Dweller - Jeff Strand [78]
“Sound it out,” Sarah said.
“We re…reg-ret…”
Toby sighed. “Let’s give him some Dr. Seuss.”
“Guess who got a gold star today?” Toby asked Owen.
Owen reached for the drawing, but Toby put it behind his back. “Sarah will kill me if you rip it. I just wanted you to see it. Look at that. He’s pretty good, don’t you think?”
Yes.
“You’re not just saying that, are you? I’m biased and all, but let me tell you, I was at the open house and I saw what the other kids had up on the wall, and there was some shit. Look at that hand. How many six-year-olds do you know who draw knuckles? I didn’t have any talent chromosomes to pass on, so I don’t know where he got it, but this kid’s a freakin’ Rembrandt. Gold star. Right there, baby.”
He held the paper behind his back again. “No, seriously, Owen, you can’t touch it. But it’s impressive, right? It’s not just me? I need you to provide a neutral opinion because Sarah and I are flipping out over it. Of course, he did also wet his pants during recess, but when you have immense talent you can’t always focus on bladder control.”
1994
“Oh.”
“You have more to say than ‘oh,’ right?”
“It just took me by surprise, that’s all. The way you said it. No buildup.”
“Like they say in the newspaper business, don’t bury the lead, right?” Sarah was practically bouncing with excitement.
It was, to be fair, outstanding news. A children’s television show wanted her to join the staff and write new songs each week. An incredible opportunity. She could go from being a waitress with a few songs that occasionally got radio play on local stations to a full-time songwriter.
“But it’s in Chicago.”
“Well, yeah.”
“I’d have to quit my job.”
“Yes, you would. You don’t have any great love for that job. You never have.”
“We’d have to pull Garrett out of school.”
“Yeah, and he’d go to school in Chicago.”
“He’d have to make new friends.”
“He’s six. He hasn’t formed lifelong friendships yet.” Sarah stared at him in disbelief. “Why are you giving me crap about this?”
“I just don’t want to move.”
“Why? What ties do you have to Orange Leaf?”
“I’ve lived here my whole life.”
“And…?”
“That’s not enough?”
“Of course it’s not enough! This is a dream come true. I realize it doesn’t pay that much, but I’d get to write songs for a living. That’s what I’d do instead of bringing people ketchup and extra napkins. I thought that you’d want to grab the suitcases out of the garage and start packing.”
“Well, I don’t.”
She looked at him with such hurt that Toby wanted to fall to the floor, clawing his eyes out in a fit of self-loathing.
“Are you jealous?” she quietly asked.
“No.”
“Then why?”
“I don’t have a job there.”
“You’d find one. That’s not an answer. It’s not like we’re moving to Antarctica—it’s Chicago. It’s two states away.”
“I can’t leave Orange Leaf. It’s my home.”
“Your home is with Garrett, Hannah, and me, wherever we are.”
“We can’t leave.”
They didn’t speak for a few moments, as her shoulders began to quiver and tears streamed down her face. “You’re really going to take this away from me?”
Toby couldn’t answer her.
She called and declined the offer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
1995. Age 50.
Everything hurt.
His feet hurt, his back hurt, his brain hurt…the people who’d said that getting old was a bitch knew of what they spoke. Forty was “over the hill,” midlife-crisis time, but regardless of his family history, Toby had plans to live well past eighty. Past one hundred? That was pushing it. It could happen, but more likely than not, Toby had passed the halfway mark. More years behind him than ahead of him.
What did he have to show for a half century?
It wasn’t too bad, he supposed. Two great kids. A beautiful wife whom he loved dearly, even if she resented him. And the friendship of a monster whose talons had turned from ivory to yellow without him really noticing the transition, and whose teeth were starting to fall out. Owen had held up the tooth in dismay, as if asking, “What the hell is happening to my body?”
Pretty soon, the flesh-eater