Return to Redlin
By
Lazette Gifford
Copyright 2010 Lazette Gifford
An ACOA Publication
Chapter 1
Trouble walked through the door of the Gas and More at three minutes before closing on a cold Thursday night in October.
I glainced up from counting change and frowned. No car had pulled up to the pumps. However, a tall man in a long black overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat pulled the door open against the wind. His right sleeve hung loose and I feared there might be a gun in his hidden hand where I couldn't see. There'd been a rash of robberies in the neighboring counties, and faced with the possibility --
The door swung shut. "I just want a couple sodas and some chips. Am I too late?"
His question, at least, sounded less ominous than what I'd expected. I mean people don't usually ask if they're too late to rob you, right?
"Sure, there's time." I waved toward the shelves. My arm trembled a little, but I don't think he noticed.
The guy limped back toward the sodas and beers and I started to count quarters again. I gave up when I lost track after half a handful. The alarm clock under the register went off, reminding me of the time. Too many nights I sat here far past midnight, reading and losing track of the world. I'd finished my book early tonight, though, so I'd already mopped up, straightened the magazine rack and dusted the little stand of porcelain dolls back in the corner. I only had to wait for the tall, dark stranger to get his sodas and chips and I'd be pretty much done for the night.
He seemed to be having some trouble. "Damn," he muttered softly. I heard him easily in the empty store. "Okay, I'm going to stick one of these sodas in my pocket until I get up there. I can't carry them in one hand. Don't want you to think I'm shoplifting."
"Fine." My heart had stopped doing double time. I even kind of felt sorry for the guy as he limped back to the cash register, put the items on the counter and looked up.
My heart did a double thump for an entirely different reason. I hadn't seen Derrick Weston since about two months before graduation, when the police dragged him out of class and took him off to Juvenile Detention down at the county seat. That had been a little over ten years ago.
"Hey, you're Ginger, aren't you?" he asked and smiled.
Hell. I never suspected he even knew my name back at Jefferson High, when one of those smiles would have made any of the girls melt. Oh yes, the local bad boy. . . and from cast and sling on his right arm, he probably hadn't changed much.
"Yes, Ginger." I finally smiled. "Sorry. You caught me by surprise, Derrick."
"I could tell."
"What are you doing in town?"
"I came for my grandfather's funeral," he said, eyes narrowing.
"Oh, right. I'm sorry. I forgot Lily --"
"Most people forgot Lily." His face hard-edged and angry, which I remembered far better than the smile.
"I forgot Lily was your mother," I said, finishing my statement. I rang up the sale, feeling a needle of irritation as I jabbed at the keys. He had no right to judge me. "I remember her very well. She taught my art class at church when I turned ten, and her death . . . I had never lost a friend before."
He stared at me for a moment, surprised and shocked. I'd forgotten he was Lily's son. Derrick had continued to live with his step-father and older step-brother after Lily died. Tom Weston later married Markie, who brought another four kids of her own, and they had three more... and somehow I had forgotten Derrick wasn't their son. I think almost everyone had forgotten -- but not him. Not from the way he reacted to the mention of his mother.
He pulled out a hotel key and a billfold from his back pocket while I put the sodas chips in a bag. He didn't appear to be much like a junk food addict, not from what I could see of his chest and arm. A cast covered the right arm from above the elbow right up over the fingers. His face had a little scar above the right eyebrow, not too old. He'd filled out, but not changed much. My mother had called him 'Elvis-pretty' back ten years ago. He wore his hair longer and he had grown a little mustache, and . . . and he I realized he had trouble getting money out of the billfold while I gawked.
"Here, let me," I offered.
He nodded and sat the billfold down. I pulled a five out, noting a lot of money in there -- and gave him back the change.
The door to the shop opened again. I looked up with a start, and found Deputy Miller stepping inside. My heart settled right back down again.
"Everything all right, Ginger?" he asked, lifting his chin toward Derrick.
"Fine."
Derrick turned around, and I thought I saw his shoulder's straighten. Miller blinked and his hand almost went to his gun. Not a good reaction.
"Son of a bitch. What are you doing back in town?" Miller demanded. He stopped and shook his head. "Your grandfather's funeral."
"Yes," Derrick said, his own voice sounding cool.
"What you say we have a little talk, boy." Miller signaled him outside.
Derrick grabbed his bag and followed Miller out, who stood holding the door open for him. I thought the reaction uncalled for, to be honest. I mean Derrick had been hell on wheels (especially when they weren't his own) back when he was seventeen but now? I thought about the cast, the limp and the scar, and wondered if he'd changed at all. Miller had been a deputy back then, too. He might have a reason to think Derrick still needed some rules laid out.
I couldn't clearly see, but I noted when Miller left and Derrick had already started back to the hotel. Good. I quickly counted the change, dropped the money bag into the floor safe, and grabbed my keys --
And I saw Derrick's billfold on the counter where I had put it when I took the five out. Damn. Well, I could walk past the hotel on the way home. I grabbed the wallet and my coat and keys. Then I dropped the wallet --
The billfold fell open to a picture of a Derrick, a lovely oriental woman and two kids about six or seven years old. They were all laughing.
Married. Well, I guess he'd changed quite a bit after all. I put the billfold into my pocket, shut down the pumps and locked up the shop. I only lived seven blocks from the store and even on cold October nights I usually didn't mind the walk home. The Highway Hotel -- the only one in town -- sat a couple blocks down the road from the Gas and More. I could see the police car pull away from the lot and sighed with relief. I'd give Derrick back his billfold and head for home.
End of the Adventure.
As I walked toward the hotel I could see Derrick slowly making his way up the outside steps to the second floor. They should have given him a room on the lower level, even if they had to move someone out. He shouldn't be trying to take the stairs -- but he reached the top without a mishap. I'd been holding my breath. I almost called out as he headed across the walkway to his room, but I feared he might decide to come back down stairs to meet me.
I hurried across the empty, weed-filled lot between the gas station and the hotel. The night felt chilly and uninviting as I pulled the jacket collar up around my neck, trying to block out the invasive cold. Winter whispered in that wind and I feared we were going to be in for a long cold season this year.
I trudged across the half frozen ground and reached the corner of the hotel's Wisteria Café and the hard cement of the shared parking lot. I thought longingly of home and a cup of hot cocoa before bed. I had to be up early tomorrow to work at the Senior Center for a few hours. I started to move a little faster.
I reached the stairwell just as I heard a junker coming down the highway, and the loud barks of a couple dogs. I looked out to the highway and confirmed what I feared. Junior pulled into the parking lot. He left the truck running -- no muffler and louder than hell, even sitting still. The dogs yowled when he got out. Junior Weston and his fa
ther supposedly raised hunting dogs, but some of the people in town thought he might be part of a dog fighting and gambling ring. People pretty much thought anything bad about the Westons.
"Shut the hell up," he shouted and smacked one on the nose. "Stay."
I frantically tried to find a place to hide. I didn't like Tom Weston, Jr., and I didn't trust him. I sure didn't want to be caught heading to his brother's hotel room. I stepped back around the corner of the stairs and flattened myself against the shadow of the wall, hoping his dogs stayed put, too. I didn't want them to find me here.
Junior swaggered toward the stairs I knew I didn't want to be anywhere in his sight. I shivered, and not from the cold this time. Junior bulked about 250 pounds -- mostly a beer gut he'd already had in high school. He stomped up the stairs, and I heard him saying the door room numbers aloud as he walked along. 201, 202, 203, 204, 205....
He kicked the door as though he expected it to pop open. He cursed louder and I could hear people in other rooms moving and protesting. Maybe they'd call Miller back. I hoped so.
A door open.
"What the hell do you want, Junior?" Derrick demanded.
"Pa sent me to get you and bring your ass to the trailer."
"I am not at the beck and call of your father. I thought you'd have figured that out years ago. Go home. Go away. Don't come near me again."
"I said Pa wants you."
I heard movement, followed by a woof of surprise from Junior. I dared to stick my head around the corner and peered up the stairs. To find Junior on his knees. Derrick took a step forward and leaned down. He caught Junior by the hair, jerking his head back up. I could see fear Junior's face.
"Get the hell away from me, Junior. I don't want you or any of the other Westons to come near me while I'm here. I'll be gone in a couple days."
He let go of Junior's hair, and Junior made a swipe at his leg, but Derrick, despite his injuries, easily stepped out of the way. He reached down with his free arm and caught Junior by the shoulder, dragging him toward the stairs.
I scrambled back to my hiding place, a hand over my mouth for fear I'd make some sound. Junior hit the first stair and bounced down a couple more before he finally caught hold and stood. He gasped, but I think the reaction came from anger, and for once he didn't curse at all. He also didn't go back up the steps. I thought Derrick must stand above him, blocking the way. Junior stomped down to the bottom of the steps and turned around. I feared he would see me, but I suspect his anger for Derrick blinded him to everything. I got lucky again.
"You -- you're going to regret this, Derrick," he shouted.
He stalked away, back to the truck, gunning the engine and making so much noise he probably woke half the town. He tore out into the highway, narrowly missing an oncoming car before he swung back into his own lane. The dogs howled and barked and I thought I could still hear them a mile away, where the road curves just before the acre of land Tom Weston owned, littered with old trailers and junky cars.
"You -- down there by the stairs -- you can come out now," Derrick said, his voice still gruff with anger.
I held my breath for a moment before I daringly stepped forward and around the corner. Derrick stood at the top of the stairs, glaring downwards.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded.
"I -- you --" I caught my breath and settled my nerves as best I could. "You left your billfold at the store. The hotel is on the way home -- but I didn't want to run into Junior."
"You should have left." He started down the stairs, still far too angry.
"You don't have to come down. I can --" But he kept coming down, stomping in a way that reminded me too much of Junior right then. I hurriedly grabbed the billfold out of my pocket and started up the stairs. He met me half way, and I could see the anger still in his eyes.
"You shouldn't be here. Go home."
"Yes, and you're welcome." I shoved the billfold into his hand and turned away, going back down the stairs and across the lot without turning back, though I could tell he didn't go back up to his room until I had gone across the parking lot and down the side street toward my apartment..
Funny, I didn't feel cold at all now.