Authors: David Handler

The Blood Red Indian Summer (11 page)

“I don’t have that kind of money.”

“I can loan you the plane fare.”

“I wouldn’t be able to pay you back for ages.”

“So that’ll be my Christmas present to you. Just think about it, okay? Who knows, by then you may not feel the same way about each other.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “Is June seeing somebody else?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“Because he’s been acting so strange the past few days. Like he’s, I don’t know, all torn up emotionally.”

“You should talk to each other about it. That’s what couples do.”

“You’re right, I guess.” She shrugged her narrow shoulders helplessly. “I mean, whatever.”

Mitch said good night to Callie and headed back into the woods toward the hole in the fence, wondering if he should have told her everything. But it wasn’t his business to tell her about June and Bonita. That was up to June, wasn’t it?

Well, wasn’t it?

He found the hole easily enough but took a wrong turn somewhere in the woods on the other side and came out by Tyrone Grantham’s swimming pool instead of his driveway. The party was over. Everyone was gone—except for an enormous middle-aged black woman and chubby young black girl who were gathering up all of the plastic cups and paper plates and stuffing them into a trash barrel. The smell of perfume lingered in the air. Someone’s yellow bikini top was floating in the pool.

“What do
you
want?” the woman demanded, glowering at him. “You some kind of a reporter?”

“I was seeing Mr. Lash home. Just came back to get my truck. I’m a friend of the resident trooper. Are you Mrs. Grantham?”

She nodded her head. “Chantal. I know you from the TV, don’t I? You’re that movie critic with the funny eyebrows.”

“That’s me, all right. Except there’s nothing funny about my—”

“This here’s Monique.”

“Hello there, Monique.”

“Hi,” she responded distantly, her gaze fastened on the pavement.

“That bunch of no good leeches had
no
business here,” Chantal fumed as she tossed more trash in the barrel. “It was that old fool Calvin let ’em in. Hoping one of those girls would get so high she’d spend the night with him. I worked the streets, okay? I know what men are really like. Even you so-called respectable men. You’re all sick. And weak. Can’t control your evil impulses.
We’re
the strong ones. The good Lord knows that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” she barked at him. “My Tyrone’s a good boy. He tries to do the right thing. But he’s had to fend for himself and Rondell ever since he was a child. I wasn’t there for him then. Now I am. So you go home and leave us alone, hear? Just go home.”

* * *

She answered her cell phone on the first ring. Always did.

“Did I wake you up?”

“No, I just climbed into bed.”

“What’s the Deacon up to?” he asked, fetching a Bass Ale from his fridge. Quirt was nose down in the kibble bowl enjoying a late night happy meal.

“Watching a rerun of
NCIS
, what else?”

“Is he wearing his jacket in the house?”

“He is. I was thinking I might burn it when goes to bed—except I swear he never does. You get Winston home okay?”

“I did. Someone cut a hole in the fence between the two properties. That’s how he got in.”

“Did Winston do it?”

“He says not. I did find wire cutters in his toolbox, but my money’s on a tabloid scuzzball.”

“I’d believe that. I’ll tell the Granthams in the morning. Thanks for the heads up.”

“Da Beast was a lot nicer than I was expecting him to be. I kind of liked him, I must confess.”

“He can be very likeable. He can also change gears uber-fast.”

“So shall we talk menu for tomorrow night?”

“Serve whatever you want, Mitch. I won’t be eating a single bite.”

“That’s my girl. Have I told you recently how adorable you are?”

“I’m not feeling very adorable right now.”

“Beg to differ, thinny.”

“Sleep tight, doughboy.”

His stomach was rumbling. He’d never managed to eat any dinner. He cooked himself up those grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches he’d been starting to make and devoured both sandwiches while he trolled on his computer.

Sure enough, twenty-seven seconds of shaky video-phone footage of the heavyweight Clarence Bellows-Winston Lash bout was already up and streaming on a high-traffic celebrity gossip site, which was calling it a “rumble” between a member of Da Beast’s “crew” and “an unidentified, pajama-clad man.” Mitch couldn’t believe how far the goalposts of the news business had shifted. Editors used to wait until they had an actual story before they ran the visuals. Now the raw video
was
the story. By morning it would go viral, which did Tyrone Grantham no good. Then again, his cousin Clarence hadn’t done him any favors either.

Mitch washed up in the kitchen, but was still way too wired to sleep, so he opened another Bass and put on
Anywhere, Anytime, Anyplace
, a circa-1949 recording by John Lee Hooker and his Coast To Coast Blues Band. He powered up his monster stack, grabbed his sky blue Stratocaster and sat in on “Come Back Baby,” laying down his riffs behind John Lee’s low, seductive growl, bare toes wrapped around his wah-wah pedal as he reached for it, found it,
felt
it.

It was nearly three by the time Mitch climbed up to his sleeping loft and burrowed under the covers. He was asleep instantly. And swore his head had barely hit the pillow when his phone started ringing and ringing on the nightstand.

He groped for it, groaning. “Hello?…”

“Rise and shine, Boo-Boo! Everybody out of the sack!” His father sounded up as a pup. Always did. “Hey, I didn’t wake you, did I? You said you get up early.”

“I-I do, but…” He let out a huge yawn, blinking. “Pop, it’s still dark out. What time is it?”

“Five-thirty.”

“Are you getting ready to leave the city?”

“Nope. We’re here.”

“
Where
here?”

“At the foot of your causeway. But we can’t get out to the island. There’s a barricade blocking our way. You have to hit a buzzer or something?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“So hit it already, will you?”

“Wait, you’re
here
?” Mitch’s brain was still not quite firing on all its cylinders. In fact, he thought the chances were good that he was actually still asleep. “What time did you leave the city?”

“We set the alarm for two-fifteen. Had our coffee and All-Bran, locked up your apartment good and snug and were out the door by three o’clock sharp. Are you going to raise this barricade or what?”

“Sure, sure. Right away…” Mitch staggered downstairs and hit the buzzer by the front door, his bleary eyes still swollen half-shut. He threw on a T-shirt and shorts and ran a hand through his mop of curls. Flicked on the porch light. Sure enough, they were pulling up in the driveway in a rented Ford Focus.

He went out into the muggy pre-dawn warmth and hugged and kissed them both. It had been nearly a year since they’d made it up from Vero Beach.

“Is Desiree here?” Chet demanded to know. “It’s fine by us if she is. You don’t have to hide her in a closet. We’re all grown ups.”

“She’s home with her dad. He’s recuperating from bypass surgery, remember? And I don’t have any closets.”

“What’d he say?” Chet was hard of hearing but refused to acknowledge it. Just talked really loud. Pretty soon everyone else was, too.

“He said he doesn’t have any closets,” Ruth told him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?
Everyone
has closets.”

“We can’t wait to meet her, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, when are we going to meet her, Boo-Boo?”

“Tonight. We’re all having dinner here. And … could you do me a huge favor and not call me Boo-Boo in front of Des? I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“But I’ve called you Boo-Boo your whole life.”

“I know this, Pop.”

“And Maisie never minded that I called you … ouch!” Chet yelped as Ruth’s elbow collided with his ribs. “Okay, son, if that’s how you want it.” His eyes fell on Mitch’s Studey. “Hey, your truck is sa-weet. What year is it?”

“A ’56.”

“Sa-weet. I haven’t seen one of those babies in years. Can we take it out for a spin? Come on, let’s take it out for a spin.”

“Pop, are you high on greenies or something?”

“He’s just excited,” explained Ruth. “We’re happy to see you.”

“Likewise. Come on in. I’ll make us some coffee. And when the sun comes up I can show you around the island. Then I’ll take you to your bed and breakfast. Sorry I can’t put you up here, but it’s real tiny, as you’ll see.”

They followed him inside, gazing around as he flicked on the lights.

“Man oh Manischewitz, this place is straight out of an American history book,” Chet exclaimed. “Did George Washington sleep here?”

“Actually, he slept on Sour Cherry Lane before he crossed the Connecticut River. It was a ferry landing in those days.”

“No closets, Ruthie. He wasn’t kidding.”

“Of course he wasn’t kidding.”

Mitch got his first good look at his parents now—and their appearance alarmed him. They weren’t ancient. His dad was sixty-four, his mom a year younger. Yet both of them had …
shrunk
. His dad had always proclaimed himself to be six feet tall on the button. Yet Mitch towered over him, even barefoot. Chet had always been stocky, too. But he’d been on such a strict diet to bring down his cholesterol and blood pressure numbers that he actually looked gaunt. He wore his salmon-colored Florida slacks
way
up near his armpits. The lines in his face were deeper. His salt-and-pepper hair was more salt than pepper. He was still his same old peppy self. Mister Go-Go-Go. But he came off less like Chet Berger and more like Jiminy Cricket.

Was it
he
who had the grapefruit-sized tumor?

Or was it his mom—who had turned into one of those stooped little white-haired ladies that Mitch always offered his seat to on the subway. Ruth wore a pair of reading glasses on a chain around her neck. Once a librarian always a librarian. She had on a floral-patterned blouse, pink slacks and a pair of those bone-colored walking shoes that are the official footwear of AARP members who reside in the Sunshine State. Mitch’s mom was a shy, sensitive woman. But very direct. She said what she meant—just did so in a much quieter voice than his dad. Then again, Bobcat Goldwaith was quieter than his dad.

Was it
she
who had the grapefruit-sized tumor?

“You’re looking well, sweetheart. And I’m glad you let your eyebrows grow back. You reminded me of—”

“Joan Crawford, I know.”

“I was going to say Robert Taylor.”

“Wow, there’s a name you never hear anymore. He was such a huge star in his day. Yet he’s totally vanished into the celluloid haze—along with the likes of John Hodiak, Farley Granger and Elliott Gould.”

Chet made a face. “Don’t mention that bum Elliott Gould around me.”

“Why, what’s wrong with?…” Mitch noticed the dreamy look on Ruth’s face. “Oops, I forgot. He was your chief competition for Mom’s heart.”

“My entire adult life I’ve had him hanging over me,” Chet grumbled. “She even watched that stupid
Friends
on TV because every once in a while he’d turn up as Ross and Monica’s father. He’s a fat old man now, you know.”

“He is not,” Ruth objected. “And I could say a few words about your girlfriend Sharon Gless, mister. So behave yourself.”

By now the sun was rising up out of the Sound. Mitch went into the kitchen and put the coffee on, groping around in the cupboard under the sink for his reserve box of Cocoa Puffs. He helped himself to a starved handful out of the box, cursing himself for not having bought more donuts yesterday. It had been appallingly shortsighted of him.

Clemmie sauntered into the kitchen and had some kibble.

“Since when are you into cats?” Chet wanted to know.

“Des rescues feral strays.”

Clemmie padded out into the living room, sniffed at Mitch’s folks and elected to go back up to bed. Another rough day at the office.

When the coffee was ready, Mitch filled three mugs and asked his folks if they wanted to check out Big Sister while they drank it. They did. He led them down the path toward the lighthouse and the narrow strip of beach. There was a soft early-morning haze hanging over the tranquil water. A great blue heron was having breakfast at the water’s edge. It took flight in the direction of the river. Mitch could hear the flapping of its wings.

“This is just lovely, sweetheart,” Ruth said as they strolled along. “It’s the sort of a place that you dream about.”

“I still can’t believe I actually live here. I keep waiting for someone to notice me and yell, ‘Hey, you with the curly hair—get the hell off our island!’”

“I was hoping for real autumn weather,” Chet groused. “The McCoy.”

“Soon, Pop. We’re supposed to get a storm tonight.” Mitch took a sip of his coffee and said, “Okay, give it to me straight—which one of you is dying?”

His parents exchanged a confused look.

“Dying?” Chet repeated dumbly.

“Is it you or is it Mom? Tell me everything right now. I mean it.”

Chet shook his head. “What in the heck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about all of those ‘appointments’ that you had in the city. I’m talking about you showing up here in the middle of the night.”

“We like to beat the rush hour traffic.”

“Pop, you practically caught up with
last night’s
rush hour traffic. I know you two. Something’s up.”

“Nothing’s up. Everything’s sa-weet.”

“And will you
please
stop saying that? You’re driving me ka-rayzee.”

“Everything’s fine, sweetheart,” Ruth assured him. “We’re both fine.”

“Oh, yeah? Then what’s going on?”

“Lots of stuff,” Chet said. “We’re ‘happening’ people.”