Something Of A Kind (12 page)

Words carefully chosen, he made sure to reach the hearing range
of increasing deafness before speaking. “Hello. What can I do for
you?”

The man raised his brow, bottom lip dropping. Blinking, he held
out his hand to Aly. “Good and fine. The little one, your sister there,
what’s ‘er name? Ah, never-mind, ‘ere. You give to ‘er, will you?”

Noah frowned, staring at the handmade dream catcher he placed
in Aly’s hands. The navy twine was tightly wrapped around a faux-
velvet ring, black and white beading leading to feathers from the
beach. “Did Sarah pay for this?”

“My grandson likes ‘er. His gran promised little Kenny she’d
make itup for ‘er. The wife does what she wants.” He shrugged,
quavering with the effort.

Noah grinned, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Kennedy likes
Sarah?”

The boy had been part-time help for years. A year older than his
sister, Kennedy
never complained about absent paychecks and
usually poured them into his own family, filling in the brief shifts
Noah took off. The kid was gangly, taller than Owen but a third the
mass, with crazy hair Sarah insisted modeled some kid from One
Direction.

With his eyes rolling over Aly as though he was noticing her for
the first time, Nathaniel made a garbling sound, something akin to a
muffled cackle.
She beamed politely as he nodded towards her, his
stare retracting to draw his mouth to his arm in order to stifle a
coughingfit. He muttered, “Aye, you ain’t got no room to talk, boy.
Your sister, she’s better off.”

Noah stiffened.

 

These people are such bigmouths.

“Kennedy’s a good person,” Noah snapped, as if the man wasn’t
insulting Aly like she wasn’t standing right there. “If he plays his
cards right, they’ll both be just fine.”

“Peculiar fella, your papa is,” Nathaniel continued, sliding a
shelf into place. He glanced at Aly, scrutiny traveling along her
silhouette. “You ain’t so strange. City folk, no doubt, but…”

“Thanks,” she murmured, fingering a feather of the dream
catcher.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nathaniel muttered, waving to announce his
departure. He moved slowly, with a hunch and a limp, his stout
frame seeming more lean with strain. He kept a dazed smile on his
blank face, a
blinding contrast to the terrain of
wrinkles and
shadows.

If only the rest of him wasn’t so hostile.

“We’re all strange.” Noah’s hand gently cupped her elbow. He
steered her away from Nathaniel’s quaking back, towards a shack in
the next lot. With a nod he greeted his mother’s friend, frail old man
with a harsh face and heavy burden. Osh shuttered with each breath,
his hands quivering as he rearranged the goods on the front trays.

Without a word, Noah traded a five dollar bill for a waxen paper
bag. Pinching the corner, he shook the contents into his palm.

The
leather necklace
was artfully wrapped around
a
riversmoothed stone painted in unnatural blues as an abstract killer
whale. He peeled the tag from the end and closed it in her pale hand.
With her lips parted in surprise, she turned it over between her
fingers, a soft blush on her cheeks. Aly smiled, forcing her gaze
from the piece. She attempted to give it back, shuffling Sarah’s gift
into another hand. He waved off her protests.

With his coffee cooled enough to avoid burns, he took a sip,
explaining, “No, no, no. It supports the community. We struggle
here, starving artists and all. It’s nice to acknowledge a craft. Osh’s
wife actually makes these herself.”

He pointed to the yard behind the stand as they passed, gazing
wistfully. The man continued to work, carrying colorful trays to the
display. A wiry woman in a floral windbreaker bunched up to her
elbows sat cross-legged on a blanket over the lawn. Assorted piles of
beads, yarns, and stones piled over feathers
like
paperweights
formed a circle around her. She moved efficiently, though wincing
with arthritis as she kneaded her materials.

“She told me about the snakes. When I was a kid, I got so
excited for their displays. I was always alone when I came down
here though, so I was waiting until my parents started paying me.
Eventually she just tucked one in my coat pocket and told me to
scram before her husband got back.” He laughed, tracing the ink of
his wrist.

“It is pretty awesome,” she agreed, eyes lingering on his neck.
“Where is it now?”

“It was made for children, so I eventually outgrew it. Sarah
wears it looped around her wrist.” Noah looked down at Aly, the
present already clasped around her neck. Distracted, half his foot
landed on the edge of the road. Catching his feet, he pretended he
hadn’t nearly fallen over himself.

This girl even messes up my walking.

It occurred to him that he hadn’t stopped talking since they left
the tunnel, rattling off every other memory that slipped into his
brain. Swallowing, he rolled his shoulders, asking, “I’m not totally
overwhelming you, am I?”

She laughed. “Of course not. I love seeing the town. In two days,
I feel like I’ve lived here half of my life.” She quickly added,
“Which is a good thing.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“I’ve been all over the place. I was actually terrified I’d spend
the rest of my existence locked in an ice fishing shack, or a cabin in
the middle of a glacier while my father documented the natural
scavengers of the north or something. Instead, I get to hang out with
you.”

Why does it feel so good that she sounds so happy?

 

“It hasn’t been the worst weekend for me either,” he grinned.
“Too bad we’re stuck in Ashland.”

 

“It’s better than some frozen mountain range. Ashland is more
like how I pictured a little coastal town in Oregon.”

 

“We’re not all snowmen and Eskimos,” he agreed.

 

“And man-children,” she teased.
“Just a bunch of drunken artists with half-baked lives.”

 

“I wouldn’t say that,” she murmured, staring at the sky. “It’s
unique. It’s wonderful, actually.”

“Really?” He quirked a brow, surprised. “The people or the
culture? Because if it’s the former, you really ought to be tested for
brain injury.”

“It’s a sense of identity. Something to ground you, to be proud
of
– even when it’s not all glamour. People are gritty, life is hard.
There’s something beautiful in the fall. ” Aly turned to meet his
eyes. She
seemed eager to read his expression, to know he
appreciated what he had. “I’m this indistinct… list, mostly guesses
and selfappointed infatuations, kind of zigzagging all over Europe.”

“I thought you were Italian.”

“My cousins are –
Francesca and Giovanni, because my aunt,
Lauren, married my uncle, Vincent, who’s from Italy. But me… I’m
all over. My mom thoughtshe might be French, but that’s about all
we know.”

“I can see that,” he smiled, observing the petite fingers laced
between his own. “I think sometimes we can be just as artificial as
the wanderers, though.”

“Ever read Tolkien?” she inquired, quoting, “’Not all wanderers
are lost’?”

 

“Not much. I’m more of an Orwell-Palahniuk type of guy,
though,” Noah countered.

Her lips parted, what Noah had grown to recognize as the
Alyson-equivalent of a jaw drop. He might be slightly offended if he
hadn’t been pleased with himself for surprising her. He raised an
eyebrow, curious to her response. “Advanced English at the
Regional.”

“And
thatmade my day,” she announced, a smile gradually
spreading across her face. “See? If I didn’t know better I’d think the
boy with the leather jacket was bad news.”

“I’m not wearing it today,” Noah offered.

 

“It’s there to compliment the guitar,” she decided, her voice
playful.

 

“Better than the apron?” He mimed the hook of his head,
although he always folded it around his waist.

 

“Definitely,” Aly affirmed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but
you’re quite possibly the best waiter I’ve ever seen.”

 

“Of course I am,” he laughed. “It’s my job.”

 

Aly smiled. “It doesn’t suit you.”

 

Tell me about it.

 

“Well,” he teased, “That I might take the wrong way.”

 

“All I mean is, you’re too good for this town.”

 

“Nah. I’m a productof this town,” Noah smirked.

 

She winced, slapping a hand across her forehead. “Wow. That
sounded terrible, didn’t it?”

 

“I knew what you meant,” he grinned, nudging her elbow with
his own. “Though I have to say the face-palm made my entire day.”

 

“Who knew?” A giggle slipped from her lips. “There are face-
palms in Alaska.”

 

“Where there’s internet, there’s a way.”

“You’re talking to the girl who spammed her own profile so she
didn’t have to see lists of condolences.” Chewing on her own words,
she grimaced, adding, “Sorry. I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

He laughed, unbothered. “What? Being Aly?”

 

She looked away, hiding her smile. “I guess so.”

 

“So, what about the girl in the boots– bad news?”

 

“That depends on who’s asking.” Her gaze dropped up and
down, taking in his height. “I think you can handle it.”

 

“Really,” he stated, as though he considered the word on his lips,
mulling it over.

“Sure, a strapping young man such as yourself. You’re brimming
with angst and defiance– or so I’m convinced.” Her voice shifted
into a British accent, holding despite the wavering of amusement.
“I’m sure you’ve done terrible things.”

So much better than Luke or Owen’s – maybe they can ask for
lessons.

 

“Have a degree to go with that theory?”

 

“My father does,” she giggled. “Seriously, what’s the worst?”

He considered her question, grimacing at the memory. His hand
subconsciously probed his side as though the skin was still tender
with blacks and blues. He said, “I’ve been drunk exactly once. Worst
night of my life. I woke up the next morning and I was still drunk,
and spent the entire day sick as a dog. My father kicked me so hard I
tasted my ribs.”

“Oh my God,” she blurted, eyes wide. “I hope that’s a one-time
deal.”

 

“Drinking sure as hell is, at least for me.”

“I meant your dad,” she corrected, frowning in concern. “I
thought teens were supposed to be experimenting and all that. I
think my mother was disappointedwhen I didn’t go through that
phase.”

“That doesn’t alarm you?”

“It’s not like she wanted me to jump for drugs or try to pull off
any wild parties – which, between our budget and neighbors on each
side of the condo would not have worked at all.”

“I thought your dad was super rich or whatever.”

 

“I never saw him growing up. He didn’t help financially until my
mom was terminal.”

 

He sympathized, “That sucks.”

“I wasn’t a priority,” Aly shrugged. “I had my mom, which was
way better. I literally spent my entire life trying to please her. Like I
said, she was kind of disappointed I never really screwed up. I don’t
know if it’s because she got kicked out when she went to college or
if it’s because she was pregnant so young. I think it’s the books.”

He raised an eyebrow. “The books made her do it?”

“No, no. I mean… She had all these parenting books and
magazines – filled with sticky notes and dog-eared pages. I guess
most of the Your Troubled Child & You types proved irrelevant.
When she worked late I used to sit in her closet and flip through
them, trying to imagine what she was using to shape me. I think she
was bummed she never got to use them.”
“And that doesn’t alarm you either?”

“It wasn’t a closet
-closet. That’s where the bookshelf was – with
an ottoman and a light.” She groaned, frustrated with her own
inability unable to relieve the amused expression on his face. “I
swear it’s not as weird as it sounds.”

“Sure. Because most kids read their parent’s parenting books in a
closet.”

 

“Yes, because most kids get beaten when they drink,” she
retorted.

 

He raised his palms in surrender. “I was kicking myself
anyway.” Noah sighed, rubbing his neck.

 

She frowned, her face ridden with concern. “It seems harsh.”
He shrugged. “So does ditching your kid at a diner.”
~

Following the road home, they moved up his back driveway. It
consisted of dark concrete ridden with crumbled sections, fishing
and jerky shacks off by the tool shed.

“Shortcut,” Noah explained, holding the back entrance with his
foot. It wasn’t heavy, spray painted wood panels on an offset hinge.

Aly mimed a curtsy and breached the foyer, waiting as he took
the front to lead her through. Gripping the screen’s handle, he
swallowed, bracing
himself to reveal his less-than-extravagant
home.

Please let everyone be wearing pants.

Passing the back hall, they made their way through the tiny
living room. A tan, fauxleather loveseat and Lee’s mustard, carpet-
textured recliner were
positioned around
a
small, wood-boxed
television. The furniture was situated amongst floor lamps that
probablydated back to the 70’s, or at least belonged there. Floral
flesh-colored wall paper plastered the space, peeling with age and
yellowed with cigarette smoke.

How they managed to kick that habit in the midst of all their
problems is beyond me. Even that was too expensive.

Mary-Agnes lay on disheveled couch cushions, half pulled from
the frame. Curled into a ball as much as her weight and gout
permitted, she twisted on her side to stare at the ceiling, a mug slack
in her hand. Lee stood over her, scratching his neck and mumbling
unintelligibly.