Autumn Blue (9 page)

“
Sayonara
,” the old man said with a quick two-fingered salute. He stooped to pluck the paper from the porch, grasping a handrail for
support. His back was talking to him this morning, telling him the weather was about to change—as if he couldn’t figure that
out just by looking at the sky. Clouds as dense as chocolate mousse spread across the western horizon. Maybe he could have
saved some money on his water bill after all. Looked like a pent-up flood looking for a place to happen. He shivered. Good
day to hole up indoors.

Once settled into his easy chair, he snapped the
Herald
open, still gloating about the mole. He heard his little neighbor across the street trying to start her car. It was a familiar
whine—every morning the same, usually sparking ignition on the third or fourth try.

He scanned the obituaries, shocked to see a familiar face grinning at him from the black-and-white page. Millard gasped and
adjusted his glasses. Art Umquist! He stared in confusion. It was a flattering photo, one taken before the jowls hung from
his face like icing melting from a cake. Not Art! Why, Millard just saw him down at the hardware store a few days ago. What
happened? He skimmed the article. Died in his sleep? What does that mean? That’s not a cause of death! He read on. Graduated
from Ham Bone High School in 1948 (he was two years behind Millard and dated his sister, Glory, a couple of times, God rest
her soul), worked as a carpenter until he opened Art’s Hardware and Sporting Goods in 1961. Millard remembered when the building
was brand-new; Art built it himself with the help of his brothers. Millard used to hunt and fish with the Umquist brothers
before the wives and kids came along.

He closed his eyes, dropping his head to the back of the chair. Art Umquist—gone. Just like that. One day he’s jawing with
customers about the silvers heading upriver, telling them they’re biting on corkies or whatever other jigs he had overstocked,
then tells Millard he’s fresh out of mole traps but he can order him one for $39.95, and a couple of days later he’s reduced
to a column of newsprint—the story of his life—soon to be wrapping fish or kindling fires.

Died in his sleep. What if it had been him? No one would know for a few days—not until Rita came by with a week’s supply of
frozen leftovers. She would find the hose still running, his yard as swamped as the Everglades. She would be shocked when
she found him, then sad, then relieved. The grandkids might cry. He hoped they would, but wasn’t sure. At least the funeral
would get them out of a day of school. Peter would be grateful to him for that. Dan, of course, would have his real estate
sign up in the yard before all the cheese puffs and Swedish meatballs were gone.

Art Umquist had been younger than Millard. Molly had been, too. Al Bender, Joe Seaton, Annabelle Watts . . . he could go on;
they had all left him here—alone. For what? All he was good for anymore was to weigh down this faded blue armchair, as if
without him it too might waft up into the great unknown. Not that it mattered. Nothing really mattered anymore.

He kept his eyes closed, imagining his own obituary. Graduated from Ham Bone High School in ’46, bachelor’s degree from the
University of Washington, a stint in the Korean War, married Molly Elliot from Seattle, two kids (one deceased), taught at
Silver Falls High in Dunbar until his retirement in 1989. His entire life wrapped up in a neat little package, sounding about
as exciting as a pair of argyle socks.

The annoying whine from the car across the street grew weaker with each try until it faded out altogether.

Molly’s eulogy had actually been quite beautiful. Her sister, Lena, came over from Idaho to give it, Millard being too beside
himself with grief to speak at the service. There had been a slide show set to music, showing his wife as a girl at camp,
a young woman in a svelte camel suit and heels, topped with a pheasant-feather hat, and then as his lovely bride. Photos of
them with each of the babies, Molly walking Rita through her first steps, Molly pinning a Superman cape to little Jefferson’s
shoulders. Millard had been behind the camera much of the time, so he was invisible in most of the shots.

If he were to write his own epitaph for his tombstone today, it would be this: he tunneled blindly through life and left this
molehill to remember him by.

The knock on the door startled him. He dropped the newspaper to the floor and pushed himself out of his muse and the chair.
It was Sidney Walker, standing on his porch with a worried look that made her features appear sharper, her smooth cheeks a
little hollow.

“Mr. Bradbury, I’m so sorry to bother you. I just don’t know what else to do.” She glanced back at the red pile of junk in
her driveway. “This is just the worst day for my car to go kaput on me. I’m supposed to be at the courthouse for Tyson’s hearing.
I
have
to be there.”

“Oh.” Millard’s mind had not yet joined him in the present tense. “Uh, well, I guess you need a jump, then,” he stammered,
looking over his shoulder as if he might see a pair of jumper cables draped over the back of his easy chair.

She shook her head and her brows rose imploringly. “There isn’t time for that.”

He stared blankly for a moment. What was she asking? To borrow his car?

“Is there any way—I mean, if you’re not too busy, I was wondering if you could drive me to Dunbar?”

Millard drew back. Dunbar was twenty miles from there. He hadn’t been that way for so long that they’d probably changed all
the streets by now. But of course, that was the county seat. The courthouse, the jail, and the big library were all on the
same block. He could tell by the way Sidney was clenching her hands together and trembling that he didn’t have all morning
to decide. “Well, I guess I could,” he said, about as enthusiastically as if she’d asked him to help her shop for women’s
under-things. At least she didn’t think he was too old and useless to drive his own car.

“Oh, thank you!” Sidney grasped his hands in hers. “Mr. Bradbury, you are a wonderful man!”

T
HE SENTENCING HEARING
was held at the Juvenile Justice Center, a newer building located adjacent to the Juvenile Detention facility, better known
as juvey jail. Mr. Bradbury sat next to Sidney in an open waiting area. She had insisted that he not sit out in the car for
who knew how long in that miserable rain. The lobby was infested with teenagers, many in strange outfits and hairdos that
made Mr. Bradbury gawk openly, along with their weary-looking parent or parents also waiting on black vinyl-covered chairs.
Others sported fresh haircuts and even crisp shirts with ties, any brow and lip rings removed probably at the advice of their
attorneys. A bailiff came through the double doors to call out a name and another party rose, gathering paperwork, the mother
inevitably smoothing out a wrinkle or pushing back a wayward strand of her delinquent child’s hair in hopes of making him
or her look innocent before being swallowed up by the heavy doors.

“Mr. Bradbury, I appreciate this so much,” Sidney said. “Not just the ride, but having you here for moral support.”

He nodded. “I’m happy to oblige.” He didn’t look very happy, though. He was still gazing around as if he had somehow fallen
through the pages of a book into a sci-fi world. “You might as well call me Millard,” he added.

“Oh, sure.”

Sidney had rolled up a pamphlet about the Job Corps and was tapping it rapidly against her other hand, her legs crossing and
uncrossing every few seconds. “I wish I could see Tyson,” she said. “I just want to talk to him. I don’t even understand what’s
going on. Where is that attorney?”

Millard patted her arm. He probably thought she was going to cry again. Surely he was learning to see the signs. He seemed
so uncomfortable there, but relaxed a little once he found the newspaper on one of the end tables and the crossword puzzle
inside. He pulled a pen and reading glasses from his pocket. “Why don’t you go up and ask at the desk?” he said. “I’ll listen
for your name to be called.”

Sidney approached the dark-skinned woman at the check-in desk and waited as she flipped a page on a clipboard. “Oh, it looks
like your son’s attorney went into labor last night. Just a minute.” Sidney’s heart fell. The receptionist punched in a phone
number and waited, smiling at Sidney reassuringly. “Leonard, this is the front desk,” she said. “According to my records,
you’ve taken over the Tyson Walker case.” Sidney heard the loud expletive that came out of the phone. The receptionist smiled.
“He’ll be right down.”

Ty’s new attorney still had traces of acne and could barely call the dark fuzz on his upper lip a mustache. He approached
their row of chairs as if it were a train leaving the station, briefcase with protruding papers shoved under his arm, his
shirt collar sticking out from a suit that had surely been handed down by a burlier big brother. “Mrs. Walker? Sorry, I’m
running a little late this morning.” He shook her hand and then reached for Millard’s. “I’m Tyson’s new attorney, Leonard
Eggebraten.”

“Millard Bradbury,” he offered. He made a move to get up. “I’ll let you two discuss this alone.”

Sidney reached out for him. “Please stay.” He sat back down.

“I’m taking over for Sybil,” the new attorney said. “She went into labor early. Did you get a call?” Sidney shook her head,
frowning.

Leonard Eggebraten pulled a chair in front of them, opening his briefcase on his lap. The black leather was brand-new. Probably
a graduation gift from his mother. He pulled out a clipped-together pile of papers, smoothing out the creased corners and
flipping through, skimming as if reading them for the first time. “Just refreshing my memory,” he said.

“Okay,” Leonard continued. “I see that Tyson has been incarcerated since last Tuesday. He’s been charged with attempted armed
robbery.” He shook his head. “Oh, not good. Released on personal recognizance, and then he violated court orders.”

“He ran away only because he got in trouble at school,” Sidney said, leaning forward. “He thought they’d automatically throw
him in jail. He has a terrible fear of jail, Mr. Eggebraten. Ty can’t be cooped up. He’ll go crazy. Please—we’ve got to get
him out of there.”

“Your son has been advised to plead guilty. Are you aware of that?”

“Yes, but Sybil told me that the fact that he turned himself in after the incident would work in his favor. He confessed.
He also wrote letters of apology to the court and to the victim at the grocery store.”

Leonard began flipping pages again. “Oh, yes, I see. That’s good. Yes, I’ll remind the judge of that. Also the fact that he
has no priors and the judge can see that he has family support with both you and his grandpa here.” He nodded toward Millard.
“You’d be surprised how many kids don’t have even one parent show up.”

Millard opened his mouth, but Sidney opened her eyes wide and gave her head a quick shake. Millard’s lips clamped tight and
he nodded as if he understood. If his being perceived as family was going to help, he seemed willing to cooperate. He cleared
his throat. “What exactly is your plan, young man?”

“Well, Mr. . . .”

“Bradbury.”

“Yes, sorry. Mr. Bradbury. This is a very serious charge. I know that the deputy prosecuting attorney will ask for your grandson
to be detained for at least part of his sentence.”

“What does that mean?” Sidney asked.

“Juvenile jail. Tyson’s probation counselor will also make a recommendation, based on his experience with him and his case
so far. It’s a long shot, but here’s what I’m going to propose. We ask for a deferred disposition based on the positives here.
That means he does
no
jail time. Zero, zip. He’s placed on maybe six to twelve months’ probation, probably has to do about forty hours of community
service and keep his nose clean. I mean, he asks, ‘Mother, may I?’ and doesn’t step over the line one time.”

“Oh,” Sidney breathed, “that would be perfect. What are the chances of the judge agreeing to that?”

He shrugged. “Slim.”

The door to the courtroom opened again. The bailiff stood aside as a tearful mother emerged with a grim attorney, a fat folder
stuffed under his arm. The boy who had gone in with them did not come out. “Walker!” the bailiff called.

Leonard gathered up his papers. “Showtime.”

Sidney stood, clutching her purse close to her chest like a teddy bear. She gazed back at Millard, waiting. He dutifully pushed
himself out of his chair, tucking the paper with its partially worked crossword puzzle under his arm. She felt his hand on
the small of her back as they followed the green attorney through the oak doors.

Though it was juvenile court, the small hearing room looked as official as the courtrooms on
Matlock
, complete with a robed judge sitting behind a desk on a lofty platform. Millard and Sidney sidestepped to one of the hard
wooden benches. Tyson’s disheveled attorney plopped his briefcase onto a long, bow-shaped table up front while a woman in
a gray suit and the more casually dressed probation officer took their seats adjacent to him. Sidney’s hand inadvertently
clutched Millard’s arm as a door at the back opened and a uniformed officer led Tyson into the room. She caught her breath
once again at the sight of her son dressed in that blue jumpsuit, his hands cuffed and locked to a chain around his waist.
His shadowed eyes searched until he found her. She smiled reassuringly as if this were just his first piano recital, unaware
that her fingernails were digging into Millard’s arm until she felt the old man reach over and place his gnarled hand over
hers, patting it like her own father would have done if he were there. Tyson’s gaze dropped to the floor, his head down, as
the officer guided him to the seat next to his newly appointed and still apparently floundering attorney.

Leonard leaned over and spoke to Ty in whispers while the judge perused the file placed in front of him. Other people came
and went for several minutes, passing paperwork back and forth and speaking in hushed tones.