Autumn Blue (20 page)

O
N MONDAY MORNING
, Ty arrived on Millard’s porch with a Crock-Pot full of his mother’s chili. The boy slid his heavy backpack from his shoulder
onto the sofa on his way to the kitchen to plug the cooker in. “I guess you’re stuck with me ’til about eight-thirty,” the
boy said in passing. “Mom has to go to open house at the school tonight.”

Millard nodded. “That’s right. She told me last week and I almost forgot.” Tyson returned to the living room, where Millard
sat in his chair with the
Herald
and his second cup of instant coffee. “I saw a man bring your sisters home on Saturday.” Millard had planned to wait awhile
longer before casually bringing it up, but the curiosity had tormented him like an itch on a palace guard’s foot. “Was that
your father?”

The boy shot him a strange look and scoffed bitterly. “No.”

Millard waited.

“That was Jack. An old boyfriend of Mom’s. I guess they met him at Jimmy’s because his game got rained out. He coaches peewee
football. Anyway, Mom had to come back here because of me, but Jack took Sissy and Becca bowling.”

One of Millard’s legs was crossed over the other, his brown leather slipper bouncing rhythmically in the air. “Oh. Nice guy?”

Tyson shrugged. “He’s okay, I guess.” He kicked off his shoes without untying the laces and flopped onto the sofa, pulling
his backpack close as if to open it, then apparently thinking better of it and pushing it to the floor. “But he’s a sports
junkie. That’s all he can talk about.”

“He stayed a long time.”

“Yup.”

Millard hoped that more information might be forthcoming. He really didn’t like to pry. He pulled out the tail of his cotton
shirt and began polishing his reading glasses. “I thought maybe that was your dad.”

Tyson glared at him and looked away.

Apparently he was trespassing on forbidden ground. Millard slid his reading glasses onto the bridge of his nose. “How did
the first day of your community service project go?”

“The stupid sheriff made me work in the rain.” He dropped onto his back, staring at the ceiling with his hands under his head.

“In that downpour?” Millard unwittingly shivered, thinking for a moment that it was cruel and unusual punishment to make the
boy work in that deluge until a memory crossed his mind. “My father sent me out to round up his horses in a squall like that
once. I was about twelve, I think.” He had been lost in his own pasture, pelted by watery bullets that stung his face. He
remembered crying. “We had a farm on the Skagit River. The spring snowmelt from the mountains had swollen the river near the
tops of its banks and then a storm came along to beat all. I’ll never forget that one.” He took a sip of lukewarm coffee,
dropping his head to the back of the chair. “The rain was so thick that I couldn’t see the horses.”

“Well, what happened?”

Millard opened his eyes to see Tyson up on one elbow. “My father and the neighbor men were a half mile away filling gunnysacks
with sand and stacking them into a wall along the dike. We’d never seen the river get that high and everyone was scared. We
knew that if it got over the dike, it would wash our houses and barns clean down to Puget Sound. Anyway, my father was depending
on me to get the horses to higher ground. The wind knocked me around like a battering ram, but I finally found our little
herd all huddled together in a cottonwood grove. Seemed like I was half-drowned before I got a rope and bridle on one mare
and managed to climb bareback onto the alpha stallion so that I could lead them out of there.”

“Did the river flood?”

Millard dropped his paper to the floor. It had been a long time since anyone cared to hear any of his stories. “It seeped
over the dike in places. Enough to turn the pastures into shallow lakes, a foot or two of standing water in the barn. The
good news was that the rain stopped when the water was an inch or two shy of the top step on our front porch.” He chuckled.
“Caught an eight-pound steelhead trout out by the chicken coop the next day with my bare hands.”

“Dude. I wish something like that would happen around here.”

“I thought you didn’t like the rain.”

Ty rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t exactly having an adventure out there. Estrada is a jerk. There was no reason for me to stand
there handing him boards when I could have just stacked them up on the porch for him. He hates me.”

Millard pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow into a thoughtful expression. “Why do you think that is?”

Ty scoffed, shaking his head. “For one thing, he says I stole this old lady’s wedding ring and she’s like some close family
friend, plus she can hardly walk.”

“Well, did you take her ring?”

“No!” Ty sat up and leaned forward, his eyes riveted plaintively on Millard’s. “Nobody believes me, but I didn’t take her
jewelry or my mom’s.” His face went dark. “That’s why I need to get out of here. Everybody’s going to blame me for everything
that goes wrong for the rest of my life.” He kicked at his backpack where it lay on the floor. “It sucks.”

Millard was struck by something in the boy’s face, in his voice. Against all reason, he found himself believing Tyson. He
suddenly wanted to, anyway. But he was puzzled.

“What about your mom’s money?”

Tyson stared at the floor, slowly shaking his head. “If I wanted to steal her money, I could have done it a long time ago.
I figured out how to open her stupid little box when I was about eight.”

That seemed like an honest comment. The logical stance would be to plead ignorance. While Millard pondered this, his eyes
fell on the face of Molly’s grandfather clock. Eight fifty-five. “Confound it!” He jumped to his feet. “Help me out, son.
Rita’s due here in five minutes!”

“What?”

“I have to make it look like I’ve been eating her crappy frozen dinners all week!”

Tyson joined him in the kitchen. “What do you want me to do?”

Millard was already frantically removing plastic containers from the fridge and freezer. “Dump the stuff in the garbage. I’ll
rinse the containers.” Tyson pulled out the kitchen trash receptacle and began popping hard clumps of broccoli and bricks
of stew from the plastic cartons. Millard snatched one from Tyson’s hand and put it back in the fridge. “Not the squash. She’ll
get suspicious.”

Just as Rita pulled into the drive, Millard dropped into his chair and reached for the paper. “Why don’t you get some books
out of that backpack and look busy?”

Rita bustled in, a lock of her red hair falling over one eye. She closed the door behind her with one foot as Millard stood
to help her. “Here, let me take those bags,” he said.

She glanced at Tyson’s back where he sat at the dining room table with an open book and frowned. “Hello, Dad.” Tyson glanced
up, but she did not acknowledge him. “What’s that I smell?” She followed the scent into the kitchen, opening the lid of the
slow cooker. She sniffed, pulled a spoon from the drawer for a taste, and replaced the glass lid with a slight shake of her
head. “Is she trying to kill you? That’s too spicy for a man your age. It’ll give you acid reflux so bad that you’ll have
to eat baby food for a week.” She walked over and pulled the kitchen door closed. “How’s it going?” she whispered, gesturing
toward the door with her head.

He nodded as he pulled a fresh supply of frozen leftovers and a bag of store-bought bread from a sack on the counter. “Fine,
fine.”

“Have you had any trouble with him?”

The scene from last Wednesday night down at the freight yard flashed into his mind. The boy shouting, “Go to hell!” Millard
remembered the pounding of his heart, the terror he had felt as he thrust their bodies from the moving train. His hand went
to his left shoulder, which had pained him ever since. “No trouble that I can recall—other than motivating him to do his schoolwork.”

Rita’s lips clamped into a dissatisfied line. “Well, just watch him, Dad. You’re so trusting of everyone, and believe me,
there are a lot of people who can’t be trusted out there. They’re out to take advantage—and I hate to say it, but I’m afraid
that’s exactly what’s happening here. This Sidney woman—you hardly know her. She lives in a trailer; she drives that broken-down
old car; her kids are out of control. But she’s not stupid. She looks out her window at your nice, well-maintained house and
car, and it’s like she’s peeking right into your bank account. Has she asked you for money yet?”

Millard glared at his daughter before dropping his head in utter disappointment. Had he raised her to think like this? He
sat at the small table, just big enough for two, which was pushed against the wall beneath a window looking out on the field
and the woods. She didn’t get this suspicious, critical attitude from her mother; that was for sure. Molly could find something
good to say about an ax murderer. Perhaps Rita
had
learned it from him. He had always been one to speak his mind freely. Probably too freely, he thought with regret.

Rita misinterpreted his silence. “Oh, Dad. You
have
given her money, haven’t you.” It was not a question. She sighed, turning her back and placing both hands on the edge of
the counter. She took a deep breath. “Dan and I think it might be a good idea to sit down together and discuss your finances.
I mean, I know you’re secure, Dad. But we don’t know any of the details. God forbid, if something should happen to you—if
your health or mental condition should fail . . .”

Obviously she thought his mental capacity had already failed. He didn’t fling out his usual retorts. He felt too hollow. Instead
he waited, knowing the truth would leach out of her if he only held his tongue.

She turned to face him. “I should have power of attorney for you, Dad.”

He studied the veins in his hand, the long, wrinkled fingers spread flat on the tabletop. It was about his money. She was
terrified that it might get away from her. She had determined that his days were winding to an end, his useful life over,
and now all that was left to do was to plan accordingly. She was full of advice, too full of her own to ever seek or accept
any from him. She couldn’t hear him, couldn’t really see him, because he was fading away. He pushed himself up from the table.
“Your containers are in the dishwasher. I’ll be going to the market on Saturday. Don’t bother bringing anything next week.”

After Rita left, Millard sat in his chair with the crossword puzzle in his lap. He had felt fine that morning, but now it
was as if someone had pulled a plug and drained all of his energy away. His daughter and her kids were all the family he had
left, but they didn’t need him anymore. He had become a useless burden. Rita came by only out of a sense of obligation. The
frozen dinners were her guilt offerings. If he would no longer accept her frozen sacrifices, how would she purge her soul?

She had still been sputtering as he ushered her to the door, nervous and confused by his somber silence. He too felt confused.
Was she right? Was his bank account and the real estate that he sat on more valuable now than he was?

“What did she say to you?”

Tyson’s voice surprised him. The boy was no longer at the dining room table, but lying on his stomach on the sofa, dangling
one arm to turn the pages of a book on the floor.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re just sitting there. I know you’re not reading the paper because you don’t have your glasses on.” When Millard
didn’t respond, the boy rolled over, pulling himself up and hugging his knees. “Was it about me? I know she doesn’t like me.”

Millard shook his head. “No. It was about Rita.”

Tyson seemed to study his face. “Are you sad or mad?”

An empty laugh crept from Millard’s throat. “A little of both. Mostly sad, I think.”

The boy nodded as if he understood. They didn’t speak for about a minute, caught up in an almost reverent silence, both possibly
aware that they were sitting on common ground. Millard wanted to ask about the pain behind Tyson’s eyes, but held his tongue
intuitively, knowing that neither of them was ready to go under the knife and allow their twisted guts to be exposed.

“What are you reading there?”

Tyson glanced down at his open book with disdain. “Poetry. Word slime.”

Millard chuckled. “That was poetic. Maybe you’re a poet and don’t know it.”

A corner of Tyson’s lip twitched. “It’s so stupid. I’m supposed to find one I like and try to make up a poem that’s like it
in some way. But I don’t like any of them. They’re all about love.” He rolled his head, feigning a feminine voice. “And pretty
leaves and daffodils.”

Millard closed his eyes and dropped his head to the back of his chair. Could he still recite it? The first line came to him
and then the next:

Millard paused, glancing over to see that the boy’s eyes were riveted on his face. “That’s the beginning of a poem written
by a man named Robert Service. He wrote a whole slew of them, put them in a book called
The Spell of the Yukon
.”

“Say the rest of it.”

Millard rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Should he give it to him or make him dig? “Let’s see if I can recall some more.