17. Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Elise
E ven though the night was cool, our first sign of autumn, Bessey still panted like she’d been dragged through the Sahara Desert after our nightly run. I had gone a little faster than usual. Okay, maybe a lot faster. The quiet evening combined with a cool breeze and the perfect music playlist had felt so freeing that I flew more than jogged across the pavement. It was so serene that I could have gone forever if Bessey hadn’t been ready to collapse beside me.
“You did such a great job,” I said, stooping to ruffle her ears.
Her tongue lolled to one side, and she was too tired to even lick me as I leaned in for a hug. We took our usual cool-down route around the dark neighborhood, and I listened to the chirp of crickets combined with the whoosh of traffic from two streets over.
As my breathing slowed, my mind turned to our conversation with Pete from the day before, as well as the argument I’d had with Dylan afterward. What had possessed me to agree to let him come when I talked with Clive? He had been a little helpful at times. He’d also been supportive. Nice even. Ultimately, it had been the pleading in his eyes. He seemed genuinely worried about me. Except for family and The Grans, I never let people close enough to allow them to worry about me. How had Dylan broken through my defenses? More importantly, how had he tricked Pete into strong-arming me to tutor him?
Okay, maybe he hadn’t tricked Pete, but still, I had never intended to spend any time beyond coaching with the guy. Yet, he was worming his way into every other part of my life. Showing interest in my safety, helping me when I didn’t even ask for it, orchestrating all kinds of ways to spend time with me, flashing his hotter than James Bond smile. Dylan was all kinds of dangerous to the walls I’d built to protect myself.
Guys as hot and impulsive as him dated, then dumped girls all the time, like sampling flavors in an ice cream shop. I couldn’t afford the emotional fallout becoming attached to him would ultimately cause. He would move on, find someone else, and I’d be left picking up the pieces of a glass that had been shattered one too many times to be put back together.
Better to shut him out. Stay frenemies and avoid hurt. The guy could be plenty obnoxious. Focus on that.
Beside me, Bessey lowered her head and growled. I scanned the dark sidewalk and street, but saw nothing unusual. The growling grew louder. This wasn’t like her. Our house was just around the corner; should we run the remaining hundred or so feet?
Just in front of us, a rusty car door groaned open, and a man stepped out. Bessey barked furiously. The man with stringy hair and ragged sweats held one hand out like he expected the dog to sniff him. Instead, she barked louder.
I tried moving to the side, giving the man a wide berth. Bessey didn’t follow.
“You the Sudbury girl?”
I glanced at the abandoned toilet on the brown lawn. This was the Hoffmiller’s house, which meant this was probably their drug addict son. He certainly smelled odd. My pulse sped into a gallop.
Tugging at Bessey, I gave a quick yes and stepped further away. The man reached into his pocket and drew something out.
Please don’t be a gun.
“This was delivered to our mailbox by mistake.”
He held out an envelope. Since I wasn’t getting anywhere with Bessey and was still somehow bullet-free, I reached forward and snatched away the envelope.
“Thanks.”
“Sure thing. Hey, it’d be great if your family accepted that offer and took all the cash from the gas company. You guys could find a place that fits your Grandma’s needs, you know. Like no more steps for her to have to get up and down. It’d be great for everyone.” He nodded to no-one in particular, then drew his greasy graying locks behind both ears.
Not wanting to anger him, I gave a nod. Bessey’s barks settled into growls, and she reluctantly allowed me to drag her in the direction of our house.
“Hey,” the man called after me, “I was really sorry to hear about your dad.”
“Thanks.”
I hurried around the corner and toward our house without looking back. Once inside, I took a few calming breaths before pouring some extra water into the dog bowl and examining the envelope I’d been handed. The letter was addressed to Dad and Grandma.
Lola and David Sudbury
1327 Magnolia Street
Rancho Invitado, CA
92027
The top of the envelope had been sliced open. Didn’t they see who the letter was meant for before opening it?
“Grandma,” I called over Bessey’s loud slurping.
“In here.” Her voice contrasted with the baritone of the man advertising life insurance policies on the television.
After grabbing my own drink and an orange from the counter, I headed into the family room. Even though I saw Snowball glowering at me from the top of the bookcase, I still jumped when she hissed.
“Maybe Bernice’s right,” I said, crossing to Grandma’s recliner. “What if we sent that cat to live with Edna’s colony of strays?”
“That would never work,” Grandma said with a sigh. “She’d run off the whole rest of the colony, and then we’d be dealing with an angry Edna, which would be worse than five Snowballs.”
I shook my head. “You told me that cat was nice when she was younger, and I just don’t remember, but I’m starting to wonder if you’ve been lying.”
Grandma’s smiling face was lit a pale blue by the television’s glare. I handed her the already opened envelope, then hurried to flip on the nearby lamp so she could read it.
I could have told her about the encounter I’d had with our druggie neighbor, but that would have delayed her from opening the letter.
She gave me a quizzical look when she saw the torn edge of the envelope, then pulled out the paper inside. Bringing it very close to her face, she squinted to read the words. Seconds later, they widened and she looked to me.
“Did you read it already?”
“No, the Hoffmiller’s son did. I ran into him on my run. Creepy guy.”
“I bet he had something to say about it, seeing as how they’re all so eager for us to accept this.” Grandma gave the sliding glass door with its view of the Hoffmiller’s backyard a disapproving look. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they forged this just to get me to consider the possibility.”
“What does it say?” I hurried around to the back of the recliner for a view of the note.
“It’s another offer for our property from the gasoline company. They’ve doubled the amount they’re willing to pay for our lot, supposedly.”
“You’re kidding.”
I scanned the letter, stopping when I saw a dollar sign. Holy Hannah, that was a lot of money, even for California. With that much cash, Grandma could spend the rest of her days in a swanky assisted living center where she’d have all kinds of people to visit with, healthy meals, and more mobility than she had here with me.
“What are you going to do?” I came around the recliner and took a seat on the nearby couch.
I focused on wiping all traces of emotion from my face. Regardless of the fact that I had nowhere to live and no way to afford going to school while paying rent if she chose to sell, this needed to be her decision. After all, the house was hers, and she deserved to be happy.
Tapping the empty envelope on the arm of her chair, Grandma stared blankly ahead. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I’ve spent the last forty years of my life in this house; all my friends are here. Your grandpa and I shared this house together, raised two kids here. His grave’s just a few blocks down. I know I can’t visit it much, but it’s a comfort knowing he’s nearby.
“And you,” she stretched her hand out to me, and I came to squeeze it. “Living with you these past nineteen years has been an absolute joy. No amount of money is worth trading that away.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to live somewhere nicer where you could have lots of friends to visit with, fun activities, and better food?” I gestured to the empty T.V. dinner container and fork sitting on the little table beside her.
“You suggesting you want to move me to a home?” Grandma’s voice had a rare edge to it. She pouted her lower lip and watched me with narrowed eyes.
“No. Only if you think that’s something you would like. I’m gone a lot of the time, and it’s usually just you here. I’m worried about you being lonely.”
The pout didn’t leave her face, though she gave my hand a pat. “I’m just fine right here, thank you very much. Besides, I have to keep you and your future in mind. Going to college is expensive, and although my David worked hard, I know he didn’t leave you very much. It would sure be nice to use that money to get you through school though. Heaven knows coaching doesn’t pay very much.”
I shook my head. “My payment is seeing my runners succeed and learn how to work hard.”
“That’s the same thing your dad always told me whenever I brought up the subject.”
A sad smile crept across my lips. “He loved his job. Helping those kids and being a part of their lives made him happy.”
“I know it.”
There was that burning behind my eyes again, only this time, with just Grandma as witness, I let the tears fall. They splashed and drained in streams and puddles down my face, then onto my shirt. Grandma clung hard to my hand, then reached up to brush my wet cheeks. I leaned into her palm, absorbing her warmth. My knees nearly buckled as I gave in to the grief coursing through me. We stayed like that, both of us sobbing, until Grandma’s arm shook with the effort of reaching up and I had drained every ounce of moisture my body held through my tears.
Since it was well past her bedtime, I helped Grandma hobble to the bathroom and then to bed. Once she was changed and lying beneath her sheets, I crept out of the room. Somehow, my silent footfalls carried me to a door I hadn’t opened in months.
Standing on the threshold, I gulped before quietly turning the door handle. Inside, the air was musty. Flipping on the switch, I crossed to Dad’s bed, the covers still thrown back in the same position he’d left them almost a year ago. I brushed my fingers along the wrinkled fabric that somehow smelled like him yet didn’t anymore. Like the scents of woods, and aftershave were being smothered by the choking hold of time and loss.
Picturing Dad was getting harder. I knew he had brown hair and blue eyes, but the rest was becoming blurrier with each day.
On his nightstand was a framed photo of twelve-year old me with him after his last Ironman race in Kona, Hawaii. Too tired to carry me on his shoulders like he often did, even though I was far too big for it, he had an arm wrapped around me and was covered in sweat. Dad was forty-six years old in that picture, but he could have easily passed for a thirty-year-old. He could have lived such a long healthy life. If only someone wouldn’t have cut it short.
In his closet, I found the box labeled “memories” and stood on my tiptoes to pull it off the shelf. The cloud of dust that scattered as I opened the lid kept me sneezing for a good half minute before I could look inside. Both Dad and Mom’s yearbooks, along with a stack of old photographs were piled neatly in the box.
I flipped open Dad’s senior yearbook, glancing at all the notes and signatures before turning to the index. Beside his name were a number of different pages. Of course, I found him pictured with the track and Cross Country teams. I laughed at the mullets and sweat bands they all wore, as well as Dad’s “Mel Gibson feathered hairstyle.” Or at least that’s what he’d always called it.
Next were some pictures of him with the art department, including him standing beside a sculpture with his arm around another guy’s shoulder. I checked beneath the photo for the name of the other man—Greg Hoffmiller. As in the druggie son of the Hoffmiller’s that lived right behind us?
This time, I studied the guy more closely. He looked happy. No hollowed-out cheeks. Even then, he’d had long hair, but it wasn’t nearly as thin or covered in grease. He and Dad looked like they were laughing. Seeing as how their backyards touched, they probably knew each other well. Maybe they were even friends.
At the top of the page was an inscription.
You know what you did. Don’t expect me to be nice about it or pretend it didn’t happen.
Greg
Alright then, so much for being friendly. What had Dad done to make the guy so peeved? Was Greg already on drugs at this point and possibly high when he wrote this? If not, did he have a grudge against Dad that went back to high school? A grudge that gave him motivation to kill Dad beyond the sale of their property?
Despite the heat, I gave a shudder. Using one of Dad’s business cards, I marked the page in his yearbook. Then, after returning the box to its place on the dusty shelf, I carried the bookmarked yearbook out of the room.
Outside, Grandma’s snoring rattled around the dark space. There would be no asking her about Dad and Greg’s relationship tonight. Hopefully, she’d be up before I left for school in the morning.