Leave it to Max (Lori's Classic Love Stories Volume 1) (11 page)

She had been happy then, but the life she’d
led had not prepared her for the way the world was. Her mother had
thrown her to the wolves when Livy had needed her the most. Livy
had learned that soft memories were merely that—remembrances of a
way of life that didn’t exist past childhood.

“I’d better check on Max.” Livy started for
the stairs.

Her mother’s next words stopped her. “People
always used to say to me, ‘I’ve never seen a man love a child as
much as Henry loves his.”’

Livy winced.

“‘If anything happens to her, you’d best dig
a grave right next to hers for him.’ ” Rosie’s dark-blue eyes,
which were so like Livy’s own, held an unaccustomed sadness in
their depths. “And they were right. But I’d never have imagined I
should dig a grave right next to his for you.”

“Mama, really.”

Rosie ignored her, as Rosie had a habit of
doing. “When I came back here you were different. Once there was a
light in you that rivaled your father’s, and that was saying
something. Then it was gone—” She snapped her fingers. “Like a
candle snuffed out in a high wind.”

“You expected me to be laughing after I lost
my father, my grandmother, and was left alone with a baby at
nineteen?”

“I didn’t say that. Three deaths so close
together would be hard on anyone. I told myself you’d get better.
You just needed time. But you’ve had enough time, and you’ve only
gotten worse.”

Livy ignored the voice that pointed out she’d
been living the lie of J.J.’s death so long she barely felt a
twinge when it was brought up. Funny how easily lies could become
the truth. And then blow up in your face.

“I know you’ve never approved of me, of what
I do—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you
know it.”

“Then what
are
you talking about?”

“I want you to enjoy life. Quit wallowing in
the dregs. Quit seeing all the bad things.”

“That’s my job,” Livy said.

“You can do your job without living it.
Without bringing it home. The world is a great big beautiful
playground. Explore it. Experience it. Imagine more—don’t settle
for less.”

“Be all that I can be? I’m too old for the
Marines.”

“You know, if you’d been this sarcastic as a
child I’d have smacked you.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.”

“Maybe I should now.”

“Too late. Your time for mothering me is
past.”

“A mother’s time is never past. My mistake
was letting you be so long.”

“I don’t need this, Mama.”

“And you don’t need me. You’ve made that
quite clear. But Max does. If you can’t enjoy life, you should at
least let Max enjoy his. And if you don’t know how, I do.”

Livy had had a busy day. She should go
upstairs and let this go. Instead, she lost control again.

“You call talking to dead people and telling
stories about ghosts ‘living’? You think encouraging Max to dream
impossible dreams so that he’ll end up crushed when he finds out
that dreams rarely come true ‘good parenting’?”

Rosie stood, the love seat between the two of
them. “Who says dreams don’t come true? You’ve got to believe in
something, or what’s the use of going on?”

“What do you believe in?”

“That someday I’ll see Henry again.”

“Floating through the dining room?”

“I don’t care, as long as I see him. I
believe we’ll be together forever someday. I believe that life is
full of gifts, and you should take them wherever you find them.
Hold on to them tight. Max is a gift I never thought to have, and
I’m not going to let you stomp all over his dreams with your combat
boots, sir.” Rosie flicked a snotty salute.

“Dreams, magic, love, hope. I gave up on
fairy tales a long time ago. Isn’t it better to know the truth,
even if it’s hard, even if that makes life less of a jolly romp
through time, than to have the truth hit you over the head when you
aren’t looking? It can destroy you.”

Rosie stared at her so hard that Livy wanted
to squirm. Livy had lost her temper and let too much fly free.
Rosie might act flaky, but she wasn’t. Especially when it came to
emotions.

“Is that what happened to you? Did the bad
old truth sideswipe you when you least expected it? Is that why you
don’t believe in anything anymore? Is that why you refuse to need
anyone?”

“I believe in Max. He’s all I need.”

Livy walked out of the room, but Rosie’s
parting shot followed her up the steps.

“Why don’t I believe that?”

* * *

Max lay on his bed and listened to his mom
and Rosie argue. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he’d
heard them arguin’ enough to know what it sounded like.

The arguments scared him, though Rosie said
people argued and that it didn’t mean they loved each other any
less.

But Sammy’s parents had argued a lot and
they’d gotten divorced. Then Sammy’s daddy had moved to California,
changed his name to Moon Doggie like that guy in the movies Rosie
liked, and started surfing for a living. Sammy didn’t hear from him
anymore, and judging by the names Mrs. Sontag called Mr.—everything
but
Moon Doggie—there wasn’t much love left after the
arguing.

What would he do if Rosie left? Or what if
his mom decided to change her name to Gidget and live in a hut. As
if.

He heard his mom’s footsteps on the stairs.
She would come punish him now—for his own good. At this rate, he’d
be the best boy in four counties.

She stood in the doorway, and he turned on
his side. She looked scared, and he hadn’t broken a thing all day.
He sat up. “Mom? You okay?”

“Sure.” Her gaze touched his cast, then
skipped away.

“You gonna ground me some more?”

“Maybe tomorrow. I’ve had all the fun I can
stand for one day.”

Sometimes his mom was almost as funny as
Rosie. Usually when she was tired and couldn’t seem to help
herself.

“You
are
grounded, Max. That means no
running around after school. You’re to come directly home. Do not
pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Got it?”

“I think I know what grounded means by
now.”

“I’d have thought so, too. You can imagine my
surprise to find you on your way to the Alexander place.”

“Why were
you
there, Mom?”

“There? Where?”

His mom always repeated questions when she
was trying to buy time and think of an answer. Max figured it was a
lawyer trick, and he wondered why the judges put up with it.

Max didn’t answer her silly questions, just
waited patiently for her to spill the truth she liked so much. He
shouldn’t complain. Other kids’ parents lied to them all the time,
which made it hard for kids to believe anything they were told by
anyone. But Max’s mom always laid out the truth, no matter how
little he might want to hear it.

Whenever there was a question she didn’t want
to answer or a truth she wouldn’t tell, instead of lying, she ran.
And that only happened if he asked questions about his father.

“Time for bed,” she announced. “I’ll be back
in five minutes to tuck you in.”

He looked up in time to catch that scared
expression again, which bothered him. Moms weren’t supposed to be
scared of anything—except their babies failin’ and breakin’ their
necks.

“You’re lucky Mr. Stark didn’t call the
police instead of bringing you home when you broke into his
house.”

‘‘I didn’t break anything. Except this—” He
held up his cast. “The door was open.”

“You knew it was wrong, didn’t you? Just
walking into a stranger’s house as if it were yours?”

“I figured he was undead. The rules are
different then.”

“Why...?” She shook her head. “Never mind, I
really don’t want to know why. Just don’t go there again.
Understand?”

She left the room without waiting for his
answer. Which was good, because he wasn’t going to give her one. If
she could ignore questions, then so could he.

Max had to see Garrett Stark again. Even if
he did end up grounded for life.

Again turned out to be the next day. Usually
school sucked and Max hated it. But after breaking his arm he’d
been a hero with his tales of the cemetery followed by a trip to X
ray.

Just showed how much difference a day could
make. One day a hero and the next he was back to being weird Max,
the wussy, or any one of a hundred other names. Kids were mean, and
some were meaner than others.

Someday he’d be bigger and stronger and
smarter than all of them, and then they’d be sorry. Unfortunately,
not today.

Even his teacher spoke sharply. “Max, quit
wool-gathering. I’m over here!”

All the other kids snickered. Max gathered a
lot of wool. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand what was going on
in class. It was just that what was going on in his head was a
whole lot better.

When lunch recess came and Sammy, his best
and only friend, snapped, “The only reason you got that cast anyway
is ’cause you’re such a spasmoid,” Max decided he needed school as
much as he needed bigger feet.

He walked off the playground when no one was
looking and went to make a new best friend.

* * *

The un-book was better than ever.

After Garrett perused his single page, he lit
a ceremonial fire, and as it burned he contemplated dancing around
the ashtray. If he thought dancing would help, he’d do it. But not
even the usual rituals worked these days, so why start a new
one?

The only thing that did help was Max, and
Garrett figured he had as much chance of seeing his son as he had
of finishing the book on time. But he left the back door open
anyway, just in case. After all, the kid seemed to have a knack for
turning up exactly where he wasn’t supposed to be.

Garrett wandered into the dining room. He’d
planned to burn the coffin, or at the very least haul it outside
and chop the thing into firewood. But when he put his hands on the
wood, he suddenly had the first good idea he’d had in days.

A tablecloth and a vase would make Andrew’s
joke into Garrett’s. He still needed to figure out suitable
retaliation for this “gift,” but pretending the coffin was a table
would be fun. Andrew was so single- minded, he probably wouldn’t
get it, which would only make things funnier for Garrett.

As if on cue, the phone rang. Sometimes
Andrew could be downright spooky, and he didn’t even try.

The phone had been ringing on the hour since
8:00 a.m. that morning. His agent was getting nervous. Garrett had
no doubt that sooner rather than later he’d have a houseguest he
didn’t want. What better way to greet Andrew than with a coffee
table that doubled as an eternal resting place? Garrett was going
to need the latter as soon as Andrew found out the truth,
anyway.

He started laughing, and then he couldn’t
stop. Hysteria did that to a fellow. Maybe if he hid inside the
coffin, Andrew would never find him.

Garrett stopped laughing and swiped at his
eyes. That wasn’t a half-bad idea. Not the hiding, but the getting
inside.

New places and new experiences often gave him
new ideas. If lying in a coffin wasn’t a new place and a new
experience, he didn’t know what was. Garrett ought to get a doozy
of an idea out of this.

He approached the wooden box, more captivated
by his crazy concept with every tick of the clock. What
would
it feel like to lie inside?

Garrett hadn’t felt such a sweeping need to
know in quite a while—that blessed niggling of nosiness that kept
him writing hour after hour, day after day, until he uncovered all
there was to know in the dark depths of a story and laid the
secrets out for everyone, including himself, to examine.

“Well, hell, now I’ve got to do it,” he said
as he opened the lid and climbed in.

The coffin had been built for a corpse of
years past—when men didn’t top six feet. Garrett’s knees kept the
lid from closing completely.

“Not quite my size, Andrew. So sorry, old
chum.”

The laughter bubbled up again, but he
squelched it. He wanted to absorb the experience. Somehow, someday,
in some future book, he’d need to know what being in a coffin felt
like, and he might never get another chance to lie in one if he
didn’t do it now.

“Smells like wet wood.” His knuckles scraped
the side, and he hissed as splinters threatened. “Scratchy.
Unfinished.” Shifting against the pain in his spine, he winced.
“And hard. Could use a pillow if not a mattress. Not very restful,
but the usual occupant wouldn’t notice. If I could get the lid
closed, would there be any light in here?”

Garrett twisted and turned until his knees
scrunched in sideways. The lid thumped shut. Something clicked.
“Uh-oh.”

He pushed on the lid. He was stuck, all
right. The sound of his heart filled the small area. Was the space
actually getting smaller? Or was he getting bigger?

Now he
was
hysterical. And hot,
cramped, hungry and... He admitted it—scared.

He put some muscle behind his next push. The
top jiggled but held. He slammed his palms against the top again
and again. Regardless, the coffin remained firmly shut.

“They sure don’t build ’em like this
anymore.” His voice sounded normal, and that calmed him a bit. Too
bad the latch was built better than the body. Sunlight streamed
through tiny cracks at the corners.

“If I were undead, I’d be dead.”

Garrett stifled the urge to laugh. He had to
squelch it or he might never stop. He also had to stop panicking or
he might do something crazy. Make that
crazier.
For a person
trapped inside a coffin, any loss of control would be very bad. He
needed to
think
.

If he could use his legs, he might be able to
bust through the top. Unfortunately, he couldn’t because he’d
crunched his legs in sideways to fit.