Chapter 17
February
[Stone]
An envelope arrives with a smaller envelope inside, and a rectangular card within the second enclosure looks like an old-school Valentine’s Day card. The cartoon caricature of Superman holds a heart-shaped piece of glowing green kryptonite.
Takes more than a cape to be a superhero. It takes heart.
A loopy heart-shape accompanies her name.
I don’t know what to make of the mail that comes every few weeks, I only know I don’t want them to stop. Because some sick part of me believes she’s sending these notes in hopes I’ll think of her.
And I want to believe sending them means she’s also thinking of me.
March follows suit with another postcard from Chicago, where Taxi attends a baseball game. She admits she doesn’t understand the rules of the sport. She was a literal one-hit wonder last summer, connecting with the ball and running like she’d scored a home run when she was an easy out.
We were a one-hit wonder as well.
But this card is a little fuller with details, one that explains how she has another commission working with kids and how much she enjoys teaching. She even hints she might like to retire one day. Maybe find a permanent teaching position.
Not that Sterling Falls has a university, but there is a small college outside of Huntington, only forty minutes from here. Then again, the mountainous terrain doesn’t exactly say urban outreach.
And I refuse to hope this means Taxi will settle here.
Still, I’m happy for her. She’s finding a new way to share her passion.
I only wish I could see her art in person.
In late April, it’s like the great unknown heard my request and I receive another postcard that’s a collage of images. More like a giant mural of murals that form Taxi’s face with skewed angles and odd shapes.
Don’t think I’ve ever mentioned I have an Instagram. If you ever want to know where I’m at or see my latest work, check it out.
Hugs, Taxi
Hugs. I focus on the word, reading more into it than I probably should as a man nearing fifty, not some love-sick fool of fifteen.
The sheriff’s department has an Instagram account for public service awareness, and we have a few burner accounts for surveillance, although the last time I needed to use Instagram was to investigate kids cyberbullying one another.
Being that I don’t have a personal account, or any social media for that matter, I holler for someone I know who does.
“Hudson,” I shout as I stand in the kitchen leaning against the island counter.
The pattern of mailed postcards has picked up pace, arriving at least once a month, typically right in the middle. I’ve learned not to anticipate one any sooner, and I anxiously await the one that might come later.
Heavy feet thunder down the upstairs hallway and then thud down the staircase.
“Yeah?” he asks, sounding breathless despite being an athletic kid. He’s learned that I do not tolerate resorting to a text or phone call to get his attention within our own house.
When I call out for him, he needs to answer.
“Yeah?” I scoff, mocking his teenage tone, then offer him a slow smile.
I love this kid so much, and I feel him slipping away from me. Not only because of Cort’s recent involvement in his life but also his age. He’s on the cusp of being a teen, starting middle school next fall.
Another Sylver boy growing into a complex man.
“What did you need, Uncle Stone?”
“Right.” I shake my head and stand taller. “Can I use your Instagram?”
“Why?” He tilts his head.
I tilt mine. “Got something to hide on yours?” He better not.
“No. I just . . . are you looking for something?”
I pause a second, weighing whether I think my now-twelve-year-old nephew is guilty of hiding something from me. Deciding he probably isn’t, I explain myself.
“I actually want to look up an account.”
Hudson lifts his phone, taps the screen, and waits.
I stare at him. He stares at me.
“Tell me who to look up,” he says, holding in his exasperation.
“Oh. Um . . . T2urbanartist.”
I wait as he types with his speedy thumbs, then turns the screen toward me. “Since when are you into art?”
“Since mind your own business,” I tease, reaching out for his phone. He doesn’t relinquish it at first, and I give him another look. A warning glare that if I believe he’s doing something he shouldn’t be doing on that device, I’ll be getting his mom involved.
Hudson and I have a pact. We’re pals. But I’m also the only father-figure he has. I’m good cop to his mother’s bad, but I’ll be turning him in if I need to. In twelve years, we’ve never had a problem.
Reluctantly, he hands me the phone, and I stare at the images on the grid. Slowly, I scroll through the account, landing on an image that stops me.
Among the photos of her artwork and some initial sketches is a singular graphic.
A dark-haired man in a cowboy hat. Head tipped forward. Sly smile on his lips. Large mustache.
The caption reads: Cowboy kryptonite. Leaps mountaintops. Melts hearts.
I stare at the image, re-reading the words over and over like they aren’t already imprinted in my brain.
At the top of the screen, a notification pops up, interrupting my thoughts.
Amelia, reads the name. Three heart emojis follow.
I glance up at Hudson, knowing his secret and giving him a gentle grin. His first experience with love.
Here’s hoping he can protect his heart.
By May, I’m almost angry that the postcards continue. Like a little tease that she’s out there, experiencing the world and wants to be anywhere other than Sterling Falls.
Trudy’s dropped hints about Taxi’s whereabouts, but I never give in to her teasing nature.
If Taxi wanted me to call her or respond to her notes, she’d share her number or reach out in another manner.
Instead, she’s still as fleeting as a dandelion seed in the wind.
And I’m the fool who now has an Instagram account.
While I’m happy for her, I resolve that her postcards are nothing more than friendly mail.