Kindle Edition
Amazon
Category:
Mainstream
Publisher: Indigo Sea Press
ISBN-10: 1630663875
Type: Fiction
Pages: 286
Copyright: April 26, 2016
ISBN-13: 9781630663872
Price: $4.95 (eBook)
Sometimes it takes a child to raise a subdivision.
It takes a subdivision to raise a child, and a wealth of threads to weave a tapestry, until one breaks. Troy, the garage mechanic's son, loves Lydia, the rich man's daughter. Amethyst has a remarkable cat and Andrea a curious accent. Old Abigail knows more than anyone else but doesn't speak. And in Paradise Park a middle aged man keeps watch while autistic Amelia keeps getting lost. Pastor Bill, at the church of Paradise, tries to mend people. Peter mends cars. But when that fraying thread gives way it might take a child to raise the subdivision...or to mend it.
Excerpt
Peter gazed down at the golden pond of his drink. I’m not my father he told himself though his reflection wasn’t sure. I’m faithful, good and true. I’m not like him. I don’t hurt people.
He glanced up at the woman dancing on the stage. She was young and beautiful, unblemished and free. He watched her swirl, swinging her red skirt high above her knees. Mary had danced this way in their youth. She’d hung on his arm, long curls of hair brushing his face, filling his nose with the perfume of roses and sun. Her eyes shone like blades of new grass in a painting. Her lips brushed his, soft as petals falling in rain. But this wasn’t Mary, and Peter wasn’t his father. He wondered if his parents had ever known any dance but hurting and tears.
“You could try your chances with her, old man,” said the friend at Peter’s elbow. “See how she’s looking at you?”
Peter shook his head.
“I mean, seriously, she’s got all the moves. And look at those…” The friend fisted hands in front of his chest, but Peter shook his head again, making his ears ring. The conversation clattered too loud and jarring. He shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have let them persuade him. He should have stayed working, or gone home alone.
The friend of a friend from a table close by rocked a lazy hand. “Old Pete, you know, I rather think he likes…” Long fingers dangled in the air as words trailed away.
Not that Peter minded, but why should not wearing a ring and not dating mean people assumed he dated men? Crazy world we live in. He sighed, lifting the glass back to his lips. Drink up. Get out of here. I shouldn’t have come.
The dance ended. The woman placed her mike back on the stand. She stared over the crowd then glided towards their table as if she’d seen Peter watching. Broad hips swayed under the bright red dress. Thick hair tumbled on bare shoulders. Her teeth were white, eyes green; but she wasn’t Mary, wasn’t who he wanted to see.
“I’m off.” Peter coughed, slapped down his glass and added, “Got work to do tomorrow.”
He wasn’t used to this, the company, the drink, going out instead of going home. He had rules to keep him safe and lived by them. Now Peter staggered as he climbed to his feet, steadied himself, leaned over the table, then felt sick. Sour smells of drink, sour memories flooded in. He’d given up women long ago; perhaps it was time to give up alcohol too. It had been a mistake letting his friends drag him here, risking temptation in public. Lead us not… remembered prayer? He shouldn’t let friends lead him away from his silent home, or drink lead to despair; no ring, no girls, no nothing the safest way.
He remembered the smell of his father’s breath and the ringing sound of his voice. He remembered the sodden thump like wood on wet earth and his mother’s whimpering cries like a kitten in distress. He remembered many things and thrust them away with straightened arms. Then he struggled to find the door.
“Don’t leave.” Was someone calling him back? His mother, but she wasn’t here? Dreams and reality mixed and melded in his mind then tumbled free. Cold air should wake him.
Peter tugged the door awkwardly and stopped, trapped somehow in a gap between yesterday and tomorrow, between outside and in. Warm air wafted behind—“Shut that door, man!” Cooler breezes blew ahead. He remembered hiding outside in the cold, under the picnic table in un-mowed grass. A rotten plank, fallen free long ago, lay splintered and soft. He thudded it hard as he could against the ground. “Take that. Take that.” It didn’t drown the sound. Later his mother let the cat out; Peter crept through the line of yellow light spilling from the back door. He hugged her battered knees as he passed, smelling sweat and blood. Then he stepped around the hulking, snoring shape of his dad and climbed upstairs to bed.
In the cold air Peter remembered Mary and thanked the Lord he’d left before he could hurt her. No ring, no women; he’d seen his temper, watched those storm clouds over his head, and taken a hike. She was probably married to someone else now, had long forgotten him. She never answered his letters, never acknowledged cards or gifts he sent her for the lad. She’d stand in the kitchen cooking hot dinners for a stranger’s family tonight. Peter imagined the swirl of her dress—wide, fifties style, like the picture on flour packs—her face bright and free. She’d enjoy clear days of sunshine, sweetness and light. She deserved it, for sure.
And the boy, little Troy? He must be better off with another dad too.
Peter slammed his fist into the wall outside the bar, making his knuckles bleed. Not the first time; they were thick and rimmed with scars. A couple shuffled by, heading in for a drink. “Let’s get inside,” muttered the man. “Let’s get away from him.” But it was only a wall Peter hurt. Forever, for always, for mercy, Peter wasn’t his dad.
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