Wrapped in Rain(90)

"Sell it."

"Yeah, but the money we earned wouldn't buy as much therapy as that fire. I'm thinking about grabbing some marshmallows, a few Hershey bars, and pulling up a chair."

While the flames grew hotter and higher, I sat down, crossed my legs, and basked in the glow. Jase ran off the front porch, jumped on my lap, and said, "Unca Tuck, do you think Unca Mutt would like to drink some beer with us?"



Our therapy burned on for several hours, but the plastic box in my pocket and Mutt's quick disappearance reminded me that the inevitable was coming. Maybe this was the calm before the storm. What would he do after the fire died? Late in the afternoon, I dialed the number. It rang once. "Gibby, this is Tucker."



"Tucker, good to hear you. How is he?"

"That depends. Some days, I see progress. Others, I see digression. But ..."

"Tucker, what is it?"

"I think I found the root."

"How do you know?"

"It's a long story, but you remember him telling you about that dream where he was caught under a desk or table and unable to help someone in need?"

"Clearly."

"Well, that actually happened. About fifteen years ago. We were both there and I didn't know it until last night. I'm ... I'm at a loss. When I look at him, I think he could both slowly improve and spontaneously combust."

"Christmas is day after tomorrow. I'll overnight a different medication that should arrive on the twenty-sixth. In three days. Think you can make it that far?"

I had lost track. I had no idea it was the eve of Christmas Eve. "I think so. Maybe. I don't know. I don't know if his fuse is burning fast, slow, or not at all."

"Have you used the injections? The Thorazine?"

"No, not yet."

"Keep them close. If he's half as bad as you say, that may he your only salvation."

Gibby was right, but now I had two problems-Mutt, and what to get Katie and Jase for Christmas.





Chapter 41


GROWING UP, MOST OF MY FRIENDS DREAMED ABOUT fighting fires, shooting the bad guys, hitting the winning home run, saving the girl, or even getting kissed. My dreams had nothing to do with firemen, cops and robbers, girls, or playing first base for the Atlanta Bravesthat all came later. My first dreams, at least as much as I can remember of them, revolved around Rex coming home early from work, putting down his briefcase, picking up a glove rather than his glass, and throwing me the ball. And if he could have done all that without screaming and hitting me, well then, all the better.

I daydreamed that Rex would step out of his black Lincoln or Mercedes, wearing his white, starched, Frenchcuffed, embroidered, Egyptian cotton shirt, sweaty and stuck to his back, his tie swinging side to side with every toss, smiling and offering a slow, steady stream of encouragement. "That's right, keep the elbow up. Point, step, and throw. And hit the target. Throw through the mitt." Rex could have told me that I was the most important kid in the world by hurrying home during a summer deluge, tossing me my glove, and saying, "Hurry, before it lets up." When it didn't happen, I threw the ball to myself, pretended, and made excuses for his absence. It didn't take me long to run out of excuses.

Pretty soon, I realized baseball just wasn't Rex's thing, so I developed secondary dreams. These dreams revolved around him asking me to join him in whatever he was doing. I told myself he was busy, powerful, wielded influence, that he had a lot going on. My secondary dreams looked like Rex asking me to help him muck the stalls, mow the grass, clean his shotguns, cook breakfast, chop wood, build a fire, groom the horses, go fishing, drive the tractor-anything-but Rex didn't do those things. He paid someone else to do it because he didn't care the first thing about them. Not doing those things allowed him to spend more time chasing Thomas Jefferson or his secretary or disassembling a sweat-equity, family-owned business in Decatur.



I'm not so poisoned that I can't see what a gift Rex had for making money. Everything he touched turned to gold. But the gold-touching secret would have been the last thing Rex would have ever shared with me. It was his secret, and he was quite happy to let it die with him which it will-because I was competition. His goal was plain and simple. Rex hired Katie's dad to get rid of Katie because having her near me made me happy. And if he wasn't going to be happy, then no one else was either.

Lastly, my dreams dwindled to fantasies of recognition. If Rex wasn't going to play catch with me in the rain, then he could have at least taken me by the hand, walked me through the front door of his skyscraper, patted me on the shoulder, and said, "Hello, Mr. So-and-So, I'd like for you to meet my son," let me stand on my toes and punch the elevator button for the top floor, parade me into his office, ask his secretary to bring him his coffee and a hot chocolate topped with little marshmallows he'd bought just for me, and then let me sit next to him while he made phone calls, attended meetings, or did something important. Because if I had been included in what was so allfired important, then maybe that would mean I was important too.

On the other hand, I didn't have to ask Miss Ella if she loved me. I knew. She told me every day but seldom used words. From the age of five, Miss Ella taught me how to spell love, and I've never forgotten it.



It's spelled T-I-M-E. And it's something Rex knew absolutely nothing about.