Her shoulders sagged and she wilted against a cabinet as if she needed support. “My father is a crook and a liar, and it’s perfectly understandable why I wouldn’t share that information easily with someone I just met.”
“Well, my daughter was an unexpected miracle in the midst of the worst time of my life, and I had every intention of sharing her with you.”
“But you
didn’t
.” She clenched her fists where they rested on the shiny surface. “And if you tell me you have a wife or a girlfriend or a fiancée out there somewhere I just might start screaming and never stop.”
He rushed to her side. “It’s not like that.”
She stepped away from him and pulled a napkin from an industrial sized bag on a shelf. “This is pointless,” she said and dabbed her eyes.
“No. It isn’t. I didn’t know I was a father until Rachel’s mother came to tell me in the hospital. I was still confined to a bed when I got the news, and the baby came just two months later. It didn’t come up in the truck that night because it took every bit of nerve I had to come out with all the negative stuff about myself, remember? I wasn’t sure we’d have another personal conversation after that. Somehow telling you about my baby in the same breath as Pete’s death and my alcoholism didn’t fit. Believe me. Letting you know about Rachel is all I’ve thought about for days.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me days ago?”
“I should have, all right? I just wanted the time to be right. I intended to tell you last night.” He paused and rubbed his sweaty palms across his jeans. “Look. This is all new to me. Everything happened so fast. Contacting her mother and new stepfather was tricky. I came back here with the hope of being a part of my daughter’s life, but I had no idea if, or when it would really happen.”
“What do you mean
if
? Fathers need to be there for their daughters. You should move heaven and earth to take care of her the way she deserves. You’re talking as if you were willing to walk away from your responsibility if her mother didn’t cooperate. You don’t get to walk away. This situation is not her fault.”
The hair on the back of his neck stood up. “If I were you, I wouldn’t get so close to that line you’re about to cross. You have no idea what I’ve done to be with my daughter, and you don’t know me well enough to pass judgment on me as a father—especially after what
you
know about fathers.”
She staggered backward. “Now who’s crossing the line?”
Shade flinched at his ugly words. He didn’t mean it, shouldn’t have said it, and was powerless to take it back. As for her off-the-mark ramblings about his behavior as a father, he knew they were a direct result of her own big, fat daddy issues, and she’d think twice about them later.
Regrets aside, they both stood completely crossways with each other and stuck on either side of a fracture he wasn’t sure she was willing to mend with him.
She stooped to pick up her belongings. He hurried to her side to help. She waved him away.
“I’ll see you Tuesday at practice and, if you haven’t already, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep the information about my father to yourself. I have a lot going on with that right now, and I don’t need the added pressure of having to explain it to the band.”
“C’mon, Candi, I’m not gonna discuss any of this with anyone. I’d rather
us
talk it out and get past it, and if you’ve got problems with your father, I wish you’d talk to me about it.”
“This isn’t going to work, Shade. We both have a lot of things to deal with, and your daughter deserves all your attention right now. You’re a great asset to our team, and we have a lot of work to do here so let’s just leave it at that.”
“I don’t want to leave it at that. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Rachel sooner, and I think we should talk about this later when we’ve both had a chance to calm down and think about it.”
This time when she touched the door it opened. “Let it go, Shade. It’s not going to work.”
He reached for her hand. “I don’t want to let it go.”
Her eyes glittered with unshed tears as she met his gaze. “It’s already gone.”
11
From:
Pastor Charles Littleton
[mailto:[email protected]]
Sent:
Monday, May 04 3:35 PM
To:
Candi Canaberry <
[email protected]
>
CC:
Shade Blackledge <
[email protected]
>
Subject:
Music Festival
Candi and Shade:
Great job yesterday. I know you all were worried about Bill, but you sure did a good job of keeping the worship upbeat. I’m attaching the schedule and information I received about the music festival at the college on May 16th. The whole church is excited about this evangelistic opportunity.
Charles
Shade loved to work in empty houses. He could start early and stay late, he didn’t have to move his scaffold when he left, and he could think, sing, and pray all he wanted and no one would disturb him. On the flipside, the extended time without distraction was more time than he needed to beat himself up about his misstep with Candi and the total demise of their relationship before it got off the ground.
By early evening, his own footsteps on the bare concrete floor were too loud in his ears and the taunting images of past failures and current difficulties were starting to outweigh his positive attitude and bright future with his daughter. These were the worst kind of days and the hardest to battle through. Somewhere there was peace—and it wasn’t in a dark and nasty bar, or at the bottom of a bottle.
He sealed a half empty bucket of builder’s grade white ceiling paint and set the rest of his supplies in the back of his truck. His grandfather’s watch gave him just over an hour to get home, clean up, eat, and get to his weekly A.A. meeting. After that, he might call Max or visit Wild Bill. Or maybe he’d just stick his face in his Bible and pray until he fell asleep.
Something didn’t look right as he approached his house. A red Ford Explorer was parked in his yard and two people lounged on his deck as if at the beach. Neither face was visible. One rail thin guy was stretched out on his back and appeared to be blowing smoke rings in the air. The other was perched on the top step reading the neighborhood newspaper that came each Monday afternoon. They scrambled to their feet as he pulled in his driveway.
Spider Monkey? Tom?
Both men met him with broad smiles and the classic Dead Lizard Highway version of a handshake-chest-bump-guy-hug.
Spider Monkey flicked his cigarette into the grass. “Where ya been, man? We’ve been here for hours.”
They had no concept of the forty-hour work week. “It’s called a job. Maybe you two have heard of it? You do work and collect a paycheck. Ring any bells?”
Tom swiped his hand across his bald head. “Nah...can’t say as it does. Do other people know about this?”
Shade laughed out loud. Tom was always funny. Kind of reminded him of Rocky.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” he said to Spider Monkey. “What’s with the hair?”
“Yeah,” he answered and rubbed his fingers through the short black spikes on his head. “Long story. Involves a stint with a punk band. ‘Nuff said.”
“Ask him about the dog collar,” Tom teased. “And the chains.”
Shade hopped up the steps and unlocked the door. “That’s OK,” he said and turned on the floor lamp. “C’mon in.”
Tom dropped his well-worn leather jacket by the door and made himself at home on the couch.
Spider Monkey did the same and clasped his hands behind his head as he gave Shade the once-over. “You feeling OK? You look pretty good.”
“I’m good.”
“You still in physical therapy, or anything?”
“Nope. All through with hospitals, doctors, and painful exercises.” He pulled the rocking chair closer to the couch. “What brings you around? You on your way to your cousin’s in Galveston?”
Tom scooted forward and cleared his throat. “We might head that way, but we really came to see you.”
“We’re not gonna lie,” Spider Monkey added. “We’re here on business. Music business. We have a proposition for you.”
His two visitors glanced at each other. They’d evidently practiced their pitch and had a lot riding on his response. He blew out a breath and flicked a speck of paint off the back of his hand. “Guys. You know I got out of the music business—”
“We know.” Tom cut him off. “Just hear us out. That’s all we’re asking.”
He sat back in the rocking chair and absently set it in motion. “I’ll listen,” he said and glanced at the clock. “But I’ve got to be at a meeting in a little bit. Might have to finish the discussion when I get back.”
They nodded.
“Where you stayin’?”
Tom gave the cushion a pat. “I was thinking right here looks good. You got an extra blanket? Spidey can sleep on the floor.”
He figured as much. “We’ll work it out, but right now I need to eat. You guys hungry?”
Dumb question.
“We could eat.”
Shade headed for the kitchen and flicked the switch for the light over the sink. He pulled three cans out of the pantry. “Ravioli OK?”
“Why not?” Spider Monkey followed him and found a place to lean against the counter near the refrigerator. “So does this baby stuff around here mean you worked it out with Jess? She pretty much fell off the face of the earth. No one knows anything.”
Shade took three mismatched cereal bowls from the dish rack and dug through a drawer for the can opener. “She got married. The baby, Rachel, was born in October.”
Tom joined them and found his own place to lean in the tiny kitchen. “She got married? But not to you I take it.”
“Nope. Not to me. But we’re working things out with the baby.” He slid a bowl of ravioli into the microwave.
“Don’t bother with mine,” Tom said. “Just give me the can and a spoon.”
Spider Monkey made a face. “I’ll wait my turn in the ‘wave.” He took his spoon off the counter. “What meeting do you have tonight? Can we crash?”
Shade offered each of them a paper towel. “It’s my A.A. meeting. You can crash if you want.”
Tom ignored the paper towel and wiped the sauce off his mouth with his sleeve. “No, really.” He chuckled against his arm. “What’s going on?”
“I’m serious. I gave it up.”
He took the paper towel after all. “I guess that’s your way of telling me there’s no beer in that fridge.”
“Sorry. No beer. But I have all the soda you want.”
Tom set his dinner down and stepped across the room. “Soda, it is,” he said and grabbed the refrigerator door. “But I’m not going to any meeting so someone can make me talk about my feelings and sing Kum-Ba-Yah and moan about how my mother messed me up and my dad beat me with a belt. No way.”
Shade pulled one bowl out of the microwave and slipped in the other. “Fine,” he said and laughed. “But just for the record, Alcoholics Anonymous meetings are nothing like that. You’re not even close.”
Spider Monkey took the bowl Shade offered. “Don’t look at me. I’m not going.”
“Fair enough.” The ding of the timer served as a symbolic closing bell to the A.A. discussion. Now they knew.
“What news do you bring from Austin?” he asked in an effort to change the subject. “Do you hear anything from The Rodrunner?”
Tom scraped the bottom of the can. “No. I heard he moved out of the state. Someone said he went to Colorado. I saw his sister a few months back. She talked like he wasn’t playing the bass anymore. But, you know, we all knew he was having a hard time about Pete. She was thinking he’d snap out of his funk with some time.”
Shade found it difficult to form words. Though nothing was ever said, he was sure the bass player blamed him completely for Pete’s death. He was the only one who never came to visit, the only one, besides himself, who didn’t attend Pete’s funeral. “Well,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster, “it hasn’t even been a year. We all need time.”
“On the subject of Pete,” Tom went on, “I saw our favorite ink man not too long ago and he said he put a sweet tattoo on your chest in honor of our late drummer.”
Shade instinctively placed his hand just above his heart and toward his left shoulder where his lasting tribute to Pete was emblazoned on his skin. “Yeah...it’s a drum kit with Pete’s name on it.” He tugged at the collar of his white v-neck tee and pointed at the leaves that crept toward his collarbone. He wasn’t going to take his shirt off during dinner—such as it was—but, more importantly, the tattoo was his private memorial to his friend. He wasn’t ready to share. “It’s surrounded by vines that trail upward and to the left. He did a nice job on it. Lots of great color.”
Tom tossed his can in the trash and let the discussion fade. “We’ll take a look later.”
“I heard some interesting news the other day,” Spider Monkey announced as if he had a juicy secret. “You remember that country rock band from Wimberley, the, uh, Hill Country Ramblers or Rockers or something lame, like that? And that other alternative band from Austin called the Venom Collectors. You remember them?”
Tom waved his hand as if urging him to continue. “Not really, Spidey, but get on with the story.”
“OK, they were victims of that manager, Don Canaberry, who extorted money from them, right?”
“Yeah, them and about fifteen other bands we knew.”
“Anyway, did you know that guy went to jail for that?”
“Well, yeah,” Tom said. “It’s fraud, plain and simple. He took money for services he didn’t provide and then pocketed the money himself and lied about it.”
“I heard he’s out now. And get this; he’s up to his old tricks.”
Shade dropped his bowl in the sink and turned on the water. His heart pounded in his ears as anger and concern bubbled inside him. No wonder Candi was frantic to keep her father a secret. Without trying to hide her bitterness, she’d called him a crook and a liar. Was that because she knew what he was up to now, or was that based on the past? Maybe she didn’t know about his newfound freedom and his latest scam. Maybe she did and it was killing her.