Eleven year old Steve Randle sat perched on the porch railing when his dad's latest girlfriend, Clara, strode up their driveway. Steve actually liked her, but he figured he shouldn't too much. She would be like all the others. Steve's mom, Rose, had died two years ago when he was nine. Since that time, Nicholas Randle had had a seemingly endless parade of women in and out of their house. Steve didn't really care. He had better things to do than try to keep track of his father's women. None of them were his mother, so they better not even try to be.
"Hey there, Steve," Clara greeted, grinning at the little boy.
Steve rolled his eyes. He may have liked Clara, but he still thought she paid him more attention than he cared to get from any woman, who wasn't his mom. Steve pulled his thoughts back from his mother and stared at Clara. "Hey, Clara. My dad's inside," he said, nodding toward the front door.
"What if I came to see you too?" Clara asked, letting her mysterious green eyes gaze into Steve's blue ones.
"Then, you just did," Steve declared, jumping down from the railing. "Tell Dad I went to Soda's," he said, walking away from the house.
"Bye, Stevie!" Clara called sweetly.
Steve didn't look back. He didn't see Clara continue watching him until he got too far away for her to see.
"Hey, Steve, windshields don't get any cleaner than that, man!" Sodapop said, raising an eyebrow and grinning.
"Huh? Oh!" Steve startled out of his memories and put the squeegee he'd been using to clean the windshield back in its place.
"What were you thinking about anyway?" Sodapop asked, as the car drove away.
"Nothing. Just got a bit distracted. That's all," Steve said, as another car pulled up next to them.
"Mind checking my oil?" the driver asked.
"Sure thing, man," Steve replied.
"Well, buddy, I'm going to punch out and head home!" Soda said, heading back inside the DX. "See you later, Stevie!"
"Don't call me Stevie," Steve whispered to himself, taking a look under the hood of the car.
"What was that?" the driver asked.
"Nothing. Everything looks good," Steve said, letting the hood close.
Why am I thinking about Clara? Steve wondered. He thought he'd shoved everything about that time in his life out of his memory. That was what his dad had insisted he do, after all. Then again, it had been his father who had mentioned her that morning.
Nicholas Randle was drunk. Again.
"Dad, you really ought to lay off that stuff," Steve said, referring to the half empty bottle of whiskey his dad held.
"Just mind your own self, son. I'm fine," Nicholas replied, taking another swig of the drink.
"Whatever. I have to get to work. I'm already late, and Soda probably has his hands full," Steve said, buttoning up his DX shirt.
"Boy, Soda seems like a good kid. Shame how much him and his brothers have been through."
Steve didn't know which he preferred. His dad either got drunk and irritable or drunk and melancholy. He never did speak of Rose or his own grief, but he seemed to take on the losses of others as his own. Sure, he knew the Curtis brothers, but they'd never been close to him. Everyone liked Soda though, including Nicholas.
"They've got each other," Steve said.
"I miss having someone. Son, you remember Clara?" Nicholas asked.
Steve froze. What kind of question was that? His dad never talked about her.
"Of course I do. But you told me forget it. So I have," Steve said, grabbing his car keys off the counter.
"She was so beautiful. She shouldn't have left. Why did you make her leave us?" Nicholas asked, his eyes growing glassy.
Steve just stared at his dad in disbelief. What was he saying? Nicholas knew very well what had happened. Clara had been beautiful, but only on the outside. He had told Steve don't talk about her and forget it. Maybe Nicholas really had made himself forget.
"I gotta go, Dad. Get some rest. You told Mrs. Mathews you'd look at her kitchen sink later," Steve said, even though he knew TwoBit had a better chance at fixing that sink than a drunk Nicholas Randle.
Steve walked out into the warmth of the afternoon. The sun felt good on his skin, like it was chasing away the chill he felt in his soul when the memories he'd pretended didn't exist kept trying to become real again.
No, Steve told himself. None of that matters. You moved on, and Dad moved on. You never told anyone what actually happened with Clara. That meant it all must have been a dream. It only happened in your mind.
"Get a grip," Steve spoke to himself out loud. "You've been over that."
What Steve hadn't yet realized was he couldn't get over something he had locked away and placed in the dark recesses of his mind. He thought he'd thrown away the key to that box.
