A Mother Would Know (10)

We turn right at the next intersection. If we went left, we’d hit the main street, which would take us to restaurants and shops. Instead, we’re met with more homes. Trees drape over the road, meeting in the middle like hands stretching out, their fingertips grazing. Bowie sniffs in the dirt, barks at a shaking bush. A lizard or bird inside, perhaps.

I yank on the leash, guiding him down the sidewalk. A couple of bikes whiz past, leaving a breeze in their wake. Drawing a few strands of hair back from my cheek, I hurry forward, trying to keep up with Bowie. Sweat gathers along my shoulder blades, slides down my spine. It’s much warmer than our usual walks, and I wish again that I’d gotten up earlier. Every September I’m reminded of how late fall arrives here in Sacramento.

We make our way down the sidewalk, flanked by Victorian and colonial homes, large sweeping staircases and wraparound porches. We’re entering an even nicer neighborhood than ours. To my left is one of my favorite homes in this area with its rounded windows and curved chimney, resembling a fairy-tale cottage.

We make a full loop of the block and head for home.

After rounding the corner onto our street, I spot Leslie on the sidewalk in front of her house, talking with a man who appears to have been on a jog. He’s wearing short shorts, and a T-shirt that’s damp with sweat, tennis shoes on his feet.

Then he turns his head, and I realize it’s Hudson.

I pick my pace up to a jog.

“...doing back here?” Her tone is venomous, voice rising. I see Beth peek out her front window. No surprise there. I bet other neighbors are getting an eyeful, too.

I don’t hear Hudson’s response, but it’s clear he gives her one, because there’s a slight pause before she practically shouts, “No one wants you here.”

I’m so winded when I reach them that my breath is shallow, my heart racing. I swallow down the burn in my throat and lungs and force words out. “I do. I want him here.”

Leslie’s head snaps in my direction.

I gulp in air and continue, “He’s my son. He’s always welcome here.”

“Not after what he did to Heather,” Leslie says.

“I never hurt Heather,” Hudson says softly, trying to catch Leslie’s eyes, but she won’t look at him. She keeps her eyes on me.

“I know what you did,” she says, unmoved.

I grab my son’s arm with my free hand, guiding him away. “Come on, let’s get outta here.”

She’s been spewing these allegations for years.

Enough is enough.

“You have to believe me,” Hudson says over his shoulder as I yank him away. “I promise I never hurt her.”

“Let it go,” I say firmly, knowing there’s no getting through to her. She’s too entrenched in her own beliefs at this point. Her hatred toward us runs too deep.

“I don’t believe you,” she hollers after us. “And I’m going to make sure this entire neighborhood knows what you’re capable of, what kind of monster you are.”

Hudson’s muscles tighten beneath my grip.

“Ignore her,” I say through gritted teeth as we make our way up the front steps. “It’s all words. She can’t actually hurt you. Let’s get inside, and I’ll make breakfast.”

“For sure,” he says, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand.

“Were you running?” I ask as I unlock the front door.

I didn’t know my son was a runner. He hadn’t been when he was younger.

“Yeah, it’s somethin’ I took up a few years ago.”

As he steps inside the house behind me, the toe of his shoe hits one of the succulent pots lining the porch. “You have a lot of these.”

“It’s kind of a hobby.”

“Buying plants?” His brow furrows.

“No. I arrange them.” I’ve always been a creative person. Music used to be my outlet, but when I stopped that, I had to find things to fill that void. For a while I took a dance class at the rec center with my best friend, Suzanne. Recently, I started taking an art class there. I tried to get Suzanne to join that with me as well, but she couldn’t make the time work for her schedule. And about a year ago, I discovered I had a knack for creating succulent planters. I’ve never had a green thumb, but succulents are easier to keep alive.

When we get inside, I unhook Bowie from his leash. “So, I was thinking maybe we could grab dinner out tonight. Maybe Suzie Burger?” It had been a favorite of his for years.

“Actually, I’m gonna go out with my buddies tonight.” Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, he makes his way to the kitchen.

I follow. “Which buddies?” It seems pretty fast for him to have already made new friends.

“Browning, Griff and the Beast.” He pulls a water out of the fridge, unscrews the top.

It takes a minute to register. Jared Browning, Mark Griffin and Adam Stetson. His friends from growing up, their old nicknames acquired out on the baseball field. He’d become friends with them in junior high.

“I kinda assumed they’d all moved out of the area,” I muse aloud.

“Nah.” He takes a sip.

Some of it saturates his beard, and suddenly I’m mesmerized by it. How hot must it be to run with that thing on his face? I know it’s a style nowadays. I’m not that out of touch. I see guys all over town with bushy beards wearing skinny jeans, long Tshirts, and thick black-rimmed glasses. According to Suzanne, their fellow millennials call them hipsters. Even Kendra’s husband, Theo, has one, although he keeps it shorn close, nicely trimmed. I wish Hudson did that, at least, so I could see his face.