an inch stuck out from beneath the base. The line was so thin it was difficult to see, even when one looked closely.
“You look for that little bit of fishing line.”
Ryan was amazed. “I didn’t even see it.”
“Go get something else.”
Feeling enthusiatic, Ryan went over to the trunk and picked out a bag containing a pair of shackles and a key. He returned to the table and started to hand it to her, but she waved him off. “You can take them out.”
Ryan removed the handcuffs and key and looked at his mom expectantly. She came over to him and put her hands behind her back. “Cuff me.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure?”
Held against his mother’s delicate wrists, the cuffs looked heavy. Reluctantly, he snapped them on her. They looked like bright bracelets.
“Lock them.”
Ryan fit the key in the tiny lock and turned it.
“Test that they’re locked.”
Ryan tugged. They were secure.
Zella turned around, her back to him. “OK, sing me a song.”
“What?”
“Something happy. I’m tired of your teenage angst.”
Ryan broke into a grin, and Zella thought he must be the handsomest young man in the world. Their eyes locked, blue on blue. He sang the opening lines to “On the Street Where You Live”, then stopped and looked at her expectantly.
“‘My Fair Lady’. Makes me think of you and Bea.”
A shadow crossed Ryan’s face. Mr. Prescott had them do that musical in fifth grade. Ryan wondered what he was doing now, if he was still teaching. “Harry Connick Jr. did a jazzed up version of that song,” he said.
“You don’t want to talk about Bea, do you?”
Ryan scowled. “Not much.” She had been the only one for him, and her interest in Kincaid had been an abrupt wake-up call.
“Because of how sick she’s been?”
“What do you mean?”
Zella was stunned. “You don’t know?” She turned her back to him to show she was free of the handcuffs and handed them to him.
The blood had drained from Ryan’s face. He needed to sit down.
Chapter 23
Logan sat in his backyard fort, defeated, and stared through the chain-link fence separating the Lockharts’ yard from the Henns’ property. The neighboring house was quiet, and it was early evening. He had given up on his mother after trying for hours to get her to sort through her possessions piece by piece, his reasoning being that if she was mad at his dad for discarding boxes without examining the contents, perhaps this careful approach would work better. Everything he showed her, though, was something she wanted to keep: moldy Q-Tips that would never—should never—be used, a candy dish shaped like a basket with a cracked handle, empty L’Eggs pantyhose containers, chipped mugs, dried tubes of paint, stained dishtowels, rag dolls with no arms, an incomplete set of dominoes. It all had to be saved because it meant something to her.
Halfway through the second bin, there was still nothing in the wastebasket he’d brought in from the bathroom, nothing Ramona would dream of throwing away among the dozens of worthless objects Logan had shown her, and she had made a serious dent in the pack of cigarettes he’d brought her. Now she wanted the bottle of gin she kept in the hall closet under a pile of towels, hidden from Jarrod so she could drink it all herself.
Logan went and got a glass and opened the freezer, removing expired frozen foods to find the sole ice tray so he could put some cubes in her drink.
Smoking and drinking on MawMaw’s bed, propped against the pillows and feigning fatigue, Ramona continued to shake her head every time her son pulled something else out and held it up. “No, I need to keep that. I might need it someday.”
Logan looked at the broken blender, incredulous, and returned it to the box.
And so it went, until half the bottle of gin was gone. He dug around in the box for the next item, and when he held it up, he saw that his mother had passed out, her drink spilled on MawMaw’s chenille spread,
“You look for that little bit of fishing line.”
Ryan was amazed. “I didn’t even see it.”
“Go get something else.”
Feeling enthusiatic, Ryan went over to the trunk and picked out a bag containing a pair of shackles and a key. He returned to the table and started to hand it to her, but she waved him off. “You can take them out.”
Ryan removed the handcuffs and key and looked at his mom expectantly. She came over to him and put her hands behind her back. “Cuff me.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure?”
Held against his mother’s delicate wrists, the cuffs looked heavy. Reluctantly, he snapped them on her. They looked like bright bracelets.
“Lock them.”
Ryan fit the key in the tiny lock and turned it.
“Test that they’re locked.”
Ryan tugged. They were secure.
Zella turned around, her back to him. “OK, sing me a song.”
“What?”
“Something happy. I’m tired of your teenage angst.”
Ryan broke into a grin, and Zella thought he must be the handsomest young man in the world. Their eyes locked, blue on blue. He sang the opening lines to “On the Street Where You Live”, then stopped and looked at her expectantly.
“‘My Fair Lady’. Makes me think of you and Bea.”
A shadow crossed Ryan’s face. Mr. Prescott had them do that musical in fifth grade. Ryan wondered what he was doing now, if he was still teaching. “Harry Connick Jr. did a jazzed up version of that song,” he said.
“You don’t want to talk about Bea, do you?”
Ryan scowled. “Not much.” She had been the only one for him, and her interest in Kincaid had been an abrupt wake-up call.
“Because of how sick she’s been?”
“What do you mean?”
Zella was stunned. “You don’t know?” She turned her back to him to show she was free of the handcuffs and handed them to him.
The blood had drained from Ryan’s face. He needed to sit down.
Chapter 23
Logan sat in his backyard fort, defeated, and stared through the chain-link fence separating the Lockharts’ yard from the Henns’ property. The neighboring house was quiet, and it was early evening. He had given up on his mother after trying for hours to get her to sort through her possessions piece by piece, his reasoning being that if she was mad at his dad for discarding boxes without examining the contents, perhaps this careful approach would work better. Everything he showed her, though, was something she wanted to keep: moldy Q-Tips that would never—should never—be used, a candy dish shaped like a basket with a cracked handle, empty L’Eggs pantyhose containers, chipped mugs, dried tubes of paint, stained dishtowels, rag dolls with no arms, an incomplete set of dominoes. It all had to be saved because it meant something to her.
Halfway through the second bin, there was still nothing in the wastebasket he’d brought in from the bathroom, nothing Ramona would dream of throwing away among the dozens of worthless objects Logan had shown her, and she had made a serious dent in the pack of cigarettes he’d brought her. Now she wanted the bottle of gin she kept in the hall closet under a pile of towels, hidden from Jarrod so she could drink it all herself.
Logan went and got a glass and opened the freezer, removing expired frozen foods to find the sole ice tray so he could put some cubes in her drink.
Smoking and drinking on MawMaw’s bed, propped against the pillows and feigning fatigue, Ramona continued to shake her head every time her son pulled something else out and held it up. “No, I need to keep that. I might need it someday.”
Logan looked at the broken blender, incredulous, and returned it to the box.
And so it went, until half the bottle of gin was gone. He dug around in the box for the next item, and when he held it up, he saw that his mother had passed out, her drink spilled on MawMaw’s chenille spread,
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