A Likely Story: A Wayward Ink Publishing Anthology (3 page)

“You should see her in
Silence of the Lambs
.”

“I’ll pass on that one. Sounds like a snoozer of a Christmas movie.” She settled onto her lavender corduroy La-Z-Boy with her frozen grape Kool-Aid on a stick. “I’m eating so many of these I ought to buy their stock so I can earn my money back.”

I simply couldn’t resist. “Purchase Apple stock instead. Their iPods, iPads, and iPhones will make you rich.”

She looked at me as though I had two heads. “Their what?”

“Never mind, when’s mom getting here?”

She licked her Popsicle. “Don’t nag me, Nicky. She’ll get here when she gets here.”

A TV commercial seized my attention. Two sweaty hunks arm-wrestled. One grunted, his bicep bulging, and forced the other’s arm down. The loser cried defeat in a bad Irish accent. His buddy hopped in a shower and lathered his muscles with a bar of Irish Spring. He was so hot I wanted to hop in there with him and make him drop the soap.

No, he’s too old! I wanna shower with Peter Brady!

Kid, don’t you dare make me think about getting in a shower with a
Brady Bunch
boy.

Why would you make him drop the soap?

Never mind.

I shifted my eyes from the stud’s soapy chest to a grinning ceramic strawberry on Winnie’s end table. My inner child and I were
not
going to corrupt each other. How many frigging years until I hit puberty?

There was a knock.

I jumped off the couch, ran to the door, and swung it open.

There stood my mother. She wasn’t old before her time—frail, wheezing, and bald from chemotherapy. She was young and healthy, her body was strong, and her hair was thick and jet-black. She was utterly beautiful.

Her pretty green eyes met mine, and she gave me her lovely smile. She bent down with a wrapped gift in her arms and hugged me. “Happy birthday, Nicky!”

I nuzzled my face against her cocktail waitress uniform to try to keep her from seeing my tears. I hugged her back hard savoring the scent of her Avon perfume. She always sprayed some on her uniform after a shift to cover up stale cigarette smoke from the casino.

“What’s the matter, little man?”

I wiped my eyes. “I’m just so happy you’re healthy and still here.”

“Of course I’m still here. You’re never getting rid of me.” She handed me her gift. “Open it up.”

I tore off the wrapping paper. A Rubik’s Cube. I knew I’d begged her for it and would never be smart enough to solve it. I tried to look excited. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Tips good today?” Winnie asked.

“So-so, rain killed business all week.”

“Don’t even think about trying to pay me for watching him. I mean it. Put it toward your house payment.”

“Nonsense.” She let me go and fished a five-dollar bill from her purse.

As I watched the crinkled bill pass back and forth, and listened to them each say, “No, you keep it,” my heart broke. My mom and her best friend had done so much for me with so very little.

“Mom, let’s take this cube back to the store tomorrow. I don’t need it.”

She stopped and gazed at me, and I knew she was formulating a kooky response. “No, sweetie, I want you to teach me how to solve it so I can dazzle my customers at the casino.”

“Now
that
I want to see.” Winnie licked her dripping Popsicle. “God, I could use a cigarette.”

My mom looked away, and I knew she was hiding something. Was this that week they’d both tried to quit smoking?

Yep, they promised each other. That’s why Winnie’s a big grump!

Has Mom broken her promise yet, kid?

Nope.

Excellent. Thanks, buddy.

I dug deep for pieces of buried memories. Winnie would sneak the five-dollar bill back into my mom’s purse, and she’d discover a pack of cigarettes. My mom would confess. She’d broken down, bought the cigarettes at the casino, and smoked one on the way home. They’d both laugh at the folly of trying to kick the habit, and they’d light up, all while I was mesmerized by the Rubik’s Cube.

Well, that wasn’t happening tonight.

“C’mon, Mom, set your purse down. Let’s have some cake.”

Winnie headed for the kitchen. “Let me get the candles lit.”

My mom set her purse on the coffee table, and I put down the Rubik’s cube. When she went to the coat closet for TV trays, I quickly rifled through the pouch and removed the pack.

I ran to the bathroom, locked the door, and emptied all the cigarettes into the sink. I drew water and smushed their tobacco rods to bits.

“Nicky, come blow out your candles,” my mom called.

“No, you come here,” I yelled. “I wanna talk to you.”

I heard them both coming down the hallway.

“What’s wrong?”

“I found your cigarettes. They’re floating in the sink.”

“Nicky… I’m sorry. I just can’t quit, okay? Now come out and have some cake.”

“No, if you keep smoking, you’re gonna get lung cancer. You’ll die when you’re only fifty-five. You have to promise me you’ll quit.”

I heard them whispering.

“Okay, I promise. Now come out here.”

“No, mom, I don’t believe you yet. So here’s the deal. If you ever break that promise, I’m going to run away. If the cops find me and bring me back, I’ll run away again. I’ll keep running away until they don’t find me. I swear you’ll never see me again, and that’s a promise
I
won’t break.”

“Nicky—”

“Hold on, there’s more. Just so you know I’m dead serious, I’m not coming out on my own. You can break the door down, call a locksmith, or dial 911 and get some firemen to rescue me.

The doorknob rattled.

“There’s no key,” Winnie said.

“Nicky, why are you doing this to me?”

“Because I love you. Now go call the fire department.”

I heard them padding down the hallway. As I started scooping tobacco mush from the sink, the wall mirror caught my eye. Holy shit! The scrawny elf of a reflection looking back at me nearly startled me to death. Good god! I really was nine. What the hell did I have to look forward to until I met Shane? Running from bullies? Discovering masturbation? Pretending I didn’t know long division? Shit, would I even meet Shane, now that I’d altered my past? I was gonna go insane living in 1983.

You know long division?

I’m rusty at it, kid, but yes.

Totally awesome! I’m finally gonna get an A in math!

You’re gonna have to get it on your own, buddy.

I pulled Dante’s watch from my pocket.

Wait! Firemen are coming! You can’t leave me here with this mess!

Sorry, kid, you’ll figure things out. Take care of Mom and make sure she doesn’t smoke, okay?

Hoping I’d get back to 2014, I shut my eyes tight and pressed the red button.

I OPENED my eyes. I sat at the table in our apartment in only sweat pants with my Seiko fastened to my wrist. I was clutching a pen tightly. A letter I’d written lay in front of me. Beside it was a photo. My favorite one. A friendly woman had snapped it for us. He was kissing my cheek on a sandy beach.

Dante’s watch overheated my other hand. I glanced at the time. It was now 8:15 p.m. But the year blinked 2004, not 2014, and then resumed flashing random numbers. I set it down, picked up the note pad, and read what I’d written:

Dear Shane,

I’m sitting here wearing the watch you gave me last year for my birthday, wishing the hours and dates would fast forward to the day you finally return to me. Not a minute goes by that I don’t miss you.

I know if you were here today you’d make a big deal out of my thirtieth. I treasure that you always treat me like royalty on my birthday. Remember the year you took me to California? That kiss on the beach? What I wouldn’t give if I could feel you kiss me like that now.

I’ve racked my brain for interesting news to share, but to be honest, life simply is not that interesting here without you. Nights come and go in a blur with me dealing cards to people I don’t want to be around. My blackjack table always seems to be a magnet for the casino’s drunkest drunks and loudest losers. Days, I read the paper for news about Iraq and pray over every word for your safety and that the war will end soon. Then I draw the drapes, crawl into bed, and hope I’ll dream of you.

Please know that I love you more than life itself. I was never a very happy person until the day I met you. Come home to me safe, so I can be happy again.

Love,

Sarah

I put down the note pad and seethed. I was his shameful secret over there. The straight guys in his unit could talk all they wanted about girlfriends, wives, and one-night conquests, but he couldn’t tell anyone about me because of fucking ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’. Before he’d shipped out, I’d had to promise I’d be his girlfriend in our letters.

I ripped the page off the note pad and tore it in half.

What the hell are you doing? It took me half the evening to write that!

Sorry, buddy, but you know that wasn’t what we wanted to say. Let me compose the letter.

I put pen to paper and wrote:

Dear Shane,

I’m miserable without you. I miss you every minute of every day. I miss grocery shopping with you and watching you pick through bins for the very best tomatoes. I miss the marinara sauce you’d make with those tomatoes and fistfuls of basil and garlic. I miss your beautiful face lighting up when I tell you your pasta is my favorite thing in the world. I miss making you happy the way I did that hot summer day I brought you an ice-cold Dos Equis, and handed you wrenches and screwdrivers while you tinkered under the hood. I miss surprising you the way I did the time I washed and waxed your Mustang after that horrendous dust storm blew in from Arizona. And I miss making you laugh. What I wouldn’t give to be cruising to Mt. Charleston again in your car, top down, hearing you crack up as I butchered Fatboy Slim songs, loud and off key.

I want you to know that if in 1999 I’d been able to see this awful war coming, I
never
would have let you join the National Guard. We could have found other ways to make ends meet.

I love you more than life itself, and if I could trade places with you, I would. Keep me in your heart, Shane. You’ll forever be in mine.

Love,

Nicholas

I put down the pen and tore the letter off the note pad.

You can’t sign it that way. He’ll get in trouble.

Listen, buddy, Sarah doesn’t love him,
I
do.

I grabbed the snapshot of him kissing me and folded the letter around it.

Don’t send that photo!

Bud, you’ll be glad I did when you get the bad news Christmas Eve. His parents aren’t gonna let you within twenty miles of his funeral. Good people from Shannon, Mississippi, will be waiting for your flight in Tupelo to escort you the opposite direction. You’re never gonna see his face again. But I’ll be damned if he’s not gonna see mine before he dies, even if it’s only in a photo.

Don’t say that! He’s coming home.

No, buddy, he’s not.

I addressed and stamped an envelope and sealed the letter inside. I grabbed Dante’s watch and went outside barefooted and bare-chested. Shivering in the cool night air, I made my way to our apartment complex’s mailboxes and slipped the letter through the outgoing mail slot. Then I gazed at my mailbox. I sure as hell didn’t want to stay here. I fingered the red button. It had gotten me to 1983 and 2004. If I pressed it at exactly the right moment, maybe it would take me to 1998. There, I’d make damn sure Shane never joined the National Guard.

I squinted at the watch’s glowing red digits. They were flashing way too fast. I couldn’t begin to guess where I’d end up. I shook my head and closed my eyes. Any year would be better than this one, so I pressed the red button.

WHEN I opened my eyes, I was still standing in front of my mailbox. I checked Dante’s watch. The time was 9:02 p.m. But the year blinked 2014, and then it froze. I was still wearing my Seiko. But I wasn’t in sweatpants. I had on the jeans and polo shirt I’d been wearing when I met Dante. I glanced behind me, half afraid I’d find him lurking, but no one was there. I clutched his watch. Maybe if I kept trying, I’d eventually land in 1998. I pressed the red button. Nothing happened. I pressed it again. Still nothing. I realized my hand was no longer overheated. The watch had cooled completely. I sighed and stuffed it inside my jeans pocket. Apparently, I was back to the present for good.

I fished my keys from my pocket and opened my mailbox. A week’s worth of junk mail and bills was crammed inside. When I removed the mass of paper, a red envelope fell to the ground. A birthday card? Nobody had sent me one in years. I picked it up and eyed the return label.

It was my mom’s old address.

I dropped everything else, tore open the flap, and pulled out the card. On the cover, a hunky firefighter posed without a shirt. The caption above him said: ‘Did someone call for a fireman?’ I opened the card, astonished to find a note penned in my mother’s hand:

Happy birthday, Nicky!

How do you like the fireman? Cute, huh? I can’t believe you’re turning 40. Where have the years gone? It seems like only yesterday you were that little devil locked in Winnie’s bathroom blackmailing me into doing the smartest thing I ever did. Thanks for giving me a lifetime of joy.

Love,

Mom

P.S. I’m dropping by Friday. I picked up batteries for Shane’s wheelchair.

Oh shit. I forced awful thoughts out of my head and fought to be optimistic. Maybe he’d had foot or knee surgery. Maybe he was recuperating. I picked up mail off the ground, and slowly walked to our apartment. As badly as I wanted to see him, I dreaded unlocking the door.

I let myself inside. Everything was far more worn than it had been when I’d left the apartment this morning. Couch cushions were faded and threadbare. The armchair’s arms were tattered and stained. The coffee table’s wooden top was marred with scratches and nicks. Five empty cans of Dos Equis—a beer I never drank—littered the end table.