It clogged his throat and made the backs of his eyes sting. Adam’s silent tears soaked the collar of Dylan’s oxford cloth shirt. “I wrote down all the area codes and the phone numbers where I’ll likely be, so you can get hold of me anytime. I put the list in your suitcase. Whenever you want, you just give me a call, okay?”
Adam nodded.
“But your mom’s probably going to keep you too busy to miss me much.” He glanced up at Julie and she had that wide-eyed “What do I do now?” look he recognized. As always, leaving it up to him to know what to say and do. As much as Dylan wanted the responsibility of his son, there were times when he resented the full weight of it. When he resented
Again Adam nodded. “Okay.”
“I’m proud of you, son.” Dylan removed Adam’s arms from around his neck and leaned back to look into his son’s face. “You about under control now?”
Adam wiped the back of his hand across his wet cheeks. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He wiped a tear from Adam’s chin. “I think that went well. You’ve behaved like a man this year,” he said as he stood and handed Adam his suitcase. “Did you remember to pack your crayons?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He took a step backward. “I love you, Adam.”
“I love you, too, Dad.”
Dylan gave an abbreviated wave, then turned away from the sight of Julie taking Adam’s hand and walking away.
In less than a minute Dylan was back in the parking lot, where he’d left his truck. He opened the door, climbed inside, and shoved the key into the ignition. The morning sun shone on the blue hood and his vision blurred.
It felt like one of those times. One of those times when a man just had to let it out.
Chapter Ten
Other than the opening day of hunting season, the Fourth of July celebration was the premiere event in Pearl County. The nation’s birthday was kicked off with a parade down Main Street, which continued around the lake to the grange hall. The field around the grange was mowed down and Corvase Amusements turned the area north of the building into a swell of motion and beckoning lights. The whirs of the Scrambler and the Ferris wheel collided with the plummeting screams from the Zipper, all but drowning out the enticing calls of carnies, coaxing the citizens to try their luck at such games as Slam-Dunk, Flip-a-Frog, and the Quarter Toss.
Rows of craft booths owned the area south of the carnival, where the Mountain Mama Crafters proudly displayed their latest accomplishments. Their artistry ranged from traditional quilts and flower wreaths to toilet- paper cozies and crazy-eyed, long-haired, neon-colored owls glued to hunks of driftwood. No one had the heart to tell Melba that her owls were truly ghastly.
The smells of boiled corn, fried onions, grease, and brewer’s yeast hovered like smog on the hot summer air. It was ninety-eight degrees in the shade, and the dry heat sucked moisture from the skin and toasted unprotected flesh. Next to the food stands was the first-aid tent, where two paramedics bandaged cuts, handed out Pepto, and alleviated heat exhaustion. Deputies Plummer and Williams kept their eyes on the crowd and tended drunkenness. By 6 p.m., Hayden Dean had passed out behind the Hot Dogs for Jesus booth, and at six-oh-five, one of the Hollier kids was caught trying to steal his wallet.
Across the field from the first-aid tent, Paul Aberdeen stood behind a chalk line, determination on his red face, a toilet bowl on his shoulder.
“Come on, baby, you can do it,” Shelly called out to him. “You’re a lean, mean, toilet-tossing machine!”
Hope glanced across her shoulder at her neighbor.
For reasons Hope would never understand, and despite the heat, both Paul and Shelly wore matching Wranglers, cowboy boots, and frilly shirts with pearl snaps. In fact, almost everyone at the fair had duded up as if they were backup singers in a country-and-western band.
Hope on the other hand, had dressed for comfort in her short khaki skirt, black tank top, and leather flip-flops. “Do you think he’s going to pass out?” she asked.
Shelly shook her head. “He better not. He only has to gain two inches in this throw to move a head of everyone else.”
A hush fell over the spectators as Paul spun like a shot-put thrower and heaved the toilet. It flew about ten feet, landed on its base, then fell over onto its side.
“Yes!” Shelly raised her good fist into the air. “The big-screen TV is mine.”
Unfortunately, Shelly’s euphoria lasted only until Burley Morton hoisted the toilet onto his shoulder, moved to the line and hurled it eleven feet four inches. The crowd went wild, Burley moved into first place, and a new toilet- toss record was set.
Paul walked away with a second-place ribbon, a hunting knife, and a sore back.
“Is it over now?” Wally asked. “I want to get my face painted.”
Shelly ignored her son while she rubbed Paul’s back with her good hand. “Do you need a beer, baby?”
“I think I need some Ben-Gay,” Paul answered as he studied his new knife.
“I’ll take Wally,” Hope volunteered, secretly envious of the carnival toys he held in his hands. She’d spent most of the day chasing Wally from one booth to the next. While he had a rubber snake, a plastic tomahawk with fake hair hanging off it, and a crooked pencil, Hope had nothing to show for the appalling amount of money she’d handed over to the carnies. Not even a cheap ashtray. She’d been a failure at all the games she’d played, and after she’d accidentally beamed a young cowboy on the side of the head with a sinker, they’d banned her for life at the Fly Casting Booth. “We’ll meet you two later,” she told Shelly and headed out with Wally.
They waited in line to have a football painted on Wally’s cheek, and after some coaxing, Hope agreed to have a dagger painted on her shoulder. She’d never spent all day hanging out with a seven-year-old boy before, and she was surprised that she didn’t get bored. She supposed it had something to do with her sudden desire to be around people again. She found that the longer she lived in Gospel, the less she liked to spend time alone.
She’d turned in her second article on aliens and was working on her third. Her first alien article had come out that morning, and she’d rushed to the M & S to buy a copy of the newspaper. She’d been given the center spread, knocking Clive’s cow mutilation out of the prime space.
Lately, she’d spent quite a bit of time across the road with Shelly. She helped her neighbor clean house, do laundry, and deadhead the petunias in the window boxes. They talked a lot, about a lot of different things, but Hope still hadn’t been able to tell her new friend about the really bad times in her life. She wanted to, but she couldn’t.
They talked about Hiram Donnelly and the FBI report that had arrived the day before. Some of the text had been blacked out, and she was no closer to understanding than before. After Hope returned home tonight, she planned to go over the information again.
They talked about Dylan, too. No one had heard from him since he’d taken Adam to the airport. That had been four days ago, yet no one seemed worried. Even though Hope knew better than to expect him, she sometimes found herself walking to her front window, looking for the white-and-brown sheriff’s Blazer. Or when she went into town, her gaze would wander, searching for a certain straw cowboy hat or a faded pair of jeans. Of course she never did see him and hated the disappointment that settled on her shoulders and pulled her down.
The last time she’d seen him was that day in Hansen’s Emporium when his gaze had burned her everywhere it touched. She hadn’t imagined that his voice got a little deeper, and a bit huskier, when he talked to her. She hadn’t
