If I had a teddy bear and a penchant for thumbsucking—which I don’t, just so we’re clear on that—I couldn’t have slept any better that night. No dreams. No flashback sequences darting through my head. And with the shop closed on Sundays, no need for my alarm.
I did have a faint warmth still playing along my lips.
Or maybe it was the late-morning sun now prying at my window blinds.
I’d been running on all cylinders, propelled by sugar and caffeine and a need to understand the mysteries unfolding around me. In a span of forty-eight hours, most of these issues had been resolved.
Lying on my side, cradled by a sag in the mattress, I refused to risk this transcendent period of rest with any movement. I kept my eyes closed and went over the facts again.
1. Darrell Michaels’s killer was sitting in the county jail—no more mochas with whip for you, pal.
2. Freddy C was also in a cell—but you’ll be out soon; just hang in there.
3. Leroy Parker was dead—so much for your string of sexual assaults and manipulations.
True, there was an ICV thug still at large. But my time with the anarchists had revealed, ironically, that most of them have no direction without some leadership. He’d probably tucked his tail and run back to Oregon.
Mom’s handkerchief was the unresolved item on my list.
With the filming of The Best of Evil in nine days, I’d confront Uncle Wyatt in person and find out why he thought he had the right to steal it.
“Aramis?”
“Uhhh.”
“You awake?” It was my dad’s voice.
My eyelids peeled open, blinking twice before I registered the time. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stayed in bed past noon.
“One second.”
I thrust aside the covers and hobbled to my dresser.
“Aramis?”
“Coming.”
I pushed stiff legs into jeans, then got my bandaged hand tangled in my T-shirt as I pulled it over my head. I slipped a striped button-down shirt over my shoulders and scooped up my laundry basket.
I opened the door. “S’up? I was gonna do a load of clothes.”
“Musta been tired, boy.”
“A little.” I edged past him.
“You don’t fool me. Plain as day, you just rolled outta bed.”
“What?”
“Your T-shirt,” he said. “Must be one of them new styles, huh?”
“Yeah.”
I didn’t check until I was standing in front of our laundry closet, but I’d put the silly thing on inside out and backward. Real convincing. And what was I trying to prove anyway? Hadn’t I wasted enough years in that fruitless endeavor?
“You really wear ’em like that nowadays?” Dad was standing at my side. “Never can figure you kids and your clothes.”
“It’s an antistyle.”
“Reason I woke ya is ’cause I’ll be headin’ out soon, back to Bowling Green.”
“Thanks for coming, Dad.”
“About what I said. You know, the other night?”
It was pitiful watching him squirm, and I turned to the chore of detergent and washer settings. My expression remained blank.
“I didn’t do ya right in them years afterwards.”
“After Mom died.” I’d say it if he wouldn’t.
“I wanna tell ya, before I go.”
“You already told me. I was special to her, so I was a curse to you. She died, so you made me pay. You hurt inside, so you turned that outward against the smallest one in the house. Does that cover it? Yep, that about does it.”
“Aramis.” He clamped a hand on my shoulder and turned me toward him. “I’m sorry for them things that happened.”
“They didn’t happen. You did them.”
“And now your old man’s doin’ different. Tryin’ anyhow.”
“A little late, Dad. But thanks.” I turned on the washing machine.
He pulled me back around, and for a moment I thought I was going to level him in our hallway, the same way I had Uncle Wyatt. My elbow bumped against something firm.
“What’s that?”
He held the object to his chest. “A book.”
“A new hobby? Good for you.”
“Years ago I found it in your mother’s things, and I been thinkin’ you might appreciate it. Somethin’ to read on the plane when ya go out west for that show.”
I tilted my head to read the spine. The Three Musketeers.
“Ever read it?”
“No.”
“When she was a teenager, she got this from … a friend of hers. Was one of her favorite books, the way I hear it told. Aramis, I know it used to bug ya how your name was the odd one out. Shoulda told ya earlier, but … Well, here, maybe this’ll help ya understand.”
He pressed the hardcover book against my chest, and I took hold of it.
“How’s this gonna help?”
“Your namesake—he’s one of them musketeers. He was your mother’s favorite, so she named you after him.”
I felt my throat tighten. I wanted to thank the man for this gesture, but my voice had switched off. I threw out a stiff handshake. My father reached out, noticed the thin medicated wrap, then carefully took hold of my wrist instead.
“You have a safe flight out there,” he said.
“You too.” I shook my head. “I mean, driving back to Bowling Green.”
“Chew gum, boy. Helps with your ears. That’s what they say.”
“Gum. Got it.” I cleared my throat. “So, see you next time.”
“Next time?”
“Just … you know, Dad. Next time you come to stay with us.”
I needed time by myself. With a small pack on my back and only one good hand for steering, I rode my mountain bike to Radnor Lake. There are few bike paths in this area—it’s nothing like Portland—but I’m used to that by now.
I turned on Twelfth Avenue and followed it until it became Granny White Pike.
In Nashville, if you follow any road long enough, it’ll change names. My theory is that it was a Civil War strategy to confuse the Union troops, and experience tells me it would’ve been an effective one. Even though I’m from Oregon, I’m still considered a Northerner.
I’ve been lost here more than once.
Radnor Lake State Natural Area is surrounded by some of the highest hills in the Nashville Basin. The natural habitat covers 1,125 acres and is home to geese and heron, turtles, frogs, snakes, and other mammals. One time Johnny Ray and I saw an eight-point buck twenty feet off the South Cove Trail. He stood stone still, and I almost missed him among the foliage. Then he loped off with three does and a fawn trailing.
I locked up my bike at the visitor center. Dropped a donation in the box. Paying to keep it beautiful, to keep the developers away.
I took the Lake Trail, nodding at passersby, then hiked up along the Ganier Ridge Trail, the road less traveled. I wanted to be alone. Didn’t feel like spouting off niceties.
And I wanted to look through my book.
I settled down on a bench and took in the view of the lake where it peeked between the trees. The leaves were rich with yellows and reds, covering the ground in a flaming blanket that deadened footsteps with a soft whisper. Late October is a perfect time to enjoy the scenery here, and I sat for a few minutes in silent awe.
With head back, gazing through the leaves’ fire, I spoke to the sky. “Lord, I spend so much time focused on myself. This is awesome out here. Thank you.”
Could’ve said more, but words were inadequate. If God is real, if he knows the thoughts in our heads and intentions of our hearts, he knew what I meant.
From my pack, I pulled a water bottle, a Snickers bar, and my mother’s novel.
The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas.
I cracked open the worn cover and the smudged pages, relishing the image of Dianne Lewis Black with this same book—her hands holding and turning, her eyes reading, her imagination engaging. I kept my head down so I didn’t have to acknowledge the infrequent hikers in this back section of the park.
My namesake. Aramis.
I flipped through, trying to find references to the man. I discovered he was a musketeer, stout and amicable, with dark eyes and rosy cheeks. One passage in particular tethered the thoughts I’d had floating around for the past few days, the past year really: “To be obliging and polite does not necessarily make a man a coward.… Aramis is mildness and grace personified. Well, did anybody ever dream of calling Aramis a coward? No, certainly not, and from this moment I will endeavor to model myself after him.”
Who would want to model themselves after my mildness and grace? Sure, I’d been changing, trying to get a grip. Still, though, I had a thing or two to learn. Just ask Uncle Wyatt.
The whisssh of leaves and crackkk of a twig brought me out of my contemplation. In my peripheral vision, I spotted black high tops on a hiker still fifteen feet from me.
The guy from the alleyway. I knew right away.
Leaving the book on the bench, I jumped up, chest out, one foot slightly in front of the other. The bruises from our previous encounter were still healing, but he’d had the advantage of stealth and surprise that time around.
“Bring it!” I said. “This time I see you comin’.”