She reaches over for another quick hug. “Not at all, sweetie. I’d love another boy in the family.” She wipes her eyes and steps back.
On the drive back, Mickey reaches over from his seat and puts his hand on my knee. His hand stays there for the whole drive. He doesn’t say anything.
We’re on the highway and I’m about to turn toward the Roadhouse when I glance over at him.
“Let’s go do something,” I say. “What else is there to see or do here? Where do people go? Where’s the main strip?”
“Pier Park is a place the tourists go. Outdoor shopping center right on the beach. Ice cream shops, a big candy store. Restaurants, shops, a movie theater. They do festivals there, country music events, pirate festivals, softball tournaments. There’s a fishing pier with regulars who’ve been there every morning since before I joined the department.”
“You know those fishermen?”
“I know every one of them by name. That pier was on my patrol route. I worked traffic and crosswalks there for years. Every festival, every event, I was the guy directing cars and keeping the crosswalk clear.”
“Let’s go now,” I say. “While we’re already in the car.”
His hand tightens on my knee. “Benji, it’s July. It’s a hundred degrees out there and the pier has no shade. I’d be sitting on that pier in a hot metal chair cooking like a hot dog.”
“We’ll skip the pier then. How about just the candy store? Dante has been asking for saltwater taffy. I’ve told him a million times there’s no saltwater in it. I don’t know why he loves it so much. In and out, ten minutes tops. You can sit in the AC while I shop.”
He’s quiet for a second. It’s been a big day already. I’d understand if he wanted to go home.
“Okay,” he says. “Just the candy store. Then back home.”
I take the next exit toward Pier Park. The parking lot is almost full with the summer crowd. I get the chair from the trunk, Mickey transfers himself and we head towards the candy store. Mickey’s chair rolls easy. The shops are open, and people are moving in and out with bags and ice cream cones. I’m pushing Mickey through his hometown in the Florida sunshine and I’m happy. This is what I wanted and needed this afternoon.
“This is fun,” I say. “After the candy store, then maybe we walk around a little?”
“Candy store first to get Dante’s order done, then we’ll see,” Mickey says. “Once you see the inside of the store, I might not be able to get you to leave.”
He’s right. The candy store is an explosion of sugar. Bins of taffy, shelves of rock candy, old-fashioned penny candy that isn’t a penny anymore but keeps the name. I park Mickey near the door and dive in. I quickly text Dante a photo of the store, then grab two bags to fill. One for Dante and another for us.
I fill Dante’s order first. Saltwater taffy in six flavors. Rock candy on sticks, blue and purple. The pecan divinity in a wax paper sleeve. I’m holding up two options of chocolate fudge and asking Mickey’s opinion from across the store when I hear it.
“Mickey? Mickey Weaver?”
A man in khaki shorts and a fishing shirt, mid-fifties, tanned and thick in the way men get when they’ve spent thirty years doing yard work in the Panhandle sun. He’s walking toward Mickey’s chair with the easy stride of a person who’s known him for years.
“Hey, Jim,” Mickey says.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Look at you.” Jim’s eyes go to the wheelchair then back to Mickey’s face. “Heard you were home. Linda and I were talking about you last week. Said we should come by with a casserole but I didn’t want to intrude.”
“I appreciate that. How’s Linda? How’s the yard?”
“Linda’s good. The yard is winning. I lost the battle with the grass and I’m pretending it was on purpose.” Jim shakes his head. “We were worried about you, Mickey. The whole street was. When the news came on about the shooting, Linda sat on the couch and cried. She said that’s our Mickey, that’s our neighbor.”
“Tell her I said thank you. And that I’m doing good. Getting stronger every day.”
I walk over with Dante’s bag in one hand and a stick of blue rock candy in the other that I’d pulled off the shelf for myself. I reach the chair and stand slightly behind, my hand finding the push handle the way it naturally does. Jim glances at me. His eyes do the quick read. He doesn’t say anything.
“So, are you back at your house?” he asks. “I haven’t seen the lights on or a vehicle in the driveway.”
“I’m staying above Tex’s place for now. He built an accessible apartment upstairs. Easier than the house until I figure out the long-term plan.”
“That makes sense. Those front steps of yours aren’t great for a wheelchair. If you need anything from us, just say the word. Linda’s got a freezer full of casseroles she’s been threatening to deliver.”
“I’ll take her up on that. Tell her I appreciate it.”
“I’ll tell her.” He claps Mickey’s shoulder. “Good to see you, son.”
