Jerk, California

  “That’s so different.” Naomi lowers her hands. “There was nothing you could do.”

  Grandma swallows hard. “I didn’t have to have him in the first place. It would have saved us both a lot of pain.”

  “Yeah, but, look what happened. I mean, I’m sure it was hard, but I just listened to the most awesome guy. Your son was great.” Naomi looks toward me. “Jack is great.”

  Grandma nods. “It’s true. Seems the worst situations lead to the biggest blessings. So long as you’re not alone. Nothing good comes when you’re alone.” Grandma strokes Naomi’s hair, stands stiffly, and shuffles toward the stairs. “So we stay with those we love, who love us. We take their hand and run as fast as we can toward the people who know us best.” Grandma pauses at the bottom step. “And like you said, at first it’s hard”—she glances at me over her shoulder—“but it may turn out great after all.” She smiles and heads up the stairs.

  We listen to footsteps fade, reappear above our heads, and fall silent.

  Naomi finally shifts in her chair. “We’d go home together, then?”

  “Together.”

  She runs her hand through her hair and tosses it back. Naomi takes my hand and closes her eyes.“Okay. I’ll stay with Jack.”

  chapter forty-six

  I BOOK OUR SEATS ON THE EARLY FLIGHT TO Minneapolis out of Sacramento. Night passes quickly, and when dawn breaks, my stiff legs are eager for a run. I walk into Naomi’s room and nudge her shoulder. She rises quickly, and together we take one last sunrise trip to the beach.

  Our jog pauses when we reach my gift.

  “It’s just one piece? That rock sticking up and the windmill is all one piece? How’d he do that?” Naomi asks.

  I shake my head and smile. “Must’ve seen a rock and imagined a windmill hiding inside. He chiseled it out of there.” I lean into her shoulder. “But he had help from someone’s grandpa.”

  Naomi smiles. “George could make anything grow anywhere.”

  I start to run, but Naomi doesn’t move.

  “Do you think George knew I’d come with you? I mean, it was luck, right? You could have left five minutes earlier. It’s all luck?”

  I smile at the windmill and finger the key in my pocket. “A week ago, that’s what I’d have thought. But no more. Not with Dad or George.” I gesture for Naomi to follow and jog down the beach. She quickly catches me.

  “They’re not done with us yet,” I say.

  “It’s going to be close,” Naomi calls from the car. I dash up the steps and into Grandma’s house, where she throws together food for our short trip.

  “Grandma.”

  She whirls around. “You startled me. I’ll be right out.”

  “Will you put that down? I need you for a second.”

  She lowers the crackers and cheese, and leans back against the counter.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I begin. “I don’t know the whole story with Dad and you. But I get it, I mean, I blamed him for years.” My shoulder twitches; so do her eyelids.

  “It wasn’t his fault.” I step closer. “Wasn’t yours either. This disease thing ain’t your fault. None of it.”

  She cries but doesn’t look away. She cries and stares and vise-grips my hand.

  “I guess it would have meant more coming from Dad.”

  Grandma smothers me in a bear hug. She shakes and sobs and I try to think if I screwed up and said anything dumb. But I come up empty and let her have her way.

  She releases me and strokes my shoulders.

  “You have no idea . . .”

  She’s happy, I think, under all that wet.

  I point back over my shoulder with my thumb. “Naomi’s set, and we’re late, so I need to go.”

  She wipes her eyes with her apron. “Yes, you do. You’ll write?”

  “I don’t write well.”

  “You’ll write,” she says.

  “Nah.” I smile and wink. “You have my car. I’ll be back.”

  The taxi ride to the airport is quiet. That’s fine by me. My mind is full of words I’ll say, sentences I’ve squashed for years—Old Bill might not listen, but he’ll hear. I glance down at the duffel bag and rest my hand on the binders packed inside.

  Our flight is just as silent. Naomi takes my hand. She keeps holding it as my tensing claw pinches and squeezes her fingers. It’s not until wheels strike runway that my grip eases, and I pull away my sweaty palm.

  I grab my duffel, exit the plane, and wander around the gate. The whole thing feels like a dream. The Fasts, Penners, Watkinses, Grandma—fake people from an overactive imagination. Naomi takes my hand and steers me down the concourse.

  “We can do this,” she says, and her voice lowers. “Together.”

  “Together.” I nod. It’s not as if I’m confronting Old Bill, I’m just saying what’s true. Dad deserves that much. I do, too.

  “Where ya headin,’ kid?”

  We’ve walked past baggage claim, through the rent-a-car area, and onto the street.

  I shake Old Bill thoughts from my head and find the voice. Comes from a short man who leans over the door of a taxi.

  “Pierce,” I say, and raise eyebrows toward Nae. She smiles and nods.

  I face taximan. His expression is blank.

  “Close to Mitrista.”

  “You’re kiddin’. That’s a haul and a half.”

  “Forget it, I’ll go rent a—”

  “No, no, no.” He walks toward me and reaches for my tapes.

  My free hand shoots out and catches his wrist. I stare at my hand. Never done anything like that before.

  “Duffel stays with me.” I let him go, and he raises both hands in the air.

  “Easy now. Trying to help, is all.” He motions us toward the car, turns, and mutters, “Kids wound too tight these days.”

  We follow him and slip in back.

  “Mitrista, huh? You got money for this?”

  I nod.

  He rolls his eyes and shoots me a you-better-be-telling-the-truth look in the rearview mirror. “What the heck.”

  chapter forty-seven

  TWO HOURS PASS TOO QUICKLY, AND AS WE TURN in to Bill’s turnaround, my chest is tight and my throat raw.

  Mom said to stay away. Maybe I should have listened.

  I pay the fare and step out, my duffel filled with Dad’s tapes clutched to my chest. One step. Then two more. I whip around and stare at the cab. From inside, the driver shoos me on like a fly, and I turn and take a deep breath.

  “Do you want to do this?” Naomi softly walks up from behind.

  “No.”

  I scan the porch. The swing I busted sits in a heap, and there’s a fresh hole in the screen.

  “Yeah. I need to see him.”

  We walk up the steps. I glance at Naomi. She nods and I knock. Inside, footsteps come nearer. Soft ones.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  She throws open the screen and hugs me. It’s not the usual air hug. It’s real and long and feels like love.

  “You’re safe . . . and here.” She lets go and strokes my cheek with her hand. “And Naomi.”

  “Hello.”

  “How do you two know each other?” I ask.

  Nae leans in to my shoulder. “I dropped off a jacket for you.”

  I grin, and remember Mom holding it in front of her face. “Where’s Old Bill?”

  “He hasn’t been here for a couple days.” Mom puts her arm around my waist and tugs. “Come in. I want to hear all about it.”

  We enter a mess. A door hangs cocked on its hinges. Lights have no shades.

  “I’m sorry about the place, Naomi,” Mom says. “Bill had a rough weekend.” Mom sits down and gestures at the table. I shake my head. I can’t stand it here. Can’t stand the thought of Mom here.

  “He’s a liar, Mom. Everything he told me about Dad. All lies.”

  Mom looks at me, her chin quivering. She nods, mouths the words I know.

  My stomach turns, and my shoulder jerks hard.
Naomi rubs that angry shoulder.

  “She had to keep quiet.” She turns to Mom. “Is that right?”

  Mom closes her eyes. “It was wrong. But if you would have challenged Bill on that, I didn’t know what he’d do.”

  “He’d have thrown your twitchy butt out of the house a lot sooner, that’s what.”

  The front door crashes, and Old Bill storms in. He walks straight toward me and stops nose to nose.

  He doesn’t look right. He’s in a daze, a staring spell.

  “Hi, Bill,” I say.

  His eyes widen, and then narrow. The spell breaks.

  “Lookee here.” He whispers.

  Old Bill looks old, which is weird since it hasn’t been two weeks since I’ve seen him. But his eyes focus clear and sharp. He glares with his hard face, the one that used to push my gaze to the ground. I’ve no urge to do anything but keep staring myself.

  Maybe he’s always been this old.

  He speaks, and the words are low and controlled and terrible. “What are you staring at, boy?”

  “I’m not your boy.”

  Old Bill squints, glances around the room, and his face calms. He steps into the kitchen. “Women here and all. Finish your visit and get out.” He opens the refrigerator and starts a search.

  Mom and Naomi both peek at me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Naomi steps nearer, takes my hand, and squeezes.

  “You lied, Bill,” I say, and Mom stands up, walks into the bedroom. Old Bill closes the fridge door and turns.

  “Maybe once or twice.” He talks to me, but stares at Naomi—an up-and-down stare. “About what?”

  “My dad. James Keegan.”

  The sick smirk falls from his red face. He opens and closes his fist, finally using it to grip the counter. “So you believe that dead Coot.”

  “My grandfather,” says Naomi.

  Old Bill tongues the inside of his cheek and shakes his head. “No way such a pretty little thing comes from a worthless nut.”

  I want him dead. I don’t care if he’s my stepdad, if he married my mother. His words make me sick.

  I swallow hard and step forward. “Yep. I believe him. And the Fasts, and the Penners, and Grandma.” My legs tremble, and I pull out a kitchen chair and plunk down. “Pretty much everyone but you, Old Bill.”

  “Get out, Sam.”

  “Jack. The name is Jack Keegan. My father was James Keegan. My grandma is Francine Keegan.” I push up from the table.

  “Get out!” he roars.

  “My father built windmills. He was smart, he was kind, he was strong.”

  “Out!”

  “He died getting medicine for me. No women, no booze. All lies. Old Bill, you’re all lies. And that ends now.”

  Old Bill walks toward me. I brace my body against the table.

  Naomi moves in front of me and lays her head against my pounding chest.

  “Move, girl. Move!”

  “Together,” she whispers.

  “I’m leaving, Bill,” I say. “Just had to set things straight.” I wrap my arm around Naomi. “My dad loved me, and he loved Mom. You didn’t do either one.”

  Old Bill stares at Naomi, curses, and kicks the chair I’d been on, breaking a leg in two.

  “I want every Keegan out of this house. Now!”

  “Okay, Bill.” Mom reappears from the back room, Lane in her arms. “You can have your way. I’m going. We’re going.”

  Mom walks by me, holding Lane close to her chest.

  “Lydia! What are you doin’?” Panic covers his face, and he starts to pace. He’ll blow any moment, and I whip Naomi out of the house behind my mother.

  The door rattles shut behind me, and we hurry down the steps. Inside, glass shatters, and Old Bill crashes outside.

  “Lane’s my boy! You ain’t taking him nowhere.” He bounds down the steps as a pickup rumbles into our turnaround. Out steps Farkel, big and imposing, a two-by-four in his hands. He leans over the cab door. Old Bill freezes.

  “Got here soon as I could, Lydia. All okay?” He smiles at me. “Welcome home, Jack.”

  “Thanks.” I help Mom, Naomi, and Lane into the cab of Farkel’s truck and set all our stuff in back.

  “Got room for two more, Jack? Just for a while?” Mom asks as if she really doesn’t know what I’ll say.

  “Plenty.” I smile, shut the door, and hop in the truckbed. Four cats scatter.

  Farkel backs into the driver’s seat, and we pull out. I look back at Old Bill. He stares at me. His big arms, the ones that gave me a Tar-Boy jacket and carried me off Stacy Lake, hang limp at his sides. Strange that I’m not angry, that one minute after he almost clocked me, all I remember is good stuff. I raise my hand. He cocks his head like a man who just lost his world.

  “Good-bye, Bill.”

  chapter forty-eight

  NAOMI AND I HELP MOVE MOM AND LANE INTO THE upstairs of George’s old farmhouse. I give her some of the pictures stuffed beneath my couch, and that makes her smile. But little else does, and she walks around the farm in a daze.

  “I think just let her alone.” Naomi and I walk toward my windmill. We watch the blades spin. She puts her arms around my waist and squeezes. “I need to see my mom.” I nod and walk her to the shed, where her car still rests.

  “Together, right?” I ask.

  She’s quiet. Naomi starts to speak, stops, and smiles. My shoulder jerks, but who cares.

  “I’m glad I met you,” she says.

  “Me, too.”

  Naomi traces her finger down the front of my T-shirt. She reaches behind my neck and pulls my head close. She holds it there, my mouth next to her ear, as if she expects me to say something to her, but I don’t, and she lets my head go.

  Inside, I ache. Our trip was fantasy. Whatever she said or did is gone. Maybe if we hopped back into her car and drove away, we’d be together again. But we’re here, in Pierce—with Jace and Heather and Mom and a real baby I named Jess. It’s all real and hard and I might not hear from her again.

  “I need to go.” She gives me a kiss on the cheek and hops into her car. I back away and she pulls out, makes it halfway down my drive, and stops.

  I stare at the car, at her inside it. Motionless.

  “Am I supposed to follow you?” I whisper.

  A minute passes, and the car doesn’t budge. Inside my heart swells. I take a step toward it, and the engine roars. Naomi peels out of the driveway.

  I stand and watch and stroke the spot on my cheek.

  Weeks fill with revisiting customers and setting up my new business: Jack and George’s Gardens. I don’t know much about gardening, but I love my new truck and I can slam flowers. A bunch of George’s customers want to stick with me, and that’s good.

  I make frequent trips to the Garden Bowl, and each time I stop and see Farkel.

  “How’s Naomi getting along?”

  I take a sip of coffee, set down my cup, and shake my head.

  “Ain’t that the shame?” Farkel leans back and folds his arms. A cat jumps onto his lap, and he gives it a stroke. “Didn’t work out?”

  “Worked.” I drain my drink and scald my tongue. “Don’t know what to do.”

  Farkel stands. I do, too.

  “Hear people make phone calls.” He walks me toward the door. “Some even visit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Speakin’ of which, you should bring Lydia next time.” Farkel steps outside. “She’s never seen this garden.”

  I frown.

  “George and you and them men when he died. That’s all I let in. Orders. ’Course now, you being the boss, things might be different.” He winks, and wraps his big arm around my shoulder.

  That night after Lane is asleep Mom and I sit down to write letters. Though I peck badly at the keyboard, I manage to fill up three pages each to Grandma, the Fasts, and the Penners. Mom handwrites novels, but she’s making up for lots of years.

  Mom stares at the letters on the table, her eyes glistening. “I
t’s been so long.”

  I walk over, give her a hug, and mention Farkel’s invitation. She perks up, and on Saturday she gets a sitter for Lane and we set out together. I pull up in front of Farkel’s barn.

  “Would you mind if I went in alone?” Mom asks.

  “Whatever you want.”

  I get out of the truck, hand her the truck keys, and pause. “Here.” I dig in my pocket. “Here’s another one.” I hand her Dad’s key. “Don’t know but you might find use for that, too.”

  She kisses my cheek, and hops inside the truck. I watch her drive away until she vanishes out the far end of the barn.

  Evening comes. I help Farkel fix his pasture fence.

  “Think I should go after her?”

  “She’s a grown woman,” Farkel says.“Worry about yourself.” He hands me the hammer, but I see headlamps and set my tools down. Mom putters out of the barn.

  She drives over to us.

  “You ready to go home, Jack?”

  “Yeah.”

  I reach the driver’s door.

  “Let me drive,” Mom says.

  I don’t know if she used Dad’s key. Doesn’t seem right to ask. I walk around, say my good-byes to Farkel, and hop in.

  “Good day?” I ask.

  Mom nods and pulls forward. “It is a beautiful evening.”

  She swerves, narrowly misses a cat, and pulls onto the road to Pierce. Mom starts to hum—I’ve never heard that before. I don’t know the song, but it’s pretty. I lean my head against the window. It’s almost a perfect night.

  I get up early and slip on my running shoes. Been out of my routine for too long. I step out into morning cool, and shuffle toward the shed.

  I lean against it and stretch. The metal door hangs partway open and it’s dark inside, but I make out the outline of a bulldozer with Sam’s headstone painted on the blade.

  Miles later, I’m in my running trance. No one else exists. Then someone does.

  Another jogger runs behind me, and then beside me. I’m afraid to look in case it’s not who I pray it is.

  “You haven’t called.”