THE FIRST thing Truman noticed was the smell of cigarette smoke wafting in through the kitchen screens. Patsy hadn’t smoked in years, so long ago Truman could barely imagine her with a cigarette, so he wondered who might be out on the back porch. He could hear the little Bluetooth speaker he’d gotten for Patsy last Christmas, playing her favorite Pandora station—Al Green. Right now “Oh Girl” was playing, by the Chi-Lites. If it weren’t for Pandora, Truman was sure he would have never heard of the band or the song. But he had to admit he liked it, and it didn’t sound dated at all.
The second thing he noticed was his dog, Odd Thomas, gingerly hopping down from the couch to greet him. Odd was getting up in years—he’d be eleven his next birthday in December—and the dachshund/bulldog mix was showing it. There was a stiffness about his movements that didn’t used to be there, and lately, all he seemed to do was sleep.
But still, him making the effort to come and greet Truman at the door brought a big smile to Truman’s lips. He went down into a squat as Odd neared, stump of a tail wagging, snorting and grunting. People had actually had the nerve to tell Truman that Odd Thomas was one of the ugliest creatures they’d ever laid eyes on and that his name fit him. Truman agreed that the name did indeed fit, but the ugliness? Well, that was in the eye of the beholder. Truman had had the old boy most of his life and, right about now, couldn’t imagine a sweeter or more beautiful sight than Odd lumbering over to cover his face with stinky kisses.
“Oh! I didn’t hear you come in. I was just about to take him out for a little walk.” The slam of the screen door heralded Patsy’s entrance.
“‘Little walk’ is right. About all he can manage these days.” Truman stood to grab Odd’s leash and harness off the hook by the front door. “I can take him.” He squatted back down to get Odd “suited up.” When he was ready to open the front door, he paused. “Got company?” It wasn’t just the music and the smoke, but Patsy looked particularly lovely tonight, in a pair of jeans and simple white lace cropped top. Her hair was pulled away from her face, and she wore sterling silver hoop earrings.
Patsy giggled, and Truman could have sworn she blushed a little bit.
“Yes. I want you to meet him. I think it’s about time.”
Truman nodded. Odd tugged at the leash, wanting to get outside. With age had come a lack of control, so Truman knew he should heed the dog’s urging. “So this isn’t one of the girls from the diner?” Patsy sometimes had one or two of the waitresses over from the Elite for a beer and gossip.
“Not quite.” She gestured toward Odd, who was waiting by the half-open front door, whining. “You better get him outside.”
Truman and Odd stepped out into the night. They walked around to the side of the house, where Truman could look down the bluff at the Ohio River flowing just below. The moon, a shimmering silver crescent, spread out on the black water. Truman remembered when he used to walk Odd Thomas down to its banks, cutting through woods. He used to love to chase sticks and sniff the detritus that had washed up on the river’s sandy banks. The two of them would spend hours down there. In summer they’d even brave the river’s admittedly dangerous current and swim out to the little tree-covered island in the middle. Truman smiled as he remembered lying in the sun on the island’s pebbled bank, Odd Thomas snoring at his side.
But now all Odd Thomas could manage was a quick trip around the house to take care of business and then back inside, usually to lie down once again on the couch or on his worn fleece bed. Truman sometimes wondered how much longer he had left with his friend. Then he’d push the idea away because it made him sad.
Mission accomplished, Truman headed back inside with Odd Thomas. For a reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, Truman was nervous. He felt like he was poised between now and then. And yes, he knew we are always poised on that particular point, but it felt as though something momentous was about to occur, something that just might upset the balance of Truman’s world.
He hung up Odd Thomas’s leash and harness and rubbed his sweating palms on his thighs. He took a few steps toward the kitchen and the back door. There was low laughter underneath the music, which was now Al Green himself singing “Take Me to the River.” Truman had a sudden urge to take himself to the river, to sit alone on its moonlit banks and ponder both the future and the past. Fragile things that never seemed to remain still….
“Truman?” Patsy’s voice floated in through the open window over the sink. Truman noted the dirty dishes stacked there, along with Patsy’s cast-iron skillet. A plate, covered in foil, presumably his supper, waited nearby. He wondered what was underneath. He hoped fried chicken. Patsy made the best.
“Honey. You want to come outside for a minute?”
Truman swallowed and briefly considered pleading hunger. Could she wait until after he’d eaten? But even he knew how rude and immature that would be. Still, what was keeping his feet rooted to the floor?
“Truman!” He recognized the peeved tone.
He hurried outside. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust. There was a little concrete slab out there, with a redwood picnic table and a Weber grill arranged on it. The only light came from a flickering citronella candle.
“Hey, honey,” Patsy said. Truman edged nearer and could see the man at the table. His first thought was that he looked familiar, yet he couldn’t place him. “I want you to meet someone. This is George Stewart.” The man looked up at him and nodded. Truman, even in the dark, could make out the pale ice blue of his eyes, framed with long black lashes.
George rose to extend his hand. Truman reached out to shake, and his hand was practically swallowed up in George’s grip. Truman feared his joints might be crushed. When he spoke, George’s voice was raspy and deep, maybe from too many cigarettes. “How you doin’, son?”
“Good. Pleased to meet you, sir.” Truman drew his hand away and looked to Patsy, hoping she’d hear the pounding of his heart, would understand, and say something along the lines of “George here was just leaving.”
He suddenly, desperately wanted his mom all to himself. The want was that much stronger, simply knowing this particular wish wouldn’t be granted anytime soon.
Truman backed toward the door, knowing how sheepish his grin looked and wondering if the want and worry were obvious.
“C’mon and sit down, Truman.” Patsy patted the bench next to her. “You can tell George and me about the play tryouts. What was the show again?”
Barely finding breath to put behind his voice, Truman said, “Harvey. It’s about an invisible rabbit.”
George nodded. Truman noticed his thick, curly dark hair, cropped close to his head. He eyed Truman as he lit a Marlboro Red. On his exhalation of smoke, he asked, “Wasn’t that a movie? With Jimmy Stewart, maybe? I think I saw it a few weeks ago on TV.”
Truman shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.” Why are you acting like you don’t know the movie? He looked away from George and directed his gaze at Patsy. What do you see in this guy, Ma? He smokes! He’s a big lug! I bet he doesn’t have the brains God gave a squirrel! You deserve better.
Patsy cocked her head. “You feelin’ okay, sweetie? You look—a little pale.”
Truman tried to smile, fearing it came out as more of a grimace. “Just tired. And hungry. I saw a covered plate in there. Was that for me?”
Patsy nodded. “Barbecued chicken, potato salad, and baked beans.” She looked away from Truman to glance at George. “All homemade.” She smiled.
Truman was almost to the screen door. “Well, sounds better than the usual leftovers from the diner.”
He ducked inside before Patsy could admonish him.
He took the foil cover off the plate and looked down at the perfect char on the chicken breast, the bowl of baked beans, and the mustard potato salad—all his favorites—and didn’t feel hungry anymore.
“Just nuke the chicken and beans for, oh, like a couple minutes, Tru.” Patsy’s voice drifted in through the window.
“Sure, Mom.”
He took the plate and went toward the front of the house and ducked outside to the porch, where they had a glider. He sat with the cold plate in his lap, thinking of standing up, walking to the back, and just pitching it over the embankment toward the river.
Odd Thomas, probably aroused by the smell of chicken, scratched at the screen to be let out. Truman sighed, put his plate down at his side, and went to comply. Tail wagging, Odd immediately went to the food. Even though he knew it probably wasn’t good for him, Truman moved the plate down onto the porch floorboards. The chicken breast was boneless, so Odd Thomas should be okay. But the beans, the barbecue sauce, and potato salad? Truman shrugged.
“Enjoy it, dude,” he whispered, leaning over to scratch the dog behind his ears. He was wolfing down the food as though, at any moment, someone would yank it away. “Because after you eat all that, it’s gonna be diarrhea city around here.”
Truman snickered as he thought of Patsy cleaning it up.
And then immediately felt a deep wave of shame roll through him. What’s wrong with me? Don’t I want Mom to be happy? He reached down and snatched the plate away from Odd Thomas. “Sorry.”
And then it hit him why the guy out back was familiar. He looked exactly like the gorgeous, quiet boy, Mike, from Alicia’s bus stop on the first day of school.
Why, they could be father and son. And at that thought, Truman smiled and then shuddered.
TRUMAN WAS just drifting off to sleep, Odd Thomas curled up under the covers in the crook of his knees, when the creak of his bedroom door opening woke him. A slant of light fell on the braided rug next to the bed.
Patsy crept into the room in her bathrobe.
Truman rolled over, rubbing his eyes, feeling a little disoriented. He’d been dreaming of traveling with Patsy in a car, something new and relatively luxurious, and the two of them had just crashed through some bushes at the side of a road and were airborne above a bluff. The weird thing wasn’t that Truman felt terror at the prospect of crashing down hard on whatever was below, but the contentment he felt, the lack of fear. They were flying… and it was okay.
“Honey?” Patsy whispered. “You awake?”
Truman got up to a half-sitting position. Odd Thomas crawled from beneath the covers, shook himself, farted, lay back down, and continued snoring.
Patsy sat down on the bed. She was so little that her presence barely registered. Truman, although he only weighed about a hundred and fifteen pounds, realized he now weighed more than his mom.
She squeezed his calf.
“Is he still here?” Truman blurted, unsure from where the question even came.
Patsy sighed. She removed her hand and then folded her arms across her chest. “Yes,” she said.
Truman crossed his arms. “Is he going home soon?”
Patsy sighed and didn’t say anything for a long while. “If ‘soon’ is first thing in the morning, then yes.” Patsy lay down next to Truman and played with his hair for a minute. Truman closed his eyes, basking.
She turned to him, and he opened his eyes to peer back at her, her face less than a foot away from his in the dark. How many conversations had they shared—just like this—over the years? Too many to count, Truman was sure. He felt a little lump in his throat as he wondered if all that was about to change.
Quit being such a baby! You’re almost eighteen years old!
“You don’t like him, do you?”
“Who?”
“Tru,” Patsy admonished. “Come on….”
“I don’t know him well enough not to like him. I’m sure if I did, I’d hate him.” He laughed, but Truman wasn’t sure how much truth there was in the joke. “Was he the guy who was here a few weeks ago?”
“Yes.” Patsy rolled over on her back and stared up at the ceiling. “And he’s been here several other times. You just didn’t know.”
“Slut.”
“Brat.” Patsy chuckled. “I really like him, Truman. I might even be falling in love. Can you imagine?”
I can imagine all too well. I just don’t know how I feel about it. “Yeah, I can imagine. Even with the very, very limited exposure I’ve had to the two of you, I can sense it. Love is in the air.” Truman laughed, or maybe it was a choked sob? “Or maybe just gas….”
“He’s a good guy, Truman.”
“He smokes,” Truman said, and then felt lame. “This is going somewhere, then?”
“It already has.”
Truman rolled over toward the wall. He felt all of seven years old again. He drew in a deep breath, reminding himself to be the young man he knew he was becoming and not a petulant child. He knew he should be happy for his mother, his pretty, charming mother, who’d done nothing but work her fingers to the bone all her young life in support of him. His lovely and loving mother, who, he knew for a fact, had turned down many a man so she could stay home with him and eat frozen pizza while they watched Project Runway or played Yahtzee at the kitchen table.
He thought of an old Diana Ross song he’d heard recently on Pandora, and thought it applied here—not to him, but to Patsy. The song? “It’s My Turn.” It was Patsy’s turn now, to not only find someone to love, but also to find someone who would love her in a reciprocal, grown-up way. His head said he hoped Patsy had found joy; his heart hoped this relationship would come to an abrupt end—sooner rather than later.
Truman turned back to Patsy and touched her cheek. She really was so beautiful—with her dark hair, porcelain skin, and fine-boned features. “I’m happy for you,” Truman whispered, the words coming out a little breathless and broken.
Patsy smiled. “No, you’re not.” She ruffled his hair. “But I hope you will be.”
They lay there like that for the longest time, not saying anything.
And then Truman heard George get up and pad to the bathroom between their two bedrooms. He could hear him peeing and then the flush of the toilet.
“I should be getting back.” Patsy rose from the bed, and Truman had to resist the urge to hold out his arms, to beg her to stay with him.
But he lay there, still, on his back, waiting to hear her walk away, bracing himself.
Patsy stopped at the door and turned. “Truman?”
“Yes, Mother?”
“You know I’ll always love you best, right? You know that?”
Truman couldn’t speak. He was too choked up, too overwhelmed. He sniffed. Odd Thomas got up and rearranged himself closer to Truman’s pillow. Truman hugged him.
“I know you know,” Patsy said. “Because nothing is truer.”
Truman wanted to say something, wanted to tell her how much he loved her, but if he did, he’d sound like a baby, speaking through broken sobs.
Patsy closed the door softly behind her.