The Heart You Carry Home (4 page)

Only then, eight months ago, in October 2007, after six years of radio silence, King came back. Becca had started seeing him on a bimonthly basis, mostly because her aunt Kath had asked her to keep an eye on him. She didn't mind. Ben was in Iraq, and having someone to look out for—even if it just meant trips to the grocery store—was a welcome distraction. King was sober and had steady work. He'd even offered some money toward the wedding. The new King was a decent person, even a gentle one. Over the phone, Jeanine warned her daughter about getting too close. But as Becca told Ben during one of their video chats, “It's not his fault the war screwed him up. Why not show the man some kindness?”

Now, maybe for the first time, King was doing some actual fathering. Becca still kept her mother's words close—King was not a man to rely on. But that was fine. The moment he stopped offering to help, she would say thank you very much and move on.

Becca resumed her walk across the backyard. She found her father in his work shed with the air-conditioning unit rattling loud and fast, like it was about to explode. Without it, the smell of leather oil was overpowering. “Morning,” Becca said.

King looked up briefly and nodded hello. He was softening a small leather bag, rubbing the oil into it in slow, deliberate circles. The motion was a meditation. Working leather, he could ignore the clutter in his brain, like his daughter's husband ranting and raving on his doorstep, and his best friend punching said husband in the face, and the presence of his daughter, who stood watching him now, clearly full of questions that he did not want to answer.

“Dad?”

At the question, King couldn't help but look up. Physically, Becca took after her mother; they were both small-boned women with big brown eyes and heart-point chins. Becca was shorter than Jeanine—no taller than five foot four, 110 pounds tops—but she had strong muscles, especially in her legs, from running. She'd always been strong. And scrappy. As a kid she was not beyond biting and clawing. With her hair cut short, she looked even feistier. But he had things reversed. It was the old, long-haired Becca who had eagerly invited trouble. He liked the photograph on his dresser because in it she looked familiar, more like the girl he knew than the strange woman she'd become. It was astonishing. Without his help or his input, she'd grown up.

“What happened last night?” she asked. “Where's Ben?”

Questions number two and three.

“And where's my car?”

Four.

Her eyes narrowed. Even though she was backlit in the doorway, King could sense the fierceness of her expression, a demand to be answered. This toughness hadn't come from him. He was, at heart, a quiet man. And it hadn't come from Jeanine, who was, at heart, a restless woman. But his daughter had learned fortitude somehow. Still, he felt certain that some of her resolve—probably a large portion of it—was a defense mechanism. And defense mechanisms were like the shitty M16s they'd taken to the jungles, weapons that jammed up when you most needed them. Still, when the weapons worked properly, they could kill a man.

“Ben's with Reno. Black eye, but fine. Not sure where Reno took him.”

Her eyes widened. “What? What do you mean?”

“Like I said.”

She walked farther into the shed. Marched, really. Her body was vibrating. This wasn't good.

“I'm sure Reno will be back soon. And I'm sure he'll have your car. And then you can follow us to Kath's.”

Becca nodded, but he could feel her all wound up, like those skittering toy trucks he'd played with as a child. Since returning to Dry Hills, he'd noticed that his daughter was more temperamental than she believed herself to be. She was decent at hiding her confusion and stress, but King was a barometer for anxiety. He registered, and internalized, even slight emotional disturbances. It was why he lived out here, alone. It was the reason he was going west. He was exhausted. He wanted the jitters and the nightmares and the sweats to stop. He realized that it might frustrate Becca to watch him leave again, and so soon. But his daughter was doing fine. Sure, she and Ben were in a rough patch, but that was to be expected this soon after his time in the war.

King continued rubbing oil into the caramel-colored pouch. Becca asked what he was working on, but he gave a terse answer about fixing something, and she knew better than to press him. Instead, she studied the engraved belts, knife holsters, wallets, and flasks. The leather surfaces were tough but their undersides were soft as chick down.
Chicken,
she thought and then banished Ben's pet name from her head. She poked through shoeboxes of King's knives, needles, and awls. It was strange to think of her father as a craftsman, though perhaps this was another thing they shared. At school, she was majoring in graphic design and had a knack for layouts and fonts. She understood what it meant to be absorbed in a single project for hours on end without even bothering to use the bathroom, let alone eat. Her father, working in his shed, was the same way.

King had introduced Becca to his trade eight months ago by way of a key chain. On one of her first visits to his house, he'd taken her out back and showed her a menacing Cadillac parked on the grass. King explained that his friend Rusty had passed away and left him the car. “He wanted her to be useful. I thought she could be useful to you.”

Without thinking, Becca had jumped on her father, squeezing her arms around his belly. It was a mistake. King stiffened, became a block of stone. “Don't!” he growled, and Becca stumbled backward.

“I was just excited,” she'd apologized. “I forgot you don't like—I'm sorry.”

“Don't,” he spat and lumbered away, shaking his head. Becca looked down to find the key on a key chain in the grass. Her initials were stamped in the impossibly smooth leather, and she read those letters for the lesson they were: however much her father had changed, he wasn't better. Deep inside, he hurt and could hurt others as much as he ever had.

“Can I call Reno and find out what's going on?” she asked now.

King nodded to the phone on the table. His contact list was short, though she was surprised to see her mother's name. As far as Becca knew, her parents had not seen each other—had not spoken—in years. Jeanine had not even come to the wedding, in part (Becca assumed) because King was going to be there. But then she remembered the graduation photo in King's bedroom.

Before Becca could think on it further, Reno came roaring up the drive. He rode a sports bike, the kind that a certain brand of Southern asshole gunned, lethal, down the highway. Reno's model was shiny and black with acid-green embellishments. Seen from head on, the front fairing resembled the face of a cheetah. But Becca's disapproval was immediately replaced by dread. Where was her car? She rushed to the driveway and stood stiffly by as Reno parked. “What the hell?” she demanded the moment he pulled off his helmet.

“What—you don't like her? This here's a 2007 Kawasaki Ninja 2X-6R with a four-stroke, liquid-cooled, DOHC, four valve, inline four-cylinder engine. Just look at these fairing flares. They're like Wolverine's blades! Makes the thing look fast even when it's dead still.”

“You know I'm not talking about the bike.”

Reno swung his leg over the racer and dismounted. “Man, I've been yelled at a lot in the last twelve hours. Did you and Sergeant Thompson shout your wedding vows at each other?”

“Fuck you, Reno.”

“Whoa, girl. Profanity is uncalled for. Especially since I've been up all night long helping out
your
husband.” Reno slipped the helmet under his arm and walked past Becca toward the house.

“Hold on,” she said, following. “You can't just disappear with my car.”

“Funny how you seem so much more concerned about the car than the man.”

So much for her early-morning calm. A fireball of exasperation burst in her stomach and sent shards of panic ricocheting through her body. Any second, she'd start shooting metal from her fingertips. She rushed up and grabbed at Reno's shoulder, but the leather jacket kept her nails from digging in. Reno froze, and, for a moment, Becca feared he'd go ballistic, like King. She braced herself for a verbal slap or worse. But Reno gently lifted her hand from his shoulder and placed it by her side.

“Your car is at my shop in the Smokies. It needed to be fixed up, which I am going to do for you, free of charge. Your husband, if you still care, is sobering up. Until he's in a better state of mind, he won't be back to bother you.”

“I don't want him back.”

“If you say so.”

“Don't patronize me, Reno. You have no idea.” She'd calmed a little, but her panic began to hum anew. She saw the electricity snapping across black space, collecting into a new ball of fire.

“Not only
do
I know, but I'm the only one looking out for you.”

The idea of Reno as her guardian was too absurd. “My dad is looking out for me,” she said.

Reno shook his head. “King can barely look out for himself.”

“I'd say King's doing pretty good,” she retorted. She knew she was walking on dangerous ground. Still, the idea of Reno being right about
anything
killed her.

“I don't want to argue with you. Can we please call a truce?” he asked.

“So what now?” she said.

“We'll take you to Kath's. Ben'll bring the car to you.” And then he mumbled a word under his breath; it sounded like
hopefully
.

“I don't want him coming after me.” She swallowed hard as she spoke these words. Reno did not know the situation—why she had run. The fireball was pulsating. At any moment, it would explode and tears of fire would spray from her eyes.

Reno turned and fixed his eyes on her. They were hazel, flecked with yellow and brown, set deep into his skin. Skin that had seen too much sun and resembled the untreated leather in King's shed. He looked tired. “It'll be okay,” he said, his voice quiet.

But he couldn't know that. She turned and began walking away. She felt him watching, but she willed herself not to turn around. And before Reno could hear the sob escape her throat, she took flight. She wasn't wearing shoes, so she hopped the neighbor's fence and sprinted across the cow pasture. For most of her life, she'd chosen not to rely on others. But then two years ago, Ben had arrived, not only promising his help but insisting on giving it. Another person could make things easier, he'd argued. It was vital to have a load-bearing beam. And so, tentatively, she began to share with him: her long-held frustrations and disappointments; her triumphs and regrets; her awful memories and ambitious plans. She allowed herself to need him. And then that load-bearing beam had started to crack.

As King and Reno packed up their motorcycles in the driveway, King gushed over his new bike. A Honda Gold Wing, it was a touring vehicle made for long rides with passengers. It was also bright purple.

“Did a woman with tsunami bangs pick that out?” Becca joked and then wondered why this prompted King and Reno to exchange strange glances.

“What do you really think?” King asked. It was difficult to tell which was brighter, his enormous smile or the bike's gleaming exterior. He pointed out the five-disc CD changer and GPS screen.

“Does it shave you and give you pedicures?” Reno asked. “One of them metrosexual bikes?”

King ignored him. “Feel this,” he said to Becca. He put a meaty hand down on the seat. “You can bet my ass won't hurt anymore.”

Becca brushed her palm across the plush velour. “Are those armrests?” She pointed to the passenger seat.

“They rotate!” King said happily. “You can relax, snug as a baby in a cradle.”

“Yeah.” Reno snickered. “And after you've been rocked asleep, you can fall off.”

King's smile faded. Why, thought Becca, couldn't Reno just let her father enjoy this moment?

But King nodded. “He's got a point. Becca, you've got to stay vigilant. But you'll also wear this.” He handed his daughter a black helmet the size of a large bowling ball. It wobbled around her ears. “Sorry,” he apologized. “It's the only other brain bucket I've got.”

Becca did not like this term. She pictured her brain sloshing around in the helmet like a dumpling in soup. Her nerves were igniting like pistons. She'd never been on a motorcycle before. Many years ago, King had been in a horrible accident and had lain mummified in bandages and casts for weeks. Becca's class had just learned how caterpillars turned into butterflies, and she'd hoped her father would emerge kinder and quieter from his plaster cocoon. But trapped inside this artificial skin, the anger had only become more concentrated. Once home, he unleashed a fury that shook the glasses on the shelves. Jeanine ended up sending Becca to Kath's for a full ten days, despite school being in session. A very good reason not to like motorcycles.

Now she hoisted herself onto the passenger seat and sank into the backrest. The bruises made real comfort impossible. But her father was right; the seat was nice. She glanced at Reno, who'd traded the flashy Kawasaki for his all-purpose Harley. The motorcycle was the bare-bones variety. With its valves and spokes and tubes, it looked turned inside out, less like a motorcycle than an x-ray of one.

“Buck up, girl. That's no bike you're on.” Reno smirked. “That's a parade float.”

Becca located the foot pegs, terrified that her father would take off before she was ready. King turned the ignition, and the bike expelled a deep-bellied grumble and began to vibrate. Without thinking, Becca grabbed her dad around the gut. For a second, she was sure he'd have an attack. Instead, he patiently instructed her to hold the armrests and sit up straight. “You won't fall,” he said.

Reno shouted something at her above the engines. It sounded like
neophyte
.