James Grippando - Found money

His father had been in a funk all day, working on the house, repairing some outdoor wiring under the roof easements. Ryan had always thought of his parents as happily married. On this momentous occasion, however, Dad wasn’t exactly acting as if he would have done it all over again. Ryan caught up with him outside, standing twenty feet up on the ladder directly beneath the exposed wires. Ryan was on the ground, looking up.

“Dad, what are you doing up there?”

“Fixing this floodlight.”

“That’s not what I meant. Don’t you think you should spend the day with Mom?”

He fumbled for his wire clippers, saying nothing.

“Dad, you’re hurting Mom’s feelings.”

He paused. It was the most serious pause Ryan had ever seen in his father. Ryan was just eighteen years old and ready for college, trying to decide what to do about Liz, his high school sweetheart. Maybe his dad had sensed it was about time for some advice.

His father pointed at the wires dangling over his head. “See these?” he said from atop the ladder. “One of them’s hot. Could even kill a man.”

“Dad, be careful. Let me shut off the circuit breaker.”

“Ah, don’t worry. Let’s just see what happens if I grab one.”

“Dad, no!”

He grabbed it. “Nothing,” he said, releasing it.

“But what do you think will happen if I grab this other one?”

“Dad, stop playing around.”

“What will happen, Ryan? What did I used to tell you, back when you wanted to be an electrician like your dad, rather than a college boy?”

“Dad, please just come down.”

He smiled devilishly — then grabbed the wire.

“Dad!”

His father laughed. Nothing happened.

“Damn it! You scared the crap out of me. You said it was live.”

“It is. But I’m standing on a fiberglass ladder. I’m not grounded. If you’re not grounded, you can grab all the live wires you want. Understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I get your point.”

“Make sure you do, son. That Liz is a nice girl. But think ahead. Think twenty-five years ahead. Once you’re grounded, that’s it. No more wires.”

Twenty years later, the analogy seemed just as crude — women as hot wires. But it was about as deep as Frank Duffy ever got. And now, with the rape come to light, it told Ryan much about the way his father felt about his own life choices, the decision to marry right out of high school and devote himself to one woman. It shed light on an even earlier conversation, when he and Ryan were admiring the mountains in the distance, when he’d told Ryan it wasn’t his fault they were stuck in Piedmont Springs. His mother was the one with roots so deep she would never move away. Five generations of family history in Piedmont Springs. Because of that, they were all trapped here.

It was a grim excuse for living where they lived, as if his dad had banished himself to life on the plains. A man with one woman in an isolated world, where temptations were few. It was a sentence of sorts. A self-inflicted punishment for one who had eluded formal judgment.

In the abstract, it seemed like a crazy notion. But now that Ryan was older and had made mistakes himself, he could relate. A real man had no tougher judge than himself. Like father, like son. But with one important distinction.

Ryan knew his father’s sin. His father would never know Ryan’s.

The waitress brought the bill. He paid quickly, then walked to the back of the bar near the rest rooms and stopped at the pay phones. He dialed Norm at home, getting right to Amy.

“How’d it go?” asked Norm.

“Better than expected. At least she didn’t throw her scalding hot coffee in my face.”

“That bad?”

“That bad.”

“You want to talk about it?”

A young woman smiled at him on her way to the rest room. Ryan looked away. “Not right this second. Maybe in the morning. I think I’m going to spend the night at your place again, if that’s all right.”

“Sure. I’ll wait up.”

“See you in a few,” he said, then hung up the phone.

From the doughnut shop across the street, she watched as Ryan Duffy emerged from the Half-way Cafe. She wore blue jeans, a baggy Denver Broncos sweatshirt, and a shoulder-length blonde wig instead of the long black one. Her look was more like that of a college student than the businesswoman she’d played at the hotel in Panama City. It was unlikely that she’d be recognized. Still, she took pains not to flaunt her attractive face, peering over the top of the magazine.

Her eyes followed Ryan as he headed down the sidewalk and crossed the street. She rose from a table by the window, prepared to move in. She stopped in the doorway. The dark sedan at the corner was suddenly coming to life. The engine started. The lights went on. It slowly pulled away from the curb. She had first noticed it when Ryan had gone inside. For a good twenty minutes, the driver had just sat there. Now she knew why — the way it sprang into action the minute Ryan had passed.

Only a cop would be so obvious about a tail. Son of a bitch.

She stepped onto the sidewalk and headed the other way. She wasn’t sure who had tipped off the police, Ryan or Amy. It didn’t matter.

Whoever it was, they would both regret it.

Amy’s old truck took her from Denver back to Boulder in record time. There was no real urgency. No one was chasing her. It was as if something horrible about her mother had been spilled back in Denver. Amy just couldn’t get away fast enough.

She parked haphazardly in the last available space outside her apartment and hurried upstairs. For a split second she was thinking how good it felt to be home, but she quickly realized it was a home she no longer recognized. It had never been luxurious by any stretch of the imagination, but she and Gram had worked hard to make it pretty. The Bokhara rug they had saved for. The pink sky and stars she’d hand-painted in Taylor’s bedroom. Antiques from the flea market, decorative things Gram had collected over the years. All their extra little touches had been trashed in the break-in. Now it looked like the cheap subsidized apartment it really was, with junky rental furniture that belonged in a ghetto.

Amy stopped outside her door to collect herself. She thought of Taylor inside, sleeping like an angel. She was an angel. So stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside. Gram was sitting at a card table chair watching a Thursday night sitcom. They had no replacement couch yet. Amy walked to the TV and shut it off.

Gram looked startled. “I thought it was Taylor who had the limit on television time.”

“Is she asleep?”

“Yes. About thirty minutes now.”

“Good.” She pulled up another chair and faced her grandmother. “I have to ask you something. It’s important.”

Gram looked at her with concern. “Have you been crying, dear?”

“I’m okay. Gram, you have to be completely straight with me. Do you promise?”

“Yes, of course. What is it?”

“This may sound like it’s out of left field. But I have to know. Was my mother ever raped?”

Gram seemed to sway in her chair, overwhelmed. “What makes you think she was?”

“No, Gram. That’s not being straight with me. I can’t have questions answered with questions. Let’s try it again. Was my mother ever raped?”

“I’m not being evasive. I just-”

“Straight. Yes or no.”

“I don’t know. How would I know? You keep asking me like I should know. I don’t. I swear I don’t.”

Amy fell back in her folding chair. It was like hitting a brick wall. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so accusatory. If anyone would know, I just thought it would be you.”