“It looks like the stick-figure kick to the head knocked some sense into you.” Tag whistled. “Just seven years too late.”
“I can’t run this time, Tag. I’ve got to see it through. Whatever that means. Maybe I just end up making peace with my skeletons. Making peace with Georgia. Getting to know my son in the only way I have left.” I couldn’t think about Eli without feeling like I was caught in a downpour. But water had always been my friend, and I decided maybe it was time to let it rain.
“I can’t stay, Mo. I’d like to stay, but I have a feeling if I hang around here too long with you, I’m going to be a liability. There’s something about this place that isn’t agreeing with me.”
“I understand. And I don’t expect you to. I may be here for a while. The house could use more than just a little paint and some new carpet. It’s been empty a long time. The bathroom is ancient, it needs a new roof, the yard looks like crap. So I’m going to fix it up. And then I’m giving it to Georgia. Maternity expenses, four years of child support, funeral costs, pain and suffering. Hell, the house probably isn’t enough.”
“Salt Lake is two hours away, less than that the way I drive. You’ll call if you need me, won’t you?”
I nodded.
“I know you, Mo. You won’t call.” Tag shot a hand through his mop and sighed.
“I’ll call,” I promised, but knew in my heart Tag was probably right. It was hard to need.
“You want my advice?” Tag asked.
“No,” I answered. He just rolled his eyes.
“Good. Here it is. Don’t go slow, Mo. Don’t go easy. Go hard and go fast. Women like Georgia are used to holding the reins. But you broke her, Mo. And then you left her. I know you had your reasons. You know I get it. But she won’t let you break her again. So you have to take her. Don’t wait for her to say please. ‘Cause it won’t happen.”
“We’re not talking about a horse, Tag.”
“The hell we aren’t. That’s her language, Mo. So you better learn it.”
Moses
GEORGIA CAME BACK AGAIN that night, knocking on the door, carrying another offering, only this time it wasn’t the photo album. I tried not to be disappointed. I wanted more, but when I’d arrived home that afternoon the book was no longer on the kitchen counter, and I had no doubt that Georgia had come and taken it away.
She shoved a pan of brownies in my chest and said in a rush, “I took the photo album.”
I nodded, the brownies in my hands. “I saw.”
“I just wanted you to know. I’ll put together a book for you. I have so many pictures.”
“I would like that. Even better than homemade brownies.” I tried to smile but it felt forced and I told her to hold on as I set the brownies down on the kitchen counter and joined her on the front steps, wishing I knew what to say to make her stick around.
“I didn’t make them. The brownies, I mean. I’m a terrible cook. The only time I tried to make brownies, Eli took one bite and spit it out. And he ate bugs. I was sure they couldn’t be that bad, until I took a bite. They were pretty terrible. We ended up calling them frownies instead of brownies, and we fed them to the goats. It’s a wonder Eli survived.” She stopped abruptly, a stricken look washing over her face. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and tell her it was okay. That everything was okay. But it wasn’t okay. Because Eli hadn’t survived.
Georgia stepped back off the steps and tried to pull herself back together, smiling brightly.
“But don’t worry. I bought those brownies from Sweaty Betty. She makes the best baked goods in the state of Utah.”
I didn’t remember anyone named Sweaty Betty, and I had my doubts with a name like Sweaty Betty that they would taste any better than Georgia’s frownies. In fact, I was pretty sure I would be letting Tag eat them all.
“You’ll have to try again sometime,” I suggested as she turned to leave. I was talking about her frownies, but I really wasn’t. And maybe she knew that, because she just waved and she didn’t pause.
“Goodnight, Stewy Stinker,” I called after her.
“What did you say?” Her voice was sharp and she stopped walking, but she didn’t turn around.
“I said goodnight, Stewy Stinker. Now you say, goodnight, Buzzard Bates.”
I heard her gasp and then she turned toward me, her fingers pressed to her lips to hide their trembling.
“He keeps showing you kissing him goodnight. And it’s always the same.” I waited.
“He shows you . . . that?” she whispered brokenly.
I nodded.
“It’s from his book. He . . . he loved this book. So much. I probably read it to him a thousand times. It was a book I loved when I was little called Calico the Wonder Horse.”
“He named his horse—”
“Calico. After the horse in the book, yes,” Georgia finished. She looked like she was about to collapse. I walked to her, took her hand, and gently led her back to the steps. She let me, and she didn’t pull away when I sat beside her.
“So, who’s Stewy Stinker?” I pressed softly.
“Stewy Stinker, Buzzard Bates, Skunk Skeeter, Butch Bones, Snakeyes Pyezon . . . they were the Bad Men in Eli’s book.” Georgia said Pyezon like Popeye would say poison, and it made me smile. Georgia smiled too, but there was obviously too much grief in the memory to make it stay, and her smile slid away like the tide. “So if they were the bad guys, who were the good guys?” I asked, trying to coax it out again.