The Lost - J. D. Robb [49]
“Okay, now,” he said in a different voice, bending into the toy box and pulling out a smaller one, metal: an old cookie tin. I went closer.
He whispered, “See this, Sonoma?” He held out an item I didn’t recognize at first. “My mom owned it. It’s a secret. I took it out of her car. It’s for coffee, you put coffee in and then you drink it when you’re driving. Going to your job in your car, and it won’t spill.” He demonstrated how to drink from my old coffee cup.
“It says the name of her job right here.” SHANAHAN & LEWIS REALTORS. “She went every day. They sell houses to people. She got rewards because she was good. She was the best.”
Well. I was, but I didn’t know Benny knew it. I felt proud, but also as if I might’ve been caught doing something slightly embarrassing. Bragging.
“This is her mouse pad.” He was whispering again. He did that adorable thing he did with his face when he was thinking hard: He scowled and pursed his mouth and wrinkled his nose. I knew exactly what he was thinking: How do I explain a mouse pad to my dog? In the end he decided not to bother. “It has a picture of us Dad took, me and Mom, then he had it put on this thing. It’s us sledding down York Lane. I was a little boy. I couldn’t go on my own yet. This is Mom and this is me.”
I loved that picture. Benny, three years old, sat in front of me on the sled, both of us red-f aced from the cold and laughing like loons. He had on his silver snowsuit, the same outfit he’d worn at Christmastime that year to sit on Santa’s lap. Outgrown long ago.
He held the mouse pad photo closer to my face. “It looks like we have the same color hair, but we don’t.” No, we did—he’d forgotten. His hair had darkened in the past two years, and mine stayed the same. He’d just forgotten.
The mouse pad went back in the box; out came something wrapped in a piece of cloth. Something special, I could tell by the way he held it.
“Look,” he said, and opened the last treasure.
Earrings. Cheap metal hearts with MOM engraved on each one—he and Sam had bought them last Mother’s Day at a kiosk in the mall. “She liked them a lot. She said they were beautiful. When she wakes up, I’m giving them to her again. As soon as she wakes up.” I leaned my weight against him; he put his arm around my neck. “I told Dad, and he said she might not remember. That I gave ’em to her before, but I think she will. Don’t you?”
He wasn’t crying, but I licked his cheek. I know she will.
I’d always liked Sam’s father, even though he was as unlike his only son as could be. Where Sam was a quiet man, unassuming and kind, often reserved around strangers, Charlie was the kind of guy the phrase “good time” was invented for. He sold insurance before he retired a few years ago, and I used to like to imagine what a nice surprise people were in for who invited him over to discuss premiums on their whole life. What I hadn’t known was how much fun he was if you happened to be a dog.
Pretend-growling was great fun, too, sort of like constant gargling. Charlie played tug-of-war with me and my toy pheasant almost as long as I wanted. Almost. We played in the kitchen until he dragged me out of the house by his half of the toy and collapsed on the front porch step. I let him pry my mouth open, hoping he would heave the bird out into the dark front yard. He did; then he did it again, and then again, but not enough. He tired out—they always do. I could’ve retrieved that pheasant all night.
Sam came out with a couple of beers, handed one to his father. “Hot,” he said. “We can sit inside if you’d rather.