Chapter 33
Happy by The Rolling Stones was the song du jour on AMOR the following morning.
I found out when I wandered down to the kitchen in my boxers.
Decidedly, it was not a song that matched my mood.
It did, however, seem to match Jack’s morning disposition.
He was bopping around the kitchen, making a hot breakfast at the stove as the radio played on the counter.
I’d never seen Jack look so happy and carefree in the time I’d been in Possibly.
Had he been dressed as one of the ghosts the night before?
Was he gloating about how scared I’d been?
His mood made me even more annoyed, but I knew that was my problem and not Jack’s.
So, I slid into a seat at the table, waiting to see what he was whipping up for breakfast. Bacon and eggs perfumed the air and I could smell the toaster having its way with bread.
Everything smelled heavenly, and my gut was begging with me to fill it.
Jack’s mood on top of that should have turned my frown upside down, but I couldn’t make myself feel happy.
Like the mist that had rolled in from Susurrus Creek the night before, my mood hung around me like a miasma. It was if a veil of brattiness had been draped over me while I slept and I had been unable to extract myself from it when I awoke.
Jack turned to me, smiling widely, a spatula in his hand, and signed: “Good morning.”
I didn’t manage a smile, but I responded with the same sign.
That was enough to appease Jack because he smiled wider and turned back around to tend to the steaming skillet on the stovetop.
The toaster clicked and toast sprang up.
Leaving the stovetop, Jack stepped over and extracted the slices of toast to slather them with butter while they were fresh and hot.
Watching the butter melt into the toast made my stomach groan with appreciation again.
“Smells good,” I said, managing to find something nice to say, though my tone didn’t match my words.
Jack shot a pleased look over his shoulder at me, then he was back to work.
I hated that he was so happy and I was so…dour. Not that I was jealous of Jack’s mood, or annoyed by it, I just hated that I couldn’t find it in me to match the tone he was trying to set for the day. Jack wasn’t the problem, so he didn’t deserve my mood.
But what was the problem?
Ghosts.
Ghosts were the problem.
And Possibly.
The entire town was the problem.
Since arriving in Possibly, though I’d done my best to find something wrong with it, I’d found nothing but goodness.
The people were nice. They were kind to each other.
They minded their own business and went about their lives while allowing each other the same privilege.
I’d never been fed so well since arriving in town.
I had a warm bed that was in the same place night after night. I had security and safety.
The best coffee I’d ever drank and the best treats I’d ever ate could be found a short walk from Jack’s place.
I could take art classes for free from a woman who wanted nothing more than to see me find myself and what I was good at creating.
I’d made a friend who enjoyed art and music and teaching me sign language, who found new and exciting things for us to do any day of the week in a town as small as Possibly, Texas.
Other teenage boys in town that we encountered on the street didn’t care if I hung out with Auggie.
They wouldn’t bat an eye if I gave him a plastic flower to show my appreciation for his friendship.
No one teased or taunted other people for being different or doing things that were not necessarily typical.
Grandy philosophized down at his gas station and Levi Lee did all kinds of weird performance art right out in the open by Starbuck’s.
Mystic Molly sat in her tent all day, waiting to tell people’s fortunes.
Agnes Broussard used old plastic bottles to make flowers and Sofia Salazar hung up misdirected love letters for the entire town to swoon over.
Wyatt walked through town like Yosemite Sam and fired his gun randomly into the air whenever the mood struck him.
Earl Dean took a pickaxe to Liberty Lane nearly every day, and Officer Hanning simply stood by and watched.
Jasper took an hourly trip up and down Liberty Lane on the tram for no apparent reason, and Amos played the same song all day long on AMOR.
And no one cared.
Everyone was so…accepting.
It was becoming annoying because there was nothing annoying about it. There was no fault to find in Possibly or how Possibilians lived their lives and let others live their lives.
Possibly was…perfect?
I’d never lived anywhere that was perfect.
That never had strife or arguments or tragedy.
There was no drama or news to speak of in the tiny, sleepy little town on the bank of the perpetually full Susurrus Creek.
Nothing happened, yet everything was new and exciting.
There was always something new to discover about Possibly—even if a lot of it was due to the behind-the-scenes machinations of people in sheets who walked down the road at midnight to thrill the new guy.
Possibly was perfect.
Impossibly small and outdated, a town steeped in Americana and art and friendship and acceptance, Possibly was quite possibly the best place to be.
So…why was I so angry?
It wasn’t out of the question to assume that a boring life was an adjustment for a guy who’d spent his life on the road with his free-spirited mother.
I didn’t have to run like hell from cops after busking on a street corner.
If I busked in Possibly, Officer Hanning would just watch along with everyone else.
I didn’t have to worry where my next meal would come from when meal times came around.
There was no concern over finding friends—friends found you in Possibly.
Mom’s text.
In my heart of hearts, though I’d never admitted it to myself, I had expected Mom to get bored on the road without me.
To miss me as a mother is supposed to miss her child.
By the end of summer, I expected to be sitting under the tree outside of Starbuck’s with Auggie, doing our daily sign language lesson, and I’d look up.
Mom’s car would be rolling carefully…oh, so carefully…
across Lovelorn Pass Bridge. She’d come retrieve me.
She’d sweep me into her arms and tell me how big of a mistake it was to dump me on the side of the road on Two-Mile Trail.
That wasn’t going to happen.
Maybe it’s best that you’re there.
That’s what her text had said. After weeks without me, Mom had realized that having me around all the time was cramping her style. That having me around made her life less enjoyable.
I had been unwanted for…how long? For how many days, weeks, months, or even years, had Mom been thinking about ditching me with Jack? How much had she been itching to push me out of her life so she could be free of me?
Jack set a plate in front of me, startling me from my thoughts. I jerked in my chair and looked down at the table in front of me.
Bacon, eggs, and buttery toast. One of my favorite breakfasts in the whole world.
I looked up at Jack and he made a drinking motion.
“Water, please,” I said.
Jack gave me a smile and a nod as he set his own plate on the table, then went to the sink to fill a glass for me.
I was picking up my fork and contemplating stuffing my face when he sat down at the table across from me.
He slid the glass of water across the table to me and set a coffee cup alongside his plate.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
Jack swooped his open hand from in front of his face down to his chest.
You’re welcome.
Immediately, Jack snatched up his fork gleefully and dug into his scrambled eggs.
As he scooped a healthy bite into his mouth, I poked at my eggs with the tines of my fork, suddenly not very hungry.
The eggs and bacon were still steaming. The butter he had cooked the eggs in glistened on them and the bacon still spattered lightly from the hot fat rendered out in the cast iron skillet.
The butter on the toast had been applied so liberally that it pooled in the divots in the bread.
I should have wanted to shove my face into the plate and inhale, but I just couldn’t.
Even food could not change my sour mood.
Jack waved a hand at me, and when I looked up at him, he brought all of his fingers in his right hand together in a point and brought them to his mouth. Like a bird pecking at his lips, his hand moved back and forth.
Eat.
He smiled at me.
I continued to pick at my food.
“Mom texted me last night,” I said. “Finally.”
Jack had been turning his attention back to his plate, but at the mention of my mother, he looked back up at me sharply.
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Finally.”
He didn’t necessarily use sign language, but Jack indicated with a waving of his hand that I should continue. I should spill the details of the text.
“She said it was better that I was here. That it was best that I was here,” I grumbled. “But it’s okay. Because she misses me and everything. So, that’s cool.”
I dropped my fork on my plate and it clattered on the edge before tumbling to the table. Jack looked down at my fork as it rolled from my plate to the table. For a few moments, he stared at my fork as it lay there, unused next to my uneaten plate of food. Finally, he looked up at me again.
“She’s not coming back for me,” I said, looking up to meet his eyes. “I’m just…I was…just a burden, man. She doesn’t give a shit about me anymore. If she ever did. She dumped me on the side of the road outside of Possibly and went on about her life.”
Jack frowned at me, his brow furrowing deeply.
“She couldn’t wait to dump me, man,” I continued. “See ya’ later, kid. Good luck with life. We’ll meet again one day. Probably. Possibly.”
Jack started to sign, but I only caught every third sign.
“I’m not that advanced yet, Jack,” I mumbled and looked down at my plate. “Auggie hasn’t gotten to those lessons yet.”
Immediately, he stopped signing and reached for the breast pocket of his shirt.
A second later, he had his small notepad out and was flipping through it for a blank piece of paper.
I waited, picking at the side of my plate with my fingernail where a chip had been made in it during washing or being put away in the cabinet after use.
Jack wrote furiously on the notepad, not looking up until he had written the last word.
Finally, he held the notepad across the table where I could look at his strange block-style letters.
Did you really expect Margie to come back? You know your mother. Better than anyone.
“Yeah,” I nodded angrily at him. “I kind of did expect my freaking mother to not abandon me in the buttcrack of Texas for the rest of my life, Jack. That’s exactly what I expected.”
His frown deepened and he began jotting on the pad again. Seconds later, he was shoving the notepad in my face again.
Why’d you ask about school? The Pueblo? If you weren’t planning to stay?
I rolled my eyes.
“What else was I supposed to do? What else could I do, man? Planning the next day is all anyone can do around here,” I grumbled. “Not like there’s much else.”
Jack’s mouth turned up in a snarl and he started to retract the notepad to write more. Angrily, I reached out, snatched the pad and tossed it towards the living room. Jack’s eyes grew wide in shock as I snarled across the table at him.
“It doesn’t freaking matter what you have to say, Jack!
” I growled. “What can you say to explain why my own mother was happy to ditch my ass here? To leave me with someone I barely know in a town I can’t even really remember?
She didn’t even ask you if you were okay with it!
Does that not bother you, man? She didn’t give a shit what either one of us wanted.
She just did what Mom always does! She’s—Mom’s a—I hate this place! I want to…I want to go home!”
Jack stared at me angrily for the longest of moments as I glared back across the table at him, my eyes threatening to spill over.
Finally, his expression softened and he lifted his hand, shaking a finger at me as if admonishing me.
But then he pulled his fingers together in his right hand and touched them to the corner of his mouth and then his cheek like a bird pecking.
Where’s home?
He glowered at me and repeated the signs.
Then a third time. A fourth.
“I don’t know, Jack!” I screamed, throwing my hands up in the air. “I’ve never had a home! But any place is better than this damn town! Stop freaking asking me!”
Punctuating my sentence, I banged a fist on the tabletop, making our plates and silverware clatter.
Jack, aggravated by my display, snatched his plate off of the table, and chucked it across the kitchen.
With an ear-splitting clatter, it shattered against the cabinet below the sink.
I jumped in my seat, my spine stiffening at the sudden display of violence from Jack.
He never lost his cool like that.
Before the shards could even settle, Jack was out of his seat and marching through the kitchen to the stairs. I sat stock still, waiting as Jack stomped through the room and then up the stairs, his feet like clubs against each step.
Jack climbed the stairs angrily and I sat and listened as he entered the second-floor hallway. His angry footsteps marched down the hallway just as fierce as they had sounded on the stairs. Then the sound of his bedroom door slamming echoed through the house.
Happy by The Rolling Stones continued to play on the radio.