“Who is it?” I asked, confused why one of my old Navy buddies would have him acting weird.
“Introduced himself as Carson Rucker. Said you used to call him Hound.”
“Hound’s here?” I asked, taking a step toward the fire station. Hound and I had lost contact years ago and I was looking forward to seeing him again.
“Wait, Wasp.” Link moved to cut me off. “He’s… he smells like he’s coming off a bender, and he’s high as a fuckin’ kite. You know how I feel about that shit.”
“Hound?” I looked from Link to the building, trying to reconcile the Hound I remembered with Link’s description. I couldn’t imagine it. “Are you sure?”
Link gave me a flat stare. “What the fuck do you think?”
Right. Link was always sure. “Look, Prez, I don’t know what he’s been up to, but I gave Hound that nickname because he helped servicemen fight for benefits they were denied. He was like a goddamn bloodhound, sniffing out the decisionmakers and making sure our men got what they needed. He didn’t rest until they were taken care of. He’s good people.”
Link’s frown only deepened. “Well, you might want to get your ass in there and see if you can remind him of that, because junkies aren’t allowed in this club.”
Wondering what the fuck had happened to Hound, I hurried inside.
Carly
FATHER’S DAY STARTED out in the worst possible way. Trent woke up me up at the butt crack of dawn with the very question I’d been dreading since we high-tailed it out of Idaho almost four months ago.
“Can we go see Dad?”
Still half asleep, I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping this was some horrible nightmare rather than an actual conversation he wanted to start the day with. But when I reopened my eyes, my kid was still standing beside my bed, his expression somber, waiting for an answer.
“What?” I asked, pretending I hadn’t understood the question in a desperate ploy to buy myself time. As if any number of minutes could help me figure out how to respond.
“Dad. I want to see his grave. Like we did after he died.”
My chest constricted. Tears stung the backs of my eyes and I tried to think of some way to distract or redirect him. “How about the Children’s Museum? You love it there. I heard they have a new space exhibit.”
“I don’t want to go to the Children’s Museum. I want to see Dad’s grave. Chuckie’s dad took him to his mom’s grave, and they put flowers and pumpkins on it.”
“Chuckie?” I asked, envisioning some creepy, murderous little doll. “Who let you watch Chuckie?”
“Chuckie fromRugrats.” Trent rolled his head to the side like he was exasperated with me. “The cartoon, Mom. Dad liked football and fish. We can put those on his grave. And some army men to protect him. Then you gotta say what you remember about him.”
The last memory I had of Robbie was blood dripping down his driver’s side window as the tow truck hauled it toward the police station. Desperately trying to blink that image away, I took a deep breath and wished my kid could be content watching Road Runner drop shit on Coyote’s head. Why did he have to like the stuff with morals and storylines and feelings? Who the hell wrote cartoons about visiting graves?
Knowing I was losing the battle for Trent’s peace of mind, I countered with more options. “What about swimming? We can go to the Y and spend all day there if you want. You can even climb the rock wall.”
“You’re not listening, Mom.”
I was listening so hard my heart was in danger of shredding and floating out through my ears. My kid wanted something simple and reasonable, and I couldn’t give it to him. “I am, Trent. I promise. But we can’t go back. I told you this already.”
“But Dad and Aunt Becca don’t have anyone to put things on their graves. It’s up to me and you to do it.”
“I’m sure Becca’s mom takes her flowers,” I reassured him. “She might take your dad flowers, too.”
His eyebrows rose, and he gave me a look that called me on my fib. “But we should check. Dad might think we forgot about him.”
Every swear word I’d ever heard filtered through my mind. It seemed like I should at least get coffee and a Prozac before Trent bombarded me with this. He wasn’t going to let it go, either—I could tell by the set of his jaw and the squaring of his shoulders—and when Trent dug his heels in there was no distracting or diverting him. Guilt dug its way into my stomach, reminding me of my role in Robbie and Becca’s deaths. If it hadn’t been for me, my two best friends would still be alive, and I wouldn’t be waking up to this conversation. I’d created this mess. Time to put on my big girl pants and handle it.
Sliding out of bed, I crouched down beside Trent. “Dad’s grave is a long way away and we don’t have a car.”
“Jess would let us use hers.”
“Possibly, but it would take days to drive there and back and Jess has to use her car for work. And I have to work, Trent. Otherwise we won’t have any money to pay rent or buy food. And driving back to Dad’s grave would cost lots of money in gas. I’m sorry, but we can’t do it.”
