4. River

RIVER

I spent the afternoon at Mike's Mechanic Shop trying not to think about my catch-up with Clarry. I fixed the air-conditioning gasket in Ray Ferguson's Dodge, realigned the tires and tightened the suspension on Mrs. Chapman's Chevy hatchback, and tried to avoid being doused in the molasses-like cascade that oozed out of Dilbert, Mr. Carnegie's old pickup, as I changed the oil.

But try as I might, unscrewing wheel nuts and flushing radiators, I couldn't get Clarry out of my head.

Had this morning been weird? I didn't want it to be weird, I'd wanted it to be casual and comfortable and just like old times. And yet… it wasn't.

There had been a strange energy between us.

A clunkiness, like a fanbelt that had started slipping off its wheel.

Then there was the fainting… and was that a kiss that almost happened between us?

Not that I would ever dream of kissing my boyhood best friend.

But it sure as hell felt like he was dreaming of kissing me, until he came to his senses .

I couldn't help but think what might have happened if he hadn't woken up when he did.

Would he have actually kissed me?

Would I have let him?

Would I have kissed him back?

What the fuck was going on?

Maybe when he turned up at Mike's that afternoon things would be back to normal… no weird vibes between us, no fainting, and definitely no attempts at kissing. That is, if he turned up at all. I kinda dropped the idea of him visiting me at Mike's as an afterthought. I didn't mean it to be, it was pretty much front and center in my mind before I even got to the ice cream parlor. I wanted him to see me at work. I guess part of me wanted to show off to my friend all the engine tinkering and tuning I'd learned while I'd been gone. But when I mentioned him dropping by, hell, it did sound like an afterthought. Like I meant it too casually. Like he didn't have to come at all if he didn't want to.

What if he didn't want to?

What if he wasn't interested in hanging out with me anymore?

I didn't know what I'd do if Clarry didn't want to be my friend anymore.

"You okay there?" The question came from Mike, who was well into his fifties now. Mike had been running his mechanic shop since he'd left school decades ago. Hell, he'd been doing this for so long the grease in the lines of his knuckles was never coming off.

I lifted my head from the engine I was working on. "Yeah, I'm good. I'm okay." Why the hell was he asking? Was it obvious I was distracted about something… about Clarry?

As if to answer, he pointed to the bottle of transmission fluid I had in one hand and the cap of the windshield washer tank in the other. "If you're okay like you say, then you might wanna rethink where you're about to pour that transmission fluid. I don't think Mrs. Webster will appreciate what that'll do to her windshield."

"Oh shit. Mike… boss… I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry about it. Trust me, Bud and Maggie did far worse in their time here. Don't even ask how the entire engine from Norman Peterson's Silverado ended up in Mrs. Murillo's Fiat. Technically it's not even possible… and yet those two still managed to make it happen… God only knows why. All's I'm saying is, keep your head on your shoulders and your wits about you, huh? We don't want someone's car crashing into the river because we weren't focusing on the job."

"Sure thing, boss. It won't happen again, I promise. I won't let anything distract me from now on."

"Well, that's a shame," purred a voice from the open roller door to the auto shop.

Mike and I both turned to see a buxom brunette in an American flag crop top and cut-off denim shorts standing in the open roller doorway. She was chewing on gum, teasing a strand of hair with one finger, and eyeing me up and down. I noticed she was my age, and something about her looked a little too familiar, although it was hard to tell beneath the thick layer of makeup.

When I took too long to speak, she rolled her eyes like she was offended. "Oh Jesus, River. Don't you recognize me? Has it been that long?"

"Roxanne? Roxanne Maxwell, is that you?"

"Of course it's me, you big dummy. I heard you were back in town." Her eyebrows did a Mexican wave. "You're looking good, you big lug."

"I am? Thanks, I guess."

"And?"

I wasn't sure what she meant. I glanced at Mike and he just shrugged. "And what?" I asked.

"And ain't you gonna tell me I look good too?"

Mike let out an impatient sigh and said to me, "I gotta go out back and fix the crankshaft on Larry's truck. I'll leave you two kids to it."

He shuffled off as Roxanne called out, "Good to see you, Mike."

"Whatever you say, Roxanne," he mumbled as he disappeared out into the spare parts graveyard that was the backyard of the auto shop.

Roxanne did a terrible job of faking a smile, as though it took all her strength not to give Mike the bird behind his back as he left the workshop. Oh yeah, I might not have recognized her at first—what with those high heels and the makeup and the kind of cleavage you could lose your spare change in—but it was all coming back to me too quickly.

The flirty nature.

The fake friendliness.

The brash attitude she tried to conceal behind that cheerful cherry-lipstick smile.

I'd known her long enough to see through the fa?ade. I knew her well enough to know how quickly she could kick the niceties aside if things didn't go her way. Throughout our school years, I'd learned the best way to deal with Roxanne was to remain neutral, stay calm and assess exactly what her motives were without engaging too much… exactly the same way we dealt with suspicious-acting individuals in the war zone.

Of course, there was one time when I hadn't remained neutral at all—the day in junior high when she pushed Clarry off his bike for no reason other than to humiliate him. She called him "Piggy Pinkerton" and I exploded at her, calling her out for the bully she was and turning the humiliation back on her till she stormed off in tears.

She hadn't talked to me since.

I guess she thought enough time had passed for the whole incident to blow over. I guess she underestimated my ability to hold a grudge against anyone who had the balls to hurt my best friend.

The moment Mike was gone, Roxanne strutted into the workshop, her shoes clacking on the concrete floor. "So, what's it like being back in the sleepy old Mill? I bet things seem boring as all hell to you, now that you've been neck deep in the action, shooting the shit out of all those bad guys." She stopped beside me and leaned on the car I was working on, parading her cleavage in front of me. "Tell me, big guy… did you get to kill anyone? Was it fun?"

I felt the crease dig into my brow. "Fun? It was a war zone, Roxanne."

"I'm gonna take that as a ‘yes'."

"Please don't. And if you wouldn't mind, I don't particularly wanna talk about it."

"I get it. You must have seen a lot of top-secret stuff. Some really fucked-up shit, huh. All those wartime incidents, they're all off the record, I understand. Just so's you know, if you do need someone to talk to, I'm like a vault. I won't tell anyone. My lips are sealed, I promise."

I almost told her that if I wanted to talk to anyone about my time in the service, it'd be Clarry, not her. But I thought twice about it. Remain neutral, assess the motives but don't engage.

"So, what can I do for you, Roxanne? You didn't just come here to talk about life in the Marines."

"Of course not, silly. I came to bring my car in to get looked at. Why else would I come to a mechanic? Duh."

Her tone was nerve-shredding.

I pulled a rag out of the back pocket of my coveralls and wiped my hands. "What's the matter with it?"

She shrugged. "It's hard to explain. There's a kinda rattle in the engine. Like something's loose. Do you think you could take a look for me? It's right outside."

I followed her to the curb out front of Mike's, keeping my eyes off the intentional swing of her hips. Outside was parked an old convertible with the top down.

"Nice car," I said, letting my guard down as I admired the vehicle. "1985 Toyota Celica. She's in good nick."

"The car's doing okay too." Roxanne laughed with a wink, nudging her elbow into my ribs.

Shit, I'd shown too much interest. It didn't take much. I tried to stay focused on the task. "Why don't you pop the hood for me and I'll take a look."

"Sure thing, stud."

Roxanne opened the driver's door and leaned inside, pulling the release.

I opened the hood and scanned the engine for any loose parts. I checked a few screws and caps, but everything seemed nice and tight. "Do you wanna start her up?"

Roxanne turned the key in the ignition and the engine revved to life. I listened closely to the engine, moving around to try and pick up any odd sounds.

"What kind of noise did you hear?" I asked over the motor.

"It was like a tink-tink-tink ."

I listened for a tink-tink-tink . "Give it a little gas for me."

She revved the engine a tad.

I shook my head. "I can't hear any tink-tink-tinks ."

"Maybe it was more like a clonk-clonk-clonk ."

I listened harder. "No. I can't hear any clonk-clonk-clonks either. Did it happen at any particular time, like when you braked or turned the wheel?"

"I don't know. I guess I was too busy listening to the clickety-clickety-click to notice. Can you hear anything that sounds like that maybe? You know, a clickety-clickety-click ?"

I stood back, looked at Roxanne through the windshield and shook my head. I was beginning to think there was nothing wrong with Roxanne's car at all. "You can turn the engine off now. "

Roxanne stepped out of the car and sidled up to the hood, close to me. A little too close for my liking. I inched back, returning my attention to the engine under the hood. "There's nothing I can identify as a problem at this stage. I suggest you keep your ear out while you're driving, see if it happens again and take note of what you're doing at the time, whether it's braking or turning as I said before. Perhaps we can pinpoint the problem then."

She shimmied up close to me once again. "Or perhaps I can just leave the car here overnight and you can take a closer look under the hood. You know, tinker around. Make sure there's no screws loose or holes that need to be filled with some nuts and bolts. That kinda thing."

She gave me a long, suggestive wink.

I instantly moved to step back.

She stopped me by reaching around me, grabbing my ass and pulling me toward her.

I grunted with surprise as our bodies slammed together, before I quickly said, "Oh no, no, no, no, no. This isn't happening, Roxanne."

She retaliated by squeezing my ass cheeks even harder. "Aw, come on, you big dummy. You know you want it. You've been away all this time, fighting for your country, doing your duty, feeling lonely as hell. You must be in need of some release, and I know I sure as hell am too. Fuck knows there's no man in Mulligan's Mill quite like you… a war veteran… a hometown hero… a hunk of man just begging to be unleashed. Surely, you're feeling the same feelings I am… a burning, yearning inside? I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on you. Hell, I can practically taste you on my tongue already. Go on, tell me you want me. Better yet, don't say a word. Just fucking kiss me!"

She leaned in with her plump, cherry-lipstick lips.

I leaned back.

I took her firmly by the shoulders and moved her away from me, separating her hands from my ass, holding her at arm's distance.

She glared at me, annoyed and more than a little astonished. "River Raven, are you rejecting my advances? No man rejects Roxanne Maxwell."

"I guess there's a first time for everything. It's also time for you to go. If you wanna leave your car here, I'll check it in the morning. But it's getting late now."

"Well how the hell am I supposed to get home?" she demanded. "I guess you'll have to drive me."

"No, he doesn't," said a voice from the roller door of the workshop. "But I will."

We both turned to see Mike with his keys in his hands.

Roxanne huffed with annoyance.

I gave a sigh of relief. "You'd do that, boss?"

Mike gave a reluctant nod and tossed me the keys to the workshop. "Move Roxanne's car round back, finish up what you were doing, and you can lock up for the night. I'll see you nice and early in the morning, I'm gonna need your help with Larry's truck."

"Sure thing, boss." I held my hand out for Roxanne's car keys, and she dumped them into my palm, clearly not happy about who was giving her a lift home, her plans to spend as much time with me obviously dashed.

"Take good care of my baby. She likes to be treated real gentle. You gotta take it real easy around the curves." As the words slid from Roxanne's lips, her hands slid down her hips. "Do you think you can handle that, you big lug?"

I tried not to chuckle at her seduction techniques. "All I'm doing is pulling the car round back. I think I'll be just fine."

With that I slipped in behind the wheel of the convertible and drove it around the back of the workshop, leaving Roxanne to clamber awkwardly into Mike's pickup for a ride home.

I finished my work on Mrs. Webster's car—careful not to fill the windshield washer tank with transmission fluid—then tidied up all the tools, mopped up any new grease stains and swept the floor.

All the while I kept glancing up at the open roller door, hoping that Clarry would wander in at any minute. Hell, maybe he'd even bring me a little something, like a tub of Pecan Honeycomb Crush. Maybe even a couple of spoons so we could mosey on over to Winnie's Wishing Well and watch the sun set together while we shared some of his ice cream.

Not that I wanted to do that kind of thing in a romantic way.

I just wanted to spend some time with my best buddy… you know, talk like we used to back in the old days.

So much of me just wanted the old days back.

Before the gunfire…

And the mortar shells…

And the ambush.

I lost track of time, once again falling back into the rabbit hole of my past; reliving yet again all the pain, the fear, the things I couldn't unsee, the ache inside that trickled out of the feeling that I didn't do enough or act fast enough or fight hard enough.

There was a time when I was happy with who I was.

Now I wondered if I'd ever shake the feeling that I'll never be enough.

As I distractedly swept the floor, I accidentally knocked the broom into the foot of a step ladder. The ladder fell, hitting the ground with an almighty BANG!

I jumped, every muscle, every fiber of my being knotting into a twisted ball of anxiety inside me.

It took a minute before I managed to catch my breath.

I closed my eyes and forced myself to untense my body.

When I opened my eyes again, I glanced out through the roller door, praying Clarry would be standing there.

But he wasn't.

The sun had set .

There would be no Pecan Honeycomb Crush tonight.

I stepped out of the workshop, pulled the roller door down and locked the padlock with Mike's keys.

"I sold the old typewriter today. It's been sitting on a back shelf of the store since before you started school." My old man's fork clinked on the plate as he chased his peas around. "Brooks from the bookstore bought it. Says he wants to start a novel of his own. Good for him." He managed to stab a pea. "You remember Brooks, don't you?"

"Dad, of course I remember Brooks. We went to school together."

"Just checking. You never know what happens to a person when they get deployed to a foreign land. You could have lost your memory for all I know. You've certainly forgotten the art of conversation, that's for sure."

I dropped my fork down beside my plate. "Dad, can we please not do this?"

"Do what?"

"This. This stupid chit-chat between us. You're not a chit-chat kinda guy, and neither am I. We never have been. So can we please just eat dinner together, in peace."

He gave a slow shrug. "Sorry to cause such a hullabaloo. I'll try to bring the noise level down before you call Sheriff Garrett and have me arrested."

"And can you please not do that, either?"

"Do what?"

"The whole sarcasm thing. I know you think you're hilarious, but you're not. You just come across as a grumpy, bitter, sad old man. "

"Maybe I am a grumpy, bitter, sad old man. I can't imagine why. Maybe it's because my wife left me to raise my son all by myself. You'd think he'd be grateful to have someone love him enough to take care of him, but no, all he did was blame me for the fact that his mother left us. So, then what did he do? I'll tell you what he did. When he was old enough, he left too. He joined the Marines, and when he finished his service, he didn't even bother coming home again. He gallivanted across the country with barely a phone call or a letter to let anyone know he was okay. Then when he finally did decide to return home, do you know what he did then? He sat across from me at the dinner table and called me a grumpy, bitter, sad old man. And he wondered why that was so."

I drew a deep breath. "So, I'm to blame for you being the way you are, is that what you're saying?"

"I'm saying, you're not completely blame less ."

"Dad, Mom didn't leave because of me. She left because of you . You and your cluttered old store. You and your miserable, miserly ways. You and your constant jibes about how stupid white people are and how corrupt the government is and how the land is yours, not theirs. You're constantly banging on about your heritage like you're Dances With Wolves or something, but you're not. You're just an angry, crazy, delusional old man who stands behind the counter of a general store all day long, collecting dust like everything else in that place. God, no wonder Mom left, she couldn't put up with it anymore. I only wish she'd taken me with her."

For a moment he leveled his gaze at me like an eagle staring down its prey. Then ever so calmly he said, "It's not my heritage. It's ours . And never ever call me Dances With Wolves again. Dances With Wolves was played by a white man. I don't need any white man to be the hero of my story."

I let out a sigh, angry with him, angry with myself. "Dad, there is no hero of your story. "

"Yes, there is. He just doesn't know it yet. The problem is, he's too busy leaving me behind to fight wars that aren't his."

I looked at him like his delusions had just gone next level. "Me? I'm your hero?"

"You would be if you stood still for one minute and listened to the voices of your ancestors."

"Dad, those voices are just in your head."

"No. They're in my heart. They're the voices of our people, our Mamaceqtaw . One day you'll hear them too. You just need to learn how to listen. You need to let go of everything stopping you. Do you understand?"

I shook my head. "No, Dad. I don't. I never understood you."

"One day you will."

With that, he returned to chasing peas with his fork.