But not that time. She left me to contend with that monster by myself.
I thought about all of the meals I went without eating. The uncooked ramen noodles I dipped in ketchup or barbecue sauce, and the crackers that sometimes made it into the house. The green beans I opened with a knife and poured down my throat. The unopened canned goods I found in dumpsters, then took home in my backpack to wash off. She was absent in elementary school, in and out through middle school, and was gone by high school. And that was when I taught myself how to cook. How to make a decent sandwich. How to tell if roadkill on the side of the road was still good enough to skin and cook up. How to build a fire out back to keep myself warm whenever the bills went unpaid and things were shut off.
Roadkill.
I’d eaten roadkill as a damn twelve-year old because my father drank our money away every damn night.
I remembered trying to cook for my father one night. I’d set a squirrel trap out back and caught myself a couple of them, so I took them inside to make a stew. I’d offered some to my father in an attempt to sober him up a little, but instead he threw it against the wall and shattered the bowl. It was the first night of many he turned his fists onto me, beating my back and roaring that I’d never amount to anything.
That I should stop trying.
That only monsters and bottom feeders ate shit like squirrels.
Well, he didn’t even eat, so what the hell had that made him?
I blinked away the tears I’d refused to cry by then and found my father crawling into his old pickup truck. He moved like he was recovering from a hangover. I was surprised he was still living, driving around in that damn thing. I figured he would’ve wrapped himself around a pole in town or something.
Monster. Bottom-feeder. You’re nothing, Grayson. Nothing.
It took Anton a long time to reverse the damage my father inflicted on me. I’d taken his words to heart as a child. Cried myself to sleep night after night, begging a God that didn’t exist for answers as to why my mother left me. Why my father didn’t love me. Why he stuck me with a family that was better off dead, than alive and failing to raise a little boy.
Anton finally showed me that his words were bullshit, though. And now, I had the proof. The evidence that what my father told me was false. I had billions upon billions of dollars at my disposal and the admiration of entire nations.
But watching my father drive off swerving down the road filled me with an emptiness I hadn’t experienced since the night he shattered that bowl against the wall.
Opening up the door of my convertible, I sank down into it. I put up the top and rolled up the windows, not interested in finding the good in Stillsville any longer. My eyes stayed hooked on the road in front of me, not caring about who was walking alongside me or who was crossing in front of me. I found my way back to Anton’s house and parked my car, then stepped out and headed for the porch.
Until the garage caught the corner of my eye.
I could still turn this trip around. There was still an opportunity to make something of it and leave on a valuable note. Turning, I started for the dusty place, letting myself into the garage so I could rip the tarp off that wrecked Chevy. My eyes scanned over it as my hand fell into every dent and scratch I had forced upon it. My feet kicked at the flattened tires as memories of that accident came careening back to my mind.
This car represented the one time I had truly let Anton down.
And I wasn’t going to allow his car to stay in that condition.
Restoring this car to its former glory could be my last ‘thank you’ to him. To a man I owed such a gigantic debt of gratitude. I was selfish when he took me in. Angry, with a chip on my shoulder the size of the Grand Canyon. And even after I left for college, I rarely made it back to see him. Holidays and some summers, but not much outside of that. Then, I was drafted and I never came home. We talked on the phone. Wrote letters sometimes. But outside of that, I didn’t have the time. That’s what I told myself.
The truth was, I didn’t make the time.
Didn’t make the damn time for the one man that cared for me and showed me kindness. For the man that saved my life.
But I would make the time for him now. I couldn’t dwell on the past any longer and I couldn’t allow myself to stay bound to it. Looking around at the tools that hung on the wall, a grin slipped across my cheeks. I closed my eyes and conjured the man’s face. His thick Russian accent, the shock of thick white hair, and the wrinkles that added a gentleness to his stern features.
That was my purpose in Stillsville this time. The house could be sold. The furniture donated.
But this car?
I would restore it the way Anton had restored me. With love.
It was the least of what I owed him.
Chapter 4
Michelle
A Friday afternoon shift. The calm before the storm. At least, that was what we called it at the diner. There were only a few gray heads in the place, bobbing around the diner and talking to one another. I filled up the coffee mugs of the patrons sitting in my section as I braced myself for the onslaught that would be Friday dinner service.
Then, the bell above the door rang.