty in some way?”
Sidney pondered. “No, not exactly. He’s terse and bossy with him, though. Ty says the deputy hates him.”
“Why would an officer of the law hate a fifteen-year-old kid who is basically guilty of shoplifting and pulling a gun that shoots little plastic balls? You would think he’s had to deal with worse criminals in his career.”
“Well, for one thing, the deputy still seems convinced that it was Ty that broke into Amilia’s house and stole her wedding ring—and Amilia is like the guy’s adopted mother. She lives right next door to the house where he grew up and she helped his father raise him after his mother died. There seems to be quite the bond between them.”
“You told me yourself that you suspect Ty did it now that your own jewelry and cash are missing. So maybe Deputy Estrada isn’t out of line.”
“Whose side are you on here?” Sidney asked.
“Yours. I’m your therapist and we’re not dropping this until we get to the bottom of it. Why does the deputy make you feel bad, mad, and/or sad?”
Sidney sighed, staring off at the mountains without really seeing. “He makes me feel ashamed of who I am.” Where did that come from?
“Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Why would that be? Sidney was not a bad person. She knew that about herself. She was honest, worked hard, and cared about people. And yet whenever Deputy Estrada was around, she felt like she had to prove something. Maybe it was the condescending way he looked at her that caused her to cling defiantly to her self-respect. “It has to do with Dodge. It’s the way I felt the whole time I was with him—in the shadow of his shadiness. You don’t know how many times I answered the door to find some police officer or officers there, Dodge usually off who-knew-where, sometimes for days, me standing there barefoot with a baby on my hip in a run-down place with broken vehicles in the yard. I tried to cover for him.” The levity was gone. She was tapping into a deep vein of grief and shame. “What an idiot I was. And now, look what I’ve done. I’ve raised a son who seems to be sliding right into his father’s ways.” She shook her head. “I should have moved somewhere that Dodge could never find us. I should have done it before the damage was done.”
Micki took Sidney’s hand and rubbed it like she was smoothing on hand lotion. “You’re doing fine. Keep it up.”
“I also should have kept going to church. For my sake as well as the kids’. Things were different then.”
“What was different?”
Sidney sighed. “I started taking the kids to the community church after Dodge left us the first time. I was pregnant with Sissy. Ty was about seven, I think. He and Rebecca loved it, and I was glad they were learning about God. And to me, the wonderful people and the words I heard—it was like finding an oasis with cool, clear water in the midst of the dry, destitute life I’d been exiled to. They gave me hope.” She twisted a loose thread hanging from a slit in the knee of her favorite jeans, which fit like an old friend—too many memories to throw away. “If only I had taught Ty that there’s hope for this sometimes dark world, that God cares about him even when it seems no one else does.” Duke had been loping freely through the tall grass in the field next door. He returned, panting, and dropped his chin on Sidney’s knee. She stroked the fur on the top of his skull. “Dodge kept popping in and out of our lives, and in all the turmoil, church attendance got pretty sporadic. By the time I got around to praying with the kids at night, Ty wouldn’t cooperate. He didn’t have any faith. My own has dwindled so much. I forget to pray until things get really bad. It’s not the way I was raised.” She glanced at her friend. “Did I ever tell you that Dad and Mom prayed together every night?”
Micki’s eyes softened. “Really? How beautiful. No wonder they stayed in love all those years.”
“Sometimes I listened. There was a heat vent in the hallway just outside their bedroom door. I liked to sit on it and let the warm air inflate my nightgown like a balloon. It was my peaceful place. I remember hearing one prayer in particular. It was my senior year in high school and I had just come home from the football game where Spencer Horn asked me out, so I was happy. I wanted to tell Mom all about it, but didn’t want to interrupt their conversation.” She raised her eyebrows and shot Micki a twisted smile. “It’s bad to be rude to God. Anyway, while I was patiently waiting, I heard my dad say, ‘Lord, I pray that Sidney will keep her eyes on you and never look away.’”
Sidney stared off toward the blue heavens. “Out of all the prayers I heard over the years, that one just got stuck in my head.”
Micki was reverently silent for a moment. “So what’s stopping you from going back to church now?”
There was no point in sidestepping when Micki was zeroing in. “Habit and lack of discipline.”
Micki seemed satisfied. “All right. What have we learned from this session?”
Sidney gave her a closed-lip smile. “Get back to c
hurch.”
“And?”
“Alex Estrada is only a mirror reflecting my own self-deprecation.”
“In which case, what will your circus slugs write on his windows?”
“Have a nice day?”
Micki cocked her head and smiled, patting Sidney’s knee as she stood and stretched. “Good for you. Our time is up, Ms. Walker. That will be $200.”
“And worth every penny of it. Put it on my tab.”
Millard Bradbury had come out his door. He waved as he swung the picket gate open and headed for his mailbox.
“Mavis hasn’t come by yet, Millard!” Sidney called. She stood and walked up to the edge of the road. “She tends to run late on Saturdays.”
“Oh, fine, then,” he said. “I’ll check the mail when I get back.”
“Are you enjoying your day off?”
“Yes, I’m getting some things done around here. I see you have a project of your own.” He gestured toward the green buffet, and Micki waved. “I’m going down to Graber’s. Do you need anything?”
A car with a rattling muffler approached and sped between them. Sidney waited until it rounded the bend and was swallowed by the trees. “No, but thanks for asking.”
He nodded and turned back toward his garage, his long arms dangling at his sides, head down as if to monitor the progress of his feet. She wondered if he had adjusted yet to living alone. When he spoke of his wife, Sidney had the feeling that he still held her close to him, as if she were merely locked in the spare room where he could converse with her only through a bolted door.
“Hey, Millard! Why don’t you come over and watch the Seahawks game with us tomorrow afternoon?”
He froze in place. Sidney knew he was processing this new development in his neatly ordered life. It would mean changing his Sunday routine. He turned slowly. “Well, that would be fine. Just fine. We’re playing the Dallas Cowboys, you know.”
Sidney didn’t know and she didn’t care. The important thing was that Jack would be there. “Yes. One o’clock!”
He winked as he turned away.
“The paint’s dry,” Micki said. “Give me some roosters, girl.”
By early afternoon, Micki’s grandmother’s oak buffet wore a single proud bird on the carved oval medallion on its front. Less is more, Sidney had assured her friend. The rooster’s feathers ranged from a rich burnt red to violet to black. A squash vine trailed along the curves of the buffet’s carved accents, and even Sidney agreed that the almost finished product was a masterpiece. “The final glaze will give it an antique look,” she said as they admired their work from the porch steps. Sidney had brought out egg burritos and the last of the hot cider. She glanced at her watch. “I have to pick up Ty in a little while.”
“Let’s just put a tarp over this tonight. I’ll have Dennis load it up tomorrow and I can finish it at home.”
They heard a car laboring its way up the hill. It emerged from the trees, a dated two-door sedan, its hood painted primer gray and the rest a well-oxidized black. The same car that had passed by earlier. Sidney became curious when the vehicle slowed to a crawl in front of the field next door. Maybe the driver had spotted a deer or some other animal. It pulled onto the shoulder and almost stopped, but then accelerated back onto the road. It turned into her driveway. Sidney’s burrito dropped to the ground. “Oh, God. No.”
Micki gasped. “Is that Dodge?”
An alarm rang through every nerve in Sidney’s body. She didn’t get up. She watched her ex-husband get out of the car, stretching his arms and legs as if he had been driving for a long time. He cocked his head, flashing a stage smile her way, that cocky grin his way of saying that she was blessed above all women by his presence today. She reached for Micki’s arm.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere,” Micki said in a resolute whisper.
Duke lapped up the remains of the fallen burrito and raised his head slightly. He didn’t bark; he didn’t growl. He and Dodge had met before. Still, the German shepherd eyed the infrequent visitor warily.
“Afternoon, ladies!” Dodge strode toward them. He looked thinner. His black pants were tight, studded with silver on the outside seam from below his knees to where they covered the tops of his black boots. A faded T-shirt had some sort of emblem on it, but was partially covered by the open cotton shirt he wore over it.
Thank God the kids were not home. They had not seen their father for more than a year and they were better off for it. Sidney raised her chin. “What are you doing here?”
“I just finished a gig in Seattle—Jackson Street Tavern in Pioneer Square.” He glanced at the house and around the yard. “Where’s my little rug rats?”
“You missed them. They’re gone for the day.” She recoiled inwardly at the sight of a blue demonic claw reaching from beneath the collar of his shirt toward his throat. That was new. She had no desire to see the rest of the tattoo. “Maybe you should call next time.”
“Yeah.” He stretched his hand toward Duke. “Hey, big guy.” Duke sniffed tentatively and lowered to his haunches, still watching Dodge with what Sidney surmised was cautious intuition. “What’s his name again?”
“Duke.”
“Yeah, I knew that. And yours?” he asked, looking down at Micki. Sidney had made no polite effort to introduce them. Her friend had apparently recognized him from the old family photos on Sidney’s wall, despite the fact that her once handsome ex looked so different now. His brown hair had gone long and scraggly; creases had formed around his mouth and chin, and red rims on his lower eyelids made him appear as if he had a bad cold.
“Micki.” She crossed her arms, not bothering to fake a smile.
He placed his hands in his back pockets, then glanced with disinterest at their paint project and then up at the evergreen mountains and their snowy peaks, inhaling deeply. “Ah, I miss it up here. Woke up this morning to a blue sky and the next thing you know the old Chevy was headed north.” His eyes darted toward his dilapidated car. “Actually, that’s not mine. I borrowed it from a friend; I usually drive my ’69 Camaro, totally restored. She’s a classic. Even old ladies turn their heads when I drive by.”
Especially old ladies, Sidney surmised. “Oh, you must be doing well, then.” It occurred to her to call the sheriff while Dodge was standing here in her yard. He owed her enough child support that she could own that spiffy car and a few more like it—if it really existed. But it was too complicated. The most urgent thought in her mind at the moment was getting rid of Dodge before he could plunge another dagger into Tyson’s vulnerable soul. “You must be leaving town soon. Where’s your next gig?” Russia would not be far enough away. She wondered if rockabilly was popular in Moscow.
“Well, actually, the band sort of broke up.” He tried to puff his chest but he had lost so much weight it seemed almost concave. The proud feathered cock of the barnyard he was not. “You know how I am. I’m a perfectionist when it comes to music. If you can’t do it right, then don’t do it at all. I kept trying to get Sammy and Rondo to kick it up a notch, throw their guts into it, you know? But we just couldn’t see eye-to-eye. I finally had to fire them all.” His eyes narrowed into slits. “Every stinking one of them.”
Yeah, right. Sidney knew better than to believe one word he had said. She envisioned two Ls on his forehead. Loser and Liar. If anyone got kicked out of the band, it was Dodge. He had become a serious druggie; there was no doubt in her mind. His eyes had not yet become as adept at lying as his tongue.
“Actually, the road isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The fans, the glory, the miles of highway crammed into a bus with the same five guys.” He shook his head. “It gets old. I’m thinking of settling down for a while. Some place quiet and off the beaten path.” He crossed his arms over his chest, pulling his T-shirt downward and causing the demonic blue claw to reach from beneath his collar. He grinned down at her. “I guess I’m really a family man at heart.”
Sidney’s blood froze in her veins.
&
nbsp; “I’ve given it some thought,” he said. “I’m moving back to Ham Bone.”
21
SIDNEY’S CLOUDLESS Saturday had gone awry. She drove to pick up Tyson, Dodge’s statement resounding in her mind in a relentless, heart-shattering clanging, like a demonic alarm clock that could not be shut off. I’m moving back to Ham Bone. Moving back to Ham Bone. Moving back. . . . “God, no!” she screamed into the interior of her car. Where had her prayers gotten her? Had God even heard? She pounded the steering wheel. “How could you let this happen?”
As she turned the car onto Digby, the engine began to sputter, making an unfamiliar sound. She felt the car lose power, then surge, then cough and limp again. She was already late. Alex Estrada had said to pick up Ty at three and it was twenty-five after. It had taken a while to get rid of Dodge. She did not want their father there when the kids got home.
“Come on, car. Please.” The deputy would not be pleased that she had kept him waiting. At least she was within a couple of blocks of Amilia’s house. She urged the car onward. Two houses away, the engine spit and then died. The car coasted down the slight incline, and she pulled onto the side of the road in front of the pink house. Alex, Amilia, and an older man in a cowboy hat were sitting on the porch. Tyson, elbows on knees and chin in hands, slouched on the porch steps. She pulled on the brake and got out of the car.
“Sorry I’m late!”
Amilia waved. “I’ve been waiting for you!” She wore a long, colorful skirt with a loose-fitting gauzy blouse and looked like an old hippie except for the white crew socks and Adidas. “Come on up here and have some tea. I’ve made tamales for everyone.”
