Of the Trees(17)

“Your father said someone was giving you trouble in the parking lot,” her mother said, her tone accusatory as she stared Cassie down over the steaming griddle. A small heap of pancakes was already piled on a plate next to her, and three eggs were currently frying on the hot metal. Cassie shrugged, grunting around her swallow of orange juice. She decided in that moment not to tell them about the broken ride, especially if they were going to get upset over some guy asking her for a light in the parking lot. “You should have had Ryan meet you.”

“I wasn’t meeting Ryan,” Cassie said, pulling a face at her father who stayed stoically behind the now-opened newspaper. “I was meeting Laney.”

“So, Ryan wasn’t there, hmm?” her mother asked, tilting her head and staring Cassie down over her glasses. Cathy Harris’ hair was mussed, she hadn’t showered yet, and there were lines etched into the creases by her eyes. It was probably a long night at the hospital for her. And yet, even mussed up and looking exhausted, she managed a knowing slant to her smile, half-accusation and half-insight that Cassie did not yet have access to.

“No, he and Jon were both there, but—”

“Groups are safer,” her mother interrupted, flipping an egg.

“You know, technically,” Cassie started, reaching over the back of her chair and snatching a strip of bacon, “Ryan isn’t a group. He’s just one—”

“One boy who’s a head taller than you, stronger, and would do anything to protect you,” her mother interjected. Cassie felt her cheeks flame red, stuffed the bacon in her mouth, and chose to ignore her mother in favor of chewing. She kept her eyes on her empty plate, listening for the tell-tale clinking of dishes being dropped on the table before she brought her gaze up, confident that by that point, her mother’s knowing smirk would have dissipated. Her head jerked up instead at a low whistle issued from her father.

“What?”

“The … ” He paused, cleared his throat, and the corner of the paper drooped. Cassie caught his look at his wife, shocked and hollow, glazed over with sadness. “It’s Carl.”

“Lieutenant Watson?” Cassie asked, watching the silent play between her parents. They were annoyingly good at communicating this way, soft looks and glances that she could never decipher. Her father hummed his acknowledgment of her question but didn’t turn to her.

“It says here exposure.”

Cassie frowned, watching the play of emotions that crossed her mother’s face. Her brow furrowed and the lines of her mouth pulled down, pity and understanding clashing together in her features.

“I’m so sorry, Patrick,” she said, her voice soft. Cathy reached across and gripped her husband’s hand, her smile sympathetic.

“Exposure,” her father muttered, squeezing the fingers his wife offered. “What does that mean?”

“Could be anything,” her mother supplied as he trailed off. “It’s really not that cold, but if he had been drinking, drugs, fallen down … I’m sure I’ll hear something at work.”

“Wait, what happened?” Cassie asked, feeling distinctly left out. Lieutenant Carl Watson was a local homeless man. Though technically, he wasn’t really homeless. He did have an apartment; Cassie had been with her father when he had asked him about it. It was in the next town over, a basement flat he paid rent on, but Lieutenant Watson was always wandering through their town, stopping at the liquor store, and resting in the parks near her house. He wasn’t much to look at, not at first. He had an awful odor that hung about him, stale and stagnate with hints of urine. His skin was ashy, dry, and Cassie wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he did not shower on a regular basis. But he was friendly, always smiling, always waving at Cassie as she walked by. Her father had taken a more active role; Cassie knew he brought the man food and sat and had a few lunches with him on occasion. As a local history teacher, the older soldier had stories that her father found fascinating.

“Lieutenant Watson died, honey,” her mother said, looking from her father to her.

“He was found last night, outside the carnival,” Patrick added, taking a large swallow of coffee.

“He was at the carnival?” Cassie asked, a hollow, unsettled feeling carved a ravine in her stomach. Her parents nodded, distracted. Her father put down the paper and started to help himself to the cooling food. Cassie felt the skin around her eyes tighten as she tried to look back, remember if she had seen the Lieutenant last night. Her memory seemed a blur of lights and colors, breaking rides and fried food. She definitely hadn’t noticed the man last night, his smell alone would have jarred her memory, it was always so sharp and pungent.

Cassie swallowed hard, reaching for a serving of pancakes, a feeling of shame welling in her gut. She shouldn’t be thinking of him in those terms, not hours after his death. It was such a sad and lonely death, too. His whole life, at least what Cassie had known of it, was sad and lonely. It was awful that even his death couldn’t have been filled with a bit of warmth.

“Did you see him last night?” her father asked, taking a tentative bite of pancake. Cassie shook her head.

“No, but … ” She wasn’t really sure if it was relevant. It was too late to retract her words though, her mother was already staring at her in expectation. “There were some strange people there last night, some of the carnies—”