I’d left Adam sitting on the couch, holding an object in front of his face and touching it gently every few minutes. I think it’s called a book, but don’t quote me. Anyway, now it was time for some outdoor fun. Ever since we moved into the little house, we’ve been having lots of outside fun. I can’t wait to see what Adam has in store today. Yesterday, or maybe the day before that, we drove into the sky, then got out of the car and hiked back down. We were pretty tired and slept hard that night. Best part was that before we got back to the little house, Adam went into a restaurant and brought back a whole hamburger just for me.
I have to work hard to get Adam’s attention, pressing my jaw down on his knee, whining, climbing up beside him, resting my muzzle over his shoulder. But once he puts the book down, he’s all about making me happy. “Go for a walk?” Sweetest tongue language ever. Except maybe Want some?
* * *
It is a spectacular afternoon, made even more special by the fact that he has nothing on his agenda except getting the dog out for a good hike. Later, he’ll leave Chance with Mingo and head down to Mass MoCA, a cultural destination he’s been meaning to visit since he started coming to this area. Mosley and the crew always speak of it in hushed tones, the Everest of their artistic ambitions. First he’s got to return this book to the little lending library set up in the office.
Skye is leaning against the porch rail when Adam comes around the corner. She has this look on her face, inscrutable. It takes some of the natural kindness out of it, leaving a harder beauty. “I suppose you heard that I fired Mingo.”
“I had not. What happened?”
Skye doesn’t answer.
Adam wishes that he could be shocked at Skye’s canning Mingo, but he knows all too well that the recidivism rate for kids like Mingo is pretty sad. He’s sadder for Skye, who had placed such faith in her nice-lady instincts. It’s tough to be wrong about someone. It makes you second-guess yourself on lots of other choices. Unfortunately, it means that not only is Mingo gone but so is Lucky, and that is worrisome for him. With no job, no housing, it’s not a good situation.
She looks so stressed that he finally has to say something. “You all right?”
“No.”
Adam climbs the steps to the porch, takes Skye by the elbow. “You want to talk about it?”
She glances down at his hand on her elbow. “There’s nothing I can tell you. It’s what you might have expected.”
Apparently, yesterday’s openness has become today’s stone wall. “Skye?”
Nothing. She looks at him with those stress-bruised eyes and he thinks she’s never looked relaxed, or seemed like she takes any enjoyment in this place, in her accomplishments.
“Hang in there.” Adam touches her arm again. Moves closer, puts his arm around her. “These things happen.” He’s surprised at his own disappointment in Mingo. It keeps him from suggesting even a hint of “told you so.” He takes no joy in being right. At the same time, he feels a bit like a sucker. Even he’d begun to believe in the boy.
This time, she doesn’t pull away; neither does she seem to notice. She’s staring out over the parking lot; her head is shaking slightly, as if she’s having an argument with herself. “I’m really tired, of this. Of every day being a battle.”
There’s really nothing he can say. He can’t thrust some platitude on her and not come across as a pathetic old fart.
“Sorry.” She extricates herself from his arm. “Unlucky for you. You’re around so much that you end up seeing the Mitchells, warts and all.”
“I think that’s a good thing.”
Chance has done his reconnoitering of the area and is back up on the steps with them. He presses his head against Adam, then moves to Skye’s side, does the same thing with her. “Chance, don’t be a pest.” Adam pats his leg and the dog returns to his side.
“He’s not a pest. He’s a good boy.” Skye calls the dog back, gives him some love, which gets her a smile from Adam, one tick away from an “I told you so” smile. He’s been waiting for Skye’s Road to Damascus moment.
“Look, this may be last notice, and maybe borderline, but would you consider going with me to the gala?”
“A date?”
“If you want it to be. Otherwise, look at it as a nice free dinner and a night away from your responsibilities here.”
Skye folds her arms across her midriff in the classic body language of uncertainty. He’s surprised himself with the suggestion, and is equally surprised at his building disappointment; surely she will find some kind of reason not to take him up on his invitation. Then Skye drops her arms to her sides. Nods. “I’d like that.”
Instead of heading out for the day’s planned hike, Adam drives toward North Adams. Turns out that he actually has forgotten to bring black socks. Chance is riding shotgun, his muzzle resting on the half-open passenger window. Adam reaches over and grabs a handful of neck skin. The feel of the dog’s soft skin in his fingers is good and Adam wishes that Skye had such a comfort. While in town, he’ll keep an eye out for Mingo. If the kid is back in trouble, Adam wants to recover the dog.
* * *
I’m gonna tell Every time the text message alert dings, it’s the same. Im tellin yr mom today Every fifteen minutes, the same message, the same threat. I know what you saw
The threat of it, of Molly revealing the Secret because Cody hasn’t brought her anything more, keeps Cody staring at her bedroom ceiling. And the guilt over what happened to Mingo vies with the ever-present fear of Johnny coming to make sure there is no living witness left to Randy’s death. A stew of worry keeps her wide awake. She wishes that Mosley had given her some pot yesterday, but he’s getting cheap with the freebies. And he’s been too busy to work with her, as student or as model. He told her as much the other day: “Got all I need for now. I’m just doing the finishing touches now. I don’t need you for that.”
She’s rolling over and then over again, pounding her pillow with such violence that Cody hears her mother get up to come see what’s wrong.
“Cody. What is the problem?”
If Skye had stood at the door and suggested that a little warm milk might help, she would have just yelled at her mother to get out. But Skye doesn’t. Uninvited, she sits on the bed and does that thing that mothers for centuries, since the dawn of time, have done. She strokes Cody’s hair back from her face and presses her lips against her daughter’s forehead, as if what ails Cody is determinable by temperature. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
It’s different this time. Skye’s voice holds an unlimited reservoir of maternal love; despite the months of emotional separation, it says, No matter what, I’m your mother. In those three words, “What’s wrong, sweetheart?,” Skye has offered her unconditional love, and all Cody wants is to fall into that safe maternal place.
“Mingo didn’t steal those pills.”
Skye sighs. “Then who did?”
This is the ultimate example of her mother’s blindness. A woman who makes no bones about the illegal mischief she once got into has this ginormous blind spot where her pot-smoking, beer-drinking daughter is concerned. Cody is so undeserving of this trust that she can’t hold it in any longer. “I did.”
If she thought that telling the truth would be like lancing a boil, the relief utter and complete, she is mistaken. The guilt, the grief, and the fear are still there. But halved. Shared. She waits for Skye’s reaction, half-hoping that her mother will do like she used to do when Cody’s worst infraction was breaking something and then lying about it. Her mother would always say that no harm would come if she spoke the truth. Upon coming clean, punishment for the breakage would be forgotten and, generally, a reward for truthfulness would be given. The shards swept up and thrown away.
Skye moves her body away from Cody’s in a subtle retreat; the hand stroking her hair drops. “Say that again.”
And then it hits Cody that confessing this theft opens up a whole new raft of problems. Her mother is going to want to know what she was doing with the purloined pills. Was she taking them? Selling them? Thanks to Randy, Skye has more than a passing acquaintance with drug culture.
Skye reaches across Cody and turns on the light. “What did you say?”
“I stole them. I gave them to Black Molly.”
“What did you say?” This hollowed-out repetition frightens Cody.
Cody considers lying, but she finds herself unable to come up with the energy. “She … she made me.” Cody prays that Skye doesn’t ask her how Black Molly was blackmailing her.
“No one makes you steal.” In place of the comfort and understanding, Skye is stiff with anger. “I don’t know what I’m more upset about, Cody. The fact that you stole the pills or that you let me believe that Mingo—your friend, the kid you begged me to take a chance on—did it.” Skye gets off the bed and begins to pace around the tiny room, kicking discarded clothes out of her way as she does. “I don’t know what to do about this.”
“Please, don’t do anything. Except, maybe, hire him back.”
Skye stops her pacing, stares at her daughter. “You do realize that you’ve committed a crime?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
Skye’s face in the soft lamplight looks pinched, drawn. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
It’s what Mingo said about himself.
“You are your father’s daughter.”