Chapter Eight
The sun was almost done with Mt. Olympus to the west, and James was late getting home to his chores after another round at the skateboard park. He started Weed Eating around his mom’s A Cut Above Hair Studio sign without going inside first. He didn’t want to face his mom after that incident with Tom and the bat. For the last two days, his anxiety had kept bringing up TV news reports about people shot by startled cops who thought they saw a weapon. Tom came by last night but didn’t stay, and James kept to his room. He had skated hard for two hours after class to calm down today and worked up a sweat. Shirtless in the breezy afternoon air, he half-danced with the Weed Eater and listened to his buddy Dominic’s new electronic music.
A car honked behind him in the driveway and startled him. He thought it was Tom and spun around to give him the finger, which did not look like a weapon. Jean, his mom’s friend, waved from her ratty old Chevy. He was glad he’d held back the finger. The car had salt-air rust spots all over the bleached-out paint job so she called it “Pinto” even though it wasn’t a Ford. Or that old. Her tilted magnetic sign on the door read “Jean’s Sailboat Repair.” He didn’t see how anybody would hire her after seeing her car, but she was nice and good-looking for her age, which like his mom’s was thirty-nine. His mom was happy when Jean stopped by. Today, he wanted his mom happy, and Jean stepped out of the car with a bottle of champagne.
“Hi, James,” she said. “Is Marie finished for today?” Jean smelled like paint, as usual. Her bare arms had goose bumps from the chill and he tried not to look at her breasts, also goose bumping against her paint-spattered shirt.
James shut off the Weed Eater and lifted one earpiece.
“Yeah, probably,” he said, and waved a hand toward the driveway. “No cars. She’s probably sweeping up.”
Jean ruffled his hair, which he never liked, on her way into the studio. At least she didn’t pinch his cheek like some of his mom’s clients. James fired up the Weed Eater and replaced his earpiece just as Tom pulled up in his patrol car. He pretended he didn’t see or hear the car.
Tom rolled down his window and said, “James. Hey, James!” He rolled his eyes and hauled himself out of the car to tap James on the shoulder.
James turned but didn’t lift his earpiece or shut off the Weed Eater. Or meet his gaze. Tom lifted an earpiece for him and smiled.
“Very nice job, James.”
James leaned on the Weed Eater, crossed his arms, and stared past Tom at nothing.
Tom said, “I suppose it wouldn’t do me any good to leave a message for your mom.”
James said nothing and didn’t look up. Tom erased his smile and sighed.
“Well, I had to work overtime again, and I need a nap. If you’re in the mood, please tell Marie I’ll be awake by ten if she wants company.”
He carefully replaced James’s earpiece and saluted “Goodbye.” When Tom opened his car door, James said, “I guess those skateboard kids gave you a run down the Meridian hill this morning? Not as much fun at the park by myself. Why don’t you chase down criminals instead of kids with no place to go?”
James’s back was to Tom, and his headphones were full volume so Tom could hear the beat. He silently mimicked James behind his back, mouthing, Why don’t you chase down criminals instead of kids with no place to go? Then he caught himself, laughed, shook his head, and said, “Gotta love ’em!” James didn’t hear through the noise and the music.
Tom’s home was a cold studio apartment in the top floor of another Victorian a few blocks from Marie’s place. As usual, it was cold as death, even though news announced the first day of spring. He slipped around the foot of his pulled-out pull out bed and treated himself to a beer from his mini fridge. The only sound in the place was the hum of that fridge, and the only other living thing was a gangly ruby begonia beside the window. His sister had decided that he needed another living thing but didn’t trust him with one of her dog’s puppies.
“Caring for something else helps you care for yourself,” she said. She’d studied psychology in college and wrote papers about their childhood. “Your girlfriend has kids. You need to learn to live with others.”
He’d never married and blamed it on the job.
“I care for people,” he’d countered. “That’s my job!”
“There are different kinds of caring,” she’d said. “Love, for example. That’s Big Caring. Try it.”
He kicked his rumpled covers aside and stretched out on his lumpy bed. The refrigerator shut off. He kicked off his shoes and listened to the silence. He used to like it. That was before Marie, and her kids, and their busy, happy household.
Maybe I should get K-9 training, he thought. He fell asleep dreaming about life with a dog as a partner, in the car and at home. It felt good. He’d need a bigger place. During his dream-debate of German Shepherd over Black Lab, he heard the faint beep beep beep of his phone from somewhere in the tangle of covers.
Sheriff’s office. Fuck!
Both agencies were shorthanded, which meant the remaining personnel in each had to back up the other.
Tom cleared his throat and growled, “What now?”
“Jesus, Aldrich!” the Sheriff said, “Stuff the attitude. A couple having a romantic beach walk spotted an SUV nose down in the kelp bed at the end of Seven Dips Road. Couldn’t see whether anybody’s aboard. Wrecker’s on the way. Do the on-scene report and I’ll buy you dinner at 3 Crabs.”
Tom tried rubbing the tired out of his face with no luck.
“Why don’t you do it? You don’t sound busy.” Then Tom heard yelling in the background and the Sheriff taking a long drag from his cigarette. A loud crash.
“Mrs. Wilco is getting even with Mr. Wilco for coming home late,” the Sheriff said. “And I know where he was, so I’m letting her blow off steam as long as she’s busting up things and not him or our new first-grade teacher. Mrs. Wilco’s a big girl who could clean his clock.”
“Do you know how many dinners you already owe me?”
The Sheriff covered the phone to yell something at the Wilcos, then said, “Five. Are you helping or not?”
Tom sighed, stood up and stretched. “Okay, okay. Just save the dinner money and hire somebody for Chrissake!” He hung up, pulled on his rumpled uniform and headed back out into a darkening sky and half-hearted drizzle.