week.” He didn’t know why he’d told her that. Maybe because his belly was full and he’d slept in that soft bed last night, where he’d dreamed of riding a horse. He’d always wanted to ride a horse.
Miss Riley grinned at him. “Uh-oh. What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
When she hiked an eyebrow, he felt compelled to explain. He didn’t know why. He just did.
“There’s this boy. He’s a bully, but no one does anything about it. He was picking on this little kid named Jacob, so I told him to stop and he kicked me. We kind of got in a fight.” He hated fighting, but when Jacob cried and looked all helpless, he had to do something. Like the time he’d found a cat with its head stuck in a soup can.
“Did you tell your dad? Maybe he could have talked to the teacher?”
“He wouldn’t.” Why’d she have to bring up his dad? Now he was thinking about him again. Would the old man be sober yet? Or would he still be drunk enough to be mad that Brody had been out all night?
Miss Riley cut him a curious look, so he hurriedly said, “My dad works a lot. He’s real busy.”
“Where does your dad work?”
“Big Wave, on the second shift. I don’t know what he does.”
“Something to do with boats, I’m sure.” And she laughed. She had a pretty laugh with a little hiccup on the end that made his chest tickle.
“Which way?” She pulled the VW Bug to a stop at the red light in the center of Honey Ridge.
“My house is not far. I can walk from here.” Brody reached for the door handle.
“Brody,” she said gently. “Which way?”
She was so nice, he didn’t want to hurt her feelings or look like some kind of ungrateful kid without a lick of manners, so he guided her down the side streets, across the railroad track.
His heart beat hard enough to hurt in his belly. If he was lucky, the old man would still be asleep. He wasn’t lucky very often.
“Right there.” He pointed. “Where the white car is.”
“Looks like your dad is home now.”
“Yeah.”
Brody hoped Max was okay, still safely tucked in a shoe box under the bed. He should have brought him camping like usual, but the old man had already been drunk when school let out, and he’d been afraid to chance a return to the house.
“Was he really gone somewhere last night, Brody?”
She was hard to lie to. “He might have been.”
“I see.”
He sure hoped not. He tugged at the door handle and stepped out. No sign of his father. “Thank you, Miss Riley.”
“See you at the library.”
He slammed the door and hustled across the mowed grass, tension in his neck slowly easing. The old man was probably still sleeping it off. His relief was short-lived when Clint Thomson appeared in the doorway without his shirt, his black eyebrows pulled low in a frown of displeasure at the sight of his son. No big surprise there.
“Where you been?”
Brody heard Miss Riley’s car backing out of the driveway and hoped she’d leave quickly.
He searched for a lie that would appease his father but finding none, told the truth. “I went camping.”
“Why is someone driving you home?” His dad listed to one side, wobbly. He slapped the door to catch himself, and Brody jumped. “You’re not supposed to ride with strangers.”
“That’s Miss Carrie from the library.” Knowing a glance could be mistaken for defiance, he kept his eyes trained on the porch. “She’s not a stranger.”
His dad cuffed the back of his head. “Don’t get smart with me.”
Brody snuck a fast glance at the street and saw the blue Volkswagen turn the corner. Relieved, he ducked inside the house before his father could really get going.
If truth is beauty, how come no one has their hair done in the library?
—Lily Tomlin
The library was always busy after the weekend.
The small one-story building in the middle of Honey Ridge was Carrie’s domain, her vocation and avocation. She loved the tidy rows, loved reading and sharing books and loved that the library sponsored adult literacy classes. In fact, she loved everything about the library, including her sometimes troublesome patrons.
Herman Peabody, bless his heart, couldn’t hear a freight train if it ran over his foot, but he forgot his hearing aids as often as he remembered them. Whenever that happened, his voice never dropped below bullhorn level.
Patrons of the library looked at him with either annoyance or resignation.
Wearing a jaunty tam angled on his semi-bald head and in blue overalls that could use a good scrub, Herman Peabody was one of the afternoon regulars.
“Am I talking too loud again?” he asked.
She leaned close, refusing to insult him by wrinkling her nose at his less-than-pleasant scent. “Did you forget your hearing aids?”
He slapped at his ears. A twinkly smile wrinkled an already-wrinkled cheek. “I guess I did.”
Carrie aimed an eye at his overalls. “Maybe in your pocket?”
He squinted and leaned closer. “What?”
She pointed. “Your pocket.”
Recognition dawned, and he patted the overall bib, coming up with a small pair of flesh-colored hearing aids. He popped them in, winced, made an adjustment and then said, “All better?”
Carrie smiled. Most people didn’t bother to know Mr. Peabody had been a Nashville studio musician back in the day when self-trained artists played by ear and before time took away his ability to do exactly that. Now he had nothing to fall back on and barely eked by on a meager Social Security check. She knew this because she volunteered at Interfaith Partnership, a social charity that collected and distributed food and clothing to the needy.
After Mr. Peabody settled onto one of the couches with a sigh and a groan, grabbing at his left knee, she handed him the Honey Ridge Register. “Do you need some aspirin for that knee?”
“Nah. Just an old man’s stiff joints. I must have sat too long with the good ol’ boys down at the café.”
The café was the coffee klatch of retired men who gathered at the Miniature Golf Café every morning without fail to shoot the breeze and resolve the political
