A car horn blared, jerking Gerry in his seat. Beside him was a bored looking soccer mom behind the wheel of a minivan tapping her finger on the steering wheel. A tall man, wearing a t-shirt and shorts, leaned toward the passenger window of Gerry’s car, an air hose waggling like a skinny orange snake in his hand.
“I need some air, man. Can you move?” The man lifted the air hose again.
Gerry engaged the shifter and gunned the idling engine away from the pump, shooting forward a few feet before he regained control. He ran a sleeve across his damp brow and stared at the streak as if it were blood. He took a long swallow from his water bottle and turned on the air conditioner, directing the blast at his face. He pulled out of the gas station and into traffic.
As he approached downtown Fernly, he felt himself grow small, shrinking in the seat as if intimidated by the old haunts. He drove slowly, tentatively as memories jumped out at him, fragments of events attached to some building or park.
Faces of friends and enemies appeared in his mind, fading in and out.
Ten years ago, he’d brought Helen and Joni to town for his mom’s funeral. Besides his family, he’d also spent some time with his old buddy, Michael Rousseau. A few other guys weren’t pleased to see him back in town, but he shrugged it off, distracted by his family.
But seeing Nick now, in a shocking introduction to Fernly, dredged up everything, throwing it all in Gerry’s face like ice water. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time was his only crime. Nick knew it. Anything else was a lie.
A lie best stayed buried.
His knuckles turned white on the wheel.
He knew with an odd certainty this would be his very last visit and tried to push away a gathering dark mood. Some people from his past must have moved on, as he had. It was a long time ago since he’d sold his possessions, stuffed a backpack, and fled Fernly, vowing never to return. He could still recall the great wave of relief washing over him as he departed, looking out the rear window of the car he'd hitched a ride in. Not quite sure he’d cheated the hangman, yet feeling his troubles flowing like water under a distant bridge.
His first stop along the way of his new life was the outskirts of Timmins—way up in northern Ontario, the boonies. Sitting in a rented room above a rowdy bar, staring out a window across the miles, south toward Fernly. Reality sunk in with a flood of tears. Afraid to go back, terrified of an unfamiliar tomorrow, Gerry weighed his decision carefully—better he disappear forever. He’d faced the new day with a determination so strong it kept him far and away for over twenty years.
He turned onto King Street where memories abounded; its cafés and hotels and parks used to pulse with a life all its own, beating out a nightly rhythm of music, muscle cars, and fat rumbling motorbikes. King was a long street where people strolled and tough guys swaggered its length like schools of colored fish; dropouts, drunks, steel workers, drug dealers, shoeshine boys, some leftover hippies, delinquents, and hard women. Jukeboxes blared rock and roll out to the sidewalks.
It either made you or broke you. If you didn’t want to feel its heartbeat, its grit, you stayed home, watched TV, or cruised past, rubbernecking from your car.
Now, King Street appeared a dried husk, as though a giant spider had sucked its life fluids. Low slung buildings were shells of better days; most boarded up. Other storefront windows were painted up in garish flowers, poor attempts at hiding the bleakness. Most had changed occupancies leaving no trace of the former businesses.
The Pizza Shack, the Chiniuk brothers’ old haunt, looked like some sort of Labor Pool Center to deal with the growing numbers of unemployed. A bit further on, across the tracks used to be three poolrooms, once dens of iniquity. Where did the riffraff hang out now?
He slowed as he passed the Destiny Café. A former hot spot of activity, its gray stucco faded to a bleached white and the windows painted over, gave it a dead appearance. The name of the café was synonymous with Gerry meeting Nick here. Destiny. Who would have thought? Gerry wondered where the stocky, bald man Cutter ended up. Cutter had a bad limp, a permanent reminder of six hard years in Millhaven for knifing a man. Cutter was known for his hair-trigger temper. He cooked, cleaned, served, and occasionally threw plates at customers. He’d drop your plate of fries on the table, blue jailhouse tattoos crawling up his arms while eyeing you suspiciously before he scooped the cash off the table with fingers permanently etched with L-O-V-E and H-A-T-E on alternate hands. The waiter from hell. Probably the one guy Nick was afraid of.
Gerry crossed the river, noticing a few boys standing at the bridge railing, fishing rods over the side. He smiled at the sight, oddly reassured there were boys around who still could lead a simple life away from video games and television. The steel-girded bridge was rusting badly in need of a sandblasting and paint.
Through the eyes of a boy, Gerry recollected his best times; carefree days of playgrounds and dusty ballparks. As a teen, they evolved into hangouts, dangerous places patrolled by addicts, thieves, and drug dealers that preyed on the naive and timid.
He passed empty lots with tall grass and shrubs gone wild. Once brightly colored swings rusted away in the damp air. An old man in a black coat stood looking forlornly out over the river, his cane planted firmly in the tall grass. Black squirrels bounded across the park.
Many Ontario towns had streets named King, Main, and Broadway, cutting through their downtowns. He wondered how many of them had dried up and died from catching Walmart-itis.
Gerry wheeled the rental Chevy onto Gravel Street and slowly headed for his boyhood home. The street glistened from the faint rain. Gerry pulled into the asphalt driveway and cut the engine in front of the single car garage. He got out and stretched, eyeing the strangely quiet neighborhood in spite of all the cars parked on the street. The air smelled of leaves and damp soil.
Up ahead, he spotted his father’s stucco bungalow, unchanged for many years until lately due to needed renos; a wheelchair ramp and a new and wider veranda, its fresh white wood glared in the gray afternoon. The front door was enlarged to accommodate a wheelchair.
No people were out and about. He glanced at his watch and realized it was dinnertime, neighbors inside eating. The houses were much the same size, mostly narrow two-stories, built by different outfits at different times—mishmashes of stucco, siding, brick, and wood lath, with the only common trait being front verandas, some screened, where their occupants enjoyed warm evenings. The large chestnut trees across the street were gone, replanted with a high gnarled hedge.
Next door where mean Mr. Vargas used to live, bicycles and toys were strewn across a recently sodded over garden. Obviously, much younger people lived there now, with children. Mr. Vargas would be turning in his grave at that. Natural neighborhood renewal.
He hesitated at the back door, drawing in a deep breath, preparing for the worst regarding his father. Turning the doorknob, he was a bit surprised to find the door open and stepped inside the small foyer. As he reached to open the closet to hang up his jacket he froze. A weird sensation ran through him as though he was being watched. “Anyone home? Dad?”
Muffled sounds from the kitchen made him turn his head.
“Surprise!” A chorus of voices erupted.
Cameras flashed. A mob of well-wishers rushed him. The theme from Superman played, and he was pulled into a kitchen full of people all talking at once.
Irene squeezed through and gave him a hug. “Welcome home, big brother!”
“Well, if it ain’t my long-lost sister.” Gerry returned the hug and backed away to look her over.
Blue eyeliner matched her blouse. Her dark hair was cut short with bangs and gold rings hung from her ears.
Someone shoved a long neck beer bottle into his hand. His sister pulled him along to meet neighbors and friends and relatives. Gerry felt a tap on his shoulder and shook hands with Irene’s husband, Jack. The man lost much of his hair since Gerry had last seen him. Everyone took turns shaking his hand, patting him on the back. It had been some time he’d seen his cousins, nieces, and nephews, uncles and aunts.
Michael, his old buddy, stepped from the crowd, grinned and shook his hand with a strong clasp. “Man, it is good to see you, Gee,” he said in his gravelly voice.
Gee. A name Gerry hadn’t been called since his mother’s funeral years ago.
“You are lookin’ good, too, in your old age,” said Michael, his large, brown eyes glancing over Gerry’s frame. “Must be working out, eh?”
“Yeah, a bit. I feel great.”
Michael, always glib and presentable, and now in his forties showed little wear and tear. His marriage hadn’t worked out and the experience left him with a bad taste and a pledge to remain a bachelor. His rugged features and kind smile charmed many women. He wore a blue blazer with a white polo shirt and jeans, always a notch or two above other guys even when it came to dressing casually. Michael was a chameleon, mingling comfortably to whatever event or social class. Only his hands gave him away as a tradesman, nicked and scratched from wire, wood, and tools. His parents were part of the large community of Francophones that moved to Fernly in the ’60s.
Gerry took in his friend’s short, mousy blonde hair and the gray strands running through his trim moustache under a slightly crooked nose. His large brown eyes didn’t have the constant flitting as if on alert. He was shorter but heavier than Gerry with a lower center of gravity that served him well in fights.
Jack began singing along with Tom Jones and everyone joined in singing, “…the green green grass of home. Yes, they’ve all come to meet me...”
Yeah, the green, green grass of home. The dread he’d felt during his drive through town quickly melted away. He could take a flame-thrower to the rest of this town, but in this house were good people. Maybe his memories as a teenager were too harsh. As a boy, he did have almost limitless freedom to roam the town as he pleased. He couldn’t see his dad anywhere in the crowded kitchen and became concerned. His parents kept him on a long leash, for the most part, rarely having to haul it in. He suspected his father knew somewhat of the bad company he occasionally kept. But since no cops came to the door and he still hung with Michael, whom his father really liked, Gerry was able to keep up his flirting with the dark side. His dad could never understand why he blew town in such a hurry, completely distressing his mother for the longest time. Father and son never spoke for years. At the funeral, his dad tried to squeeze it out of him, but Gerry clammed up tight—he couldn’t tell a soul. His excuse was some troubles he had no way to control.
The music faded and the crowd parted around a table with a large rectangular cake and a centerpiece decorated with pinecones and fat red candles. Four sparklers on the cake danced above the blue icing script.
!Welcome Home!
“Last cake I got, I never had a chance to eat,” said Gerry, his mind reaching back to Vancouver and Linda. He thought of calling her but immediately banished the thought. He hadn’t talked to her in almost two days, smashing the previous record of maybe ten hours. A relief, he mused, smiling inside.
This trip could really do the trick, take his mind off things. The unfamiliar faces in the room belonged to his fathers’ neighbors who’d helped Arthur out by looking after the place; cutting grass and bringing in mail. After Irene introduced them, he was asked to autograph his picture, the one that graced the morning edition of the Fernly Post.
FORMER FERNLY CITIZEN RECEIVES HIGHEST AWARD
“Hey, Irene, where’s Dad?” asked Gerry, walking slowly through the house, noticing the widened doorways made to accommodate a wheelchair.
“He’ll be home soon. We took him in to the General for a check-up and a few tests. Randy Yakov—you remember Randy? From over by the old Tastee-Freeze? He’s working the ER until seven. Randy is the only doctor Dad seems to get along with.” She lifted her shoulders in mild exasperation. “Randy does what he can, when he can.”
“You’ve done good here, Irene,” said Gerry. “Fixing things up for him real quick.” He opened a door to where the dining room used to be. Arthur’s new bedroom had an institutional bed set low to the floor with some grip bars to assist him up and out of the bed.
“What’s he think of that?”
Irene brushed her short brown hair back behind one ear and sighed, looking up at her brother. “He has no choice. But yeah, he’s getting there. He hasn’t quite come to terms with his condition. Thinks he’s going to be out hopping around in the yard pruning the roses tomorrow.” She closed Arthur’s widened door and glanced at her watch. “When he gets here you should go out and greet him. He’d like a surprise like that.”
Gerry nodded. “Alright, I won’t let him hop around, either.”
She chuckled. “And…he’d also like you to do this,” she said, and produced a folded leaf of paper from her jeans, handing it to him.
“Paint the trim on the house,” read Gerry, “stain veranda, fix shingles. Sounds like spring fixer-uppers.”
“You’ll have enough time?” she asked, her brow raised.
“Plane leaves Monday. Shouldn’t be a problem.” He re-folded the list and stuffed it in his pocket.
Tightness drained from her features. “Great. Jack has been doing what he can, but his dad’s not well, either. Michael’s been pitching in, too. He rounded up all the right guys to do the handicap renos, you know, the ramp and widen the doors.”
Michael heard his name and sidled over. “My ears are burning,” he said, taking the nearly empty bottle from Gerry and handing him another.
“Merci, M’sieur Rousseau.”
They clinked bottles.
“Business doing okay, Michael?” asked Gerry, hoping he wouldn’t go into a long-winded description of his business.
“Oh yeah, got a few guys working for me now; Erie Electrical. But I did something entirely different in town in the last year.”
“Such as?”
“I joined the Fernly Auxiliary Fire Department,” Michael said, unmistakable pride in his voice.
“Really? That’s great. So, are you a real firefighter or just like to be in the parade and impress the ladies?”
Michael studied the air for a moment, then said, “Both.”
They laughed and clinked their bottles together again.
“Actually,” said Michael, “I was over at the fire hall taking CPR and a first aid course. Had a guy crash on me at a job site a few years back. It bothered me I couldn’t do anything. I hung around the scene after, talking to the fire boys. Next day I signed up.”
“I give you credit,” said Gerry, raising his bottle. “It’s a job I wouldn’t be doing for free.”
“He’s here!” called a voice from the front room.
Irene looked at Gerry and cocked her head toward the door. He set his bottle on the kitchen counter and stepped around people who shuffled toward the window. His heart beat hard inside his chest. Nervous beads of perspiration immediately surfaced on his upper lip. This was the moment he dreaded…
“It’ll be okay. Come on.” Irene gently grasped his shoulder, noting her brother’s hesitancy.
He didn’t miss the comfort in her tone. He set his bottle on the kitchen counter and slowly stepped around guests who rushed to get a good view of the reunion. He wished them gone. The last thing he needed right now was an audience.
Gerry hurried down the driveway to the blue and white window van parked at the head of the driveway. A short, white clad Filipino man with a pencil-thin moustache moved around inside, readying the lift. He opened the door when he saw Gerry and told him to wait beside the lift. The driver blocked his father from view. Once the driver unhooked the wheelchair, he stepped out of the way and looked at Gerry.
“I can get it from here,” said Gerry. “Thanks.”
What Gerry saw shocked him.
If he’d passed the man on the street, he didn’t think he’d recognize him. Arthur slumped in the wheelchair, his arms lying listlessly on his lap, wearing a blue plaid shirt too heavy for the season and far too big as if he were a stick of celery tossed into a lawn bag. Arthur’s head tilted to one side. One side of his face looked to have slid down slightly. He looked exhausted, half asleep, as though someone let the air out of him.
The skin of his long face hung in folds below cheeks scribbled with tiny blue and red veins. At the age of sixty-seven, the once strong steelworker looked like many of the elderly Gerry dealt with at med calls. He’d always thought his old man would outlast them all. Up until now, he’d done quite well. Many of Arthur’s friends succumbed to varying ailments years before. Arthur’s hair hadn’t grayed much more than the last time they’d been together, still having some brown scattered here and there, but it lay limply across his scalp in need of combing.
As if awakened from a nap, Arthur’s faded blue-gray eyes cleared and brightened noticeably when he spotted his only son. He slurred something sounding like a greeting and attempted a smile through his gray, whisker-stubbled face.
Gerry didn’t miss the joy they held seeing him. He leaned toward his dad and grasped both his hands, then dropped to one knee before moving in close to give him a half-hug. Feeling his father’s slight hand squeeze, Gerry choked back the emotion that threatened to surface.
“Hey, Dad. I’ve missed you,” he said, feeling tears pool in his eyes.
“Doan you te me I ’ook good,” scolded Arthur, sounding as though his tongue was stuck to his lower palate.
It took a moment for Gerry to decipher it, and when he did, he chuckled. At least the old man hadn’t lost his sense of humor. The driver stirred at the front of the vehicle and a lift motor whirred. Gerry got to his feet, moving behind the wheelchair. He tried to push it, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Take off the floor latch. The chair is motorized,” said the driver, waiting.
Gerry unhooked the latch and pulled the wheelchair onto the lift. He stepped down onto the driveway as the motorized lift descended. He followed his father out and around as he rolled up the veranda ramp where his sister waited, holding open the front door. He had an idea in his head the wheelchair would need pushing and he felt helpless as his father entered the kitchen to a chorus of cheers. His good right hand fumbled for the joystick on the armrest.
He spun around to face his son and stopped. He moved his head a few times to the right in a jerky beckoning motion. Gerry leaned over the chair.
“Good paheey, eh kid?” said Arthur.
“Yeah, it is, a good party, thanks, Dad.”
Arthur made the rounds to all the relatives with Gerry. He noticed his father couldn’t control the jerky motions his head made when he turned right or left. A neighbor handed Arthur a slice of cake on a plate. Arthur pecked at it with his good hand.
After a short time, Arthur looked up at his son. “I tie ed. Goda scheep.”
Gerry nodded and followed the chair into the new bedroom. Irene trailed behind. Gerry helped Arthur to his feet, surprised to find the old man’s legs had more strength than he’d thought. At least he wasn’t completely helpless. Once sitting on the edge of the bed, Arthur grabbed a support bar and flopped back onto the pillow. Gerry stared at a picture of his mother and suddenly wished she was here. She was a very happy woman, almost bubbly, and a great cook. He felt bad having to leave her so abruptly with no explanation.
“Tawk ayar,” said Arthur. He lifted his good arm in a brief dismissal. “Go haff fum. You pahty.” His eyes moved to Irene standing by the door. “Geh him drink.”
Gerry squeezed his hand and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Irene sighed. “Dr. Reece will call me tomorrow. I’ll tell him you’ll call him back, okay? You’ll have a better idea of what’s going on. Dad’s a bit hard to understand, but you’ll catch on.”
Gerry mingled and showed everyone pictures of his daughter, thankfully, one of Joni without much black goth makeup. He sat at the kitchen table talking to a neighbor when an article in the Fernly Post at his elbow caught his eye.
INVESTIGATION INTO ARSON DEATH CONTINUES.
“Hey, Michael,” called Gerry. “What’s this all about?”
Michael leaned over and glanced at the article. “Yeah, about three, four months ago. Brian Tremblay got fried one night.”
“The Brian Tremblay? Our friend, in the frat?” Gerry recalled how close Nick Modano and Brian were, although Gerry never got along with Brian.
Michael’s face tightened. “Not really, mon ami. But yeah, not many left in that group after the big accident. Ironically, Jack used to brag about his loaded Classic Chevy, notably its cool power windows.
Gerry knew of it. Six years ago, on a cold February night, a car with Ricky, Bill, Archie, Jack, and Lester, coming home after a party, hit a bridge guard rail at warp speed, flipped, and crashed through the ice into the river. The water immediately shorted out the vehicle’s electrical system, drowning them all. The five never had grown up, treating life as one eternal party. The short-lived AXE frat only had about ten members at its peak.
“So, there’s you and Nick and…I really can’t remember.”
Michael studied the air. “Donnie Weathers was killed in a construction accident. A swinging girder bopped him one on the head. Remember Z-Man, Zeke Hillman? He got some kind of weird disease. Been a few years gone already.” He snapped his fingers. “Yeah…Jean Beauchamp. He died in a car wreck over in Montreal.”
Gerry looked in his old friend’s eyes for a long moment. “Seems Alpha Chi Epsilon had some bad luck.”
Michael let out a snort. “Bad luck? More like a curse, or snake bit. Those guys were misfits. Always would be. Lucky I didn’t sign up. Of all those guys, you were the only one turned out decent.”
Gerry nodded solemnly. “I ran into Nick today. He doesn’t look all that healthy.”
Michael raised his brow in interest. “So soon? Nick…all those drugs, all these years; a guy's bound to look like death warmed over. He got busted about eight years ago in a meth lab with some others. Turned in a few guys to save his skinny ass. A lot of guys would like to have five minutes of his personal time—on both sides of the border.”
“Is that how he affords the gas for his Mustang?”
Michael shrugged. “His rich daddy, too. Gives him a few grand a month. Imagine being his age and still getting an allowance.”
“So, his daddy finally coughed up a few bucks, eh?”
“Hah!” Michael glanced around surreptitiously and took a seat at the kitchen table across from his friend. “Remember how he used to get us to do stuff, like steal money from milk bottles on people’s porches in the morning? Or waiting in the car while he beat the shit out of a guy, then took his wallet?”
“Yeah. For some bogus debt.” Gerry rolled his eyes. “And I thought he was just going to say hello to the guy.” Gerry shook his head thinking how he was so often played the fool.
Nick knew where many people kept their newspaper money for the paperboy and had a knack locating spare keys hidden outside of many houses. Gerry sat in a few living rooms of strangers drinking a beer out of their fridge. Nick always had a few things to fence and never tried to hide the fact. Whatever you wanted he’d get. Car stereos and auto parts were popular items. Nick liked to talk about supply and demand like some kind of economist.
“The whole time he was getting big bucks from his dad,” said Michael, a look of disgust twisting his face. He leaned back against the chair, waiting for the news to sink in. “Hence the Mustang.”
Gerry shook his head. “Always was a manipulative son of a bitch.” He glanced around the room. “You know, Michael, when I left this town, I felt so good. I turned out a light in an old moldy basement.” Or a prison cell, he thought.
“I been thinking a lot of what’s going on around here lately, Gee. I think someone’s trying to find that light switch.”
“What do you mean?”
Michael drew in a long, deep breath. “I’ve been hearing about the trouble you’re having at work on the coast. Guys at the station monitor national fire investigations on the Internet. Since your face hit the papers, our fire marshal keeps in touch with your investigators. Figures you’re being stalked or something. Then with Tremblay dying here…” He looked away for a brief moment.
Gerry caught the gesture as he would a flashing red beacon. He’d known the man too long for it to pass. Michael was always one to meet your gaze.
“Something bothering you?” asked Gerry, leaning close to him.
Michael’s eyes met his in a deadpan gaze. “Things are getting weird. I don’t know,” he said, his mood changing. “There’s some talk going around. It’s making me wonder.” He set his bottle on the table and got to his feet. “I ain’t going to talk about it here.” He glanced around the room. “I think I better leave. Enjoy your family.”
Gerry was baffled as his friend crossed the room to say goodbye to Irene. He glanced at Gerry briefly before he went out. Since arriving, an occasional finger from a relative or friend would point his way, and Gerry would acknowledge the gesture with a nod or smile. Now, the gestures oddly seemed more like darts.
Irene walked over to Gerry who began building a sandwich from the assortment of meats and cheeses on a silver tray.
“Who chose the Tom Jones tune?” asked Gerry.
“Not sure, why?”
“Did you know it’s about a dead guy in the afterlife? He dies and sees everyone who died before him.”
She shrugged. “Your old buddy left in a kind of kind hurry,” she said, her brow raised expectantly.
“Something’s bugging him, I guess. Maybe he’s still dealing with his obese ex-wife,” he said with a weak laugh.
Irene slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s talk to some of your long-lost relatives before they leave,” she said.
As guests slowly filtered out, they shook Gerry’s hand on departing. He gravitated to sit at the table working on another beer, talking with Irene. Her husband had already left with their two kids.
She glanced at her watch. “Looks like Dad’s going to sleep through the night. He was pretty beat. Physio is tough on him. He gets tired real easy so if you got anything planned take it into consideration.”
“Yeah, I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“Someone is looking forward to you coming home—I think. He’s phoning the house and hanging up. All he says is your name, then hangs up.”
Gerry shrugged. “Like they say, ‘if it’s important, they’ll call back’. Can’t call me ‘cause I left my cell at home. No one to call here.”
“By the way, anyone mention West Gate High’s reunion on Friday night?” she asked.
“Cousin Laura did. I’ve never been to one. You?”
“I went to Jack’s. You go around reading nametags most of the night because people have changed so much. Amazingly, some have barely changed. One girl in my class still wore braces. That was weird.
“She must have had really bad teeth, he said, with a smile.”
She pointed at herself. “I made some good friends in high school.” She crossed her legs and poured herself more Chablis.
Gerry looked at her for a long moment, noting how she bore a stronger resemblance to their mother as the years passed, especially the light brown eyes. Her frame was still solid and stocky.
“Yeah, well, some see high school as their defining moments in life. Not me. I only spent three years at that school and my memories are of selfish idiots, bullies, fighting, a creativity-crushing miasma, and then there were the teachers.”
“I liked all my teachers. So, what was your ‘defining’ moment?”
Gerry shrugged and took a deep swallow of beer, watching his Uncle Sam put an empty beer bottle into a case on the floor. He gave Gerry a wave and a smile and left.
“Not really one thing. Living alone and far away. Mostly by my wits. Hitching across Canada. Working with men, being accepted in a man’s world.”
“Well, you should go…for the experience. Might be a hoot. You can finally tell some of those teachers they were assholes. Believe it or not, there’s still a couple of them around. I’ll drop off a yearbook. Michael’s going, too.” She lit a cigarette and puffed out a white cloud to the ceiling and leaned forward. “So, what is with Michael?”
Gerry looked away. “I’m not sure. I think it’s about Nick Modano and Brian Tremblay.”
“Oh yeah. That purple frat thing, right?”
Gerry nodded. “If you want to call it that.” He started to pick at the label on the bottle.
Irene laughed. “Oh my, you guys thought you were so tough.”
Gerry smiled and took a pull on his beer. “Yeah. I think everyone did back then.”
“Gee, I know you did some stuff with Nick—”
“That’s just what it was—stuff,” he snapped, his eyes flashed, making her shrink back against her chair. He was immediately sorry. “Just boys goofing off.”
But he knew that she knew there was more. Much more. Oddly, she never did pressure him on the truth, and it left her with a suspicious light in her eyes.
She sneaked outside that fateful night, behind the garage to puff on a cigarette, nearly tripping over him. He huddled and shivered against the back wall, knees drawn up to his chest, his body rocking slowly, in some kind of catatonic state, she’d said, and sobbing. She’d hadn’t said a word, just finished her smoke and helped him into the house to his room.
“All right, Gee, if you don’t want to talk about it, it’s okay.” Irene sighed and noticed his shoulders drop slightly. She brought him back to the present. “But it’s all like baseball.”
“What is?” He thought about her years playing semi-pro woman’s softball.
“Life,” she replied, her upper body sitting up straighter. “What you screw up in the early innings can come back in the seventh and bite you in the ass.”