Authors: Ann Tatlock
His father was drinking something like iced tea or lemonade or maybe iced coffee—something cold to ward off the summer heat. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a long drink. Then he said, “
Sounds like an agreeable plan to me
.”
Good thing Pop wasn’t here to see him now. John had grieved at his father’s funeral, thought his death untimely, but now he knew what the old man had been spared. John hadn’t built any castles. Hadn’t even renovated any. Far from it.
John stiffened at the familiar squeak of the screen door behind him. He didn’t turn to see who was there. He kept his face toward the lake while taking a long swallow of the tea.
From somewhere above him, just beyond his left shoulder, Andrea’s voice rained down. “I thought you could use a little more to drink.”
John marveled that words so gentle could cut so deep. She couldn’t know, of course; she meant only to be kind.
He lifted his eyes no higher than her waist, saw the pitcher of iced tea in her hands. He held up his glass, watched the tea cascade from the lip of the pitcher.
“Thanks, Andrea.”
“Get you anything else?”
“No thanks. I think I’m set.”
For three days John had scarcely looked his wife in the eye. He didn’t look at her now. He heard her footsteps on the porch, heard the screen door squeak open, slam shut.
The woman’s name was Pamela Jarvis, and she lived with her daughter in a small cottage on the north end of the lake. She was divorced, had been divorced more than once, he gathered, but he wasn’t quite sure. It didn’t matter. She was alone, available.
“
Your daughter—she
. . .” He’d waved a hand while glancing around the unfamiliar room.
“
She’s at my sister’s house. She spends a lot of time there. She has a couple of friends with her tonight, and they’re watching the fireworks together
.”
He didn’t learn the daughter’s name. That didn’t matter either, so long as the girl wasn’t home.
“
Drink?
” Pamela asked, opening up a surprisingly wellstocked cabinet. Then she laughed. “
So how long?
”
“
How long what?
” he responded.
“
You know. How long without a drink?
”
“
More than five years
.”
“
Good for you
.”
He couldn’t tell whether the words were laced with sincerity or sarcasm. He watched as she poured herself two fingers of bourbon. Small beads of sweat began to sting his brow. She was Thirteenth Stepping, as it was known in A.A. She didn’t attend meetings looking for sobriety through the Twelve Steps. She was looking for something else, something beyond all that.
She held up the glass. “
You sure?
” she asked.
He shook his head. He had, at least, the strength to do that much, knowing that alcohol could send him right back to prison. But a woman. Now that was something else altogether. A woman could take him places he hadn’t been in a long time.
“Daddy!”
Startled, John caught his breath. He hurriedly tucked his thoughts away, then smiled grimly to himself when he realized they were already hidden. He looked over his shoulder and saw Phoebe standing just inside the screen door.
“What are you doing, Daddy?”
John waved the girl outside. “I’m just sitting here drinking some iced tea. Want to join me?”
Phoebe stepped out onto the porch. “I will in a minute, but wait right here, okay?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The child ran past him down the steps. She disappeared beyond the steep bank by the lake and then reappeared with something in her hand.
“What have you got there, Phoeb?”
“Smell, Daddy.”
She opened her small hand, revealing a few crushed leaves. John inhaled deeply and relaxed into a genuine grin. She had gathered some wild mint for his tea.
“You want it, Daddy?”
“I sure do. Drop it right in there.” He held out his glass for the mint, and she let it fall from her palm. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
“You’re welcome.”
John patted the step beside him. “Have a seat.”
The little girl sat, hugging her knees with both arms. “Billy’s coming out in a minute. He’s been in the shower.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The toilet was all plugged up this morning when I got up—”
“Again?”
“But Billy got the plunger out and fixed it.”
“Okay. That’s good.”
“Not without making a mess, though. That’s why he’s taking extra long in the shower.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Beka says this place is falling down around our ears.”
John sighed. “I suspect she’s more than half right.”
“But I don’t care. I like it here.”
“Well, I’m glad you do, Phoebe. I’m glad someone does.”
“When Billy gets out of the shower, he said he’d play with me awhile before you guys have to go to work.”
“That’s good. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Play Chinese checkers, maybe. Do you like the mint, Daddy?”
“I sure do. I used to pick mint for your granddaddy’s iced tea. Did you know that?”
Phoebe shook her head.
“I wish you could have met your granddaddy. He died too young, before you were born. You’d have liked him, though. He was a good man.”
“Like you, Daddy?”
“Well—”
“Billy says you’re a good man.”
“Well, I—”
John didn’t have time to go on before Billy pushed past the screen door to the porch and, straddling several floorboards like a cowboy taking aim with a pistol, pointed his cell phone at them in a two-handed grip. “Hey, Dad, Phoebe, say cheese!” he said.
He was neatly dressed in a button-up shirt and slacks, his wet hair plastered to his head, the scent of English Leather cologne trailing him like a pungent afterthought. “Look, I took your picture!” he exclaimed. “Beka showed me how to do it!”
He proudly displayed the picture, holding the phone in front of their faces.
“That’s great, Billy,” John said. “You’ll have to show me how to do that.”
“It’s easy, Dad,” Billy responded confidently. “I can show you in no time.”
John nodded. “You got some nice gifts for your birthday, huh, son?”
“Yeah, Dad, the best.”
“How’s that nightlight working out for you?”
“Whoa, Dad—it’s so cool.”
“It glows real pretty in the night, Daddy,” Phoebe added.
“I bet it does,” John remarked. “Nice of Beka to get it for you, Billy.”
“Yeah.” Billy laughed. “She sure surprised me.”
Phoebe said, “Billy put my picture up on the wall. Did you see it, Daddy?”
“I sure did. It’s beautiful, Phoeb.”
“I told her it looks just like us. Don’t you think so, Dad?” Billy asked.
“As good as any photograph, I’d say.”
Phoebe smiled happily. Then she said, “Hey, Billy, can you show
me
how to take a picture on your phone?”
“Sure, Phoeb. Come sit here and I’ll show you. It’s real easy.”
Billy and Phoebe moved to the glider while John moved up to the padded wicker chair. In just a little while he’d have to go inside, take a shower, get ready to go to work. He wanted to put it off for as long as he could. The thought of going to work was making him nervous.
Pamela had shown up at the restaurant yesterday, sat there drinking lemonade by herself. She had the paper spread out on the table as though she were reading it, but he never saw her turn the page. Their eyes met once, maybe twice. They didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. There was some sort of electric current running between them that said it all without a single word. It had brought that whole Fourth of July night rushing back like a tidal wave crashing onto the present moment. How was it that no one else in the restaurant felt it, a thing that big, that overwhelming?
Dear God
, he thought now as he looked out over the lake.
What have I done? My children, my
—
He remembered the scent of her, the smooth softness of her skin. He clenched his jaw as he glanced over at Billy and Phoebe. He had lied to them and to Andrea. He had said he’d come straight home from the meeting, that he’d had a headache so he’d gone to bed early.
Dear God
, he thought again.
What have I done?
He sniffed then at the irony, at the absurdity of the question. He knew exactly what he’d done.
More than that he knew, given half a chance, he’d do it again.
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-ONE
Andrea glanced at the clock
in the kitchen and then walked across the front room to the porch door. “John,” she called out through the screen, “it’s ten o’clock. Don’t you think you should be getting ready?”
John flinched. He blinked slowly, as though coming back from far away. “Okay, thanks, Andrea,” he said, his voice listless. “I lost track of the time.”
“I just don’t want you and Billy to be late for work.”
“No, I’ll get moving. Beka in the shower?”
“She’s barely out of bed yet. The shower’s all yours.”
“Hey, Mom!” Billy smiled up from the glider. “I’m showing Phoebe how to take pictures. Look at the picture I took of Dad and Phoebe.”
Andrea stepped out onto the porch and took the phone. She angled it so she could see the photo. There was Phoebe, smiling broadly, John, looking sullen, surprised at best. “Wonderful, Billy,” she said, handing him the phone. “Has Beka shown you how to send them to the computer?”
Billy shook his head. “Not yet. But she said she would.”
John finally rose from the chair. The porch floor creaked beneath his weight. Andrea turned toward him, saw the empty glass in hand. “I’ll take that for you,” she offered.
He barely glanced at her. “Thanks. I’ll be out of the shower in a few minutes, in case Beka wants it.”
“No hurry.”
“Hey, Mom, say cheese!”
Andrea turned back toward the glider to find Phoebe snapping a picture with the phone. The child laughed. “I got you, Mom! I took your picture!”
“You didn’t even give me a chance to smile.”
“Yeah, Mom,” Billy said, studying the phone in Phoebe’s hand. “You’re not smiling. You look a little funny. Want to see?”
“No, thank you. I’ll pass. Now listen, Billy, you’ve got thirty minutes, and then you and Dad are out the door.”
“I know. I’m all ready to go. I’m just waiting on Dad.”
Andrea stepped toward the door, stopped a moment. “By the way, Billy,” she said.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“You smell nice.”
While Phoebe frowned and sniffed the air, Billy tore his attention away from the picture and looked up at his mother. Deep crows-feet formed around his eyes as his small face opened up into a wide, full-toothed smile. For Andrea, there was no other face in the world that could match that one for joy.
“Thanks, Mom!” Billy said.
Andrea carried the image of that face with her back to the kitchen, where it promptly dissolved, mistlike, at the sight of Rebekah sitting at the table. In profile she looked like a little lost waif, her clothes rumpled, her hair disheveled, her face weary beyond her years. She stared absently into a tall glass of orange juice.
“Good morning, Beka.”
“Hi, Mom.”
Andrea settled John’s empty glass in the sink. “You want something to eat?”
“Not yet.”
Andrea poured herself a cup of coffee she didn’t really want and carried it to the table. “Mind if I join you?”
Rebekah shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.”
The pipes in the bathroom groaned as John started his shower. Laughter from the porch drifted into the kitchen. Andrea sipped her coffee. “Billy and Phoebe are out there taking pictures.”
Rebekah didn’t look up. “Oh yeah?”
“I appreciate your showing Billy how to use the phone.”
Another lift of the shoulders. “Since you and Dad don’t know how to use a cell, I’m the one that has to do it.”
“I wouldn’t say we don’t know how to use a cell phone.”
“Yeah, maybe. But taking pictures. That happened when Dad was—you know.”
In prison. Yes, a lot had changed in the world while John was in prison.
But Andrea didn’t want to think about that. “Billy really likes the nightlight, you know.”
“Yeah. Weird, huh?”
Andrea pursed her lips, willed herself to be patient. “I’m just saying, I appreciate what you’ve done for him. It means a lot.”