Expiration Date (14 page)

“She never came out of it.” Mylisha felt her voice falter.

“I don’t even want to think about it,” Clay said. “I first found out about it when they handed me Summer’s work order.”

“Her what?”

“I did her headstone.”

“Clay! That’s horrible.”

“Tell me about it.” He paused. “There’s something else, Mylee.”

The affectionate nickname silenced her. She bit her lip, dropped her chin against her chest. In the dresser beneath the window, their old cards and notes still filled a shoebox that she knew she should’ve dumped years ago.

“Sorry, my bad,” he said. “It just slipped out.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Do you think we could meet up somewhere, maybe hang together awhile? I need to talk to someone. Been experiencing some crazy stuff.”

“I hear dat.”

“I already called in to take the day off. Whaddya think?”

“Skipping work? That’s not like you. You sure you’re okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, so now you don’t know. Tell me the truth, boy, are you feeling sick, or are you just playing for my sympathy? If I catch you milking the situation.”

“I’m fine.” He emitted a weak chuckle. “Or so you say.”

Mylisha imagined a goofy grin twisting his mouth, pushing dimples into his chiseled cheeks. His sense of humor, his carefree attitude, had attracted her from the beginning. During the last year of high school, however, things had shifted. They’d both made mistakes. They’d both pulled away. Eventually he’d started flashing his grin again, but she knew him too well to miss the minor differences. After that accident at the river, a part of him had gone into hiding.

“Clay, today won’t work. I’m one of the managers down at Safeway, and I’m scheduled to go in. Final inventory, paperwork—that sort of stuff.”

“It’s important, Mylee.” He apologized. “Mylisha.”

“Ooh,” she said. “I knew you coming back to town was bad news.”

“If only you knew.”

“Aren’t you still married? People around here’ll talk. You know they will. Wonderful JC, the rumor capital of the world.”

“Hey, it’s not our problem. We’re adults now. We know where things stand.”

Mylisha knotted her fingers in her comforter, and her college handbook flopped from the bed onto the carpet. Well, good for him. She was glad he had it all figured out. In her own heart, emotions were still swirling, dredged up by the sound of his voice. By the ache of his rejection. She’d climbed the corporate ladder, made a stab at an education.

As for her real dreams and desires? She’d laid them aside. Locked them away for safekeeping.

Was she ready to see all six feet three inches of him? What would happen when he turned his dark green eyes upon her? Could she deal with that?

Summer was right. I am scared
.

“So today won’t work,” Clay conceded. “What about tomorrow? We could hike out to Alsea Falls, get some exercise and fresh air, leave this place behind.”

“Back for two weeks and you’re already trying to get away?”

“Trying to make sense of things. Need some distance, that’s all.”

“Boy, haven’t you had enough distance?” She felt herself begin to unravel. “You expect to come sauntering back into town and have everything grind to a halt for you? We do have lives, you know. It’s not as if we’ve sat around waiting
for Mr. Ryker’s grand return. You hear what I’m sayin’? What do you want from me?”

“Hey, you’re the one who called. Guess I just need someone to talk to.”

“Until Jenni comes back?” Mylisha bit down on her lip, drew in a breath. “Clay, I’m not up for this. Probably be best if we drop any plans to get together.”

“What plans?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. Good-bye.”

With a raw sound, the postcard scraped beneath his door. Customarily, his mother delivered his mail in person with her artless self-promotion: “You’re welcome, Clay. It’s no problem. Whatever your mother can do to help.” Had to give it to her, though; she knew to alter course when his mood swings loomed.

Clay lent the card a suspicious eye. He pulled himself into an upright position on the bed’s edge, bumping an empty can onto the carpet where a trickle of beer formed a yeast-scented stain.

So what was this, another message? Another secret revealed? Another bill?

Speaking of bills, they had tracked him down in the last week. According to the temporary court orders, Clay was solely responsible for his restructured business debts under Chapter 13 bankruptcy, and he’d been burying the paper mines beneath dirty laundry around the room, awaiting the inevitable explosions.

Boom! There goes your credit
.

Boom! Thought you paid that one off? Think again, sucker!

Boom! Take a trip to the back of the line. What? Oh, you wanted to finance that economy pack of boxers? Too bad, Mr. Ryker—-you flunked the credit check. A whoppin’ F for you. F for financial flunky. F for failed family man
.

Clay scanned the floor and conjured an image of cleared carpet. Couple more paychecks and maybe, just maybe, he could come through with the minesweepers. Find space to walk again. Prove to the world—meaning Gerald and Jenni and Jason—that with some hard-earned cash this boy could fly.

Back to the postcard …

Was it from Jenni? He missed his wife and the simple pleasure of sitting in a room together while she read one of her latest legal thrillers and he
scanned the paper’s box scores. Early in their marriage, they’d taken treks into the Wyoming wilderness, packing Jason along until he was old enough to walk.

Man, those pint-sized khaki shorts and his little hiking boots …

The boots were worth fifty bucks for the memory alone.

Clay wiped at his eyes. Standing, he felt his head spin. He steadied himself against the pitching of alcohol in his system, then fetched the postcard. The photo showed Old Faithful doing its thing. Yellowstone.

The handwriting on the back was uneven, yet legible.

The second time Clay read it, his throat tightened, and the words ran like ink underwater. Jason still called him Daddy. Clay held the postcard to his chest, and his shoulders shook. He made not a sound. In his mind, the image of Jason’s nine-year-old face popped up, dirty and full of wonder the day he’d carried in a beetle for his momma’s inspection. Jenni had jumped, dropping a can opener. Clay and Jason had laughed, a male moment of bonding.

Concern now swelled through Clay’s chest. His son seemed so far away.

Then he thought of the paperboy on the porch early this morning.

7.1.1.0.4 …
A warning?

Clay took a drink from a half-empty container on his nightstand. He had one week to find and safeguard the paperboy. Yes, this is what he would do. Since Jason was a few states away, Clay would channel his concern toward this newly threatened child. He would serve as protector. Perhaps he could do this one thing right.

One thing, just one thing …

When the sunlight roused him on Sunday morning, he was stretched out on the bed with his clothes wrinkled about his body, the overhead light glaring, the postcard still clutched between his fingers.

“Kenny?” His mom’s voice carried thinly from her twin bed.

“I’m going to do the paper.”

“Be careful out there. You know cars have a hard time seeing you.”

“I know, I know.” He ruffled Gussy’s ears, then kissed his mom on the cheek. “Love ya, Mom. Be back soon.”

Kenny Preston took his usual path through the garage’s side door. Stuffed with inserts, the Sunday papers were the hardest, often overflowing his shoulder bags. Today’s date was stamped clearly: July 4, 2004. Independence Day.

He couldn’t wait for tonight’s fireworks display in Harrisburg.

The morning wind was light, the sky streaked with violet, and Kenny felt invigorated by the smell of fresh-cut grass and hay. On Juniper Street, a resident had asked that his paper be brought each day to the welcome mat on the back porch. This morning Kenny found a tip folded there beneath a pack of gum.

Koolerz. My favorite. And five dollars!

While his jaws worked the gum, his legs pistoned him forward so that he was able to complete the Sunday route before seven o’clock.

Which gave him a few minutes to kill.

He rolled the five-dollar bill in his hand. His mom was right that the world wasn’t such a bad place if you knew the right people. Actually, she had said, “… if you know the right person.” Meaning God.

Kenny had come to understand this a few months back. In a Sunday school class, the teacher explained that Jesus was a real man who came and lived on earth. “Even though he was God and could’ve stayed in heaven, he humbled himself so we humans would know how much he loved us. He went through struggles just like we do. He was tempted but never sinned. He was a spotless lamb, sacrificing himself for the sins of the world. His death brought each of us life.”

The words touched Kenny. In his heart he believed, and in his head it made a strange sort of sense. At the teacher’s invitation, he raised his hand. Yes, he’d done things wrong, which separated him from his Father God. Yes, he wanted Jesus to make things right.

Kenny Preston was born again, saved, baptized—the whole deal.

Yep. I know the right person
.

The traffic was minimal this early, but his mother’s warnings played through his head. He looked both directions. Blocks away, near the Dairy Queen, he saw a panel van waggling around a corner.

Ivy Street was Junction City’s main thoroughfare, a segment of Highway 99 that ran up and down through the state. If Kenny followed it, he knew it’d take him to Portland, where he could visit the IMAX theater and the old submarine at the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry. His last visit to OMSI had been on a field trip.

A hundred miles away. He could do that. One big adventure.

Of course, his mom would freak. Always an entertaining thought.

Kenny cut across Ivy, through a parking lot and an alley, then bunny hopped a curb so that he was on the smooth path running through Founder’s Park. This was the site of the locomotive. He loved this train with its hints of intrigue and spies, battles and mystery. Supposedly, some famous Russian guy had escaped on this thing.

Kenny was ready to explore. The morning was young, locking the park in shadow. The coast was clear.

He laid his bike behind a bush, then shimmied over the gate that guarded Engine 418. The machinery was huge and dark. New paint fumes and the smells of wood, smoke, and grease floated about. He had to jump to reach the first step. At the rear, the tender car was a reminder of the work required to make this monster move.

Dude! And I thought the Sunday paper was bad
.

Kenny heard a voice, low and feeble in the dawn.

He wedged himself back into the engine’s cabin. Okay, he was trespassing, but he meant no harm. A little exploration, that’s all. Why did people these days try to discourage a kid if he used his imagination to let off some steam?

Maybe because of school shootings
, Kenny thought. Kids weren’t just kids anymore; they were potential criminals.

Well, I’m not! I’m thirteen just trying to have some fun
.

The voice passed from his left to his right. Kenny gripped the metal, flattened his back against the rough surface to assure he would not be detected. Hopping the fence hadn’t been the brightest idea.

He was losing his balance. With tight fingers, he clawed the cold iron at his feet.

Caked grease—oooh!—coming right up between his fingernails.

Scurrr-tinkkk!

The texture changed beneath his touch. In the corner, where floor and partition met, his finger exposed a wooden object amid flakes of grime and curled black residue. An old piece of kindling from the tender box? A twig blown here by the wind?

Or maybe it’s a war relic
.

Kenny’s mind kicked into high gear. He’d seen newspaper stories about children in Florida who came upon pirate treasures or farm boys here in Oregon who plowed up old army munitions. This could be his chance at something big.

“What’re you doing in there?”

His muscles jerked at the sudden nearness of his accuser.

“Get out of there before I call the police, you hear me?”

His eyes crept to the partition to assess the threat.

“What’s your name, young man? You tell me this instant.” The woman was hunched in a brown wool coat, leading a shaved and shivering Chihuahua on a leash.

“Kenny Preston,” he said. Stupid, stupid. What made him open his mouth?

“Well, get out. Must I repeat myself?” Eyes full of admonition, she picked up the dog as though arming herself for confrontation. Kenny couldn’t help but notice her chin had more white hairs than the pooch’s. Had she heard of razors?

“I’m going,” he said. “Wasn’t doing nothin’ wrong.”