my dying father will walk through that door for the first time in sixteen years, and my siblings aren’t here. Cal isn’t here. My only buffer is a woman wearing too much makeup and scrubs smothered by tiny yellow ducks.
Something bangs and shakes the walls downstairs, and I picture Fannie heaving the couch onto her shoulders and hauling it clear across the room. The racket reminds me of all the things I should be doing. Helping Fannie rearrange the living room. Showering and unpacking. Hunting down my deadbeat siblings and dragging them back to help. Every single one of those options exhausts me.
I yank on my comforter, pull it across my shoulders and wrap it around me like a cocoon. A gust of wind whistles at my windowpane, and I burrow deeper into the down. Somewhere outside, a car door slams. By the time I reach the far side of a sigh, I’ve found temporary peace.
A CLOWN.
That’s my first thought when I open an eye. Why is there a clown standing above me, poking me in the shoulder?
“Go away.” I pull the comforter tighter and roll toward a window I vaguely recognize as mine, but from a lifetime or two ago.
The clown gives me a two-handed shove in my back. “Wake up, ’fore I fetch me a bucket of ice water.”
For a second or two, I get caught up on the way she said that last word—warter. And then it hits me. The thick accent, that frizzy orange hair can only belong to one person. I turn my head, blink up at Fannie. “Oh, sorry. I must’ve drifted off.”
“Good Lord, child, I’ve been trying to wake you for the past five minutes. It ain’t normal the way you sleep like the dead.”
I push to a sit, swipe the heel of a hand across each eye. “In my line of work, sleeping is considered a job skill.”
“What are you, a vampire?”
I would laugh, but I’m midyawn.
“Stick your head under a faucet or something, ’cause I just parked one fine hunk of police officer on the couch downstairs. He says you were expecting him at eleven.”
Her words are like a shot of caffeine to the jugular, and I spring out of bed so fast I see a rain of sparkles around the edges of my vision. “Shit. What time is it?”
“Sometime after eleven, I reckon.”
I fall to my knees on the floor and rifle through my suitcase, flinging sweaters and T-shirts and underwear aside until I find my phone, lodged in one of my sneakers. “It’s 11:19. Shit, shit, shit.”
“How ’bout I fix him a cup of coffee while you get ready, lickety-split like.” She heads for the door, but not before tossing a glance to the contents of my suitcase, now exploded all over the floor. “And, sweetie, if you don’t mind me saying so, you may want to spend a little extra time searching through all that slop for a hairbrush.”
By the time I make it downstairs seven and a half minutes later, my teeth brushed and my hair gathered into a messy ponytail high on my head, Fannie is holding court on the couch. She’s brewed a fresh pot of coffee and scrounged up a plate of cookies from the stockpile in the kitchen. And she’s seated suspiciously close to the police officer, giggling like a schoolgirl.
He stands when I come into the room, and with one last bat of her lashes, Fannie heads into the kitchen. Her definition of hunk is light-years away from mine. The policeman looks like an older version of Opie, that kid from The Andy Griffith Show, skinny and ruddy-complexioned. His receding hairline scoops two matching Cs high on his forehead. He waits while I take in the patches and pins on his uniform, the heavy weapons at his belt, the stiff hat tucked under a biceps.
“For a Halloween costume,” I tell him, “it looks pretty decent. How much did you pay for it?”
One corner of his mustache twitches. “I see you’re still as much a smart-ass as ever.”
“I’m sorry.” I push two fingers at each temple and shake my head. “I’m just having trouble processing the fact that the boy who taught me how to funnel beer when I was fifteen has since sworn to uphold the law.”
“Strangely enough, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”
I believe it. For the students at Cherokee High School, Jimmy Gardiner was a legend. Mastermind behind every school prank and organizer of every party. He was a straight-D student, an unapologetic pothead and a proven reckless driver who totaled cars faster than his broken bones could set. If it had been a category, he would have been elected Student Least Likely to Become a Police Officer.
“Holy crap, Jimmy!”
“I go by James these days.” He grins, lifts a shoulder. “Had to pass on the name to the next generation.”
“You have children?” I don’t bother disguising my surprise, but I hope I manage to conceal my horror. Jimmy as a father, now there’s a frightening image.
He nods and reaches for his wallet, flipping to a photo of four scrappy boys in front of a Christmas tree. “Jimmy Junior is six, Ronnie’s four and the twins are two.”
“Cute.”
“They’re the devil’s spawn. Last night I caught the two older ones peeing on the living room ficus. Jimmy told me they were watering it.”
I laugh. “Sounds like karma to me.”
“Not the first person to tell me that, either.”
The walkie-talkie on his shoulder hisses, jerking us out of our reunion with a harsh squawk. A man’s voice fills the room. “Approaching Mooresburg, sir. ETA twenty-five minutes.”
Jimmy slides his wallet back into his pocket, hits a button on the walkie-talkie and tilts his head toward the device. “Roger that.”
My heart lodges in my throat. Twenty-five minutes.
At the reminder of why he’s here, Jimmy’s expression sobers. He offers me a neutral smile, his posture assuming that of police officer rather than old school friend. “As much as I’d like this to be a social visit...”
He doesn’t have to finish for me to get his sentiment. I nod, pointing him to the couch. “Please. Have a seat.”
He drops his hat with a soft thunk on the coffee table and sinks onto the couch. Fannie appears with a fresh coat of coral lipstick and two mugs of coffee, plunking them with an admiring grin at Jimmy onto the table. He thanks her, waiting until she’s slipped back into the kitchen before continuing. And then he ignores his coffee, turning on the couch to face me.
“I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page here since the paperwork lists you as the defendant’s sponsor.”
Silence settles over the room. That I am sponsoring my father is news to me, and a brief flare of resentment for Cal and my siblings bursts in my chest. I don’t recall being asked, and I certainly don’t recall volunteering to be anybody’s sponsor.
“What does that mean, exactly, that I’m
