"You begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics." -Charles Bukowski
"Grandpa Sherwin, how do you save the world? Jack Riley told me you gotta have a sword to do that, and Mama said we don't have enough money to buy one. How'm I gonna save the world without a sword?"
"Well now, Wyatt, that's a great question. Come sit here." The old man patted the empty spot beside him on the threadbare brown sofa. When Wyatt clambered up and raised questioning eyes to him, he brushed his hair back from his forehead and sighed. "Son, you don't need a sword to save the world. I'll tell you how to save the world in five simple steps. Are you listening?"
The boy nodded vigorously.
"Show me your listening ears so I know I have all your attention."
Wyatt set both hands to his ears and pushed them forward.
His grandfather smiled. "Step 1," he said, holding up his thumb, "make a difference in one person's life." Next he raised his index finger. "Step 2: Make a difference in one person's life." His middle finger came up. "Step 3: Make a difference in one person's life." A fourth finger was added. "Step 4: Make a difference in one person's life." Finally, he held up his pinky; five fingers total were raised. "And last, but not least, Step 5: Make a difference in one person's life."
Wyatt's forehead wrinkled. "But Grandpa, all the steps you said are the same."
"I know they are, son. That makes them easier to remember." Smiling fondly, he wrapped an arm around his grandson's shoulder. "You'll remember them, won't you, Wyatt?"
The boy's expression smoothed out, and he nodded. "Yes, sir. I promise I will."
"That's my boy."
It's two years today that the police found Jessica's body, and Wyatt's chest aches and his stomach tightens. He wants nothing more than to be alone in the middle of Zola's Coffee and think about Jess—not about himself and all the ways he fucked up; not about what an asshole he was the night she died; not about his last words to her: You make me sick. No. He wants to remember her and how she liked to bake when she felt stressed. How her feet were always, always freezing at night and she used to press them against his bare skin to warm them up. How her arms felt like home.
Rain taps fingers against the window next to him in a steady beat that lulls Wyatt into a state of well, not exactly peace, but near-stillness, so he sighs and shuts his paperback, John Le Carre's The Spy Who Came in From the Cold . He drops the book on the scarred wooden table in front of him, next to the coffee that he can smell every time he inhales, but he hasn't sipped yet, and the strawberry cake pop—Jess' favorite flavor— still dressed in a plastic wrapper and cheery red ribbon. With his eyes closed and arms folded loosely over his chest, he stretches his legs out under the table, one boot propped on the other, and readies himself to fall into the memories.
A voice cuts through the haze. "...I understand there aren't more in your display case. But could you check again? I don't know— Aren't there more in your refrigerator? Or maybe under the counter?"
There's an edge to the stranger's voice, of desperation or something close to it, that Wyatt recognizes. That resonates inside him. He opens his eyes. A man, a tall one, stands in front of the register. A black umbrella dangles from one of his hands, dripping onto the floor and puddling at his feet. His other hand is entwined with a little girl's. They stand with their backs to Wyatt, so he can't see their faces.
"I'm sorry, sir," the guy behind the counter says, tugging at his name tag. "We're all sold out of the strawberry cake pops. But we still have mint, cookie dough, and chocolate, and they're all really—"
The umbrella drops, and the customer smacks his hand on the counter, making the shop employee jump. "My daughter wants the strawberry one. Nothing else!" His voice rings out through the coffee shop, ushering in a sudden hush. As if he's just noticed the attention he's attracting, he says, much more quietly: "My daughter, she just lost her mother. A week ago." The hand he cards through his dark hair trembles until he tightens it into a fist at his side. "Please," he adds, the word sounding half-strangled.
If Wyatt hadn't already made his decision, the please would have done him in. The shaky atmosphere is palpable, though, so reluctant to interrupt, he waits for the exchange to end.
"Sir, I'm so very sorry, but we don't have any strawberry cake pops left. Would you like to order anything else?"
The man and his daughter stand with their backs to Wyatt, so he can't see their faces, but he easily deciphers the message written on the checkout guy's face: pity and discomfort. With a silent shake of his head, the man picks up his umbrella and turns away, his shoulders hunched.
For the first time, Wyatt sees both their faces. He and Jess never got around to having kids when they still could, and now it's too late, so Wyatt hasn't spent much time around young children. Even to his inexperienced eyes, though, it's obvious the girl can't be more than four or five-years-old. He'd be sympathetic even if she threw a tantrum, given the intel he picked up while eavesdropping, but she remains quiet as tears slide down her cheeks.
Her father stops walking and stoops until he's at her eye level. "I'm sorry, Iris," he says, and his voice, whisky-rough and kissed with an accent he can't identify, holds such tenderness that Wyatt almost looks away, his chest heavy and aching with feelings he doesn't want to feel. But Wyatt doesn't look away; he can't. Instead, he sits, frozen in place in his chair, and watches as the other man's hands slip over the girl's tear-stained cheeks and tuck her short, blonde hair behind her ears.
"It's OK, Papa," she answers in a voice as small as she is, and pats her father's shoulder. The man catches his daughter's free hand and brings it to his lips, head bowed for several heartbeats.
Wyatt shouldn't interrupt; he knows what he's seeing is a private moment playing out in a public place, but there's a dull pain in his chest and his throat is tight and dry and he can't hold it all in any longer so he stops thinking and starts moving.
He shoves his chair back from the table and stands. It takes him four strides to reach the tiny family. Four strides until he's tapping the other man's broad, white-shirted shoulder. "Excuse me," he says. His face flushes hot at how unsure he sounds, and he clears his throat.
The stranger gets to his feet so quickly that Wyatt takes a step back.
Wyatt angles his chin and takes in the other man's features. At first glance, his face is remote; angular, and time, grief, or perhaps both, have sketched deep lines around his mouth and into his forehead. Thick, dark brows and a hawkish nose render his expression stern and forbidding, but Wyatt hasn't forgotten the gentleness he heard in the man's softly-accented voice scant minutes ago, and there's a certain hollow look to his green eyes that Wyatt recognizes from the times when he can't avoid viewing his own face in the mirror.
"Yes?"
"I didn't mean to eavesdrop on you, but I did." He scratches the back of his neck. "I hear this young lady wants a strawberry cake pop. Is that true, ma'am?" he asks, bending until he is closer to the girl's level.
The girl, Iris, glances at her father first. When he gives a nearly imperceptible nod, she turns to Wyatt and nods as well, her face entirely too solemn for someone her age.
"Well, it just so happens that I have one, and I'd like you to have it. But only if it's OK with your dad." Wyatt and Iris both turn to look at the other man, who sighs and twists the gold band on his left hand.
"Are you sure?" he finally asks.
"Absolutely," Wyatt replies.
"All right then," he says, ruffling his daughter's hair, "you can have it."
Iris bounces on her feet, her face finally showing a hint of something besides sadness. In response, Wyatt feels his mouth stretch into a wide grin, but he can't stop it, even though he knows he probably looks like a first-class idiot. He unties the ribbon bow and holds out the cake pop; their fingers brush when she takes it from him.
"What do you say?" her father asks.
"Thank you," she answers before removing the wrapper and biting into the pop.
"You're welcome." Wyatt keeps smiling, even though something in his chest cracks at the realization that with her blue eyes and blonde hair, Iris could have been Jessica's child. Their child.
The other man reaches for his wallet, then pulls out a few bills. "Here," he says, holding the money out toward Wyatt.
Wyatt shakes his head and waves the money away. "No. Not necessary."
"Take it," he says, and there's an insistent note in his voice that catches and buzzes around in Wyatt's ear.
"No. Seriously. I don't want your money." He takes a step back and lifts his hands. "Just let your daughter enjoy the treat."
"Fine," the man replies, his tone still a bit too huffy for Wyatt's liking. Then: "Thanks." He switches the umbrella to his left hand, then holds his right hand out to Wyatt. "I'm Garcia." This time his voice harbors only politeness and a hint of fatigue.
He eyes the outstretched hand for only a second before he leans in and clasps it firmly, holding Garcia's gaze all the while. "Nice to meet you, Garcia. I'm Wyatt," he says, injecting a touch of extra warmth into his voice.
A/N: Title is borrowed from Dean Lewis' Waves.