Barbara White - The In-Between Hour

The state border zipped past; the forest, a sleeping ogre with the strength to tear him to pieces, stretched toward the Carolina blue sky.

A bloated deer lay on the grassy verge, its flesh ripped open to expose bone, and unidentifiable chunks of roadkill littered the painted lines dividing the lanes. To his right, a barn—roofless and caving in on itself—struggled to rise out of the undergrowth only to be tugged back by wild vines. To his left, a regiment of transmission towers flattened everything in their path as they marched over the horizon like metal warriors.

Will clutched the steering wheel. Two days max and he could do this trip in reverse. But first, figure out how to take down the director of Hawk’s Ridge.

Precision and balance, Will.

A climber who rushed, who didn’t strategize, was a dead climber.

He would book into a motel, crash for a few hours, meet with the director, placate him, spend an afternoon with his dad, get knee-walking drunk, sleep it off, drive home. But how to placate the director? Be nice, but firm: You can’t kick my dad out. Where else will he go? Will shook his head. Lame, totally lame. Begging might be involved. Or maybe he could offer to do a book signing. Yeah, right. Like that would make a difference.

* * *

“How about I organize a book signing with local authors?” Will said five hours later in a face-off across a cherry desk. Beautifully crafted, it was too big for the room, too grand for the doofus opposite.

“I don’t think so.” The director of Hawk’s Ridge craned his neck—not that he really had one, just a gelatinous mound of fat—and peered into the mirror on the far wall. He adjusted his tie slowly.

Will flipped over his hand and rubbed the calluses. If he could tackle cliffs of rock, he could handle this groundhog of a man who lumbered through the leftovers of people’s lives.

Thud. Will jumped as a bird crashed into the sparkling windowpane. “A bluebird just—”

“Mr. Shepard, please.”

Will stared beyond the splatter of feathers to Occoneechee Mountain. My blood’s all over that mountain, the old man used to say. Unfortunately, so was Will’s.

“Your father is loud, abusive and, half the time, drunk.”

I would be, too, if I had to live here.

“Last week he hounded poor Mrs. Wilson into signing his petition for a Friday-night social. Chased her down the hall.”

Mrs. Wilson’s in a wheelchair. How much chasing could be involved?

“She was terrified.”

Why could Will think of nothing to say other than fucking bastard?

“Alcohol was involved.”

“I appreciate everything you’re saying. But I want to assure you that my father is not an alcoholic. My moth— I grew up with someone who abused alcohol. I know the signs. As I’m sure you do. I don’t mean to question your judgment.” Will’s left eye began to twitch. “My father’s always been a heavy drinker, but he’s not a drunk. And right now, seems he has little to enjoy but his Wild Turkey. Where’s the harm in that?”

Stupid, Will. Never ask a question if you’re not prepared to hear the answer.

“With all due respect, Mr. Shepard, I don’t think you realize how the situation has deteriorated since your last visit. Many of our residents are heavily medicated. They cannot drink. And, to be honest, I think your father has emotional issues. We’ve had great success with Risperdal in some of our more aggressive residents.”

“Seriously? You want to give my dad an antipsychotic used to treat schizophrenia?”

“And, finally—there’s this business with your son.”

Will sat up, senses alert.

“When he told one of the staff his grandson was on some big trip, we let it go. We thought it might be his way of dealing with grief. But then he started bragging to other residents, and...well. This incident last night. Brawling, Mr. Shepard.” As the director shook his head, his entire upper body waddled.

“We’ve never had a violent episode in our community before. Not one. I don’t need to tell you how upset the female staff was to see two grown men rolling around on the floor like boys. The security guard who separated them has a black eye. A. Black. Eye.”

Will heard it just fine the first time.

“According to witnesses, your father entered into some silly game of my-grandson’s-better-than-yours with one of our new residents.”

“Bernie down the hall?”

“Mr. Fields, yes. I have already spoken with his family. They have generously agreed not to press charges.”

“Oh, come on. They wanted to prosecute an eighty-year-old granddad for bragging?”

“Mr. Shepard. I cannot allow your father to stay here if he’s going to incite violence. Your father is an alcoholic. He has psychotic breaks with reality. He has problems with anger management.”

Really, the guy didn’t have to speak at half-speed. Will got it, totally got it.

“These are serious issues,” the director said. “I need you to treat them as such.”

“I do, honestly. And I’m not questioning your experience.” Will picked up a glass paperweight and put it back in the same place. “But have you considered that he’s still mourning my mother? Could we bring in a grief counselor?”

The door that Will had deliberately left ajar crashed open, and a woman carrying a Kit Kat and wearing jeans that clung in all the right places marched into the room. Oranges, she smelled of oranges. And chocolate chip cookies.

The director’s face turned puce. “Poppy, I’m in a meeting with—”

“You cannot be serious about kicking Jacob Shepard to the curb,” she said. “Where will he go?”

My point exactly. Then Will couldn’t help himself, he looked at her butt, which was hard to miss, since it was rather large and she was now bending over the cherry desk. How many hours had he wasted staring at women’s asses and where had it led? Back to the one thing he’d spent his life running from: craziness. Will cleared his throat and focused on the bookshelf, empty except for a set of Agent Dodds novels in hardback—signed and donated on moving-in day.

“Mr. Shepard.” The director’s voice was tight like a slingshot. “I don’t believe you’ve met our temporary art teacher, Poppy Breen. She’s filling in for a few weeks.”

“Jacob’s a sweet, lonely guy.” Poppy spoke to the director and ignored Will.

Sweet might be taking it a bit too far. Stubborn, ornery...

“Short-term memory in the shitter,” she continued. “But he just needs a buddy. When I took him to Walmart to buy his map, he chatted away like a kid. Told me about his days in a bluegrass band with his baby brother.”

Really? His dad had talked about Uncle Darren? The old man hadn’t mentioned another family member in decades. There’d been some falling-out when Will was little. He didn’t remember the details but the cause was the same as always: his mom.

“What about music therapy?” Poppy said.

“I’m in a private meeting, Poppy. With Jacob’s son.”

“Excellent.” She hurled herself into the chair next to Will. “Then I arrived just in time.”

“Poppy, I’d like you to—”

“Stay.” Will turned to his new ally. “I’d like you to stay.”

She looked at him for the first time and her eyes—not quite amber, not quite green, not quite brown—slowly appraised his face. Will waited for her to finish. It wasn’t that he was some egomaniacal dick, but women often looked at him and liked what they saw, which proved you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Fantastic, exhaustion was dragging him down the primrose path to overused clichés.

Will sighed. “We were talking about grief counseling for my dad. I think he’s still grieving for my mom.”