Deluge
Chapter 9
See Chapter 1 for disclaimer.
A/N: The site doesn't appear to be showing reviews for either chapter 8 or chapter 9, but they are coming through to my email, and I assure you, I am reading every one. Many thanks.
…
Morning was nearly over before Don got a chance to run his errands. He took his father's car, sliding in behind the steering wheel with hands that were slightly clammy, and before he turned the key, sat a for moment to let the uncomfortable jolt of anxiety subside. It was his first time behind the wheel of a vehicle since the accident. A few minutes later, he was tooling down Arroyo Parkway, his fears fading. By the time he got to the hardware store, his jitters were already a memory. He came out with a garden hose coiled around his shoulder, got in the car, and headed for Glen Township.
The butterflies in his stomach returned as he turned onto the road that ran out to the country club. It ran along the drainage culvert the entire way, and Don's gut twisted as he turned the corner and it came into view. It was a beautiful sunny day, and the water filling the culvert had long since receded to meager trickle, but as Don looked at it, a shudder ran through him. The depth of the channel, the piles of sharp boulders – he could still remember the powerful rush of dark water, and it seemed a miracle to him now that either of them had survived that night.
It was a few miles to the old woman's house, and by the time Don got there, the knot in his stomach had loosened a bit. He parked the car in the gravel driveway, and pulled the hose from the trunk. In the daylight, he could see that the grass had been mowed, and although the paint was fading on the clapboard house, the few shrubs were neatly trimmed. Obviously, someone took care of the place for the old lady – it had to be the boy, and Don was determined to find out his name.
The leash had been put back – the rescuers that night must have returned it to the woman – and a tiny toy terrier bobbed on the end of it, squeaking and yipping. Don stared at it for a moment, wondering how a lead for such a small dog had managed to hold his and Charlie's weight. It did look sturdy, however, far sturdier than was necessary for the mite of a dog on the end of it. Shaking his head, thanking God for old women who were paranoid about their pets, he climbed the wooden steps and knocked on the door, with the dog yapping excitedly at his heels. After a few moments, the doorknob rattled, and the door opened.
The old woman peered out at him, and then her wrinkled face spread into a smile, revealing even dentures. "Hush now, Sadie," she scolded the terrier. "Well now, you look much better than you did a few weeks ago, young man. You gave me quite a turn that night."
"Sorry about that," Don said, relieved that she recognized him. There was a small viewing hole in the door; he could see it now in the light, so she obviously had gotten a look at him. He must have looked frightening that night, soaking wet and nearly vibrating with tension, a strange man in the dark. "We were in a bad spot. Your hose ended up in the river – I thought I'd bring you a new one."
"Oh, pshaw." She waved a hand at him. "That wasn't necessary. Jimmy was going to get me one. Not that he needs to water the lawn, after all the rain." She opened the door wider. "Come in, won't you – agent? It is 'agent,' isn't it?"
She turned from the door, hunched and hobbling, and Don set the new hose on the wooden porch and followed her in, politely. "Yes, ma'am, Special Agent Don Eppes, FBI."
"Sally Webber; nice to meet you. Sit down, then, agent, and I'll get us some tea."
Don was inclined to refuse – he hadn't intended to stay – but he suspected the woman didn't get much company, and so he let her fuss, let her bring out her china teapot and cups, with sugar, cream, and cookies. He sat politely on the edge of a hard sofa, and sipped at his tea. It was surprisingly good, dark and strong.
"How is your brother, then? I heard some of what happened from the local police. They said he went in the water, and you went in after him." Her eyes gleamed with admiration, and Don shifted uncomfortably. He didn't deserve admiration – it was his error that put Charlie in danger to begin with.
"Much better, thanks. He's at home, recuperating. He's going to be fine."
"Oh, that's such a relief. I felt so badly that I didn't let you in that night – Jimmy has warned me that bad people might try to get in my house that way – say they were in an accident, you know."
"You did exactly what you should have," Don said firmly. "Jimmy is absolutely right." He cocked an eyebrow. "Who is Jimmy – is he the boy who takes care of your lawn?"
She threw back her head and cackled. "Oh, he'd love to hear you say that – 'boy.' No, Jimmy is my younger brother. He lives in Whittier with his wife, but he comes out to mow and prune my shrubs, and other odds and ends. He keeps trying to get me to go live in one of those assisted living places near him, but I won't go." She snorted. "I'm not that old, yet." Her face creased in a conspiratorial smile. "He's nearly as old as I am."
Don stared at her, and his brow furrowed. "There was a boy there that night – he was the one who told me you had a hose. I thought maybe he worked for you."
Her brow puckered. "Boy? I can't think of who that would be, unless it was that immigrant teenager. He's come around once or twice, asking for work - I think his family is working in the orchard up the road. I sent him off - I have no need for anyone, with Jimmy's help, and besides, I really can't afford it. There's a girl up the road, about nine – sometimes she rides her bike down here to see Sadie – Jenny Wicks – such a nice child. Maybe it was her? Long blonde hair – although I don't know what she would be doing at night, out in the rain."
"No, it wasn't a girl. It was a boy, eleven or twelve, dark hair."
She shook her head, and lifted one shoulder in a feeble arthritic shrug. "I don't think so then - unless it was that migrant boy."
"Do you remember his name?"
She cackled again. "Goodness, no. I don't think he gave it to me, and I'm certain I didn't ask him for it."
Don stared at her, momentarily at a loss for words. He felt a profound sense of disappointment; he had been looking forward to meeting the boy, thanking him, maybe even giving him a bit of a reward…
He chatted for a while longer with Sally Webber, then politely took his leave, hooking up the hose on the way out. As he headed back down the road, he thought about the boy. Where had he come from? Sally was probably right, he was likely the son of migrant farm workers, transients – if he had gone to the house to ask for work, he would have seen the hose and the leash. Maybe, like the girl up the road, he had stopped to visit with the terrier. That would explain why he knew how far the leash would play out; would explain the fact that he'd seen the hose, nearby... It would explain a lot of things, like why he was out in the rain on such a night. One could reasonably assume that the son of a migrant worker might have more freedom to roam, possibly less parental supervision. Don had come to the conclusion that he hadn't truly seen the boy at the hospital – he'd simply dreamed he had. The effects of the concussion had made his dreams seem more real, and his confused state of mind had made it hard to separate them from reality. He was certain, though, that the boy had been out there in the rain with him that night. It was a shame he would never get a chance to meet him, to have the opportunity to say 'thank you.'
At a bend in the relatively deserted roadway, he suddenly braked, did a three point turn, and headed back down the road, back past Sally Webber's house, and toward the orchard. He reached it in a few minutes; it lined the section of smooth asphalt that led to the country club. He found the turnoff for the orchard trucks, and guided the car slowly down the dirt tracks, the tang of citrus rising in the air. Don finally got to where the workers were, stopped the vehicle, turned it off, and stepped out. He was greeted by several wary looks, quick glances that darted away, and back again when he wasn't looking, and Don suspected they all thought he was an immigration agent. He walked up to the woman nearest him, and said, "I'm looking for a boy. He helped us out a couple weeks back - there was an accident up the road, and I want to thank him."
Thankfully, she spoke English, although it was moderately accented. "There are boys here. What is his name?"
Don grimaced, ruefully. "I don't know. I didn't get it. He was wearing a shirt with a cube on it - a box -," he gestured vaguely with his hands, "- you know. He has maybe gone to the houses up the road, looking for work." He let the carrot drop. "I'd like to give him a reward."
She studied him for a moment, and then said, "Wait here, please."
She stepped over to talk to a man and another woman, and they conversed quietly in quick bursts of Spanish. The man shot a glance at Don, then went into the orchard, and when he came back he had two boys with him. They looked at Don hopefully, but he shook his head. "No, it wasn't either of them."
"I went to the lady's house up the road, to ask for work," offered the older of the two, a boy of about sixteen.
Don shook his head. "You weren't at the accident. I'm looking for a boy who was at the accident that night."
The man sent the two boys back into the orchard, and eventually, they came back with several others, but none of them were the boy that Don had seen. The man shrugged, expressively. "The workers, they come and they go," he said. "Perhaps the boy and his family have moved on."
Don handed the man his card, and a twenty. "Do me a favor, and watch for him, okay? He wears a T-shirt with a box on the front. If you find him, there will be a reward for you, too."
The man took the card, his eyes gleaming, and bobbed his head. "Si, I will, Senor, thank you."
Don got back in the car, started it up, and managed to get turned around in the narrow ruts. All the way back to Pasadena, he could see boy's face in his mind.
...
He took Robin to one of her favorite restaurants that night, a little place that specialized in Thai-California fusion. He gazed at her over a glass of wine, and thought about Charlie and Amita. "So," he said, without preamble. "What about kids?"
She choked just a bit on a noodle, recovered, and wiped her mouth daintily. Robin had broached the subject tentatively on more than one occasion since they'd gotten engaged, and Don had dodged the question every time. She looked at him closely, a hint of a bemused smile playing around the edges of her lips. "What brought that on?"
Don shrugged. "I don't know. You asked me a while back, and I've been thinking about it. I want to know if you want kids. It might be good thing to agree on before we get married, don't you think?"
She nodded, cautiously. "Yes, that's why I brought it up. Why, what do you think?"
"I asked you first."
"Technically, you didn't, but okay. Yes."
Don felt a foolish grin starting. "'Yes' what?"
He could see her biting back a smile, blushing just a bit. "Yes, I want kids."
"How many?"
Her eyes narrowed as if she was trying to determine his motives, but her smile remained. "I don't know. Two, three."
He grinned at her, feeling suddenly ridiculously happy, and her smile broadened. She waited, and when he didn't speak, she said, "So what about you?"
"That sounds good."
She wasn't letting him off the hook – she was going to make him say it, he could tell. "What does?" she pressed.
"I want kids, two or three, as soon as possible."
One eyebrow arched, and she smiled demurely as she picked up her fork. "I'd like to finish my dinner, first."
...
End Chapter 9
A/N - One more chapter - who is the boy?
