Autumn Blue (34 page)

“No. You dropped it when he jabbed you in the ribs.” His face wrinkled. “Are the bones sticking out?”

Millard pulled back the sheet, exposing his bandaged torso. “Nope. They say they’re just cracked. This is to hold them in
place while they heal up. I’ll be as good as new in a few weeks.” He knew that the boy’s purple eye and the cuts on his face
would soon be gone also. It was his lacerated heart that worried Millard.

Ty held his eyes on the white binding. “I’m sorry . . . about everything. Sorry I got you into this whole mess.”

“I’m not.”

Ty glanced up.

Millard tried to sink into a prone position without letting his face telegraph pain. Tyson pulled the extra pillow away. “You’re
the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time, son.”

Ty’s brows drew together in disbelief. “What?”

“I had a boy once.” Millard hadn’t spoken of him to anyone in years. “Jefferson. Jefferson Ray Bradbury.” He rolled his head
toward the window. “I wasn’t a very good . . . No, I was a lousy father.” There. He’d said it aloud. It didn’t make him feel
any better. In fact, the silence was thick. This was not the thing to confess to a boy whose own father had turned out to
be such a disappointment. Still, his mouth opened again. “He was born with Down syndrome. Do you know what that is?”

Tyson shook his head.

“He was mentally retarded.”

“Oh.”

“A happy boy, though.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was born with a weak heart and it finally just gave up on him. He died when he was only fourteen. We didn’t have any warning.
One day he’s out playing in the fall leaves, throwing them in the air like $100 bills he had just won in the lottery. The
next morning I find him cold in his bed.” Millard stared up at the stark white ceiling. “Still smiling. He died with a little
smile on his face as if he had seen the angel that carried him away.”

Tyson cleared his throat but didn’t speak.

“I held him then. Picked him up and held him like a gangly baby.” He was embarrassed by the water welling up in his eyes and
turned his head back to the window again, where he could see only the whitewashed corner of the hospital’s south wing lit
by streetlights. “I hadn’t done that in a long, long time. But by then it was too late.”

He felt a tentative touch as if a butterfly had landed on his arm. He still couldn’t look the boy in his eyes. There was more
to be said. Maybe it was the painkiller that had unfettered his carefully concealed and guarded emotions, or maybe it was
just time. Maybe the hospital was the perfect place to lance this festering wound and let it drain.

“I’d always dreamed of having a son who was an athlete and a scholar. A fishing and hunting companion. A normal boy. I couldn’t
take Jeff fishing. His line somehow wadded into a rat’s nest every time I turned around. When he miraculously hooked into
a trout, he got so excited that he threw the rod into the water and splashed out into a strong current after the fish.”

“Well, at least you took him fishing. That’s more than my old man ever did.”

Millard didn’t mention that he had taken Jefferson out to the river only a couple of times, and that had been when the boy
was nine. He had given up on his son. In all honesty, Millard had been embarrassed by his mentally handicapped son. Molly
and the boy had come to watch his wrestling matches on occasion, but Millard cringed when she brought him down to the gym
floor afterward. The coach’s kid. Laughing too loud, his head tipped back with that moronic, gaping, often drooling mouth.
Millard had silently wished that his son were invisible.

But Jefferson had loved his father with the devotion of a faithful dog.

“I was too hard on him. I wasted the few years we had being disappointed by what he wasn’t, what he never could be.” His ribs
inflicted a punishing stab as he sighed. “I was the retarded one. He was perfect all along.”

Tyson had gradually let the full weight of his hand rest on Millard’s forearm. Millard reached across his body, letting his
hand fall over the boy’s, looking him in the eyes. “I just thought you should know that about me. I’m no hero, so don’t set
me up on some pedestal because I’ll only fall off.”

“Nobody’s perfect,” Ty said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “What did you mean . . . about me being the best thing
that ever happened to you?”

Millard chuckled. “You know what my life was about before you shattered the monotony? The daily crossword puzzle and keeping
my old chair warm. Spent my days staring out the window, watching life like it was a movie with no plot. Poisoned dandelions
for excitement. That cursed mole showing up was almost a blessing. Gave me something to think about beside my obituary.” He
grinned. “Then you came along.”

“Yeah.” Ty’s brows lifted his face into a mischievous look. “And the plot thickened.”

“Next thing I know I’m out working with concrete again, hopping freight trains in the middle of the night, teaching history
and English. I thought I was all used up. But you’ve made me feel useful again.” He tried to take a deep breath, but his ribs
cut it short. “You’ve brought out feelings I didn’t know I was capable of anymore. If I didn’t care so much about you, I don’t
think I could have done what I did.” He chuckled. “If you told me a few months ago I’d be diving into a brawl with a lunatic—”
He stopped himself. “Sorry. He’s your dad. I shouldn’t talk about him like that.”

Ty huffed, his eyes narrowing. “He’s not my dad. Never was. You can call him anything you want.” The boy pulled his hand away
and looked down, toying with his fingernails. “You’re the closest thing to a dad I’ve ever had.”

Millard caught his breath. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. He squeezed Tyson’s hand and the boy looked at him, saw the tears
welling up in his eyes.

For a moment neither of them spoke. Millard was surprised to see Tyson’s mouth clamp tightly as if he too was trying to suppress
tears, but to no avail. They ran down his bruised face as his lips began to quiver.

“Your sisters call me Grandpa. I’d be proud if you would call me that, too.”

Tyson nodded. He stretched the short sleeves of his black

T-shirt to his face, swiping at his eyes. “Maybe we could go fishing sometime.”

Millard’s heart burst like a small, hard kernel of popcorn into a soft cloud. Imagine the possibilities. He willed his bones
to knit together swiftly, to be strong. There was so much to live for. So much love to give.

P
ROPPED ON A TABLE
in the far corner of Millard’s living room was a hand-hewn coffin. It was a tiny casket made of pine, surrounded by flickering
candles. The corpse held a small flower in one big, fleshy hand, and on its furry head just above a piglike snout was the
paper pilgrim hat that Sissy had made at school.

Being Irish, and claiming to be the authority on wakes, Red, the barber, proposed the first toast. “To Digger the mole. May
he never dig his way out of hell.” Glasses and bottles clicked all around the room.

Rebecca frowned. “That’s not very nice.” She was the one who had woven the little geranium stem between the humanlike fingers,
stating that the mole had just been doing what God created it to do—in which case Red was surely wrong about Digger’s present
whereabouts.

“And may he have left no relatives behind in Ham Bone,” Millard added.

“Okay, Ty and Millard,” Sidney said, waving them into position. “I need a shot of the two of you with Digger.”

They posed, one on each side of the deceased, tapping the necks of their root beer bottles together. Millard wore a red plaid
hunter’s cap, flaps down. Ty had borrowed a similar cap for the occasion. “Millard, you look an awful lot like Elmer Fudd,”
Sidney said.

“That’s not the worst thing someone ever said about me.” They grinned proudly, playfully jabbing at each other while she and
Micki snapped photos. Millard let out a boisterous laugh, flinching slightly, his hand going automatically to his right rib.
He was still wrapped tightly beneath his clothes, but to Sidney’s relief his doctor said he was healing nicely.

“Okay, now hold up the trap and the notebook.” Tyson sighed deeply as if annoyed by this request but immediately reached down
for his science-project folder, holding it slightly forward and open to the front page, where the big handwritten “A+” was
sure to show. Just below it, also in red, the teacher had printed “WOW!” Millard held up the steel plunger trap that the two
of them had built in the garage using a modified design from a sketch Ty found on the Internet.

She clicked several shots and then picked up her half-full cup of licorice tea and leaned against the living room wall. Around
the corner in the open dining room, Dennis and Andy filled their plates with food. Being potluck and three days after Thanksgiving,
the main entrees were turkey casserole, turkey sandwiches, and Amilia’s turkey enchiladas. Sidney had made a brussels sprouts
and garlic salad and zucchini muffins. At least the muffins seemed to be moving well. Alex was the only one she had seen so
far with brussels sprouts on his plate.

Alex. His name wafted through her like warm ocean air. He had grown excited when he saw Millard’s collection of Washington
State county maps on a bookshelf and had pushed platters of food and pumpkin pies aside in order to spread a map of the Cascade
Mountains across the far end of the dining room table. Ty wandered over, gnawing on a carrot stick as he peered over Alex’s
shoulder. The room buzzed with conversation. She watched Alex trace a meandering line on the map with his finger. Ty responded
with interest, pointing at something and asking a question.

Millard’s daughter and her husband, Dan, sat stiffly on the sofa, observing the festivities as if they were visitors in a
foreign culture. Rita had been disgusted by the whole idea of throwing a wake on behalf of a dead rodent. Ty assured her,
however, that moles are not rodents; they are insectivores. It didn’t help matters when Sissy blatantly called Millard “Grandpa
Bradbury,” which caused Rita and Dan to exchange alarmed glances, shaking their heads in failed subtlety as if this whole
situation had spun way out of control. Sidney’s attempt to befriend Rita over tea at the hospital had apparently done nothing
to dispel her suspicions.

Sidney was pleased to see Amilia playing a game of Crazy Eights with Rebecca and Sissy at a card table in the corner. The
older woman seemed to be having more good days now. Since Enrique’s death, the family had tried to keep their matriarch busy,
but Sidney found that sometimes all Amilia really needed was someone to sit and go through photo albums with her while she
told stories of good times as well as bad. Amilia was a realist. Enrique had been far from perfect, but he had been her dearest
friend. Sidney walked across the room. “Amilia, I’m headed to the kitchen. What can I get for you?”

“Have you got a deck of cards back there? I need you to sneak me a couple of eights.”

Millard appeared, leaning over Rebecca’s shoulder. “Got a good hand there?”

“Come play with us, Grandpa B,” she said.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I haven’t played that game in years.”

“It’s like falling off a bike,” Amilia said. “It’ll come right back to you. Pull up a chair.”

He complied almost shyly, rubbing his gangly hands together as Rebecca shuffled the deck. “Well, those were some fine enchiladas
you made, Amilia,” he finally said. He held his fist to his stomach. “I’m afraid I’m going to regret them tonight, though.”

Her brows drew together. “Were they too spicy for you?”

He nodded. “Yes, but I put them down anyway. Couldn’t help myself.”

She gathered up her cards as they were dealt. “I’ll make you a batch without so many jalapeños next time.”

Millard’s interest was definitely piqued. “Well, that would be fine.” He nodded. “Just fine.” Millard loved to eat as much
as Amilia loved to cook. “Maybe I can do something for you in return sometime.”

She glanced at his bookcase. “I see you like poetry. You have some books there I’d like to read.”

Millard’s eyes ignited. “You like poetry?”

“Hello!” Sissy interjected. “Are we playing Crazy Eights or not?”

Sidney laughed as she walked away. Alex glanced up when she passed, his lips curving into his familiar closed-mouth smile
before going back to his conversation with Ty and now Dennis, who also seemed intrigued by the map.

In the kitchen she began to reach for the refrigerator door but stopped, her arm dropping to her side. Among other artwork
that Sissy and Rebecca had bestowed on their new “grandpa,” a picture that Sissy had colored in Sunday school was stuck with
magnets to the front of the door. Peter walking on the water, his boat at his back, and Jesus with outstretched arms beckoning
him to come. Her eyes watered.

The kitchen door opened behind her. She dabbed at the tears in the corner of her eyes as Alex came and stood by her side.

“Enjoying the art gallery?”

She shook her head. “The whole time I was praying for a mentor to love my kids, Millard Bradbury was living right across the
street.” She sighed. “He was right here all the time. I thought I had to figure it all out—to orchestrate it somehow. My plan
was just to get Ty through this house-arrest situation and move on.”

He chuckled. “Old Millard’s a good guy. Ty respects him. It’s a shame that so many kids don’t have adults in their lives that
they can respect.”

She twisted her neck and looked up at him. “He respects you.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I hope so.”

She turned to face him. “What were you guys talking about out there?”

He raised his dark brows. “Would you trust me with your son for two weeks this summer? We’re thinking about hiking the Pacific
Crest Trail through the Goat Rocks Wilderness area. Sounds like Dennis and Andy want to go, too.”

This summer. Alex was planning to be a part of their lives for a while. She made a face. “I suppose as long as Ty is with
you, you’ll all survive. You’ll be in his realm, you know.”