Brenda Novak - Shooting the Moon

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

He hesitated but finally pulled a pen and a business card from his jacket and circled a number. “Fine. You do that, then call me on my cell.”

“Aunt Lauren, it’s over! Can I go to Scott’s house?” Brandon sang out, and Lauren knew she had only a second or two before her nephew came to find her.

“Okay,” she said quickly, speaking to Harley, but he didn’t move. Evidently he’d heard Brandon, too. Before he had a chance to respond, however, Lauren closed the door with a resounding bang, and this time he didn’t try to stop her. Pressing her back against the heavy wooden panel, she squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath.

“What’s wrong?” Tall for his age and possessing the same dark hair, olive skin and green eyes as his father, Brandon loped out from the kitchen, carrying a donut in each hand.

Lauren couldn’t answer. She waited, silently counting the seconds until she heard the roar of Harley’s motorcycle.

“Nothing,” she said, her knees going weak in relief.

“Who was at the door?” he asked, watching her curiously.

“Just a friend. You don’t know him,” she added, and at least that part was the truth.

FOR THE FIRST TIME in years, Harley rode his motorcycle without a helmet. He wanted to let the air whip through his hair, hear it roar in his ears, feel it sting his face. He didn’t care if it was dangerous. He didn’t care if it was illegal. Somehow the physical sensations were sustaining. They helped him deal with the emotions clashing inside him, emotions poignant enough to make his eyes water without the help of the wind.

He’d heard his son’s voice. He was sure of it. The look on Lauren Worthington’s face had confirmed that it was Brandon. And that moment had…what? Shaken him. Left him weak, breathless. Scared him.

But it had done something else, too. Brandon’s voice had reached inside him and filled him with a craving so simple and powerful it nearly overwhelmed him.

He wanted his son. He wanted him so badly it hurt.

Slowing for a traffic light, he briefly closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memory of his visit to the Worthingtons. For years he’d told himself to forget the past. It was better that way, right? Better for the baby. Better for Audra. Better for everyone. The Worthingtons owned a string of video stores, had always been as rich as Midas. What could he possibly give his son that they couldn’t? That was the question Lauren had flung at him today, the one that had chased him away in the beginning, and it was the one that still burned, uppermost, in his mind.

Otherwise he’d have Brandon with him right now.

The light turned green. Harley gave the bike some gas and shot out in front of traffic. Turning at the next light, he wound down out of the hills to the city, where he wove through the busy streets to the low-rent district.

He could give his son the love of a father, couldn’t he? That was more than Harley had grown up with. But when he’d looked into Lauren’s stricken face, enough doubt crept in to make him wonder, all over again, if he was doing the right thing.

The Springfield Apartments came up on his left, and he pulled into the lot, parked and cut the engine. According to the letter he’d received, Tank Thompson lived here now. In Apartment 208.

Harley scaled the stairs leading to the second story of the garden-style apartments, taking them two at a time. He was angry and confused, but the frustrating thing was that he didn’t know what, if anything, he should do.

Maybe it had been a mistake to come back. What made him think he could atone for his past sins after ten years?

He knocked at 208, and rap music poured out of Tank’s apartment as a small, curly-headed girl, only about three years old, opened the door.

“Hi, there,” he said. “I’m Harley Nelson. Is Tank around?”

“Daddy, it’s for you!” the little girl called over her shoulder.

Daddy? In his letter, Tank hadn’t mentioned having a child of his own. He hadn’t mentioned much at all. He’d just sent Audra’s obituary clipping, nearly five months after the fact, along with a brief, handwritten note saying: Thought you’d be interested. Long time no see. You still kickin’? Tank

But then Tank had never been one for written correspondence. Neither was Harley, for that matter.

The little girl disappeared for several minutes and returned tugging a bleary-eyed, hungover-looking Tank to the door. He was about fifty pounds heavier than when Harley had seen him last, shortly after graduation, but Harley would’ve known his friend anywhere.

Yawning, Tank scratched his head and blinked twice. “Well if it isn’t the jackass who buried my truck in the river during high school,” he said, breaking into a smile.

Harley laughed. “You were the one who wanted to see if I could ford it. How the hell was I supposed to know the damn river was so deep?”

“You were drunk enough to try crossing the Columbia.”

“And you were drunk enough to let me use your truck to do it.”

Tank shook his head. “It’s a wonder we survived those years. How’ve you been, man?”

“Good.” Harley nodded to the little girl who was standing next to Tank, watching them. “You have a daughter now?”

“Yeah.” Tank winked at her, and she smiled shyly. “Too bad I don’t have her mama anymore. We separated a year ago. Divorce was final just last month.”

“That’s tough.”

“You’re tellin’ me. Now I gotta live in this dump while she and her new boyfriend enjoy the three-bedroom, two-bath townhouse I’m paying for.” He ruffled his daughter’s hair. “Worse, I only get Lucy here on weekends.”

“She’s a beauty,” Harley said.

“Yeah, takes after her mama. Can you come in? Stay a while?”

Harley thought of the hours ahead of him. He had a few other friends he wanted to visit, but nothing more important until Lauren Worthington called. If she called…

“Sure, I can stay,” he said, stepping inside and taking a seat on a rust-colored couch reminiscent of the sixties. Except for the large-screen television that took up one whole corner of the room, the other furnishings looked no better.

“Things haven’t changed much since high school, huh?” Harley said, eyeing the beer cans and cigarette butts that littered the coffee table.

“Ah, don’t let the mess fool you. I’ve cleaned up my act a lot since then. Last night we had my buddy’s bachelor party here is all. We hired a stripper, played some poker and drank more than we should’ve.”

“What did you do with Lucy?”

“The lady next door took her. She sits for me now and then.”

“Who’s getting married?”

“Guy named Dan. You don’t know him.” He put a hand to his head and squinted. “I’m almost sorry I do.”

“What are you doing for work these days?”

“Concrete, same as always.” Tank slumped into an easy chair across from the couch. “When my dad retired, I took over the business, and lately we’ve been branching off into landscaping. My brothers work for me.”

“All of them?”

“All except the oldest. Damien’s too good for concrete. He’s an attorney here in Portland. What about you?”

“I own a Harley Davidson dealership out in California where I live.”

Tank raised his eyebrows. “You always said you’d have one someday. But how’d a poor boy like you manage something like that?”

“The stock market’s been good to me.”

“The stock market?” Tank sat up straighter—then, putting a hand to his head, he checked the movement. Shifting more gingerly, he said, “Boy, have you changed. What brings you back this way?”

“The article you sent.”