Authors: Suzanne McKenna Link
“I did?” He put a hand to his chest and laughed loudly. It
was such a hearty laugh that I giggled, too. “Wow, I didn’t know I was such a
young Romeo.”
“Yeah, but having a boy say something like that in second
grade—jeez,
seriously
scandalous. Second grade girls are merciless. I
was totally embarrassed over it,” I shook my head remembering. “I cried because
I thought it meant I had to marry you. But when I got home, my mother said I
didn’t have to.”
“Dodged a bullet,” he grinned. “Do you still have the
drawing?”
“Nope. When I got home that day, I tore it up.”
“Ouch. You
obliterated
my marriage proposal! Way to
hurt a guy.” He feigned an expression of pain that had me giggling again.
“Can’t be good when the girl you pined for laughs at your
prepubescent crush on her.” He further teased me and, with a melodramatic sigh,
made me laugh more. “I might have gotten up the nerve to ask you out in high
school if you hadn’t gone off to Saint John’s.” He turned to face me. “If I
had, would you have at least
considered
going out with me?”
Just like that, the conversation turned seriously uncomfortable.
I itched to get out of his car. “I didn’t date in high school.”
“What about now?” Slanting towards me, he reached into the
sweatshirt pocket, his hand brushing against my hip, to grab his cigarette pack
again. We caught each other’s eyes for a moment before he busied himself with
the pack.
“I … date sometimes.”
“No, I mean, would you go out with me now?” He rested back
in his seat. “The way I see it, you owe me a date.”
“How’s that?”
“You dashed all my little-boy dreams.”
“I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations has run out on
that,” I remarked, smartly. “And even if it hadn’t, I wouldn’t go out with you
anyway.”
“Why? Not your type of guy?” He put a cigarette between his
lips.
“You seem like a nice guy, but we’re
very
different.”
“In what way?”
“For one, that.” I pointed at his cigarette. “I think
smoking is disgusting. I hate the way it smells. That alone would keep me from
going out with you.”
He took the cigarette from his mouth and tossed it on the
dashboard. “Easy, I’ll quit.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I will.”
I swallowed hard. “Then there’s the fact that I work at your
house.”
“That’s nothing. It’s not like some corporation that
prohibits dating among the staff.”
“Honestly, we don’t have any similar interests.”
“And what are my interests?”
The question stopped me. “I guess, I don’t know, but I’m
pursuing a Master’s degree and I’m extremely focused on school.”
“Got me there. That is definitely not in my realm of
interests.” Unfazed, he tugged at the sleeve of the hoodie trying to pull me
closer. “Come here.”
A pulse of nervous excitement coiled inside me. I resisted.
“Why?”
“So we can make out and see if we have any chemistry.”
My face warmed at the thought. Still, I laughed as I pushed
at his chest to keep him from getting nearer.
“I don’t think so, stud.”
“Chicken,” he said, releasing his hold on my sleeve. “Alright,
I’m out of ideas.”
“If it’s any consolation, by defending me from your creepy
friend, you succeeded in turning my opinion of you around. And, besides that, I
think you’re funny. I’d like it if we could be friends.”
“Friends.” He twisted his mouth as if the word tasted bad.
“Guess after tonight, I need a new one.”
After he helped me from the jeep, he told me I could hang
onto his sweatshirt until I saw him next week. I started up the walkway to the
house feeling his eyes on me as I walked.
“Hey,” he called out, and I turned to look at him. “Just so
you know for sure, I really didn’t have anything to do with what happened to
that guy the other night.”
“I know,” I replied.
He was smiling as I unlocked the front door and didn’t leave
until I shut it behind me.
Sunday morning, as usual, before church, I made breakfast
for Dad. He sat at the kitchen table in our sunny kitchen reading the
newspaper, while I cut fresh cantaloupe and poached eggs.
I’d come in the night before and found my father sitting
upright on the couch, snoring away.
“You know, you don’t need to wait up for me anymore.”
“I can’t sleep until I’m sure you’re safe,” he replied. “I
heard a car, but it didn’t sound like April’s Chevy. Didn’t she bring you
home?”
“No, I got another ride.”
“With?” He glanced up from the paper, his reading glasses
perched on the tip of his nose.
“Toby Faye.” When he let out an exasperated sigh, I added
quickly, “We only hung out for a little while.”
I focused on my eggs. Slipping them into a dish, I set them
on the table in front of him before realizing he was staring at me, rigid in
his seat.
“I’m not thrilled that you’re working at his house, but now
you’re spending your free time with him, too?” He laid the paper down and gave
me his full attention.
“We just happened to meet up. And good thing, too.”
“Why is that?”
“That guy, Devlin Van Sloot, was there.”
Dad leaned heavily on the table. My orange juice rippled.
“You had a problem with him?”
“It was nothing, really,” I said quickly. I couldn’t tell
him the details. He would flip. I dodged instead. “But he was, um well,
annoying. And Toby made him leave the party.”
Dad leaned back and stroked his mustache. “Divided they
fall. I imagine it won’t be long till someone caves and runs his mouth off.”
“Well, don’t worry about Toby. He told me he didn’t have
anything to do with that stabbing incident last week.”
“Oh, baby, you’re a sweet kid. Always believing the best in
everyone.” Dad shook his head. It irked me. “But realistically, do you actually
think he would
tell
you if he did?”
“Call it gut instinct or whatever, but I would bet my life
that he didn’t,” I bristled.
“As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter if he isn’t
actually responsible. He hangs out with a rough crowd. I checked their records
at the precinct. Van Sloot was brought up on petty larceny charges, and the
other guy, Rudack, was picked up for possession of drugs a few years back.”
“He quit hanging out with them,” I said defensively. “April,
Dario, and I are his friends now.”
“There are much better choices of young men for you to keep
company with,” he said. “Like that guy, Phil. He was a nice young man. What
ever happened to him?”
Fast Phil. If only my father knew why Phil was no longer around.
“Dad, that was almost a year ago.”
“All I’m going to say is that nothing good will come from
time spent with that Faye kid.”
“You know nothing about him,” I said, losing my patience.
“Why can’t you trust me to make my own judgments?”
“Because I
do
know. I’ve seen boys like him come
through the precinct. Guys like him are trouble. And, guys your age, they’re a
big mess of raging hormones. You know what that means, don’t you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Dad. I’ve studied hormones,
and
I know how the whole reproductive system works, too. But we’re just friends.”
“Friends or not, I don’t trust him, Claudia. Watch yourself
around him.” He waved a righteous finger at me. “And, no more of those parties.
Any parent that allows them has got a screw loose.”
I jammed some bread in the toaster. “Okay, Dad. Whatever.”
I brought Toby’s sweatshirt with me to work on Monday. I
went to lay it over the railing in the entryway and caught Toby’s scent on it
again. I lifted it to my nose and inhaled one last time. The musky aftershave tingled
in the back of my throat. I hated to admit it, but he smelled
really
good.
I followed the voices coming from the rear of the house to
the backyard. Out behind the house, the Fayes' small lot consisted of a simple
wooden deck that overlooked a very dry and weedy lawn. Mrs. Faye, a lavender
silk scarf wrapped around her head, was in a semi-reclined position in a faded
chaise lounge. She seemed to be listening politely to a very short, round,
elderly woman, seated to her right. The woman wore a large pair of eyeglasses too
big for her kindly, crinkled face. I was amused at how she waved her hands
about dramatically as she talked.
“Hi.”
They both turned to me as I greeted them. The sunlight
exaggerated the sharp lines of Mrs. Faye’s angular face. I could see she was
tired.
“Claudia,” Mrs. Faye breathed out my name, as if gasping for
some much needed air, and reached for my hand. “Marie, this is who I was
telling you about. This is
my Claudia
.” I warmed at the introduction.
“Claudia, this is Marie, one of my dearest friends from St. Lawrence. Marie
spent the day with me and even has dinner set up for us—her delicious pot
roast.”
Marie smiled proudly at her friend’s compliment, lingered a
little bit longer, and then said her goodbyes.
When Marie left, Mrs. Faye sagged in the lounger. “I love
Marie, but she is quite a wash woman spreading everybody’s business.” Mrs. Faye
gestured to me to take Marie’s vacated chair. “Now, sit and tell me about your
weekend. I heard you and Toby were at the same party and that you looked very
pretty.”
“He said that?” I was surprised, and a little bit flattered,
that he had talked to his mother about me. I pulled the chair closer to her and
sat.
“Yes.” She smiled. “He seems fond of you.”
Remembering how he had asked me to make out with him, I
said, “Your son is a character.”
“Yes. Out of both the boys, Toby reminds me so much of his
father when we first met. Al was charismatic—handsome and funny, too,” she said
wistfully, and with more brevity, she went on. “His drinking and the way he
handled the boys was frustrating, but he was quite wonderful in many ways.
There are still times when I can’t believe he’s gone. I would have forgiven him
… if only he had let me.” Her own words seemed to catch her off guard. With a
flush, she pressed her knuckles to her lips and grew quiet. I was shocked at
her undiluted sadness, still mourning Mr. Faye after all these years.
I touched her arm. “Are you all right?”
Her smile returned immediately, and she patted my hand with
hers. “Of course, I am. But would you look at my disastrous garden! I wish I
had the energy to get out there and clean them up.”
I wanted her to continue, to tell me how she fell in love
with the man whose life had such a tragic end. Instead, I looked over the neglected
flowerbeds lining the perimeter of the yard. A few clusters of wild primrose randomly
poked through the tangle of fallen leaves and branches that had come down with
the ravishing winds of the past few seasons.
“I love planting things and watching them grow. If I was
stronger, I’d be knee deep in the dirt now.” She smiled despite her obvious
longing. “I guess there are some things that you just have to let go.”
We were talking about gardening and our favorite types of
flowers when, from inside the house, I heard the front door open and shut.
Toby appeared at the sliding glass door. “Hey, sunshine,” he
called to his mother and the corners of her eyes crinkled. “Is it time to get
you inside?”
“Yes, honey. I’m tired. Help me upstairs.” Mrs. Faye’s deep
blue eyes were glazed with fatigue. She turned to him and extended her arm.
“Hey, Claude,” Toby said, and we smiled at each other before
he walked over to his mother, helped her to her feet and into the house.
I stayed behind, looking out over the yard, trying to imagine
it green and filled with flowers the way Mrs. Faye had said she’d kept it. I
thought, too, it would be nice if she could sit outside and not be reminded of
what she couldn’t do.
Inspiration hit. I would plant some flowers for her.
To the right of the house, where the driveway ended, there
was a red, barn-style garage. I went over to it, lifted the latch and stepped
inside. It was warm and musty with an earthy odor. Several large windows on
each side let in lots of natural light. It was a great space—on one side, a
gardener’s dream—a wall lined with shovels and rakes of all sizes and a few
corded power tools. I saw a wooden worktop with a large slop sink centered on
the wall, the perfect potting area, and a wooden sign hung over it with painted
cursive words that read, “Between the weeds, flowers grow.” I smiled, thinking
how typical Mrs. Faye the quote was. I stepped closer and admired all the
planting supplies. Everything I needed was basically here, except for a few
bags of topsoil and the flowers.
I turned to inspect the other side of the garage, the one
closest to me—a large area devoted to an impressive craftsman’s workshop. Another
wooden worktop spanned the long wall, only above this one there was a full
collection of hand tools hanging neatly from a pegboard. Everything was coated
in a thick layer of dust from years of disuse. A spindle-back chair lay upside
down on a table saw, the unfinished piece spun heavily with spider webs.
Someone in the family was a carpenter. Part of my weekly cleanings involved
polishing the unique coffee table in the Fayes' living room. I had admired its
beautiful stained wood, beveled edges and sculptured legs. I wondered if it had
been crafted in here.
“There you are.” Toby’s voice made me jump. As he stood in
the doorway, the sunlight shone over his back, outlining his shoulders, making
him glow. “What are you doing?”
“Thinking,” I said.
“That could be dangerous.”
“Ha, ha. Funny,” I rolled my eyes. “But really, I want to
plant a garden for your mom. All the yard tools I’d need are in here. In fact,
there are
so
many tools in here.”
“Don’t remind me. Julia’s been pestering me with a list of
projects.” He stayed in the doorway as if some force prevented him from coming
inside.
I looked at the pegboard. “Are you a carpenter?”
His gaze followed mine. “The old man was.”
“The coffee table in the den?”
“He made it.”
“It’s really nice.”
“The one thing he was good at.”
“What’s this?” I asked, picking up an odd-looking device. It
was about a foot long and narrow. It resembled a miniature sleigh, but with a
knob on one end and a handle on the other.
“It’s a wood planer. It smoothes out wood,” Toby said, and
taking it from me, he turned it over to show me the flat-bladed bottom before
he placed it back in its place, reverently. “My old man is probably rolling
over in his grave. He never liked us touching his stuff.”
Knowing it was an area to tread lightly, I just bit my lip
and nodded.
“So,” I said, moving forward and stepping past him out into
the yard, “I was thinking to start there, close to the deck so she can see them
from the lounge chair.” I pointed and looked up at him. “I’ll do it on my own
time. What do you think?”
“I think that you are way too good to be true. And if you
keep this up, Julia’s going to replace my picture on her night table with
yours.”
“So why don’t you help me? Then maybe she’ll just put my
picture
next
to yours?”
“Yeah, all right. But I know you really just want to use me
as your grunt for the heavy lifting.” His comment made me laugh. I was looking
forward to getting started.
On Tuesday, Toby and I met at the home garden center during
his lunch break. He followed me around the center, lifting the heavy bags of
topsoil and peat moss as I pointed to them. We planned that I would head to his
house after my classes and a quick stop home to change, and Toby would join me
when he got home from work.
It was a beautiful spring day, a perfect day to start the
garden. Wearing old jeans and sneakers and my hair up in a ponytail, I went
over to the Fayes’, prepared to get dirty.
Marie, the church friend that I’d met the previous day, was
at the back door when I walked around the house to the backyard. She must have
taken a double shift tending to Mrs. Faye this week. We waved at each other.
Toby had the bags of topsoil and peat moss stacked near the
deck. He also laid out a few different shovels near the bags. The dry yard needed
rejuvenating if any of the flowers were to survive. I went right to work,
sectioning off a patch of lawn to begin pulling up the dead grass. It was
sweaty work, but I felt happy as I dug into the earth.
The back door opened, and Marie waddled out, bottled water
in hand, looking somewhat arthritic. “I brought you some cold water.”
Although breathless from her short walk, she smiled. Her
short silver coif was shellacked into perfect curls, reminding me of my
grandmother.
I leaned on my tall shovel handle and accepted the water
from her. “Thank you,” I said. “How is Mrs. Faye doing?”
“She’s finally feeling better after her last round of chemo.
But then she’ll have to start radiation.”
Though Mrs. Faye never complained about her treatments, I could
see her strength waver after she received them. Right now, she was on the
upward swing; each day was better than the day before.
“The cure for this disease is poison.” Marie clucked her
tongue. “What a terrible strain to add to her weak heart.”
I was startled by this. “Wait. She has a heart condition,
too? Is it serious?”
“As serious as heart conditions get.” Marie put her hands on
her hips, seeming ready to settle into a lengthy conversation about it. “Well,
certainly the cancer is the bigger threat. Julia’s doctors are most concerned
about getting it contained. They’re optimistic that she’ll be strong enough to
continue the entire course of treatments and bring the disease into remission
once again.” Marie shook her head. “She’s such a lovely woman. It’s sad that
she has been plagued with such heavy burdens—with her illnesses, to the
difficult and untimely demise of her husband, to that troubled eldest boy. At
least she’s fortunate to have the youngest. He’s a good boy, and helpful to
her.”