Center of Gravity (23 page)
I shrink back further, pressing my head against the cold window. My fingers find the door handle and I hang on, the metal cutting into my skin. Chest heaving, sweat on his forehead, my father lets the last piece drop into the pile between us.
“Fair?” He raises an eyebrow and dares me to challenge him.
“Yes, sir,” I croak, holding back tears. It's then that I notice that the rain has stopped.
“That's right.” Dad answers, rolls down the window, scoops up the mess, and lets the tattered remains of
Element Man
fall from his fingers like confetti. A few strips catch in the breeze and sail away. Others tumble to the ground. One thin scrap sticks to the side mirror, and Dad flicks it off like trash.
He turns to me again. “Follow the rules, get rewards. Break the rules, suffer the consequences.” Dad starts the engine and pulls back onto the road.
As we drive away, I watch in the rearview mirror as the pieces float and fly in wild, looping circles. A few bits float to the side of the road and balance on blades of grass. Most flutter to the pavement, finding their places among the dirt and gravel, waving good-bye.
FRIDAY, APRIL 23
The house smells of lacquer, acrid, with an undertone of golden honey. I've flung open every window and door as the workmen begin painting the second coat on the new staircase. As the air, blessedly cool for an Alabama morning, filters into the house, ruffling papers on my desk, I inhale, filling my lungs. Anything to slow the breakneck pace of my pulse.
I watch the dogwood blossoms sway, dipping and clapping together in the breeze. Beside them, camellias, adorned with candy-pink blossoms rustle their forest-green leaves. The ferns, in hanging baskets on the front porch, twirl like dancers on a stage, fringed skirts spinning.
The scent of my tea floats in steamy wisps toward the ceiling, carrying hints of nutmeg and cloves. When I exhale, I practice slow, steady patience. One sip. One breath. Repeat. I haven't been able to wrap my brain around the idea that Mitchell's father is still alive.
Does Mitchell have his eyes, coal black, edged with granite? Does he drink his coffee black and strong? Will I know his voice, the deep, resonating sound, before he speaks?
My phone rings, a sharp, blaring notice, and I jump at the sound.
Dr. Bennett's name flashes up on the screen.
“Good morning, Ava,” she says. “Hope it's not too early. Can we schedule your home visit?”
“Sure.” I pull a stray curl behind one ear, shuffle to find my calendar, and check my empty schedule. The days yawn forward for weeks, empty. “Would Wednesday or Friday work?”
“Friday looks good to me,” she replies. There's a pause. “I also need Mitchell's permission to pick up the children and drive them to your house. Unless there's a sitter or a grandparent who could do it?”
Immediately, I shake the vision of my mother. Her high brow and fine cheekbones. Her perfectly articulated disapproval. Her thin lips, curling down. We've not spoken. And I won't step a toe in a lioness's den only to be rejected.
“I'm sureâ” I hesitate. “Well, I think he'll be fine with it.”
“Okay, I'll take care of it.” She clears her throat. “So the other reason I needed to talk is this. When I called Mitchell to confirm his home visit on Monday, he informed me he'd have to change the time until later that afternoon because Jack has detention.”
I choke. “Detention?”
“There was an incident at school around two o'clock this afternoon. Apparently, Jack was involved in some sort of fight. A scuffle, Mitchell said.”
“Scuffle?” I repeat, rushing back to the window, as if I might find my son standing in the yard, a sling over one shoulder. When I look, the only sign of life is a tiny sparrow pecking between blades of grass. “Is Jack all right?”
“Mitchell didn't tell you?”
“No,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“From what I understand, Jack's a little banged up. It sounds like he'll be fine.” Dr. Bennett clears her throat.
My throat closes. I'm dizzy with worry.
“I didn't want it to shock you,” she continues. “If you happen to run into Mitchell and the boys in townâbefore your next visit.”
“Thank you,” I reply, sitting down heavily. “Jack's not one to make trouble.” I suck in a breath. “Did Mitchell say what happened? Is the other student okay? I assume it was another child, not a teacher?”
“Someone in Jack's class. He's okay, too.” She pauses. “I'm not certain what the disagreement was about, although I plan to try and find out more Monday. I believe he'll have detention for a few days.”
Biting my lip, I glance at the clock. It's past five thirty. Too late on a Friday to get in touch with anyone. “I'll talk to the school. It'll have to be next week.”
“Of course,” she agrees. “I'm sorry I wasn't able to reach you sooner. I've been with clients all day.”
The moment I hang up, my phone buzzes with a call from Graham.
“Hello?” I answer quickly.
He's breathing fast, and his words come out clipped. “They got their restraining order,” Graham says flatly. “In Alabama, it's called a Protection from Abuse Order, or PFA. You can't contact him or go near him.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Graham keeps talking. “There's more. I just ran into Mitchell. Did you hear about Jack?”
“Yes, Dr. Bennett . . .” My chin falls, and I press my fingers to my forehead, squinting at my shoes. Then I stop, realizing what he'd said. “Wait, did Mitchell tell you?”
“Are you kidding?” Graham asks. “I was delivering homework for my nephew. I heard Mitchell talking, so I hid behind that huge saltwater tank in the lobby.” He punctuates the story with a few gory details of the run-in.
“Now I've heard everything.” I groan.
“Hey,” Graham exclaims. “I defended your honor. Told those women in the office not to believe everything they heard.”
My chest warms with a twinge of satisfaction. “Must have been quite the speech.”
“Ha. Mitchell made it clear
he
was going to call you about Jack. I heard him say it. That the secretaries shouldn't bother trying to reach you.”
“He had no intention of telling me.” Of course.
“Nope.”
I close my eyes and hold my breath. Getting angry won't do any good. I focus on what I have to tell him. “Graham?”
“Yep?”
“Mitchell's father is alive.”
“I'll be dammed!” He exclaims.
“Thursday afternoon I found Will Harris, who, by the way, was not that thrilled to see me. But he told me to talk to Frank Carson.” I pause and shake my head. “I'm still in shock.”
Graham laughs. “Ah! Our golden boy is beginning to look more like Pinocchio. Good work.”
I flush with pleasure. “Mitchell's dad is living in Moulton, just north of Cullman. To think, after all these years . . .”
“Just a few hours away,” Graham finishes my thought.
As I stare out the window, my thoughts turn. They're already on the winding stretch between here and there.
“I'm going to go find him.”
SATURDAY, APRIL 24
As I pass through Cullman and travel northwest, the Jeep rattles, making my water bottle jump and slosh. The scent of burned wood permeates the air, and the occasional jet screams overhead, leaving contrail wisps in the painted-blue sky.
Moulton itself is tiny and well cared for, population just over three thousand. There are stately brick churches, newer homes with landscaped lots, and a plethora of fast-food restaurants. As I pass through and turn off onto a small street on the outskirts of the city, I enter a strikingly different world.
This neighborhood contains small one-story homes, front porches decorated with sagging flowered sofas, broken bicycles, and rusted soda cans. An occasional resident of the community stares, sleepy-eyed, suspicious. Mangy dogs glare at empty water bowls; skeleton-thin, skittish cats hide in tall grass. I double-check my GPS and turn right.
The house sits close to the road. The roof appears relatively new; the yard is cut short, and an American flag flutters in a gust of warm air. While not pristine, the home is obviously in better shape than the rest on the street. This alone makes me feel slightly better, though I'd feel safer with a canister of Mace.
The mailbox, dented silver, bears no markings, no name. A late-model turquoise Buick spans the entire driveway. Long and sleek, fins, whitewall tires.
Stop admiring and procrastinating. You won't find anything sitting inside the Jeep.
I silence the lecture in my head and step out into a blanket of humidity. Rusted hinges protest with a loud squawk as I push open the gate. Next door, a barely bathrobed woman in pink curlers blows gray puffs of cigarette smoke. I wave, but she sits, her dark arm moving to her full lips, then away, watching.
Fine.
I knock twice with my knuckles, firm. Nothing
.
Again, harder. I peer through the glass, but it's covered with curtains.
“Mr. Carson,” I finally call out, my mouth inches from the door.
A rough voice answers. “I don't want any. Go away or I'll call the cops.”
Okay. At least I've got the right place.
“Mr. Carson, please. I'm not selling anything.” A trickle of sweat runs down the small of my back. April is not supposed to be this hot. If I stand here much longer, I'll faint or melt away, and he won't have to face me. Maybe that's his plan.
“Don't you understand English? Get out of here.” A gruff command. A soldier's order.
“Sir, I just need a moment.” I rack my brain, rub at the beads of perspiration on my neck.
Silence.
“It's about Jack,” I finally say. “And your son, Mitchell.”
Another few minutes tick by. I walk away from the door, check my cell phone, and pace across the wooden planks. The lady next door hasn't moved.
But then, something or someone rolls near the front door. I hear a lock click, and the door swings open a few inches. A thick-linked chain snaps tight. I turn and step toward the door. The end of a pistol stares back at me.
“Wait, hold on,” I exclaim and hold up my hands, fingers spread.
“Name,” he barks.
“Ava. Ava Carson. I'm married to your son.” For good measure, I give him Mitchell's birth date. I rattle off our home address. “And Jack's middle name is Franklin.”
This seems to convince him I'm not on his doorstep to rob him blind or steal his TV. He studies me like a scientist, as if I'm a bloodstain under a microscope.
“We're . . . we're having some problems. I was hoping you mightâ”
“First of all, get in here.” He reaches a gnarled hand and unlatches the chain. “Standing out there on my porch isn't the best idea.”
I step inside the dark room and let my eyes adjust to the light. It's thirty degrees cooler, the air-conditioner hums in the corner. The place, sparsely furnished, is neat and clean. No photos. A few books, magazines.
The Cullman Times
lies open on the table.
Mitchell's father stares back at me from his wheelchair. “I'd offer you a cold drink, but all I have is tap water. Don't get out much.”
“I'll take some.”
He doesn't move. “Help yourself, young lady. The kitchen's that way.”
“Thank you.” It's four steps to the sink. I find a clean glass, gulp greedily.
When I turn, he's behind me. I jump.
“Sorry,” he says. “I tend to move quietly, even in this old thing.” He gestures to the wheels. “So, you're a ways from home, I take it?”
I nod. “Four hours. We're in Mobile. It's quiet. Relatively safe.” I glance down at the pistol in his hand.
It occurs to me that Mitchell has one just like it. I look closer. Exactly like it. My stomach flip-flops.
Frank puts the gun away. “It's for protection. Neighborhood's gone downhill. Used to be nice, back in the day. Real fine.” He glances wistfully away from me. “After 'Nam, everything changed.”
“Yes, sir,” I agree. “I'm sure a lot's changed.”
“Have a seat.” He gestures to a chair. “Tell me why you've come all this way to see an old man. Something wrong with my son? He sick?”
“Mr. Carson, when was the last time you saw Mitchell?”
He rubs his head. His gray hair is cut military style, high and tight. “Nearly five years ago, I reckon.” He adjusts his wheelchair. “Not since the accident. I take it you know about Karen.”
“A little bit.”
“She was a good girl. Quiet. Didn't deserve to have those seizures.”
Everything stops. I hold up a hand and stop Frank. “Wait. Seizures? As in epilepsy?”
Seizures. Epilepsy. The accident?
Frank shakes his head. “When they lived close or she'd visit, I'd remind her to take her medicine. She'd hassle me about taking mine. Damned blood pressure. It was our running joke for years. Both of us with our little yellow pills. We laughed about that.” He chuckles.
“Was she very ill?”
“Not until the last few weeks before her book tour. She was tired. Working a lot. It was like her body wouldn't cooperate.”
“And then she had the accident?”
Frank nods. “Police never did really figure out what happened. We had a real nice service for Karen. Then, six months later, Mitchell dropped out of sight. Like damn Charlie.” He heaves a sigh. “I called; he changed his number. A buddy drove me up to his house. It was sold. No forwarding address, no nothing.”
“And you haven't tried to get in touch since? Find him?”
“I'm thinking he doesn't want to be found. My vision's crap, especially at night. Can't hit the broad side of a barn, even with my .45. A few friends who used to stop over and pick me up, they've died off. The rest of the folks in these parts, well, they're not so friendly. No one wants to adopt an old white guy, if you know what I mean.” He
grimaces and taps his leg. “Damn thing. Spent thirty years in the serviceâmost of it across the pondâand get hit by a drunk driver less than a mile from home.”