“That makes sense,” Miranda said. “He scheduled it a couple of weeks ago. It’s getting harder and harder to reserve the transports, especially with all the work going on in the fields.”
Hicks thought a moment longer and remembered Thompson gathering the squad together just before evening chow and telling them to keep their schedules clear for next Sunday. Eric Riordan had reserved one of Hollow Rock’s large multi-fuel transport vehicles, and, barring incident, they would be heading out with Sanchez’s squad from the Ninth TVM on a salvage-hunting expedition. He remembered being distracted at the moment, his mind replaying memories of-
No. Not now.
“I guess it slipped my mind,” he said as he walked into the kitchenette.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Miranda tilt her head quizzically as he poured himself a drink. He didn’t usually drink this late at night, but if he was going to tell her what he had to say, a little liquid courage was in order. He put the bottle back in the cupboard and sat down on the couch.
“Are you all right, Caleb?” Miranda asked. “You seem … distant.”
He gave a weak smile and sipped his drink. It was simple grain alcohol from Mike Stall’s distillery, devoid of color and taste, but it went down smoothly and the burn felt warm and comforting. He remembered a time when feeling that burn was the only thing he cared about, regardless of what he had to consume to produce it.
“You said last night you wanted to know more about me.”
She was quiet for a long moment, eyes luminous in the golden light. She nodded slowly.
“It’s a long story. I don’t think I can tell it all in one night.”
Her hand reached out for him. “Caleb, you don’t have to tell me anything. I’m fine with you just the way you are. You were right about what you said last night. There’s no need for either of us to go digging up the past. We’re here now, we love each other, and we have our own little light in the darkness. That’s all that matters.”
Hicks looked down and stared at Miranda’s fingers interlaced with his own. “You might not like what you’re about to hear.”
“I meant what I just said.”
He kissed the back of her hand. “It’s important. I want you to hear it.”
Her eyes softened. “All right then.”
Hicks tossed back his drink, set it on the table, and relaxed into the couch cushions. Outside, crickets chirped and night birds sang in the dark spring evening.
FIVE
Three years ago,
Houston Metro Area, Texas
I should start with my father. He was the lynchpin in everything.
We traveled a lot when I was little. I remember that. Dad seemed sad most of the time, especially when I asked him about Mom. He could only ever talk about her for a few minutes at a time, and then his hands would tremble, his voice would crack, and he would start shaking like a leaf. When that happened, I always hugged him and stopped asking questions.
He told me she was beautiful. That I had her blue eyes and light brown hair, and I looked so much like her. He said I would grow up to be tall and lean like she was. He told me there were complications the day I was born. Something went wrong and she bled too much. I know she got to hold me before it was over with.
I still have the picture.
Dad was a quiet man, so I guess I come by that honestly. He was medium height, medium build, dark hair and eyes. His skin was light brown even in winter—Italian blood on his mother’s side. I remember watching him work outside with his shirt off and the way his scars gleamed dully in the afternoon light.
We stayed in motels and the occasional rented trailer. Dad never stayed in one town for very long because he liked being on the road. Even as a small boy, I had the distinct impression he was running from something. People tell me I was too young to remember that part of my life, but they’re wrong. I remember scenes from it, distant and hazy, like looking through a dirty window.
Close to my fifth birthday, Dad knew things were going to have to change. I was due to start kindergarten in the fall. We were living in a rented double-wide somewhere outside of Houston at the time. There was a thin strip of paved road bisecting the two sides of the trailer park lined with mailboxes and old beer cans. Lauren lived directly across from us.
She was divorced, her ex-husband was a lawyer, and she lived on money from the divorce settlement and what she made waitressing nights at the diner down the highway. Her car was a little white Toyota. She was pretty and slender with auburn hair and light hazel eyes. I could tell Dad liked her.
Dad got a job at a service station not far from the trailer park. Changing oil, rotating tires, replacing air filters, that sort of thing. It was daytime work. Lauren offered to sit for me while he was away. Dad tried to pay her, but she wouldn’t let him.
Most days, I would and run around the trailer park with the other kids my age while Lauren kept an eye on me from underneath the shade tree in the back yard. She always called me in for lunch at 12:30 on the dot and made the best ham and cheese sandwiches.
We didn’t talk much. I guess that’s mostly my fault. I got the feeling she wanted to talk, but couldn’t think of anything to say. I have never, nor will I ever, understand why so many people feel the need to occupy every spare moment of company with a fellow human being with mindless chatter. It is my studied opinion that the best people in the world are the ones who appreciate a good companionable silence.
Anyway.
It was Dad who made the first move, at my prompting. You see, most days he would come home and ask if I behaved, and Lauren would say yes, and that he was lucky to have such a sweet, precocious little boy. Dad would thank her for watching me, and there would be an awkward moment, and Lauren would smile and say she had to get ready for work. On the days she didn’t work, she just said goodbye and walked out the door. Then dad would get a strange look on his face and watch her walk across the little strip of asphalt until she disappeared into her trailer. Finally, one day, I got tired of it.
“Just tell her,” I said, exasperated.
Dad jumped and rounded on me. “Tell her what?”
“That you like her, sillyhead.”
His dark eyebrows came together and he sat down on the couch. “Is it that obvious?”
I rolled my eyes and went to my room to play.
It was a Friday. I remember that. Lauren had the day off. When Dad got home, they went through the usual ritual. At the part where they stood facing each other awkwardly, I leaned around the kitchen archway and shot my dad a piercing look.
“Well, I guess I better go,” Lauren said, and started toward the door.
“Wait,” Dad said, and reached for her arm. His fingers barely touched her elbow, but even from ten feet away I could hear the sharp intake of breath. “Would you like to stay for dinner? I’m making pasta.”
She smiled, and I thought Dad might melt into the carpet. “Yes,” she said. “I’d like that very much.”
A week later, late at night when they thought I was asleep and the moans and gasps and creaking of bedsprings subsided, was the first time I ever heard my father laugh. I lay awake with the moonlight slanting in through the window and smiled.
Her lease was up at the end of that month. Dad got rid of our ratty old furniture so we could move hers in. At age five, I learned one of the important truths of life.
A good woman can make any place feel like home.
*****
“Joe, he has to start school in the fall,” Lauren said, hands on her hips as she stood with feet firmly planted on the kitchen floor.
“I know.”
“Have you even gone and looked at the schools around here?”
A moment’s hesitation. “No.”
Lauren stomped away and loudly clanged pots and pans around in the kitchen. I gave my dad a sympathetic look and crossed the room to sit beside him. He smiled down at me, put his hand against the side of my head, and pulled me close to his chest. I hugged him back.