Elly in Love (The Elly Series) (13 page)

A tear ran down Dennis’s cheek as he sat by the bed, embarrassing him although there was no one around.
Good riddance to this hellhole
. He stuck the necklace in his pocket and the picture inside his book. He knew the jerkwads from the bank would be here soon, to foreclose on the trailer and to throw all their crap in the front yard. He had read the letters.
Screw those tools. I don’t care.
At the front door, he took one last long look around this tiny trailer, a house that had never felt like home, and shut the rickety screen door behind him. He felt strong with his backpack straps on. Dennis pulled the gray hood of this sweatshirt over his head and began waddling slowly to the bus station, past the graveyard for container ships that was steps away from their yard, past the closed factories, their rusty metal glinting in the sunlight, their odor permeating the air. Huffing, Dennis walked past the boarded-up downtown, colored with bright and vulgar graffiti, and the empty playground where he had once watched boys run and play; always watching, never included. The rain pelted his face as he walked slowly, but Dennis didn’t mind, reveling in his sense of liberation. He had what he needed on his back: three hundred dollars that he had made selling all his used video games and systems, the stuff in his backpack, and most important of all—a Post-it with a name and address that he had now memorized:
Elly Jordan, 1168 Hickory Lane, Peachtree, Georgia
. After his dad’s funeral—he had died sitting in his recliner, his face somehow both slack and angry at the same time, dead from a lifetime of drinking and abusing everyone around him—Dennis had broken into his dad’s safe. There had been a half-empty bottle of Crown Royale; a hand gun—this terrified Dennis, that it might have been in here the whole time; a gold pocket watch, which Dennis promptly sold for the
World of MageCraft
expansion pack; and a small, very worn envelope. Inside was a handwritten letter from a woman named Sarah Jordan.

February 16, 1979

Dear Barry,

I hope this letter finds you well. While the single night we spent together last year was regrettable—indeed I have never been so drunk and made such a colossal mistake, as you turned out to be NOT the man I imagined—the outcome of it has been nothing less than a miracle. You, Barry Tragar, have a daughter. Her name is Elly Iris Jordan and she is the light of my life. She has thick blond curls, your bright-blue eyes, and a smile all her own. I cannot tear myself away from her, not even for a minute, or fathom how this tiny angel came into my care. Elly is the love of my life, and words can never express how happy she has made me. Please know, upon reading this, that I do not expect anything from you, nor do I want you to be a part of her upbringing. I will find a way to provide for our daughter and give her the beautiful life she deserves. Perhaps down the road, if you find yourself to be sober, please look us up, if only for the privilege of seeing your daughter’s face. Do not expect anything more.

Sincerely,

Sarah Jordan

Peachtree, Georgia

Dennis had read and reread the letter as he did now, sitting alone at the bus stop, his outstretched arm protecting the thin paper from the rain. With a loud squeal, the bus pulled up in front of him and Dennis plodded heavily into his seat. The bus gave a rumble, and his breath fogged up the window as his past billowed out behind him. For twenty-three hours, he watched the landscape roll along the bus window—the yellow pastures of Ohio gave way to the imposing brown peaks of the Smoky Mountains and the thick, drippy trees of the South. Mostly bored out of his mind, he read his favorite book from cover to cover, bought two video-gaming magazines from a gas station where he stocked up on Pringles, Twinkies, and Red Bull, and then spent about two hours fantasizing about the hot girl from
Farscape
. He changed buses twice, once in Columbus and again somewhere outside Knoxville. The heavy rhythm of the bus tires slowly lulled him to sleep. He awoke when his fellow passenger gave him a rough shake. “Hey, buddy, I think this is your stop.”
He was here.

As he stepped off the bus in Peachtree, his heart gave a furious hammer and Dennis turned and puked on the pavement. In retrospect, it was probably the Red Bull and the six Twinkies he had eaten on the bus, that and his heaving stomach. Mortified, Dennis fled to the nearest park where he sat under a tree and collected his thoughts, suddenly realizing how much he appeared like a homeless person in this quaint downtown. After asking around, he found his way to a local diner, where he casually inquired about Sarah or Elly Jordan while ordering a slice of peanut butter pie, like a badass detective.

The waitress came back to the table, placing a thick hand on her curvy hip. “Hi, darlin’. I asked the owner and he said that he went to grade school with Sarah Jordan and she lived just around the corner from here, but she died of cancer awhile back.”

Dennis felt a lump form in his throat and found himself unable to talk.
Oh God, what if they were both dead? What if there was no one? What if he was completely alone?
His face grew hot and he mumbled that he needed a minute.

The waitress gave him a soft smile. “If it makes you feel any better, Joey said that he thinks Elly Jordan still lives in town here with her husband—his name is Aaron Schuster, he’s a local artist, I’ve been to his shows. Small world! I’ll bring the phonebook over so you can check.”

Dennis gave a sniff and the waitress brought him a dated phone book. Dennis paged through it frantically. Schuster, Schuster … there it was. Aaron and Elly Schuster. He sat back in the booth, dazed and relieved.
She existed. She really existed. He had a sister. He had someone.
He quickly shoveled pie into his mouth and left the diner, writing “Thank you” on a napkin with a frowning smiley face.

Using the street numbers as a guide, and getting help from an older man cleaning his garage, Dennis found his way to a quaint neighborhood filled with large, clean homes and manicured gardens.
Sweet, they’re rich.
After hours of walking, he finally found his way to a humbler gray ranch house. He could tell that the grounds of the house had once been pleasant; it was now overgrown with gigantic weeds and crabgrass. Newspapers poured out of the mailbox and the whole place had an air of neglect. Before he stepped onto the porch, he was seized by a paralyzing wave of self-doubt as all the thoughts he had held back on the bus rushed forth.
She’ll hate you. She’ll probably laugh in your fat face and tell you to get the hell out of here, you know why? Because you’re a loser. A big, pathetic, stupid loser who came across the country in need of charity. What will you have to talk about?
He shook his head
. What the hell was he doing? She wouldn’t want to see him. Who would?
Dennis felt his hands shake
. Perhaps there was a bridge somewhere in this charming town….
As he turned to go, the front door opened.

“Um, yeah, can I help you?”

He turned around. The hottest woman he had ever seen in his life was standing in the doorway. She was long and lean, wearing nothing more than a lace tank top with a pair of navy panties.
Panties! Dennis Trager was seeing a live woman in panties!
Her dark, twisty red hair flowed over her pale shoulders and her emerald eyes narrowed to slits as she took in his dirty pants and large gut.
Oh God, was this his
sister
? She looked like the girl on the cover of his book who was straddling a dragon
. “Um, um,” he stammered.

She tucked her hair behind her ear angrily. “Are you selling something?”

He shook his head no, unable to find his voice and unable to look away from the panties.

A loud male voice boomed out from inside the house. “Who is it?”

“Some weirdo who can’t talk apparently!” she yelled back, frowning at Dennis.

Dennis cleared his throat and he grasped for Sarah Jordan’s letter in his pocket.
Get the letter out, get the letter out….
“I’m um, I … I’m looking for Elly Jordan?”

“
Ugh
,” the woman growled and gave an eye roll. “
Aaron!
It’s someone for Elly. What the …?” She slammed the door in Dennis’s face, and from inside the house he could hear yelling.

The door yanked open and an exhausted-looking man smiled down at Dennis. He had once been extremely good-looking, with a chiseled jaw and perfectly tousled brown hair, as far as Dennis could tell, but he looked world-weary. His large hands were stained with oil paint. “Sorry about that. I’m not sure why she opens the door in her underwear. She’s a little crazy. You are looking for Elly?”

Dennis nodded and clutched his hand around Sarah Jordan’s note.

The man sat down on the front step. “Elly doesn’t live here anymore. We’re uh, divorced.” He sighed deeply and ran his hands through his long hair. “My fault. I cheated on her.” He gestured inside to where Dennis could spy the hot redhead guzzling from a wine glass.

I can see why,
he thought. “Does she still live in town here, or …?”

The man laughed and leaned back. “Oh, no, she is long gone.”

Oh God.
Dennis’s stomach compressed solidly like someone had punched him. He was close to fainting, something his father always did. “Um, is she … dead?” His voice raised three decibels, and he was dangerously close to sobbing in front of this kind stranger.
Oh no, oh please….

“No, buddy, she’s not dead. She just moved to St. Louis. She owns a florist shop there and is pretty successful, from what I can tell.”

Dennis sat down on the step. “Mothertrucker.” He unfolded the note and gave it to the man. “I’m Dennis.”

“I’m Aaron.” Aaron silently read the note and handed it back to Dennis. “
Wow
. So … you are Elly’s brother? She didn’t even know that she had a brother! And you’re trying to find her?”

Dennis nodded.

“And you’re not like a psycho or something?”

Dennis shook his head. “No. Promise. I don’t want to hurt her. My dad just died, and I just … I don’t have anyone else. I have no family.”

A glimmer of pity flickered across Aaron’s face. “Wait here.” He went inside and the loud fighting began again. Ten minutes later, he emerged, dressed in board shorts and a tight T-shirt.
He is undoubtedly cool,
thought Dennis, filled with envy. He had never quite figured out how to be cool. Aaron walked over to his car. “Get in.”

Dennis rode silently with Aaron as they drove into Augusta. Along the way he started noticing signs for the airport. He cast his eyes downward. “I can’t afford a plane ticket, dude,” he mumbled, looking down.

Aaron kept his eyes on the road. “I figured. Here.” He dug into his pocket and handed Dennis five hundred-dollar bills. Dennis had never in his life seen so much money. “Buy yourself a plane ticket.” He pulled up at the airport curb.

Dennis turned to him. “Hey, um, thanks. You seem like a pretty nice guy.”

Aaron ran his hands through his hair. “I’m not. But this is one last thing I can do to help Elly. I put her though hell. And I regret it every day.” His phone buzzed and he held up a finger as Dennis waited awkwardly outside the car door. “No, no. I’m at the studio right now. I won’t be home for dinner because I’m working late. Calm down. Lucia, I said calm down or I’m not talking to you. Yeah, I’ll bring a bottle home. Okay, love you too.” He gave Dennis a devilish grin.

Dennis frowned. “But … you aren’t at the studio.”

“Nope, I’m not. But my studio is downtown and I need some time to kill.” He raised his eyebrows. “My girlfriend lives on the other side of town. Not kidding, she could be a Victoria’s Secret model. And she’s Puerto Rican.”

Dennis looked at him with amazement. Aaron gave him a sad smile. “See, I told you I’m not a very nice guy. Anyways, good luck, buddy. You’ll be lucky to have Elly as a sister, promise.” A wistful look passed over his face before he gave Dennis a thumbs-up. Dennis stepped back from the curb and Aaron Schuster’s shiny car vanished into the airport traffic. At the counter, a sympathetic clerk at the Continental desk helped Dennis find a flight. He reluctantly handed over a wad of money—and felt a slight panic that he now only had one hundred and twenty-eight dollars left. Dennis had to wait an additional seven hours for a plane. Time passed slowly. He stared at the passengers, wondering if he could best them in a
Warhammer
contest. He changed his jeans and underwear in the airport bathroom, splashed some water on his face and combed through his hair. He wandered through the magazine stores and after much consideration, bought an awesome T-shirt (a happy face with a bullet through its head) and a Kit Kat. Then he had even less money. As Dennis stumbled his way through the terrifying security procedures, he could feel his nerves becoming like stone—ready to break at the slightest crack. He sat in his tiny seat and struggled to buckle the seatbelt. The plane bucked under him, and he was flung like a slingshot into the empty air. Dennis sat frozen and thrilled as the world became so small underneath him, his heart feeling like it would burst from his chest. It was his first plane ride. After the seatbelt sign turned off, as he unsteadily walked to the bathroom, he caught his foot on someone’s bag and pitched to the ground to the sounds of muffled laughter. He picked himself up and got to the bathroom where he stared in the mirror. Large tears began rolling down his face, and Dennis Trager found himself weeping and afraid in the airplane bathroom. He wept for his father, dying alone and miserable, never the father he wanted, for his mother who had died upon impact when a semitruck ran a red light, and for himself, alone, so alone thirty-five thousand feet above the soil.

When he landed at Lambert, St. Louis, he was half-awake and semidelusional. Dennis hailed a taxi that took him to Posies on Wydown Boulevard, to the address Aaron had given him. The morning was bright and unyielding, and a migraine had cracked across his forehead. He got them often. Dennis paid the taxi and walked slowly toward the store. Something moved in the window. He jumped to the side and watched through the clear glass.