Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [112]
“What do you care?”
“I care because you’re underage, and it’s against the law. Besides, someone who is too immature to drink responsibly is certainly too young to get a tattoo.”
Sam’s dark eyes flashed. “Aaron told me you were drunk when you got your tattoo in Saigon. And you were eighteen, just like me.”
Gabe inhaled deeply and answered, “It was different circumstances. I was a man.”
Sam laughed bitterly. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. You were in a war. I forgot.” He turned and looked at the rest of us, his lip curled in a sneer. “In my dad’s eyes you don’t really grow cojones until you kill someone.”
We all froze. Gabe’s face turned pale with rage. Sam’s brown eyes widened when he realized he’d gone too far this time. Gabe jerked his arm out of my grasp and slammed through the kitchen door. I ran after him and stood on the front porch watching as he jumped into the Corvette and backed out of the driveway, wheels screeching. In seconds, the car disappeared around the corner.
Inside, Rita and Dove had gone back to preparing dinner, and Sam leaned against the counter, his arms folded, staring at the floor.
“Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes,” Dove said, her voice serene. “Sam, you get those plates and glasses out and start setting the table.” After raising four sons and spending countless summers watching passels of grandsons, the pawing and snorting of the male sex didn’t faze her in the least.
“Benni, you get over here and watch these potatoes,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m fixin’ to die if I don’t have a glass of iced tea.”
We ate the meal in silence. We were almost finished when the phone rang. I jumped up and answered it, disappointed when it was for Sam. He had a quick conversation, then hung up.
“Gotta go in to work,” he said, crumpling his napkin and throwing it on his half-eaten dinner. “Two people called in sick. I’ll probably close.”
“Be careful,” Dove said automatically, picking up her plate and his. She and I cleared off the table while Rita retired to her bedroom to call her mother and various girlfriends in Little Rock.
Dove and I did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen without talking about what just happened. Then we went into the living room and turned on the television. She gave me a skein of red yarn and told me to starting rolling. Three quarters of the way through a boring disease-of-the-week movie, I finally said, “This can’t go on.”
Dove gave me another skein of yarn. “It’ll go on as long as it takes. These things always work out, just never in the time we’d like.”
“I hate seeing Gabe torn up like this. I want to do something.”
“Sometimes, honeybun, the only thing you can do for someone is just be there when they’re ready for someone to be there.”
I set my half-rolled ball of yarn down and grabbed my purse. “It’s ten-thirty. If I have to sit here and wait any longer, I’ll go crazy. I’m going to find Gabe.”
She picked up the yarn and continued where I left off. “Have any idea where he might have run to? Gabe’s not one for bars and such.”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
13
I WAS RIGHT. At Gabe’s old house, the Corvette was parked in the driveway at a crooked angle as if the driver was in a hurry to see someone inside. I pulled in behind it. The night air was quiet and cool; dampness from the salty ocean breezes sidled over the hills and settled on my skin like a thin layer of spicy cologne. I walked through the opaque shadows cast by the towering pine and ash trees, glancing at the empty home to the left of Gabe’s and at the dark Cal Poly pasture to the right. Gabe had rented the house because of its large garage and its privacy. When we were dating, it was one of the places we’d come when we truly wanted to be alone. I’d often wondered if we’d been better off moving here when we married rather than into my house.
One of the miniature horses from Cal Poly’s animal-husbandry department lifted its shaggy