For You (The 'Burg Series) (72 page)

So perhaps I hadn’t accumulated nothing in my life and actually had something to bring to the table. I had another impulse to do a cheerleader, pom pom jump but I squelched it mainly because Colt’s heavy arm was weighing me down.

We went through the side door, hit the kitchen and I turned to Colt. “Play your cards right, baby, things could get exciting. You got a birthday comin’ up.”

And he did, it was at the end of April, next month.

His hand came up, fingers curling around the side of my neck and he brought me close.

“I already know what I want for my birthday and you already bought it,” he told me.

“What’s that?” I asked.

His head dipped so his face was close to mine. “You, in nothin’ but those black heels bent over the pool table.”

I sucked in breath as an internal shiver rippled through my body. Something like that would forever make playing pool with Colt a delicious experience. Therefore, something like that was too good to wait for his birthday.

I decided not to share this either as well as play it cool. “You don’t want me to wrap it up? Get a lacy teddy or something? Garters?
 
Stockings? That kinda shit?”

He grinned and put his mouth to mine.

“Knock yourself out,” he said there before he kissed me.

When he lifted his head, let me go, turned me toward the living room and smacked my ass, muttering, “Gotta get to the park,” was when I returned to thinking being a cop’s girlfriend was going to be all right.

* * * * *

Delilah and I sat on swings at Arbuckle Acres park while Palmer and Tuesday mostly ran around screaming since Dee had confiscated their cell phones and told them in that lovingly exasperated voice that only Moms could pull off to, “Go. Play. Be kids.”

I personally didn’t think ten and twelve year old kids should have cell phones and neither did Dee. Unfortunately Morrie had taken them to the mall about three weeks ago and Morrie, also not thinking kids that age should have cell phones, bought them anyway because they begged for them and he was a pushover.

The swings were a good place to be seeing as they pointed to the basketball court on which Morrie and Colt were playing one-on-one.

It was sunny and in the upper sixties. I had on a black tank with a big, embroidered butterfly at the chest and a black, belted cardigan that went over my ass, faded jeans with a rip in the right knee and my black motorcycle boots.

Colt had on a t-shirt, shorts and basketball shoes.

He was dripping with sweat, breathing heavily and grinning all the while taunting Morrie, who was also dripping with sweat, breathing even heavier and still had the shiner Colt gave him. Further, Morrie was scowling and he was losing.
 

“Why Morrie plays him, I’ll never know. Can’t remember the last time he took a game,” Dee muttered, her eyes glued to the men, just like me.

Morrie was my brother and all but in a clinical, detached, sister way, I noticed not for the first time my brother was good-looking and, like my Dad, age was being kind to him. He was always a big, cuddly, handsome guy and all that remained but he was also beginning to get that look that interesting men had. The kind of men you took one look at and you knew it would not be a waste of your time to sit down and have a beer with them, or two, or three.

Again, just like my Dad.

In other words, Dee and I had a lot to glue our eyes to. In fact, it was a wonder Colt and Morrie, having their regular Saturday game, didn’t draw a crowd.

I answered Dee’s question, “Because he loves bein’ anywhere and doin’ anything with Colt, even if he’s losin’.”

She nodded because this was now and always had been an absolute fact.

“Dee,” I called like she wasn’t swinging right beside me.

“Yeah, hon,” she replied.

“What made you decide to come work the bar?”

She quit swinging for just a beat before she started again and answered, “All of this stuff happenin’, with that psycho and you and Colt and everythin’, I just got to thinkin’.”

“Yeah?” I prompted when she stopped talking.

“It’s stuff I been thinkin’ about awhile, just wouldn’t let my head get around it because I got pissed off first and acted on it, kickin’ Morrie out before I really ever talked to him. I was bein’ stubborn, thinkin’ I was savin’ face. But, I reckon, your parents made a go of it with that bar all their lives and Morrie, Colt and you are the best people I know. They didn’t have it any different than Morrie and me, they didn’t even have a sister who was at the bar all the time, doin’ most of the work. And they still made a go of it and raised three great kids besides. So, I thought, maybe I acted too quick and, with all this shit happening, I definitely thought life’s too damned short.”

I nodded. She was right. Life was too damned short. I was just glad that Dee didn’t waste as much of it as me being stubborn and thinking I was saving face.

Then, her eyes still on the boys, she changed the subject and said, “Colt’s so fast, almost a blur. You think he’ll ever slow down?”

I watched my man move then jump, his arms up in the air, his wrists loose as he released the ball. It wasn’t a whoosh, it rolled the rim about a quarter of the way around, but it still fell in.

To be kind to my brother, I didn’t whoop, but I wanted to.

“You shoulda seen him play football, Dee,” I told her. “Fast and strong. Never seen anything like it. When he had the ball, if he was going, he was so fast, no one could catch him, so strong, even if they did, they couldn’t bring him down. If he bounced off another player, the crash the pads would make…” I trailed off as I heard them in my head like it was yesterday and all of a sudden memories flooded my brain.

Colt running down the field, one hand out, one arm tucked and holding the ball; Colt dipping his shoulder, landing a blow, blocking for his runner; Colt walking to the sideline, yanking at the snaps of his chin guard then pulling off his helmet, his hair wet with sweat and a mess, his face the picture of what my father called, “in the zone”; the crash of the pads, the grunts of the players, the cheers from the stands.

I was proud to sit with Morrie, Dad and Mom at Colt’s games at Ross-Ade Stadium at Purdue. It was cool watching Colt play college ball and it was a thrill seeing the name “Colton” on the back of his Boilermaker jersey.

But nothing was more exciting than high school football, not back in the day and not now. The whole town went to all the home games, even me, Morrie and Colt. All bundled up, drinking hot chocolate with a shared woolly blanket on our knees, I’d sit in the stands shoulder to shoulder with Jessie and Meems and I’d see Colt standing with Morrie and Lore and half a dozen other guys at the chain link fence around the track that surrounded the field. Most of the guys shot the shit and jacked around, only partially watching the game. Not Morrie and Colt, if the ball was in play, their eyes were on the field. Not reliving glory days, no, they were on sacred ground, communing with their brethren.

“Feb, hon, you there?” Delilah called and I tore my eyes from Colt and Morrie and looked at my sister-in-law.

“Yeah, just…” I sighed then said, “Remembering stuff.”

“Good stuff?” she asked quietly and it hit me then.

I
was
remembering good stuff and for the first time in a long time those memories didn’t come with pain.

“Yeah,” I said quietly back.

She scooted to the side in her swing and reached out a hand. I scooted toward her and took it.

“I like happy endings,” she said, tightening her hand in mine, swinging her swing a bit back and forth, keeping her feet to the ground but coming up on her toes and then going back to her heels.

I squeezed her hand back, doing my own mini-swings, and said, “Me too.”

Then we let go of each others’ hands, lifted our feet, the chains we were suspended from swung us sideways into place and we looked back at our men.

* * * * *

After Colt wupped Morrie, he drove us home while I made a mental note to bring a towel to drape on his seat in the truck. He was drenched. I’d never seen so much sweat and I grew up essentially with three men.

Then for some insane reason, I shared this. “You need a towel for your seat.”

“What?”

“You’re sweaty. You need a towel for your seat.”

“Feb, I own a truck,” was his absurd reply.

“So?”

“You can sweat in a truck.”

“Is that a rule?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he answered. “You can sweat in a truck, certain vans and any car that was built before 1990. That’s the rule. You know what you can’t sweat in?”

I knew where this was heading so I stayed silent and looked out the side window.

He didn’t let it go which wasn’t a surprise. Colt had never been one to let anything go. Back in the day we’d argue, mostly because Colt never let anything go but also because I never let anything out. It wasn’t a good combination but we never argued mean. It was always about exasperation at each other’s understood quirks but it was also always tethered to love. Half the time we’d end an argument laughing our asses off.

The only time he ever let anything go was when he let me go. Then again, that time it was a doozy what I wouldn’t let out.

Therefore not letting it go, Colt said, “A four door sedan.”

“You can’t sweat in a Volkswagen Beetle,” I told him.

“You’re not gettin’ a Beetle.”

“Why not?” I asked, looking back to him and sounding snippy because I liked Beetles.

“Because they’re ridiculous.”

“They are not.”

“No Beetle, Feb.”

“A convertible one?”

“Definitely not.”

I felt my vision narrow mainly because my eyes narrowed.

“Why ‘definitely not’?”

“‘Cause, you got a roof, at least that’s some barrier to the music blastin’ outta your car four seasons in the year. You got a convertible, you’ll get slapped with a moving noise violation.”

I stared at him with what I suspected was horror. “Is there such a thing as a ‘moving noise violation’?”

Colt didn’t answer which I didn’t know whether to take as good or bad.

I decided to ask Sully, or more aptly, to ask Lorraine who would ask Sully which would be more likely to get me a truthful answer.

Then I suggested, “How ‘bout one of those new Minis?”

“How ‘bout a Buick?”

I wasn’t sure but it was almost like I tasted vomit in the back of my throat.

“A Buick?” I whispered.

“They’re safe
and
they’re American.”

“Minis are English. The English are our allies.”

“The new Mini is made by BMW which is German.”

There it was, proof that he knew more about cars than me.

“Germans are our allies now too,” I told him.

“How ‘bout we talk about this later?” Colt suggested and I stayed quiet because I thought it was a good suggestion.

When we got home Colt went straight to the shower, I went straight to the boxes. I had time to get one unpacked, sheets and towels. My towels would go in his guest bathroom which made our purchases yesterday towel overkill, something I decided I wouldn’t tell Dad. My sheets would fit the bed in the second bedroom. They were feminine but far less flowery than the ones Mom bought. I therefore decided, when Mom and Dad left, to switch out the sheets and comforter in the second bedroom with mine and then put Mom’s back on when she and Dad were in town. I also decided to share this gesture with Colt, thinking it might bring me closer to a convertible Beetle which was the kind of idea I’d never had. I’d never owned a new car or a nice one nor ever really considered such a purchase. Now that the idea was planted in my head, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I was standing at the dining room table, staring at the half empty box with my journals in it, thoughts of Beetles swept away and thoughts of Denny clogging my brain, when Colt walked out.

I looked at him and saw his hair wet and curling around his neck. He had on what he’d worn earlier that morning, a long-sleeved, heathered blue henley thermal, jeans, a great belt and boots. His eyes were on my journal box.