Page 92 of Devious Roses
He tries to reach for the letter, his arthritis-riddled hand failing to cooperate. “Lautner ?”
I nod. “Who is he? Somebody from church?”
Pop doesn’t answer. He manages to tear open the letter, putting his second set of eyes on, for a read.
I should give him privacy.
The house needs to be tidied up. The trash taken out. I can sit and sort through the rest of the mail we’ve received.
But what’s the use when unease ripples inside me watching him read his letter?
Lautner could be writing for any reason; he could be a bill collector or from the bank that owns the mortgage.
It wouldn’t be the first time Pop has let his finances fall out of order. Before I came to stay and took over his care, the house had been on the verge of foreclosure.
Not that we’re doing much better these days. I’m working odd jobs like the Sunny Side Up diner and bartending at night. I’m at least able to properly manage and stretch Pop’s disability and pension checks to cover most of the bills.
“Anything good?”
I’ve gotten up and plugged in the vacuum. He’s folded the letter and stuck it back into the envelope.
He grunts. “Nope.”
“An old friend?”
“Yep.”
“From church?” I ask again.
“Nope,” he answers, his throat dry. “An old friend from way back when.”
No further explanation is needed.
Pop’s talking about his lifebefore.
Not just his life before me, but his life before Mom—or so I’ve been told.
Pop’s past is complicated. Growing up, I wasn’t told much beyond he lived a life of crime and served time in prison.
From there I’ve had to put together bits and pieces. Things like the old photographs in the boxes in the garage of a young Pop on a Harley Davidson with a group of other men clad in leather jackets. Clues like Pop’s devotion to the law and aversion to firearms. His thinly-veiled talk of how dangerous it can be to get mixed up with the ‘wrong’ crowd.
Once, I found an old patch from what I assume was a club he belonged to.
A stint in prison set him straight. He found God and cleaned himself up. He fell in love with Mom and married her, still a controversial thing to do in 1980s Boulder.
Interracial marriage was frowned upon.
Even more controversial when they discovered they couldn’t conceive, so they adopted a local little Black girl who had been orphaned.
I drop the subject. It’s the last we talk about the letter and Pop’s old friend Lautner. I mention warming him up another chicken pot pie for dinner—sometimes it’s all he’s willing to eat—and getting him his next dose of medication.
He grunts a thank you before he’s out in five minutes. Bear-like snores fill up the bungalow.
I shake my head and decide I’ll let him get another nap in while I finish cleaning up. The first matter of business is taking out the trash.
I gather the bag and head outside into the sticky afternoon heat only to stop on the front steps.
At once, my gaze picks up on the unusual sight far in the distance. A man standing among some trees several houses away, leaning against a great big motorcycle. He’s older with salt and pepper in his beard and a motorcycle jacket he’s surely sweating in. Though he has black shades covering his eyes and a gray bandana over the lower half of his face, he’s staring over at our house.