Page 89 of The Tomorrows After You
Iwaseager to get home and startworkingon some new pieces but first Ineededmore materials. Ihadscavengedthe dump and Benny’s scrap yard pretty thoroughly. Therewasonly one other spot in town IthoughtI might be able to scrounge up some new materials.
Hank Taylorwasone tough son of a bitch as the Fire Commissioner when my dadworkedfor the department. At leastthat’show ten-year-old merememberedhim,seeinghim around town. Heownedan antique junkyard now not too far from my house. Ipreparedto knock on his door when a voice from the corner of the porchstartledme.
“What can I do for you, Riot?” Hank sat in the corner, a glass in his hand resting on the arm. His gray hair was still thick and cut tight.
“Sir,” I nodded, regarding him, pushing my hands in my pockets. “I was hoping I might buy some of the antiques you got here. For a… project I’m working on.”
Hank’s faceremainedimpassive. His narrow eyesheldme for a longbeat, the only sound the slight creaking of his chair against the wood porch.
“Don’t see why not. Come see me after you pull what you need.”
I didn’t wait for him to change his mind.
It didn’t take me long to pick some pieces IthoughtI could use. Iwasidly aware of Hank’s eyes on me from the porch. Iwonderedwhat hewasthinkingbut to be honest,I’dalways been a little afraid of him.
When I re-approachedHank, Ipulledcash out of my wallet from the market sales earlier that morning.
He held his hand up, dismissing me.
“No point inpayingfor garbage, son. Sit a spell. Let’s catch up.”
My stomachdroppedand I could feel the anxious restlessness start tohitme. But you did what Hank Taylortoldyou to do.
Hepickedan empty glass off the end table next to him andpulleda bottle of light pink wine from underneath it where ithadbeensitting in a bucket of ice. Heextendedme the glass.
“Rosé?” he offered.
It might’ve came off as rude, but Ipausedfor a long moment,staringat the glass. Out of all the alcohol Hank Taylor couldhavebeendrinking, roséwasnot on the shortlist I wouldhavepredicted.
“Rosé,” I stated. I tried to mask the surprise, but he caught it.
“I’m too old to pretend to like the brown stuff.” He waved dismissively and lifted his glass. “It’s delicious and I enjoy it.” He punctuated the end of his sentence and it was the end of the discussion.
I brought the sweating glass to my lips and let it slide down my throat.Touché, Hank.It was delicious.
“You know it was your mother who first brought me a bottle of this.” His words drained the color from my face and I swallowed hard, waiting for his follow-up. But it didn’t come.
I nodded. “She wasn’t much of a drinker,” I said with a nervous laugh. “Probably didn’t even know what she was buying.”
Hank smirked, and it put me at ease a little.
“You know,she’dspend hours at that church,prayingfor that brother of yours.”His headshookslightly and my breathgrewshallow. My heartpickedup. But if hewaslookingfor answers from me, he didn’t give it away because he justkeptgoing.“Iusedto tell her, ‘You wanna point that boy in the right direction, you go be a good mamaanddaddy. Teach him to cook a meal, make himsetthe table, teach him how towash the dishes properly. Hold eye contact whiletalkingto adults. Keep him close but not too close, otherwise,he’lljust getbent.’ But whoamI to give a widow that kind of advice? Our kidsweregrownwhen Sallypassed.” Hecontinuedto rock back and forth,watchingthe grasses blow in the light breeze. “But she alwayssaidGod would answer her prayers one way or the other.”
“Shewasa God-fearing woman,” I sighed.
“Not always,” Hank droned. My surprised eyebrow lifted in his direction. “She was always devout in her faith, no doubt. She loved that church. But before your father passed, she was just like anyone else. Church on Sunday and the holidays, volunteer here and there but after he died? That was when she dove head first.”
Hankrockedback in the creaky wooden chair, a familiar expression on his face that I couldn’t quite place.
“That kinda griefhasa way of…grippingpeople. Makes ’em lose themselves in an endless pit of sadness. By the time they claw their way out, the world looks different. Something they can’t recognize. Something they can’t understand. So, they turn to the things theydounderstand. For somethat’sthe bottle, for others the needle. For your mother itwasGod. At least the church’s version of him, anyway.”
I smiled, remembering the brief conversations my dad and I used to have about my mom’s faith.
“You know my dadusedto say that the churchissome kind of social construct. Peoplecreatedit to apply tangible theory to something inexplicable. It’s a physical place you can go. The Bibleissomething you can physically hold in your hands. Take all that away and all youhavearea bunch of people blindlytalkingabout magic.”
Hank raised an amused eyebrow. “They burned women at the stake for less.” He coughed out a surprising cackle and took a sip of his glass. “That daddy of yours was her balance. Without him…” His words drifted off and his eyes gleamed with a distant memory.
That was when I understood that familiar expression on his face. Guilt. Technically, my dad had died under his leadership.
