Tilt - Alan Cumyn [46]
“To see a girl,” Ron said.
Feldon was bundled on the front porch bench in his jacket, clutching Mr. Strawberry, his eyes closed, head about to droop.
No way Lily would knowingly give up Mr. Strawberry, not even to a half-brother. She was going to be furious.
“If you’re going out it’s to see a girl,” Ron pressed.
The battered brown suitcase they’d arrived with was leaning against the front porch.
“And you’re running away like you always do,” Stan heard himself say. “That’s all you ever know to do.”
Ron looked to the darkened driveway. What was he waiting for?
“I bet you didn’t call Kelly-Ann,” Stan said. “I bet you lied about that.”
“I told you. She’s a certified lunatic,” Ron said. “Like most women.”
He was an old gray bearded man making pronouncements. Was this the same guy who drove Stan to the dock all those years ago?
He was waiting for a taxi.
“Look around you. What do women really want? To get their nails in you. Nails in flesh. Either you’re running at midnight chasing some scent, or you’re breaking their grip, trying to get your flesh free.”
It was almost as if he’d been waiting on the porch hoping the taxi would be delayed so he could unload this bag of misery.
“Why did you never call me?” Stan said.
Ron bit his lower lip and shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“You got a phone to Lily somehow.”
“Look. You were always on your mother’s side. If I’d tried to get in touch with you, your mother would have . . .”
The thought died in the night.
“You know the thing I wanted most in life?” Ron asked. “Music. Probably I never told you. I used to play the sax. There was a group of us in high school —
the Shades. Tony Claremont, he’s a recording artist now. Check the liner notes for new albums. Tony Claremont — keyboards. He made it, man. He didn’t get bogged down with a wife and kids and mortgage and shit. He just did it. I could be there, too, if I’d stayed with it. You got something you really love?”
A gust of cold wind rattled some leaves across the porch. Winter soon enough.
“Basketball,” Stan said.
“Basketball!” Dismissal dripped from the word. “You’re like, a point guard or something? Can you shoot?”
His father was taking Feldon in the middle of the night to stay one step ahead of Kelly-Ann. This old gray man with the paunch who used to play the saxophone when he was in high school.
“Yeah, I can shoot,” Stan said.
It was all a matter of feel.
Suddenly Stan knew what to do.
“Why don’t you leave Feldon here?” he said. He crossed his arms but kept relaxed. He might need to knock his father’s knee out from under him.
“Leave Feldon here?” Ron smiled madly.
“You don’t want him weighing you down when you’re trying to establish yourself,” Stan said. “You’ll be a lot quicker on your own.”
It was as if pictures in the shadows were playing across the dim man’s face. He even shifted his eyes toward the sleeping boy.
He looked like he’d been on the mat in defeat for a long time.
“Kelly-Ann’s going to be here by morning,” Ron said. “She’s going to find the boy and I am never going to get to see him again.”
The boy. The boy had a name!
Ron wiped a hand through his thinning hair.
“I’ll hide him for you,” Stan said. Now a light appeared at the end of the street. The taxi? Ron shifted his gaze, too. “I’ll tell them you and Feldon took off —”
“Your mother would give him up.” Ron picked up the suitcase and lifted Feldon to his shoulder in one decisive movement. What was Stan even thinking? That he could take on this guy twice his size?
The taxi crawled up the street.
“I’ll take him to my girlfriend’s,” Stan heard himself say. “She’s got a great family. He’d fit right in for a couple of days. It won’t take you longer than that to get established, will it? You’ll be set in three or four days?”
Give Feldon the favor you gave to me, Stan thought. Just take off.
Headlights turned into the driveway. If Stan swept across with the kick, he could maybe catch Feldon as Ron crashed down.
Stan moved to block his dad’s route to the stairs. A strong driving punch to