Autumn Blue (12 page)

Millard finally sighed, dropping the paper to his lap. Hopefully the kid’s mother would bring his schoolwork tomorrow. She
said she would try anyway. “Do you have any plans, young man, other than sitting there like a bump on a log all day?”

Tyson stared out the window. Rain spilled over a blocked gutter on the west side of the house like slender silver prison bars.
He shrugged. “I thought you’d have a computer.” The toes of his stocking foot poked at a stack of thin discs on the coffee
table. He had pulled them from his backpack that morning while his mother left last-minute instructions and wrote her work
number on a pad by Millard’s phone. “
Everybody
has a computer.”

“Everybody but me,” Millard said, “and about two-thirds of the world, many of whom don’t even have a bed to call their own.
What do I need a computer for? I’m not suffering just because I have to crack a book open for an answer every now and then
instead of searching all over cyberspace.” Millard congratulated himself for knowing some of the terminology. He had picked
up bits and pieces of computer jargon through his reading, but the whole concept of information scattering itself all over
space and then coming together in some organized fashion at the click of a mouse still boggled his mind. Sometimes he felt
as out of place in this modern world as Huck Finn suddenly catapulted into the flight control center at NASA. He clucked his
tongue. “I’ve got the Yellow Pages, a telephone, and a library just down at the bottom of the hill. If I need to add up my
bills or figure how many square yards of bark it takes to cover my gardens, I do it the old-fashioned way: pen and paper.
Works every time. Don’t even have to plug anything in.”

“How about games?”

Millard glanced down at his crossword puzzle, then peered at the boy over his reading glasses. “You want games? Go take a
look in that cupboard over there. Under the bookcase. I’ve got Scrabble, checkers, Monopoly. . . .”

The kid scoffed.

“Oh, not enough action for you, eh?”

“Nope.”

“What kind of games do you like? Those race cars?” His grandson, Pete, had nearly driven him nuts with the loud Indianapolis
raceway video game he played last Christmas.

“They’re okay. But war games are better.”

Millard nodded grimly. “Shoot-’em-ups.”

“Huh?”

“If you ever get yourself into a real gunfight—and I don’t mean with pellet guns—you might start thinking a quiet game of
Scrabble looks pretty good.”

For the first time all morning, the boy turned to look at him head-on. “What do you mean? Were you ever in a gunfight?”

“Sure was. In the air over North Korea.” The forgotten war, some called it. But Millard would never forget. “Did they teach
you about that war in school?”

Tyson shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

Millard frowned. It seemed schools nowadays were shooting out ignorant kids like spit wads from a Browning automatic. Back
when he taught history at Silver Falls High over in Dunbar, he made sure they knew their stuff or they were back in his class
the next year to try again. “Back in the early fifties. I flew an F-86 Sabre. It was a single-seat, single-engine fighter-bomber.”

The boy turned his body to face him, leaning forward slightly. “Did you shoot down any MiGs?”

Well, look at that, Millard thought. Maybe there was somebody home behind those dark, sullen eyes after all. He nodded. “Harry
S Truman was our president back then. You know all the presidents?”

Tyson flopped back against the sofa with a scowl. Millard took that as a no.

Just then the front door flew open. Rita, with a full sack in her arms, froze in the doorway and stared at Tyson as if there
were a brown bear with muddy paws sitting there on her father’s white sofa.

It was the moment Millard had simultaneously dreaded and anticipated with rebellious delight. “Well, shut the door before
the rain gets in.” He pushed up from his chair and took the bag from her. “Rita, this is Tyson Walker. The boy from across
the street.” He gestured toward Rita with a tip of his head. “My daughter, Rita.”

“Hello,” she said.

Tyson didn’t budge. “Hi,” he murmured. The kid didn’t know enough to stand when greeting a lady, but Millard decided now was
not the time for an etiquette lesson.

Rita followed him to the kitchen, where he began emptying plastic containers from the paper sack. “What’s he doing here?”
she whispered.

“Hmm? Oh, the kid? He’ll be staying here for a while. The next fifteen weeks, actually, while his mother is at work.”

“You’re babysitting a teenager? How old is he?”

“Fifteen.”

“Why isn’t he in school?”

Millard peered under the lid of a covered bowl labeled Stew. As usual, someone had picked out most of the beef, leaving only
mushy potatoes and carrots in a mud of gravy. “He got kicked out.”

“Dad, what is going on here?”

He turned to face his daughter. “The kid tried to rob Mitch Graber down there at the market. He was sentenced to house arrest,
except he has to be supervised and his mother works full-time.” He was doing his best to sound nonchalant. “So he comes here
during the days until she gets home.”

“Oh, my gosh!” She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into! He almost shot Mitch!
I heard all about it down at the Hair Affair. What are you thinking?” She peered around the doorjamb as if to catch the would-be
killer and thief in the act of pillaging. Apparently he was not in the middle of a heist. She pulled her head back and closed
the kitchen door. “What makes you think he’s not going to rob
you
?” she hissed. “Or, worse yet, murder you?”

Millard snickered.

“This isn’t funny, Dad. You hardly know these people. You’re being taking advantage of just because you’re a widowed old man
with a good heart.”

He felt his blood pressure elevate. “There you go again,” he growled. “You just insist on pegging me as an old man with nothing
left to offer this world. You want to take away my car keys and check me into Haywood House, nothing but an old horse waiting
for the glue factory. Well, maybe—just maybe, Rita Lynn—your old man still has another race or two in him.”

She turned away and then turned back, taking a deep breath and stepping closer to him. “Dad, you’re not thinking straight.
I’m not saying you’re senile, believe me. But you’re more vulnerable now than you used to be. I know you don’t recognize that,
but sometimes the people around us can see things we just can’t see. Why do you think so many scams are directed at the elderly?
They’re from an era where they learned to trust everybody, and without a spouse there to discuss things with, well, sometimes
people get sucked into things. Like signing over their entire net worth to perfect strangers. It happens all the time.”

“Is that what this is about? You’re afraid I’m gambling with your inheritance?”

She looked shocked and hurt, and he immediately regretted his words. His son, Jefferson, was gone now. Rita and the grandkids
would get it all. This encounter was turning out all wrong, though honestly it was what he had expected. It was just that
he had hoped, for a fleeting second anyway, that his daughter might be proud of him.

She lifted her chin defiantly. “I just think you’re in over your head, that’s all.”

He touched her elbow. “He’s just a boy. I still know a thing or two about boys.”

“This isn’t sweet, benign Jefferson, Dad. I got the willies the moment I saw this kid.” She ran a hand through her short red
hair. “He can’t be trusted. I know you think I’m wrong—and I hope I am. But I saw something in his eyes, something that tells
me you’ll regret this.” She shuddered. “Maybe we all will.”

S
IDNEY PACKED
the girls’ lunches as well as a bag with oranges, a fresh loaf of nutty bread, and cheese for Ty and Millard to share. She
reminded Ty to feed the dog, signed Rebecca’s field-trip permission slip, braided Sissy’s hair. “All right, girls, make sure
you lock the door behind you when the bus comes. We’ll be just across the street.” She grabbed her coat. “Come on, Ty! Let’s
not keep the man waiting!”

She rushed across Boulder Road, Ty lagging behind her. It was 8:15. She had forty minutes max before she would have to leave
for work. Jobs didn’t spring up like fir saplings in Ham Bone and she certainly didn’t need any more stress in her life.

Yesterday, day one of Tyson’s sentence, had not gone well. Millard had practically pushed Ty out the door when she came for
him after work. She felt the tension snapping between man and boy like a fuzzy sock being pulled from the dryer. That evening
Ty had taken his aggression out on Duke, wrestling wildly on the living room floor. The dog, of course, sprang up and barked
between pinnings, swinging his scythelike tail at full speed as if to make up for all the evenings his boy had been gone.

Millard was just presenting Ty’s probation officer with a cup of coffee when they arrived. The man set it on the coffee table
and stood holding out his hand. “Mrs. Walker, Mark Dane.”

He was tall with receding brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. There was confidence in the way he stood, the way he gripped
her hand and looked her directly in the eye. “Mr. Dane, thanks so much for meeting us here. This is certainly above the call
of duty.”

“Oh, I like getting out of the office every once in a while. We can do things here in the county that just can’t be done in
the big city justice system.” He turned to Ty, offering his hand. “Tyson, I presume.”

Ty’s head was lowered. He raised his eyes warily, extending his hand as if using his arm for the first time after having a
cast removed. After the obligatory handshake, he slumped into an upholstered chair by the window. Millard shot him a disapproving
look. Surely a young man from
his
generation would have shown more respect.

They all sat. Mr. Dane took a sip of coffee, his head drawing back almost imperceptibly as he stared into the mug and then
put it down. Apparently he wasn’t used to instant coffee, which was what Sidney had seen Millard prepare for himself when
she brought in lunch yesterday morning. “All right, Tyson,” he said, “let’s get started. I’m going to go over the court requirements
with all of you to make sure that everyone understands. My job is to monitor your adherence and to report to the court immediately
any failure to comply. Your life is not your own right now. Consider yourself in jail”—he glanced around—“but with the benefit
of windows and home-cooked meals.” He leaned forward. “Look at me, young man.”

Ty dragged his gaze from the wall to the officer’s face.

“I have no problem with sending you back to juvey.” Mr. Dane’s voice was firm and steady. “Where you do your time is up to
you. So make sure you’re getting all this, because I’ve spoken with Judge Renkin and you’ve been shown all the mercy you’re
going to get.”

Ty glared at him without speaking.

“Normally you would be confined to your own home, but I understand in this case special arrangements were approved. As of
today you’re going to start receiving calls at random to confirm your whereabouts. The voice recognition system is set up
to call you at this phone number on weekdays and at your home on evenings and weekends.” Millard leaned forward intently as
Mark Dane explained the system while Ty feigned disinterest. The probation officer then pulled out some court documents stapled
in one corner. He went over community service and the $100 fine that Ty would be expected to pay into the crime victims’ fund,
and stressed that Ty must complete and receive passing grades on all his schoolwork. The latter rule pleased Sidney but caused
Ty to sink a little lower in his chair, his frown deepening. At least she would have a reprieve from being the bad guy.

“And as I’m sure you’ve read, because your crime was a felony, you’ve lost the right to possess firearms of any kind.”

Ty had not read his court paperwork. His head whipped toward Mr. Dane. “For how long?”

“The rest of your life.”

Sidney was surprised by the way her son’s eyes narrowed, the way this news seemed to affect him.

He shook his head defiantly, huffing an angry breath. “That sucks!”

PEANUT BUTTER
, whole wheat flour, toilet paper. Sidney’s shopping-list entries popped out of her head and onto the paper on her desk in
random order. If she could pick up some groceries on her lunch hour instead of after work, she would be home that much sooner
to relieve Millard of Tyson and vice versa.

She was just reaching for her purse when she heard Micki greet someone who had entered the office. “Does Sidney Walker still
work here?”

Sidney’s heart leapt. She rolled her chair clear of her cubicle and waved. “Hi, Jack! Just a minute.” She met him up at the
reception counter, where he stood looking a little awkward, his hands thrust into the back pockets of his jeans.

“Hey,” he said, “have you been to lunch yet?”

She smiled and shook her head, wishing Micki would do something about the silly grin on her face. “No. Your timing is perfect.”

She grabbed her coat and purse and followed Jack outside. White clouds stampeded across the sky toward the westerly mountains,
and a chilly wind thrashed her hair across her face. She pulled a strand from her mouth so that she could speak. “I’m glad
you found me.”

“Yeah, me too. I forgot to ask if you were still working here when I saw you at the market. I had to come to Ham Bone today
for a meeting, so I thought I’d look you up.”

Sidney felt a twinge of disappointment. So he didn’t drive twenty miles just to see her. It had been an afterthought. He certainly
would have called her if it had been a planned thing; he had her number. Jack’s pale green cotton shirt undulated across his
stocky body, but the wind didn’t budge a wiry hair on his blond, short-cropped head. He looked pretty good; it was definitely
a better look than the stained butcher’s apron.

“You wanna go to Clara’s?”

Sidney’s mind raced through the vegetarian options on the menu at Clara’s Café. Slim pickings. She’d probably have to settle
for a salad. “Sure.”