Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel) (16 page)

Damn Jeff all to hell.

“Your sister stopped by this morning.”

Peyton looked at her mother. Throat constricting, she managed, “Oh, really? What did she have to say?”

“She and Jonathan are ‘having difficulties.’ That’s all. Said she wouldn’t get into it with me, but that you’re her confidant. Glad you two are close. I’m only her mother, for God’s sake. What can’t she say to me?”

Peyton didn’t answer.

“I know what it is,” Lois said. “Jonathan wants to write his book, so he’s pressuring her to get a job. She doesn’t have a college degree. Quit to marry him. She was working at Subway in Boston after he got fired last year. He wants to stay home and write all day. I don’t like even listening to his mumbo-jumbo, let alone want to read it.”

Peyton saw Scott Smith standing in the cluster of parents at the end of the field. At six-three, fit and trim, he stood out in jeans, black shoes, a barn jacket, and dark glasses.

“Who’s that?” Lois said.

“He’s an agent. Just moved here. He’s divorced. I’ve had lunch with him a couple times.”

“I see why you would. If I was thirty years younger, I’d be down there talking to him.”

“Mom.”

“Actually, if I was ten years younger I might consider it. He have kids?”

“A nephew.”

“This is getting better and better.”

“Mother, please.”

“Fine.”

Tommy kicked the ball to a player on his team, and Peyton yelled encouragement.

“Is your sister getting divorced?”

“Maybe.”

“Why can’t she tell me that?”

“They’re just having problems, Mom.”

“What are they fighting about, money?” Lois asked. “That was my advice when they got married: Never fight about money.”

“I don’t think that’s it.”

“What then?”

The whistle blew, halting play. When Tommy looked over, Peyton waved enthusiastically.

“Have fun, Tommy!”

“Tommy told me Jeff promised to be here,” Lois said.

“I’m not surprised he said that,” Peyton said, “or that he’s not here. He sent Tommy Grand Canyon postcards every week for a year, then cancelled the trip three days before they were supposed to go. He hasn’t changed.”

“I hope he’s got a good excuse,” Lois said. “For Tommy’s sake.”

“Peyton, I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Both women turned to see Scott Smith.

“Anything new on the baby?” he asked.

“State police are looking for her.”

“Not easy,” he said.

“I’m Lois, Peyton’s very young mother.”

He smiled.

“Unbelievable,” Peyton muttered.

“Which boy is your nephew?” Lois said.

“How did you know I had a nephew?” he asked, then looked at Peyton. “You saw me down there?”

Peyton glared at Lois. “Yeah.”

“He’s number nine.”

“He’s scored two goals today,” Lois said.

“Yeah. He’s a good little player. Your boy is a solid player, too. Hey, I was wondering, want to meet for coffee after the shift tonight?”

Peyton felt her mother’s eyes on her.
We never stop trying to please our parents.
It was a line she’d read somewhere. Was it true?

“Okay,” she said. “Gary’s?”

“Great. I have to get back to my sister-in-law. It was great meeting you.”

“You, too,” Lois said. “And my hours are much more regular than my daughter’s. I could meet you for a drink earlier in the evening.”

He laughed and walked away.

“My God, Mother.”

“Relax, Peyton. At my age, life is too short to take things seriously. Now, tell me what’s going on with your sister.”

“It’s not my place, Mom.”

Lois looked at her through a long silence. “It’s that bad?”

“Elise is a strong woman. Maybe stronger than we knew.”

“Both of my daughters are strong.”

Peyton squeezed Lois’s shoulder, then turned back to the game.

Tommy fell attempting to intercept a pass near the opposing team’s goal. He got up, chased the ball, kicked it, fell again. Seven years old. Where had the time gone? He got to his feet, grinned, and waved to her. Then the ball squirted loose from the pack and rolled slowly
to him. Everything seemed to stop then. She yelled, “Shoot!” just as he did. Then he was jumping, hands raised in celebration, teammates hugging him. As he jogged to midfield, he glanced over, eyes sweeping the sideline, then falling at the realization that Jeff was not there.

When the game was over, Peyton was the first person on the field. She leaned to give Tommy a congratulatory hug and saw his eyes pool.

“You were
great,
kiddo! What a goal! You’re so fast, I could barely see you.”

“Really? Who were you talking to? It wasn’t Dad.”

“Just a friend. Hey, you were a blur out there. Let’s go for ice cream.”

“You saw my goal, right?”

“Didn’t you hear me yelling?”

“So you can tell Dad about it?”

“You can tell him when you see him. I’m sure he has a really good reason for not being here, Tommy.”

“Where was he?” Tommy asked. They had just sat at a window booth in North Woods Ice Cream on Main Street in Garrett. “He said he’d be there.”

The place was dead at 8 p.m. on a weeknight. Peyton handed Tommy a two-scoop strawberry cone. Ice cream in Aroostook County in the fall? Had she eaten ice cream when it was thirty degrees outside?

Nothing in Garrett had changed, yet everything had changed. At Tommy’s age, she’d sat in this very booth with her father. Summer then. Ice cream on the heels of a failed karate test. The two previous belts had come easily. The failure, her father explained that day, was a lesson. “You’ve got to work harder,” he’d told her. “That’s all.”

She remembered that afternoon with the clarity people reserve for a handful of events in their lives: Her father, wearing his red-and-black checkered flannel shirt, reaching across the table, wiping ice cream from her chin. Come to think of it, she too had ordered strawberry.

She felt a pang of guilt. Her life as a seven-year-old had been far less complicated than Tommy’s. No divorce. No missing father.

“I don’t know where your dad was,” she said simply.

Tommy looked out the window. “Just wish he saw my goal.”

“We’ll tell him all about it.”

“Not the same.”

Behind her, a bell jingled and the front door opened. Then she saw Tommy’s face beam.

And she knew.

“Hi, pal. Look what I brought you.”

“For me?” Tommy was on his feet, running to Jeff.

Peyton stood just in time to see Tommy smudge ice cream on Jeff’s pants. Jeff held a soccer ball. Peyton had bought Tommy one already, a ball she’d purchased at Marden’s, a discount store in Reeds, for $4.99. The ball Jeff held, though, was silver and had a professional team’s emblem on it. She saw the price tag: $36.

“This is a pro team in England, Tommy. What do you think, buddy?”

“Where were you, Dad? I scored a goal.”

“Hey, you got ice cream on my pants. You know what I paid for this suit?”

Peyton, standing, cleared her throat. “We’re celebrating Tommy’s goal, Jeff. Would you like to join us?”

“Love to.” He looked her over. “Even in the uniform …” He whistled softly.

She made no reply and slid back into the booth.

“Here, buddy.” He patted the booth cushion beside him, but Tommy slid in next to Peyton.

“Dad, I hit a home run in Little League last year in Texas, too.”

“Wow, that’s great, Tom.”

“Tommy,” Peyton said, “would you go ask for more napkins?”

Both parents watched Tommy approach the counter.

“You missed the damned game.”

“I was working.”

“He is absolutely desperate for you to take an interest in him. Can’t you see that?”

“Take an interest in him? I picked him up after school this week.”

“You don’t get it, Jeff. Never did get it.”

“Look, I feel terrible. I know I promised him, but I was looking at a new listing for you and Tommy. It’s perfect. If I didn’t go, another agent would’ve snatched it up. I’m telling you, it couldn’t be helped.”

“Bullshit.”

He leaned back and looked at her. “Is this how it’s going to be between us?”

“Look at me,” she said.

He did.

“Look straight into my eyes.”

The man behind the counter handed Tommy a fistful of napkins.

“If you keep hurting my son, it’ll get much worse.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Definitely,” she said.

“Well, it’s
our
son, Peyton. You know, everything’s always my fault, isn’t it?”

“You’re the one who walked out.”

“Must be nice to always be so sure. Think about it: I never wanted to move to El Paso. You knew that. I gave up my career to do it. And what was it all for? Here you are, right back in Garrett.”

The sound of plastic cleats tapping the hardwood floor made them both turn to watch Tommy approach. He slid in next to Peyton again.

She stared again at Jeff. Was he right?

“You’ll like this house, Peyton. It’s perfect for the two of you. And not far from Lois.” Jeff stood. “I’ll see you, kiddo. I hope you like the ball.”

“You have to go, Dad? You just got here.”

“Yeah, I need to get back to work, son. I’m looking for a house for you and Mommy.”

“Oh. Thanks, Dad.”

Jeff kissed Tommy’s forehead and turned and walked out. The sound of bells reverberated as the door closed behind him.

Peyton sat with her son in silence for several long moments. Finally, Tommy spoke.

“I wish Dad still lived with us. If he did, things like this wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t have to look for a stupid house for us.” Crying, he stood and ran to the door.

“Tommy, wait.”

She caught the door before it closed, turned right, and rounded the building. Tommy was in the middle of the parking lot, running toward their Wrangler.

Three men strolling toward her on the sidewalk caught her eye. Kenny Radke, his face bruised, was limping. Tyler Timms, the obnoxious Iraq War veteran who’d sat next to Radke in the diner, saw her and nudged Radke. They froze. The third man looked out of place among them. The sun was setting, and his cashmere topcoat was buttoned now. He still wore the red silk tie and toted his briefcase. The man she’d seen leaving Professor Jerry Reilly’s office now listened to Timms whisper something. He looked up, eyes meeting Peyton’s, and nodded to Timms.

But Tommy was crying.

Peyton turned away from them and went to her son. She knelt and Tommy cried against her chest.

The three men turned and walked in the direction from which they’d come.

She knew she’d spooked them. She just wished she knew why.

TWENTY

A
FTER
P
EYTON TOOK
T
OMMY
home, read to him, consoled him, and tucked him in, she kissed her mother’s cheek and drove to the end of a long dirt driveway to knock on the door of Elise’s small ranch-style house.

It was after 10 p.m., and the wind had picked up, a mild afternoon giving way to a brisk evening. Peyton heard a diesel engine rumble in the distance and turned to see a man beneath a hanging light working on a tractor in the barn across the street.

Elise opened the door and followed her gaze. “Old Max Styles plowed over his crop this year,” Elise said. “Only half of it came in. Word is the bank might foreclose. I think he’s getting ready to sell everything.”

“It’s a reality up here,” Peyton said, following Elise into the house.

The sisters knew that reality well. Banks floated loans to potato farmers, anticipating the year’s potato prices and crop sizes would equate to a fiscal success that would allow the farmer to not only pay off the loan but to earn a decent wage. When the crop or the price fell short, some banks continued to support the farmer, who then skated on margin. Peyton’s father had once told her the average farmer in this region turned a profit once every three years. And when her father had lost their family farm, she’d learned that skating on margin meant the thin ice eventually cracked, and the water beneath was ice cold.

“I need to see Jonathan,” Peyton explained.

Elise stopped walking and turned to face her. “See him? You sound all formal.”

Elise and Jonathan’s dog, Rambo, a mutt acquired at the Reeds Humane Society, leaned against Peyton’s leg. Peyton patted the Shepherd-Lab mix.

“You’re in uniform, Peyton. Thought your shift didn’t begin until eleven.”

“I’d like to interview Jonathan.”

“Interview him? About what?”

“Nothing big.” Peyton crouched in the hallway beside the dog and scratched behind its ear.

Elise’s eyes were steady on her. “You won’t tell me?”

“Can’t. No big deal, though.”

Elise walked past Peyton and held the front door open for the dog. The house was surrounded by potato fields, leaving it defenseless against the wind. A gust strained the screen door against its chain. When the dog was outside, she closed the door.

“Jonathan’s not home,” Elise said. “He’s at school, preparing for tomorrow.”

“It’s after ten,” Peyton said.

“He’s working really hard this time. He does that a few times a week now. He’ll do well in this new job. Won’t be like Boston. That one little comment cost him.”

“What did he say?”

Elise waved that off.

“Got the kettle on?” Peyton said, the air of formality leaving her.

Elise led her to the kitchen. Max was nowhere in sight, obviously in bed, but a plastic replica tractor lay on the floor.

“Mom told me you went to see her.” Peyton could smell creamed corn and hamburger. “Is that her Quebec Shepherd’s pie recipe?”

“Yeah, Jonathan loves Mom’s Shepherd’s pie.”

Peyton was struggling to follow her sister’s reasoning. Elise was leaving Jonathan, but she was still cooking his favorite dishes.

“I told her we were having trouble. Jonathan’s working hard. He’ll land on his feet.”

“Sounds like you’ve made up your mind.”

“The reason doesn’t leave a lot of wiggle room, P.”

“Yeah, of course. Just hard for me to watch you go through a divorce. I know what they’re all about.”

“I can’t go on pretending to be who I’m not.” Elise put the kettle on the burner. “Done that for thirty years. Time to move forward.”