In Harmony(14)

The gratitude overwhelmed me, filling me up, and mangling what poor words I struggled to utter.

“You didn’t have to do this. Any of it. But… I’m grateful.” I cleared my throat and stuffed the envelope in the back pocket of my jeans. “I mean, really. Thank you.”

“It’s from both Brenda and me,” Martin said. His smile tightened. “How’s your old man going to be tonight?”

“He’s probably got the surprise party all ready to go.”

Martin crossed his arms and pressed his gaze.

“You know how he’ll be, Marty.” I shrugged on my leather jacket. “Passed out or on a rampage, itching for a fight.”

“You watch yourself. And remember, our door is always open—”

“Yeah, okay. Tell Brenda I said thanks.”

He let his arms drop with a tiny sigh. “You bet.”

Martin’s concerned gaze followed me like a warm wind at my back to the cab of my old blue Dodge. An icebox. My breath steaming as I turned the engine over and let it idle to warm up. I turned Martin’s offer over too, tried to get it to warm up in my mind.

The Fords lived in a large, brick house on Front Street. Huge maple trees out front, a wrought-iron fence along the sidewalk. The house was built in 1862 and had been redone and renovated. The inside was filled with eclectic sculptures and paintings they’d collected over the years from artist friends, and from their own extensive travels.

I’d been over there a hundred times, and on a few occasions, when Pops got really violent, I stayed in their spare room. On those nights, I thought plenty about living with Martin and Brenda permanently. I knew they’d have me. I was nineteen and I could live where I wanted. Pop couldn’t say no. And yet…

Lying in the soft bed in the Fords’ guest room, with the heater working perfectly, surrounded by comfort and sturdy brick walls instead of cheap siding, I hadn’t been able to sleep. I’d imagined my dad alone in that shitty trailer, and remembered when I was a kid, before Mom died, and how he’d play ball with me. Or let me pretend to shave in the bathroom mirror with him in the morning.

Pops was a broken down drunk, but he was my family.

In my truck’s front seat, I fished out the red envelope from the back pocket of my jeans. The card was fancy—probably from that expensive stationary store up in the mall in Braxton. Gold drama masks, tragedy and comedy, adorned the front. Inside was a fifty dollar bill, a gift card to The Outpost clothing store—also in Braxton—and a handwritten message in Martin’s neat scrawl.

The money is for what you want. The card is for what you need.

Happy Birthday,

Martin and Brenda

My vision blurred. “Fuck, Marty.”

Pops might be blood, whispered a thought. But Martin and Brenda are family.

I got my shit together, revved the engine a few more times and rubbed the last condensation off the window. From my parking spot across the street from the theater, I could see a few people still congregated, talking to cast members.

And then I saw her.

Willow. The new girl. Standing with Angie McKenzie and her crew on the steps. Her hair spilled out from under her pink hat and over her white coat. In her gloved hands was a rolled-up Oedipus program.

“She saw it,” I heard myself say.

Like a dope, I touched the window. Safe and hidden in the dark confines of the cab, I stared as Willow glanced up at the glowing marquee. The light illuminated her stunning face, a perfect oval of smooth skin and large eyes. Then her friends tugged her arm, and they headed down the street in the opposite direction.

I didn’t know this girl for shit, but I added Willow Holloway seeing me perform tonight to the birthday presents from Marty already in my pocket.

And for the first time in my life, I felt rich.





Isaac



I left the lights of Harmony in my rearview while the road ahead grew bumpy, dark, and cracked by ice. The homes on this side of town were small, surrounded by chain link fences and bare trees scratching at the sky.

My shoulder muscles tightened as I pulled up in front of our trailer—the lights were on inside the living area. I took a deep breath to calm down. Pops might be passed out instead of prowling, I told myself. It wouldn’t be the first time.

I killed the engine and tucked the envelope with my gift card and cash in the glove compartment. Bringing evidence of Martin Ford’s generosity into the trailer was asking for a shit-load of trouble.

I turned my key into the lock and cringed as the door squeaked. I peeked my head in, a lion tamer preparing to walk into the cage. Pops was sitting on the couch. Sitting up and passed out. Chin to chest and snoring wetly. The TV blared the news. A second bottle of Old Crow had joined the first on the coffee table, also empty. The air was thick with cigarette smoke.

I eased a sigh of relief. Creeping on silent feet, I shut off the TV and lights. I thought about laying my father down and covering him with a blanket, but I’d learned the hard way it was safer to leave him alone. I didn’t want to perform the final Oedipus with a busted nose.

The heater whirred quietly but the initial warmth from stepping inside was already wearing off. In my room, I kicked off my boots and jacket, then climbed into bed fully dressed.

My thoughts drifted back over the performance. Lorraine was right: I gave so much every night on stage—so much rage and regret. It was cathartic, letting it all out in that theater. Letting Oedipus’ pain be a conduit for my own. I gave so much because I had so much to give since Mom died.