Reprise (34 page)

“I checked him! He’s unarmed! Hold your fucking fire!” Deputy Troy sounded awfully upset considering Tiny punched him in the face.

The ground was cold on his cheek.  He made to push himself upright but nothing was moving. His body wouldn’t respond to any of his commands.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. When he closed his eyes this time he brought up the most peaceful memory he had; Mal, Angelina at her breast, singing
Me and Bobby McGee.

Epilogue

The tears in his eyes were going to haunt her for the rest of her life.

Mal woke with no idea why she had. No reason to not be sleeping anymore. But like she had for the last three weeks, she came around replaying her last goodbye with Harlon.

He was going off to die. He’d known it then. She couldn’t understand why, and all the events leading up to it made no sense to her. But he’d known he was going to die.

She swallowed hard and pushed back the half of the sleeping bag covering her. All of her bedding and sheets were packed, along with most of her clothes and other trappings of life.

The apartment over the bakery came furnished, so none of this stuff was hers. Her life fit in the back of her old truck.

She had no idea if she was doing the right thing moving to Montrose, but it felt like a step forward.

In the last few weeks she’d been working on keeping a promise that she’d not quite made to Harlon.

When the lawyer had knocked on Harlon’s dorm room the night after she’d wept and drank herself to sleep, she’d been ready to be threatened into silence over what she’d seen and heard.

Instead, the lawyer, who’s politely and solemnly introduced himself as Tom Clark, handed her an envelope and left.

It was a check. A check so big she’d left it untouched because she was sure it wasn’t real.

Harlon had a will, that was one surprising thing, and a lawyer that could clear out a bank account as requested with no waiting period.  It sat on the motel TV stand for the three days Mal was stranded in California.

That was Christmas Eve. Christmas Day was a blur. Everyone was checking on her, but Mal unabashedly only accepted the booze they offered and locked herself away in the room and sheets that smelled of Harlon.

December 26
th
Harlon was buried. She was sober but hung over. Honestly, she remembered very little. Shock, maybe.

At the gather after Knuckles told her about the cancer.

She’d been angry about
that
for some reason. Yes, he should have told her. But on another level it felt as though she should have known something was wrong.

All that coughing.

And he’d lied to everyone. For a horrible few minutes Mal thought she was the only one in the dark, but the faces of the club told her they were all caught off guard at that.

Knuckles had been pale and weak those three days, too. Eventually he admitted to being stabbed.

The next day she went home.

It was tempting to lock herself in her room and drink, but the second she walked through the door Bobby stood waiting, accusatory.

She took the check to the bank. It was actually real.

Next Mal visited her father at the home. While there she asked about Angelina Gray’s care. Since she was known to the staff, the nurse admitted that the house had sold the week previous and the profit stowed away into the woman’s account. Angelina was set for the rest of her days.

So Mal visited Angelina, told her that her son was dead. But Angelina claimed to not be married, and she certainly didn’t have any children.

That night a bottle of Jack knocked her out, by way of ingestion.

Next, Mal started researching.  There was a new studio setting up in Montrose, and they’d put out some really good sounding, folk-style albums.

Harlon’s money could have bought her time at a bigger company, but she’d rather go somewhere small. Somewhere that viewed every artist as their “big client.”

Then she made plans to move.

Montrose was almost a half hour drive from Cleary. Far enough to sound like its own place, a new start. Close enough she could visit her dad and Harlon’s mom at least once a week.

Montrose had a thriving music culture, too. She could get solo gigs at coffee houses and bars. And for regular work there were plenty of service jobs at those same establishments. Plus, the recording studio had already asked her to do some vocals for a few other groups.

A big chunk of the money from Harlon went right into savings. She wasn’t stupid. Her lifestyle had not allowed any retirement planning.

Mal carried the last of her belongings to her truck and said a farewell to the folks who ran the bakery. Just for old time’s sake she stopped at Jughead’s Diner.

Sitting in a booth alone, Mal ordered breakfast and a cookie-flavored milkshake. While she waited, Mal watched the familiar people and sites move past.

It was like another kind of goodbye.

“I love you. I’m sorry I wasn’t braver for you.”

“Here you go, honey.”

She shrieked, hand to her chest.

“Oh, I’m sorry, darling.” The waitress looked stricken. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“It’s fine,” she insisted, wiping the sudden wetness from her eyes. “I drifted off there.”

The waitress left her to her insanity. Mal played with the straw, pulling it up and letting it sink back into the shake.

On the first taste of the milkshake the tears started. She’d wept her share, yes. At the wake. When they told her what had happened and she sank to her knees as people she barely knew tried to comfort her.

But this wasn’t sadness. This was
loss
.

Loss of her daughter. Loss of the first man she’d ever loved. Loss of her mother. Loss of her father, in a way.

And then she’d lost Harlon again, this time for good.

Loss of that small taste of what she’d wanted her life to be.

She made herself drink that milkshake. It was impossible not to flashback to those midnight burger runs when she was six or seven months pregnant. She always told him she wanted a burger, but in truth it was these milkshakes. If she’d told him that, however, he’d just pick one up and bring it home instead of taking her out for a ride in the truck.

How sad was that? Why couldn’t she just ask him to take her for a ride? He wouldn’t have refused her that. He’d often come home after fourteen hours of driving and then take her out for a damn burger.

Thinking of him now only tore her in different directions. A part of her was furious. He may have only had a couple months, but those were
her
months, dammit. She wanted them.

But Christ, she loved him. And what’s more, she thought she understood the reason for what he’d done. Nothing specific of course. The conversations of his friends were deliberately vague around her, but from all that happened before he lit out of that clubhouse that night told her he was ready to be a distraction for whatever trouble Knuckles had gotten into.

The
other
rumblings—something about the law thinking Harlon had something to do with that doctor’s death—she dismissed as ridiculous. So did the others. And she noticed something else as well.

After watching those men in leather and their “old ladies,” she was still baffled at how those women could be shuffled off, content to be in the dark. Clearly, the club life didn’t transfer to women totally. The club was first, family next.

Maybe it was just better to be alone.

After her late breakfast Mal stopped at the home. Harlon’s mother was so delighted to see her, but she clearly had no idea who Mal was. They still had a nice visit and Mal promised to be back.

Next she went by her father’s room. Matthew Beck greeted her with a smile and outstretched arms, nearly making Mal break down. She accepted the hug by stooping over his armchair. Then she settled into a chair that belonged to the home, vinyl seat with a wood veneer.

“What are you up to today, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Heading to Montrose today, Dad. I’m going to record that album finally.”

He smiled broadly now, obviously pleased. “I’m so proud of you, Mallory. You are such a good singer. Listening to you is one of my favorite things.”

She knew the smile she gave him back was sad. “Thanks, Dad.”

“And how’s the baby?”

Mal’s eyes closed, and her voice was unsteady. “Angie passed away, Dad. Remember?”

When she opened her eyes he looked stricken. “Oh. Oh, yes. That’s right.”

Shit. Sometimes correcting him threw him off. She wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

“Harlon…is gone, too, Dad.”

“I know. But he’ll come back to his senses.”

She shook her head. “He died, Dad. He’s gone.” She covered her mouth, the sobs shaking her body.

“Oh Mal, honey,” her father cooed, arms out again.

Without a thought she crossed the room and snuggled into the chair next to him. He was thinner than he used to be, but her father would always be strong enough to hold her.

“My poor girl’s had a lot of hurt.”

“I’m sorry I got pregnant, Dad. I know you were ashamed.”

“Mal, sweetheart. I was never ashamed. I just knew how much potential you had. And a baby just made everything harder.”

Her sob broke through this time and he squeezed her tighter. “I’m sorry.”

“Never be sorry. You’re my beautiful girl, and I’m so proud of you.”

Now she
was
sobbing. Jesus, she’d done nothing with her life. How could he possibly be proud of her?

While she calmed down her father held her, then he reminded her that it was naptime soon. She helped him into bed, turned out the lights and reminded the home about her change of address.

After a second thought, she told them to keep her in the loop for Angelina Gray’s care as well.

After the home, Mallory stopped at the cemetery.

She rarely came here. What could she say? Remember? Wish for? Four months and the most love she’d ever known. But nothing was adequate.

So all she did was take a chain from her pocket, off of which dangled a heavy silver ring that little Angie’s father had worn up until the day he died.

She hung the necklace over the cross that bore Angie’s name and returned to her truck.

-oOo-

Her apartment in Montrose was found online. She parked at the yellow curb, then buzzed the building manager. The fifty-something woman that responded looked to be ages older than Mal, but it was hard to assess. She still lived like she was in her early twenties. Jade Silverman was lively with bright orange hair, and a generous chest that stretched her peasant blouse. A tattoo was visible on one breast.

“So good to finally meet you! Let’s get you moved in.”

Mal waved her hand. “I can do this. There’s not very much.”

“I don’t mean us, honey. I was given very specific instructions.” Then she was off into the building again. Mal had no choice but to wait. She didn’t have any keys yet.

As she stood next to her truck, a cruiser pulled up behind and she had a moment of panic. Shit. She was about to be ticketed for parking here.

The Sheriff himself got out. Not that she knew him well, but Sheriff Wexler had grown up down the street from her parents in Cleary.

“Mallory,” he greeted her, pulling off his sunglasses and giving her a bright smile.

“Sheriff,” she returned. “I’m sorry. I’ll move the truck.”

“Don’t worry. I know you’re unloading.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have my ways.”

She had to laugh. Wex was always such a charmer. “Okay then. I’ll accept that.”

“I’ve come to offer my help.”

“That’s not necessary. The place is furnished. I just have these boxes.”

“Well, when beautiful women move into Montrose the Sheriff is obligated to help.”

“Wow. That is such bullshit.”

“Just the moving help. Not the beautiful part.”

She was likely blushing.

“I’m sorry to hear about Harlon,” he added, hands at his belt.

“Thank you.” There was nothing else to say to that.

Across the street, a van stopped. Five men climbed out, and if they weren’t large or vaguely familiar she wouldn’t have noticed.

“Great. Reinforcements,” Wex said curiously.

The first one she recognized was the Montrose biker that had saved her, Beast. Then she saw Patches, the medic that took care of V.

“What’s going on?” she muttered.

“Hey red!” Beast greeted, giving her a tight hug like they’d known each other for years.

“Hi Beast,” she replied, confused.

“We’re helping you move in,” Patches explained, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

“How—”

“There we go. Okay, guys. Third floor, far end. Door’s already open!” Jade spoke like a woman used to her orders being followed without question.

“And red,” Beast said, dropping the tailgate of her truck. “Anything you need, come to us. You’re under Red Rebels’ protection.”

Wex was also helping, and Mal had a moment of unease. These Sheriff and bikers, coming together to carry a dozen and a half boxes to her apartment. What the hell could that mean?