South of Superior - Ellen Airgood [62]
When the place emptied out, Greyson observed the cleanup process, his small face dwarfed by the big glasses, his mouth slightly ajar. He looked like a tiny ornithologist on the trail of some rare species.
It was at moments like those that Paul realized he was coming to love the boy. He hadn’t thought about that when he and Randi hooked Up. But now he was surprised to find himself missing Grey when he wasn’t around, and swamped with a kind of pride when he was—as well as an Urge to protect him from some of the things he knew life would throw at him, though probably that wouldn’t be possible.
Paul drove down to the arm of land that encircled Desolation Bay and parked at the pier. He turned off the engine and lights but left the radio on. The battery would last awhile. The music coming out of WFNM in Crosscut was awful—the worst of the oldies—but Paul felt loyal to the station anyway. It was part of life in the north. Randi scooted over onto the console between the seats and snuggled into him. He pointed out some stars to her. He was feeling good—a smart idea coming out here, a good night—until he heard her softly snoring.
He smiled ruefully. But this was all right too—Randi asleep beside him, Greyson asleep in the back. A little family. He felt the pull of it. What would his mother think? That it was about time, probably.
His mother had a big heart and a no-nonsense approach to life. Both his parents were that way. He knew they wondered when he’d find another wife, have a few kids like his sisters had done. They didn’t harass him about it, though. The closest they came was when his mother would pull him aside for a private talk in the kitchen when he visited. She’d give him an investigative once-over, ask how he was. Fine, great, he always said, and that was her opening to say, Have you met anyone?
He’d tell her a little about his girlfriend if there was one, which there sometimes was. His mother would listen, her intelligent eyes skeptical as he gave her the pertinent details: the girlfriend’s name and age and occupation, the color of her hair. Then she’d jump directly into The Talk. You don’t still blame yourself for the accident, do you? You don’t let that run your life?
No, he always said. Of course not. I was a kid, I didn’t know any better.
His mother would give him a dubious, worried look, but he never had anything else to say about it.
The real answer was, How could I not? I was the one riding on the luggage rack. The bike just had a cop solo for a seat, putting someone on the luggage rack was a great way to throw the balance off, and I was the one who insisted that Manny take me for a ride. I plagued him about it. For once he was the one with some common sense. He took me around the block a few times but that wasn’t good enough. I wanted more, I wanted speed. He didn’t have an extra helmet, remember? So he gave me his. And finally he broke down and put on the speed and we went roaring down East Phillips Road to see how fast we could make the turn and it was great. It really was. But I didn’t lean left because I didn’t know crap about riding, and the rest is history.
So no, I don’t blame myself. I was just a kid, it was an accident. You have to forgive yourself, and life goes on. But also, how could I not?
For a while Paul concentrated on picking out the bits of constellation he could see through the windshield: Cassiopeia, Perseus. Then he stared into M31, thinking about the Andromeda galaxy, wishing he had binoculars. Maybe he’d be able to see it. A whole other galaxy. Eventually he felt his arm begin to go numb. Randi was flat-out