Nightwork, page 5
She dropped down at the kitchen table, used the heels of her hands to swipe at tears, and smeared her mascara. “The last few nights she’s been talking to Uncle Silas or our mother. And—and she’s happy when she does that. I don’t care if you believe she really sees them. Everybody’s entitled to believe whatever as long as they don’t pound you over the head with it. But I believe it. I believe they’re waiting for her.”
He sat, tried the wine. Marginally better than cheap beer, he decided. “I don’t know what I believe. But I know you were right before. She’s fighting for us, and it hurts her, it’s taking everything away from her, and you were right. She needed to know I’d be okay.”
“I don’t want to let her go.”
“I know. We’re doing it for her.”
“I need to ask you not to go out at night until … I wouldn’t be able to reach you if…”
“I’ll be here.”
Two nights later, she slipped away while he read to her and Mags knitted an endless scarf.
* * *
She hadn’t wanted a funeral, so they didn’t have one. People still came to the house and brought flowers or food or both. He was surprised how many clients made that journey or sent sympathy cards.
On a cold, blustery night in November, he broke through the security at Wrigley Field and led Mags to what would’ve been home plate during the season.
“I figured you must be doing something like this—breaking and entering—but I didn’t figure you were so damn good at it.”
“Looks different empty, and heading toward winter. But she’d like this, right?”
“She’d love this. It’s the right place for it. Chicago girl, through and through.”
“Okay then. Do you want to, like, do something, say something?”
“Her spirit’s already flown. Let the rest fly with her. It’s enough.”
He opened the box, held it high. And let the wind carry the ashes.
“Look at her go, Harry. Part of her will always be here, cheering on her Cubs. They’ll never know how lucky they are to have her. But we will. We do.”
“We do.” He watched the wind take the ashes, carry them, swirl them.
When they rode the train home, Mags patted his leg. “What are you going to do with the house?”
“You can live there as long as you want.”
“Can’t do it. For now, until you decide, sure. But I couldn’t live there without her. I don’t want Chicago without her, not once you decide. You could start at Northwestern, maybe even next month.”
He shook his head. “Can’t do it. It’s the same for me. I don’t want to be here, not without her.”
“Where, then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe just somewhere warm at first. Away from the damn cold. What about you?”
“I’ve got a line on an old VW Bus.”
He turned to stare at her. Her hair was currently the color of a ripe eggplant. “You’re kidding me.”
“I am not. I’m thinking west. And I can start up my phone psychic business again. Madame Magdelaine knows all, sees all.”
“I’ll buy you a decent car.”
“The Volkswagen Bus is a classic for a reason, pal. I have fond memories of previous encounters in same.”
“Then I’ll get you the damn Bus, make sure it’s restored and in good condition. I’m not going to visualize you broken down on some road in the desert. Let me do this for you—from her. She’d want me to.”
“You’re not going to make me cry on this train. You have that kind of money?”
“I have enough, and I’m going to sell the house, so I’ll have more.”
“She wanted college for you. Harry, she wanted that so much.”
“I’ll get there. That’s a promise.”
He knew he should wait until spring—better real estate market—but he put the house on the market. Then sold it in just under two weeks for five thousand over asking. He bought himself a secondhand Volvo—low mileage, good condition.
Clearing out the house—all his mother’s things—was the hardest part of it. But when it was done, he stood with Mags in the little front yard. She wore the red sweater and a pair of his mother’s earrings.
Her VW Bus—two-toned, red and white—sat in front of his black Volvo.
“That is one boring car, kid.”
“Boring cars don’t get noticed. You’ll be racking up tickets before you get to Iowa.”
“The day I can’t charm a cop out of a ticket’s the day I pack it in.” She turned to him. “We need to make a pact.”
“Okay.”
“Once a year—more is fine, but at least once a year—we meet up. I come to you, you come to me, we meet somewhere, doesn’t matter. And we spend a few days. You’re all I have left of her, Harry. You’re my family.”
“Let’s pick the first date now—location to come. Before is fine, but let’s say April first.”
“April Fool’s?”
“Easy to remember. We meet up April first. Want to pinky swear it?”
“Let’s try this instead.” She wrapped around him. He smelled his mother on her—his mother’s favorite shampoo—and just buried his face in Mags’s hair.
“It works. Deal is sealed. Try to stay out of trouble.”
“What fun is that?” She eased back, cupped his face. “You call me anytime. If you need somebody to post bail, I’m your girl.”
“Same goes. Are you ready?”
“For adventure? Always. Have some of that, Harry. Have some adventures. April first,” she said as he walked her to the VW. “Don’t make a fool out of me.”
“Deal’s sealed. I love you, Mags.”
“I love you.” She climbed in, slipped on rainbow-lense cat’s-eye sunglasses. She had some crystals and a peace sign dangling from the rearview mirror. She took one of the crystals and passed it to him through the open window.
“White moonstone, for safe travels.”
“Where’s yours?”
She pulled the chain from under her shirt. “Peace out, pal.”
She started the car—ran like a top—and drove away. He waited until he couldn’t see her, then got into the Volvo.
He thought, what the hell, and hung the crystal on the rearview.
He took one last look at the house.
Then he drove away without turning back.
CHAPTER FOUR
Harry took Interstate 65 across Indiana. As besides Illinois, Indiana was the only other state he’d ever been in, he wanted out of that, too.
Someplace else, somewhere new, anywhere warm.
He stuck to the highway, kept the radio blasting and the heater rolling. And felt a lift, a physical lift when he crossed into Kentucky. He took an exit at random. He’d make a pit stop, and maybe just wander the state for a while.
“Bluegrass State—actually commonwealth,” he corrected, pulling out some factoids filed in his brain. “Capital’s Frankfort. Ah, horses, bourbon, fried chicken, Derby, blues, Fort Knox.”
Fort Knox had him wondering what he’d do with gold bars if he pulled off a heist. Awesome bragging rights, except bragging would send you to a Kansas institution. Leavenworth. Or Kentucky’s version thereof.
Besides, you couldn’t stash gold bars in your backpack.
He stopped to empty his bladder and fill up the Volvo, bought Doritos—still a favorite—and a Coke.
He liked the look of the hills, a roll he’d only seen in pictures or movies. He imagined them summer green, rising and falling, behind fields of grazing horses.
Maybe he’d enjoy a little rural living. Maybe.
But though the air didn’t bite, it still had enough of a snap in it.
He drove on, aiming south, and when the Doritos didn’t fill the hole, hit a drive-through at McDonald’s for a Big Mac and large fries.
The lady, about his mother’s age, handed him the bag with a smile. “There you go, son. You enjoy that now, you hear?”
He found her accent warm and wonderful.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Enjoy it he did, chowing down as he crossed into Tennessee.
“Whiskey, Elvis, Dolly Parton, tobacco farms, barbecue and blues, and the Smoky Mountains.”
For a boy who’d never been more than two hundred miles from home, it was like exploring a foreign country. A whole world of other.
And along with the secret sauce he tasted freedom.
He considered heading southwest to Memphis and paying Graceland a visit. He couldn’t claim to be a major fan of Elvis, but iconic had appeal.
Another time, he decided, and headed southeast.
He’d had a vague plan to drive to the ocean. He’d never seen an actual ocean. Why not check that box first?
His first look at the Great Smoky Mountains had him gaping like a tourist in Times Square. Since the ocean wasn’t going anywhere, he aimed for the mountains first.
Before, vast meant the plains outside the city. The endless flatlands where the wind streamed and tornados swirled. Now it meant the stunning rise of green peaks and the valleys below.
Clouds wisped through them. Yes, like smoke, and the sun slanted down, winter thin. He had his first experience with switchback roads, and took it easy mostly because he wanted to see everything all at once.
He climbed and climbed, pulled into overlooks to step out and take it all in. He snapped pictures with his phone. He’d text them, he thought, to Will, to Mags.
He stopped again as day faded toward twilight, and this time took the small bottle from his backpack.
He hadn’t told Mags he’d taken some of his mother’s ashes before they’d gone to Wrigley. He’d planned to spread them into the wind by the ocean, but he thought he’d release some here.
Share this with her.
“We’re really high here, almost six thousand feet. Just look how they keep going, like folding their way to North Carolina. So, it’s been a pretty good first day. Four states. And I guess I’ll go find a motel or whatever. But first…”
He uncorked the bottle and shook out some of the ashes. The mountains took her flying.
In the gloaming, he got back into the car, faced the challenge of driving in the mountains at night.
At one point he stopped dead, mouth falling open in shock as he watched a bear—an actual bear—lumber across the road like he was heading home after a hard day’s work.
He decided to head for the nearest civilization.
He found a motel tucked in what he supposed were the foothills. The single-story spread of it consisted of cinder-block walls painted red, a gravel parking lot, and an attached diner with a neon sign that read EATS!
That sold him, as he was starving again.
He checked in with a man who had an impressive beer belly under a white T-shirt and a gray-flecked brown beard.
He paid for a single night, in cash, got a key, and learned, when he asked, the diner closed at ten.
His room, he saw when he carted his duffel and backpack inside, boasted a single bed covered with a green-and-blue-floral spread, a single dresser on which sat a clunky-looking TV, a green carpet, beige walls.
He had lamps on stands on either side of the bed and a tiny bathroom, which, to his very experienced eye, actually looked more than acceptably clean.
He pulled the shade down on the window, then turned on the TV for company while he stripped.
He unwrapped the complimentary sliver of soap and took a long shower.
Nobody knew who he was or where he was, and he found that fascinating. Freeing. He’d let Mags know, send the pictures, but otherwise he was no one and everyone all at once.
He dressed, scooped his fingers through his hair. It had grown back into a mop again, and he was fine with that.
He felt like he’d walked through a movie set when he stepped outside. The humming ice machine, the two vending machines, the smell of pine in the cold air—not Chicago cold, but still too chilly for anything but an overnight stop. The sound of TVs muttering behind closed doors.
Inside the diner, that feeling hit full bloom.
The hard, bright fluorescent lights threw everything into relief. The long counter with pie or cake stands stacked up and the open kitchen behind it.
The air smelled of grease and coffee and frying meat. Two waitresses, one about his age, the other old enough to be her grandmother, wore pink dresses with white aprons.
Orange vinyl covered the seats of booths and chairs and backless, circular counter stools. Tables of white Formica held napkin dispensers, condiment caddies, and upside-down coffee mugs.
A couple in a booth looked exhausted as they tried riding herd on their two little kids. Traveling for the holidays, he decided. Maybe over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house.
The two men arguing football over what looked like meat loaf he pegged as locals.
A mix of both scattered around with a plastic Christmas tree twinkling in one corner beside a juke box where—oh yeah, perfect—Dolly Parton begged Jolene not to take her man.
“You just grab yourself a seat now, honey,” the older waitress called out. “We’ll get right to you.”
He took a booth and plucked the laminated menu out of the holder on the condiment caddy.
“Want some coffee, handsome?”
He looked up at the grandmotherly type with the name tag that read MERVINE. She had red lipstick and redder hair.
Her accent took a turn from the McDonald’s lady’s. Mervine’s sounded like she should sing like Dolly.
“No, ma’am, thanks. Can I get a Coke?”
“You sure can. Traveled a ways, haven’t you?” She picked up the pair of coffee mugs. “From up north.”
“Yes, ma’am. Chicago.”
“That’s a ways. You want more time with that menu?”
“Ah, I guess.”
She put a hand with the mug handle around her thumb on her hip. Angled her head. “I’m gonna tell you what you want.”
“You are?”
“I got a knack. Now, you tell me if I’m wrong and you’re a vegetarian or some other kind of tarian, but what you want is the chicken and gravy, mashed potatoes, and green beans. You’re gonna get corn bread with that, and we make it right here. You trade that Coke for a good sweet tea, and you’ll have yourself a meal, good-looking.”
“That sounds … really good.”
“Guaranteed.” She winked at him before she walked off. “Darcia, get that pretty young man some sweet tea. Herschal, y’all get me a hot yardbird swimming, a mound of murphy, and side the greens.”
He ate every bite and drank two glasses of sweet tea.
Dolly plunked a fat wedge of apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on top in front of him.
“Ma’am—”
“Pie’s on me. You need some meat on those bones. If there’s a man in this world doesn’t like apple pie with ice cream, I’ve yet to meet him. And I’ve met most of them.”
“You still haven’t met him,” he said, and made her laugh.
“You’ve got sad eyes, handsome. See if that pie don’t put a smile in them.”
He left her a twenty-dollar tip and figured he wasn’t the first to fall a little in love with her.
He thought about walking off the pie, thought about the bear, and went straight back to his room.
He did a few push-ups. He didn’t know about meat on the bones, but he sure as hell wanted to start putting on some muscle.
He took off the bedspread because who knew how many naked asses had sat on it before, then got a book out of his duffel. He turned the TV back on to fill the unfamiliar quiet.
He sent the text and relaxed when Mags reported back she’d stopped for the night in Nebraska.
After bunching the pair of lumpy pillows together, he cracked the book open.
He woke, still dressed, light on, TV muttering, and the wail of a kid howling he wanted cartoons.
It took him a minute to remember where he was. Groggy, wondering what the hell a kid was doing outside his room in the middle of the night, he walked to the window.
When he pulled back the side of the shade, the sun blasted his eyes. After slapping a hand over them, he let the shade fall back, blinked. Looked at his watch.
Nine-thirty? He’d slept almost twelve hours. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept eight hours, much less twelve.
Then again, he’d never driven more than an hour at one time before, or driven up mountains.
He cleaned up, hauled out his stuff, bought a Coke and a bag of chips—breakfast of champions—from the machines, and was on his way east by ten.
* * *
He expected he’d fall in love with the ocean when he got there. And there was a hell of a lot of North Carolina between the Tennessee border and the Atlantic. He’d calculated the fastest route would get him there in eight or ten hours, depending on how often and how long he stopped. But he decided almost immediately he didn’t want or need fast.
He expected to fall in love with the ocean, but he hadn’t expected to fall in love with the mountains.
If the Smokies seeded an infatuation, the Blue Ridge and Appalachians set the seeds to bloom. Instead of the highways, the interstate, he toured the byways. He enjoyed the rise and fall, the climb and descent where around every turn the world opened to a new vista.
He stopped awhile at Lake Norman—it was no Lake Michigan, but pretty enough. He liked the trees, and the December quiet while he ate a burrito he’d picked up at a mini-mart.
He consulted his map, decided he’d take a swing through something called the Uwharrie National Forest, then take a detour up to Chapel Hill, check out the college campus.
If it looked promising—he definitely wanted college at some point—maybe he’d find a motel in the area, get a feel for it all.
He’d head for the coast the next day, or the day after.
The forest provided a brand-new wonder. Since he already regretted he hadn’t taken the time to walk any of the Smokies, he parked at one of the well-marked trailheads.
He took his phone, his keys, his half a bottle of Coke, and a Kit Kat bar, then the born-and-bred city boy set off in his Chucks to hike the trail.
