Counting Stars
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He settles for some coffee, fixes himself a mug and takes it to the front porch, the wide, worn planks warm beneath his bare feet. Eyeing the wilting plants on the top step in their clay pots, he shakes his head. He'd told Mrs. McLeod they weren't a good idea, not a practical one, at least, with him being gone so much on various jobs, but the arthritic old widow just wouldn't be swayed, and now he's stuck, performing life-saving measures on the pitiful petals every few weeks to avoid hurting her feelings. He adds Miracle-Gro to his ever growing, ever-evolving mental list and drains the last dregs of caffeine, scratching idly at his chest as he takes in the still-slumbering neighborhood.
"I know a Mrs. McLeod!"
"Don't say."
The mailbox catches his attention again, and he leaves his mug on the porch railing, heads down the steps.
Weeds poke up through the stones that make up the walkway, stubborn and proud. A bird, round and cheerful, flits from stone to stone ahead of him before finally deciding to take flight, darting to a low-hanging branch nearby and watching him curiously.
He grunts out a laugh. Something so small shouldn't act so suspicious, but he supposes it's no surprise. He's been gone a long time, almost a month this time. Spring was just a faint scent in the air and the days were just beginning to warm last time he traveled this same pathway. Surely, he's a stranger to his feathered friend, and that's not all, it seems.
The house across the street, vacant since the Fords' last, more permanent split, shows signs of new life. The overgrown flower garden that Rosita never seemed to find time for is a vibrant rainbow of color, not tamed exactly, but obviously cared for and appreciated. The shutters wear a fresh coat of paint, and a child's bicycle rests on its side in the tidy yard.
He wonders at this new development as he gathers the various flyers and envelopes into his arms from the mailbox, bends to retrieve the rest. The mirroring clay pots resting on the top step, though, tell him he won't have to wonder long, and so, he takes his mail and goes back inside. He's got that list to work on, after all.
"That's it?"
"Don't have to sound so unimpressed."
"Where's the princess?"
"Y'ain't payin' attention."
"Am, too."
"Patience, Baby Girl."
"M'not a baby."
"You gonna fuss all night or listen to the story?"
"Fine."
"Where were we?"
"You was skipping to the good part."
"Not so fast. Still some story to tell 'fore then. Don't make that face."
"What face?"
"That one. Look like somebody else I know."
"Who?"
"Never you mind 'bout that. Think you'll like this part, princess or not."
"Fine."
"That it? I'm a good mind to save my breath. Tell this story to somebody more appreciative-like."
"M'sorry."
"What's that?"
"Don't stop. Please."
"Since you askin' so nicely."
The ride into town isn't far, and it doesn't take him long to stock up on groceries and all the other necessities because he's a man of simple tastes. Before he knows it, he has everything on his list taken care of but for one thing, one very important thing.
The gateway to the Greene farm stands open when he rounds that final bend in the road, Otis's truck nearby.
He nods at the man himself, drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he lets his vehicle idle and the friendly farm hand approach.
"Good to see you made it back."
"You thinkin' I wouldn't?"
Otis draws his hat down from his head, fumbles his fingers through his graying goatee. His face breaks into an amiable smile as soon as he realizes he's being teased, in George's deadpan way, and he replaces his hat, the sun already high and beaming overhead and the Georgia heat making sweat bead on his brow. Noticing the bags in the floor of the truck, he doesn't waste any more time, directing him onward. "She's up at the main house with the girls. Doc Greene thought she'd benefit from the company. She's missed you something awful."
"Missed her," he admits.
Otis doesn't make a big deal out of the confession. He just nods and slaps his palm against the truck's sun-warmed door. "Best be gettin' on then. Might take you awhile to convince that young-un to part with her."
"Thanks."
"Does George have a little girl? Is it Princess Sophia?"
"Got a one-track mind, Baby Girl."
"No, I don't."
"Do, too."
"Do not. I didn't even ask…"
"Didn't ask what?"
"Nothin'."
"Ain't nothin'. Know you. Don't give me those eyes. Might as well spit it out."
"Is George's Doc Greene our Doc Greene?"
"Didn't know he was ours, but maybe. Just gonna have to listen and find out for yourself."
"Well…"
"Well, what?"
"I'm waitin'."
The little one cries when he drives up, fat tears welling in those too-big eyes of hers and her shiny blond ponytail shaking as she hurries inside. Ms. Annette just shakes her head at him and smiles because it doesn't take two seconds after he's opened that creaky-old door before he's got his arms and his lap full.
"That dog knows the sound of your truck."
"Everybody in King County knows the sound of his truck, Annette."
He ducks his head, dodges the most exuberant of the canine's slobbering kisses, but he can't miss them all and he soon gives up trying. "Thanks for lookin' after her."
"You know our Bethie's always been partial to her, has been since the beginning. It wasn't no imposition, Son. You know that. Fact of the matter is, there's been a time or two while you've been gone that I've experienced some regrets."
He doesn't press the man for more because he doesn't have to. He knows exactly what he's referring to. He rears his head back to look into a pair of intelligent brown eyes, and he's sent back to that very first moment, when she was nothing more than a tiny, shivering wet ball of black and white fur abandoned in a road-side ditch. One small whimper toward him and pink swipe of her timid tongue, and he hadn't the heart to leave her behind as others already had. He'd wrapped her up in his flannel over-shirt and turned the heat on high blast, making the old truck sputter and groan all the way to the veterinarian's country-side practice. The little one had been there that day, and she'd fallen in love, straight away. Fate and Doc Greene, though, had had other plans, and it wasn't even a week later that he was puppy-proofing his whole house. That little bit of fluff had made coming home worth it ever since. Still, sometimes he wonders if he's doing right by her, leaving her so often and for so long. Ms. Annette kindly intervenes before he can voice those thoughts.
"Seems to me Tsu made her own choice a long time ago."
Her husband echoes his agreement with a grin. "Reckon you're right. She's been missing you."
"I heard." If he sounds a little happy about that fact, well. He missed her, too. Giving the dog's ears a playful tug, he smirks when she barks at him. He looks down when he feels a soft touch on his arm. It's the older girl, tomboyish and independent where the little one is soft, and she looks up at him with eyes as green as gems.
"Stay for a little bit. Please. Just long enough for Bethie to see that Tsu's happy."
"I'd like to, but I got groceries needin' to be put in the fridge."
Ms. Annette comes to her stepdaughter's aid, closing her hands over the girl's sturdy shoulders and giving them a fond squeeze. "I can put those in our fridge for you, just for a little bit, and you can join us for a bite of lunch."
"When's the last time you had a home-cooked meal, Son?"
His stomach growls before he can formulate a response. It really has been a while. Gruffly, he agrees, "Alright. Sure you don't mind?"
"Mind? You know you two are always welcome."
"It is our Doc Greene!"
"What makes you so sure 'bout that?"
"Because he's nice."
"That all you're basin' your assumption on?"
"What's 'ssumption mean?"
"Don't worry 'bout that. How else you know it's the same Doc Greene?"
"He has a Bethie, too. But she's not little."
"Maybe she's not little anymore."
"Maybe he's not our Doc Greene."
"Confusin' you?"
"No."
"Sure?"
"Maybe a little bit."
"You sleepy yet?"
"No."
"Could swallow whole watermelons with that yawn."
"M'not yawnin'."
"Sure 'bout that, Baby Girl?"
"Don't stop the story. George still hasn't seen his presents or met the princess yet."
"You callin' my story borin'? Done told you…"
"Pretty please with a cherry on top?"
"And chocolate sauce?"
"Lots."
"Alright. Don't want you bein' disappointed though. Presents ain't always what you think they are."
"Huh?"
"Just listen and let me tell my story."
"'kay."
"Sure you ain't sleepy?"
"Real sure."
"Real real sure?"
"Real real real."
"Alright."
"Finally."
He forgets about the mail until he's back home, groceries packed away and Tsu lazing around on the couch like she never left it, tuckered out from a sun-drenched afternoon filled with games of tag on the Greene farm. He sits at the table and sorts it into piles, and sure enough, most of it's junk. Some of it's not, though, and he takes care of the bills first. He hesitates over the envelope from West Georgia Correctional Facility, but in the end, he chooses to let it wait. It's been a long first day back already, and he's not sure he's physically or emotionally ready to deal with picking out the truth between the lines of his brother's words. Soon, he comes to the bottom of the pile and he frowns. It seems Stookey has struck again, the proof right there in front of him and addressed to one Mrs. Carol Peletier, apparently the proud new owner of Sergeant Ford's old place.
"What's a 'rectional cility?"
"It's a place where…know what? It ain't important."
"But what is it? What do people do there?"
"They learn to be good again."
"Were they bad before?"
"Some of 'em. Some of 'em just got lost."
"Like that time Gabby got lost and we found her up in a tree?"
"Not exactly."
"How then?"
"That's a conversation for another time, Baby Girl."
"I'm not a baby."
"Not a big girl either. Not yet."
"Yes, I am."
"No. You're in between. Ain't nothin' wrong with that. You'll grow up soon 'nough."
"How soon?"
"Too soon."
"How soon is too soon?"
"Blink of an eye. 'Fore you know it, you won't want me tellin' you stories no more."
"That ain't true."
"Why?"
"Just ain't."
"Tuck your toes in, Baby Girl."
"M'snug as a bug in a rug."
"That so?"
"Uh huh."
"Good. Just a little bit more and that's it for tonight. We'll save the rest of the story for later."
"M'kay."
"Sleepy, ain't you?"
"Don't wanna be."
"Know. You'll have sweet dreams. I'll make sure of it."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
The sun is setting before he finally works up the nerve to walk over there. The crickets are out in full force, and that quiet little girl from three doors down is chasing after lightning bugs with her dad, mason jars in hand. He can't remember her name. It's short and foreign-sounding, and he wonders if the family are travelers, must be with a name like that, but it's a fleeting thought because it doesn't take long at all to walk up those three wide steps. He clenches the envelope between his sweaty palms and swallows. He doesn't have a chance to knock on the door before it is pulled open and another little girl and a woman spill through it, nearly plowing into him. There's a blanket tucked beneath the woman's arm and a melting popsicle in the child's hands, and they look just as startled or more so than he feels, and it takes a few moments before any of them rediscover the power of speech. The little girl reaches for the woman's free hand, and that seems to do the trick.
"I'm sorry. You are?"
"M'your neighbor," he offers.
"My neighbor? Oh. You think I'm Carol."
"You're not?"
A small voice butts in then, soft and shy and apologetic all at once. "Aunt Andrea. You promised."
The woman stoops to the little girl's level, hands over the blanket with a reassuring smile. "Why don't you pick us out a good spot for counting while I talk to the nice man, okay? I'll be right there."
They both turn to watch the little girl scamper across the yard and arrange the blanket just so. He smirks a little when he sees her lick a trail up her arm, the popsicle fast dwindling in her hand and painting her skin in cherry stickiness. His amusement fast fades when he catches the woman watching him with hawkish blue-green eyes, her mouth curling at the corners. Feeling uncomfortable under her scrutiny, he glances away for a brief moment, shoves the envelope into her hands. "Postman left Mrs. Peletier's mail in my box by mistake."
"Thank you for bringing it by."
"Ain't nothin'."
She laughs a little, the sound not unkind. She crosses her arms across her chest and considers him.
He doesn't miss those eyes of hers glance downward at his left hand. He can feel the usual heat of embarrassment creep along his skin in response, and he burrows his hands deep in his pockets, nods his head. "Just wanted to make sure she got her mail. I'll just…over there." Her voice stops him before he can fully turn around.
"You're the man with the dog."
"Lots of people in this neighborhood with dogs," he answers. He's not sure why, though. It's just prolonging this whole uncomfortable encounter and he wants nothing more than to escape to his own little piece of peace, close that door behind him. The woman has other ideas. She just keeps talking.
"But your dog is no ordinary dog."
Another woman steps outside, and the two link hands. Her eyes are just as deep and warm as the color of her skin, and her smile bright as she regards him. "Definitely not an ordinary dog. Not according to Sophia."
"She does tricks. I saw her, Aunt 'Chonne."
He looks down, surprised to find the little girl at his side and staring up at him in something akin to secondhand wonder. There are freckles on her pale skin, all across her cheeks and her button nose. She's small and she's delicate, and he's sure she'd weigh next to nothing in his arms. It's a strange thought, one that finally spurs him into action. "Not tricks. She just listens. Make sure your mama gets her mail, 'kay?"
"Yes, Sir," the little girl solemnly promises.
It takes less time for him to cross the distance this time, but his escape still isn't quick enough.
"She's not married! In case you're curious about her. Carol."
"Andrea!"
"Sleep, Baby Girl. There'll be more tomorrow."
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