Firefly Nights. Cynthia Thomason
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the strange noises. Her son sat on the end of a bed, his face cupped in his hands as he stared gloomily at a TV screen with more static than picture.
“It’s not even color,” he said. “I can’t watch this.”
She checked the back of the television. Its bulbous shape convinced her the set was color even if the only remaining evidence of the NBC peacock was a sickly Martian green. “Probably just needs a new antenna,” she said.
“This place sucks.” Adam turned the channel wheel, which only had thirteen numbers. He was able to get minimal reception on four of them.
“We’ll worry about that later,” Kitty said. “For now, get off the bed.”
“What?”
Seeing her son on the old linens had revitalized Kitty with the instinct to protect her young. “I don’t want you sitting there.”
He stared at her as if she’d lost her mind, but he stood. She ripped the linens from both beds and piled everything, sheets, spreads and two thin blankets, into Adam’s arms. “Take these to the breezeway. I saw a decent washer and dryer and a bottle of detergent. Fill the washer with half the linens, dump in some soap and turn it on.”
He grimaced at the load in his arms. “I don’t know how to wash clothes.”
“It’s easy. Read the dials and choose whichever settings claim to have the most superpowers.”
He trudged out of the room, sheets trailing behind him. Kitty followed him outside but stayed on the walkway. She leaned her elbows on a railing that ran the length of the covered walkway and took a deep breath. “Okay, Kitty,” she said to herself. “You can do this. It won’t be so bad.”
The wind had calmed so that only a gentle breeze rustled the pitiful shrubs that stubbornly existed in nutrient-depleted beds in front of the motel. Kitty plucked a pale, drooping leaf from an evergreen plant and studied it. “All it would take is a little fertilizer and some serious weed removal, and this bed could be brought back to life,” she said. “I’ll bet these bushes could look as good as...”
She stopped, wondering where she had been going with that sentence. And then she looked across the two-lane road to hills that dipped and rose in elegant curves up from the gap and into the horizon. A wispy haze hovered over a cleft, a saddle-shaped indentation in the tallest peak, bathing the mountain top in a cool blue-gray mist.
It must have been a nurturing spring, she decided, because every tree in her view was dressed in the most remarkable shades of green, from deep emerald to pale olive. She twisted the leaf between her fingers. “Yep, you could look as good as what lives just across that road.”
She blew the leaf into the breeze and glanced over her shoulder into the bleakness of her room. What had seemed hopeless only moments ago now at least hinted of promise. “It’s sure a long way from my father’s house,” she said, “but it’s a heck of a lot better than Bobby’s sixteen-foot travel trailer.”
She’d been in her second year at the University of Florida when charming, sinfully handsome Bobby Watley played a golf tournament at a nearby resort. Kitty volunteered to be a scorekeeper. Her mother had died a few weeks before, and Kitty was desperately seeking any activity that would get her out of the classroom and the claustrophobic despair where her grief had taken her. Unfortunately it had been Bobby’s dazzling smile that had taken her mind off her problems, not his less-than-stellar golf swing.
Two weeks later, she dropped out of school and married Bobby in the town where the next tournament had been held. Now she couldn’t even remember the name of the place. Towns all ran together, and state lines became indistinct when you stayed in campgrounds that all looked alike.
She shivered now, thinking of that dismal time in her life when she was married to Bobby. They never had enough money. They never had enough room. When Adam came and he needed space, she’d been forced to toss out most of the possessions she’d brought with her. She fixed simple meals on a small, two-burner stove.
But of all the things she lacked with Bobby, the most glaring was encouragement. When she craved support, Bobby offered criticism. When she asked for help, Bobby demanded more than anyone could give. Had she known Bobby was so emotionally needy, she never would have married him. Had she realized the same of herself, she especially wouldn’t have.
She’d been young when she married Bobby. But she’d felt old when she left him. After twenty-four months of watching her husband fail on the golf tour, Kitty called her father and begged for his forgiveness. A day later she walked away from a dry, dusty campsite in Arizona with nothing in her pocket but the credit card her father had overnighted, and her ten-month-old son in her arms. And because Bobby knew he didn’t have a chance of seeing any of Owen’s money, he signed the divorce papers sent by the Galloway attorney.
Even when she’d put those years behind her and moved back to Richland, she constantly struggled to move forward without being haunted by the past. It didn’t help that Owen fanned the fires of her memories. Sometimes she thought the greatest satisfaction he had in life was reminding her of the foolish mistake that had cost her a college education, her independence and, most importantly, her self-esteem.
“Mom?”
Brought back to the present, she smiled at Adam. “How’d you do with the laundry?”
“I guess I did okay. I read the directions on the soap jug.”
She drew him close to her side. He flinched at first and then stood quietly, as if he sensed that contact was what she needed. Stroking his hair, Kitty admitted that this child of hers was a handful, but he was all she had of Bobby Watley and all she wanted from him. At least Bobby had given her Adam.
During Adam’s twelve years of life, Bobby had been little more to him than a crinkled copy of an internet article about the players in some insignificant tournament. Adam read that story over and over, connecting with his father the only way he knew how. Kitty had made sure the article was among their belongings in the broken-down truck. Adam wouldn’t have wanted to leave that piece of his history behind.
“We’ll get washed up,” she said to Adam, “and then look in on Mr. Oakes.”
The mention of Campbell’s name brought a strange image to Kitty’s mind, as if the Adonis beauty of Bobby’s face had mutated like a Hollywood camera trick into the imperfectly rugged features of Campbell Oakes. She hardly knew anything about Campbell, but she sensed that he wasn’t a bit like Bobby. Not that she should be thinking of Campbell as anything other than an obligation, but some things were just obvious. Bobby was sand, shifting with the tides, pretty to look at, but you couldn’t build a house on it. Campbell, despite being bested by a busted fuel line, was definitely rock.
“We got some money left, don’t we?” Adam said as they walked back into unit number six.
“I have a little. Why?”
He nodded at the television. “Maybe we can buy an antenna for that old piece of junk.”
“I’ll think about it.”
He grinned at her. “Give me back my Tampa Bay jacket, and I’ll pick one up at the Value-Rite when I go into work.”
THE RINGING PHONE irritated Campbell, but not just because he didn’t want to talk to anyone. He couldn’t reach the dang receiver. The phone mocked him from an end table at the far end of the couch, ten feet at least from where he had parked himself in the recliner.
He gripped the arms of the chair and pushed himself up. Swearing under his breath seemed to give him enough strength to hobble to the sofa and sprawl across the three cushions. He’d answer the darn thing now, but he reminded himself to keep the receiver nearby from now on. And then he reminded himself never to crash his plane again. He read the caller ID, Travis Oakes, and punched the connect button. “Dad?”