The Passing Storm(33)
The shot captured him at age six. There was his distinctive egg-shaped head and broad nose, a growing potato in the center of his cheerful face. A fluffy tuft of brown hair covered his forehead; his receding hairline wouldn’t kick in until his twenties. His mother had taken the photo as he held Bubbles the goldfish by his wriggling tail above the swirling toilet bowl.
“Enough with this torture,” he joked. “Put it away.”
“Don’t be fussy. You were adorable.”
Winnie’s memory was selective and Teflon-coated. “Why didn’t you stop me from setting Bubbles free?” An instant after she’d trained the camera on him and the toilet bowl flushed, he’d become a blubbering mass of tears. “It wasn’t like I’d thought the plan out. Wasn’t Bubbles’s safety more important than recording the moment for posterity?”
“Don’t be peevish. I didn’t think the moment out either.”
“Obviously.”
“Cheer up. After you freed Bubbles into the sewer system, he may have grown to massive size. Perhaps he’s become a king of the sea. Neptune, with fins.”
“Are you striving for a ha-ha moment? Don’t take your routine on the road just yet.”
His niece gave a sleepy glance. “Who’s Bubbles?” She yawned theatrically.
“Your uncle’s first pet. A goldfish he foolishly returned to the wild. We tried a bird next, with the same result.”
Griffin recalled the stealthy deed he’d performed at daybreak. “Setting a bird free seemed logical.” He’d always been an early riser. If his sister had awoken before he crept outside, she would’ve intervened.
His mother feigned insult. “I’ll have you know that ridiculous conure didn’t come cheap.”
“I didn’t want a conure. I asked for a dog. Repeatedly. It’s every boy’s dream.” An unfulfilled yearning. His mother would never sanction a pet large enough to track mud into her showcase of a home.
“You’re all grown up now. You want a dog? Buy one.”
“I’ll take it under consideration.”
“You do that.” Smiling like a game show host, Winnie reached back into the carton. “Shall we try again?”
Out came another packet. The snapshots were taken during the halcyon year before the White Hurricane schooled him in heartbreak.
His niece set her album aside. “Uncle Griffin, isn’t this Lark’s mom? What’s she doing with Grandpa’s rifle?”
The warmth of fond memories took Griffin unwillingly. The image was one of his favorites, of Rae sitting in a field of tall grass. The original nature girl with sunlight pooling around her knees. The heavy ropes of her unkempt hair danced in the breeze like golden-tipped streams of fire. The snapshot was taken during their junior year. Griffin recalled the weather had been brisk; his father’s plaid hunting jacket hung from Rae’s shoulders.
In her lap: Everett’s Weatherby bolt-action rifle. A powerful weapon, and not one for amateurs.
“Grandpa used to take us hunting,” he told his niece.
Jackie frowned. “You don’t like to hunt.”
Rae hadn’t either, and neither Griffin’s mother nor his sister would go anywhere near a firearm.
Even today, Everett’s fascination with blood sports made Griffin queasy. Back then, he’d tagged along for the sheer joy of watching Rae hone the skill of marksmanship. Her prowess made her a favored pet of Griffin’s father. She’d refused to kill wildlife. But she’d been a natural, with stunning, pinpoint accuracy.
From thirty paces off, she could nail a yellowing leaf on a maple tree. Rocks, tin cans, stuffed animals Griffin stole from Sally’s closet and jokingly strung from trees—Rae never missed the mark.
Winnie studied the image. “Jackie, your grandfather taught Rae to shoot. He’d boast to everyone about her nonexistent learning curve. She had an amazing talent right from the start. Grandpa adored her. Rae was such a bright, fearless girl. Nothing at all like your mother at that age, or Uncle Griffin. They were both more . . . introspective.”
“We were wimps,” Griffin added dryly.
A grin flickered on Jackie’s mouth. “You were not!” A positive display of emotion, her first in months.
The change wasn’t lost on his mother. Beneath her encouraging glance, he found another photo of Rae.
“Wondering how I came by my friendship with Lark’s mom?” He slid the photo before her. “When your mom and I were growing up, Grandpa made some good investments. He did so well, he became a serious player in Geauga County. He amassed more wealth than Midas, but he refused to put us in private school. There was a private academy in Chagrin Falls—I’m not sure how she managed it, but Sally got all the information. She even got her hands on the application forms.”
“Who cares about private school? Sounds boring.”
“Your mother thought otherwise. Sally begged to go. She was two grades ahead of me, and I always followed her lead. Private school sounded like a good deal.”
“Why?”
“When Grandpa bought up the land to build the car dealership, he put a small factory out of business. A couple of retail establishments too.” His father’s tactics had been nothing short of ruthless. “Unfortunately, we went through the grades with lots of kids whose parents lost those jobs. We were picked on a lot.” On several depressing occasions, Griffin was beaten up by older boys. A detail too humiliating to share.