| |
MIKE SWENSON pressed his fingers to his forehead and tried to focus on the want ads he was processing for the newspaper. Mechanics, waiters, sales staff for an electronics store. One for an ETL developer, whatever that was. Nothing for a teacher/football coach, which he once was but could no longer be. Instead he had accumulated his very own list of brainless, dead-end jobs, work scarcely rewarding enough to put food on the table.
For relief, his eyes strayed to the photograph on his desk. Leaning against his beloved silver Audi, arms extended to show off her new son, Susan wore that blousy yellow-print dress she thought made her look “motherly.” The photo always reminded him of the car’s imminent departure and the large payment he received, which served to underscore a hard-earned lesson. Family above all. No one could say Mike Swenson hadn’t learned well from his parents' mistakes.
Today, courtesy of Ginger Barnes, the bitter memories circled like sharks. Mike’s dad in jeans and a Notre Dame sweatshirt. Dad, with his ironclad black and white rulebook. Dad, whose favorite endearment had been "loser."
And then there was his mother. “Pass your brother that last pork chop, honey, he’s got a game tonight.” Or, “Oh no, Mikey! Let Tad do that,” when a monkey with a screwdriver could have assembled that bookcase.
The too-little, too-late change arrived wrapped in a blue cotton blanket—their first grandchild! Toys and clothes and gadgets accompanied every visit home. Photographs were snapped as if baby Jack were the reincarnation of Elvis. The phone lines hummed with questions about the kid’s first burp, smile, rash, and coo. Dolores proclaimed that she missed Little Jackie terribly, “and you and your wife, too, of course.”
Mike’s dad congratulated him on “growing a pair.”
Going underground had been complicated, but depriving his parents the way they’d deprived him proved to be enormously gratifying. Susan didn’t know everything, of course; but she understood that disappearing had lifted a heavy weight. To reward her trust, he agreed to move back to her hometown...where she promptly acquired that stupid, stupid job, and he acquired the babysitter problem.
His heart had just about stopped when he heard Jack shout, “Daddy, daddy, daddy,” from the park across the street. Miraculously, he distracted his co-worker with some BS about a reporter nailing the receptionist. Too close. Dangerously close. If Bob had turned his head and made the connection...
He dug an antacid out of his drawer. Chewed it with grim determination.
So the Barnes woman had followed him. Never mind how or why. The question fermenting in his gut was what to do about it.
Too soon to move again. Also, too suspicious. Susan's dad, her high school friends, that damn job...Mike's head began to throb.
Ten after twelve. He put his computer to sleep and headed for the stairs.
Emerging from the building, he breathed in the smell of warm asphalt and bread from the nearby bakery. The day was overcast, but dry. Two mothers had kids running around the park, but no Jack and no babysitter. Of course this wasn't one of Susan's workdays, so the Barnes woman could be anywhere.
As much as he tried to tell himself the odds of a babysitter bringing him down were infinitesimal, the reality was he didn’t dare take a chance. Something had to be done.
He scanned the perimeter, bent down to peek inside parked cars, squinted to peer into the shade of a tree. No one hiding that he could see, yet the sensation of spying eyes burned into the back of his head until his vision blurred.
Each step striking a blow to his head, he detoured into the newspaper parking lot for the migraine medication he kept in the car. Swallowed the pill dry.
Relief was on its way in more ways than one.
He knew what he was going to do about Ginger Barnes.