Car
lie’s face flashed before his eyes and he felt like a Judas. But that was crazy. Even if she were telling the truth about her relationship with Kevin, she’d thrown him out of her house. Gritting his teeth, he reached for the receiver.
He owed Carlie Surrett nothing!
* * *
“THIS IS YOUR uncle Ben,” Tracy said to a young redheaded freckle-faced boy. His hair was straight and fell over his forehead in a way that reminded Ben of Kevin a long, long time ago.
Randy wrinkled his nose. “Uncle Ben? You mean like the guy on the rice box?”
Ben laughed and stretched out his hand. “Not exactly,” he replied, shaking Randy’s hand.
“Don’t give Ben a hard time,” Tracy gently chastised her son. They lived in a nice apartment in Coleville, as modern as Carlie’s was rustic. White rug, white walls, white appliances and white furniture with a few throw pillows of mauve and blue.
“He’s not giving me a bad time,” Ben said. “What grade are you in?”
“Fourth.”
“Same as Nadine’s oldest boy,” Tracy said, turning back to the sink. “But they don’t see each other much since we don’t live in Gold Creek.”
“Are you talking about John Warne?” Randy asked.
“You know we are.”
“He’s a creep.”
Tracy visibly stiffened. “That’s not very nice—”
“Hey, it’s the truth,” Randy said. “And I don’t care if he is my cousin because he’s a jerk.”
“You don’t really know him.”
“Well, I know Katie Osgood. I see her in Sunday school and she tells me all about John—like how he’s the biggest dweeb in the whole school. He’s always in the principal’s office.”
“That’s enough, Randy,” Tracy said, managing a forced smile. “Why don’t you show Ben your baseball-card collection?”
“He won’t want to see—”
“Sure, I will,” Ben said, anxious to diffuse the tension between mother and son.
Hanging his head, Randy led Ben down a short hallway to a small room covered with posters of baseball players. Within minutes, he’d opened several albums and was telling Ben about all the players. He was particularly proud of a few old cards of Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford, “you know, those old famous guys,” he said to Ben, his face lighting up. “My dad had these cards when he was a kid. Grandpa kept them for me.”
Ben’s heart twisted. This boy was Kevin’s bastard, a kid George Powell had accepted. He spent half an hour with Randy and the cards before Tracy called from the kitchen, “How about something to drink?”
“I’ll have a Coke!” Randy yelled back.
“I was talking to Ben,” she replied, wiping her hands as she appeared in the doorway. “But I’ll get you something, too. By the way, it’s seven.” She glanced at Ben as Randy turned on a small black-and-white television. “There’s some sports show he always watches about this time. Come on into the kitchen.”
While Randy settled back on his bed, his cards spread around him, his eyes glued to the little black-and-white screen, Ben followed Tracy back to the kitchen. She was a pretty woman, but as he watched her hips sway beneath her black skirt, he felt nothing.
“Okay, the selection isn’t all that great but I’ve got beer and wine and...a bottle of Irish whiskey, I think.”
“A beer’ll do,” he said, feeling suddenly awkward. The apartment was clean and neat, not a magazine out of place, and on a table near the couch was a gold-framed picture of Kevin, a picture Ben recognized as having been taken only a few weeks before his brother’s death. Ben stared at the photograph and felt that same mixture of pain and anger build in him as it always did when he was reminded of his older brother.
“Belly up to the bar,” Tracy invited as she placed a bottle and empty glass on the counter that separated the kitchen from the eating area. She held up a frosty mug of dark soda. “I’ll run this down to His Highness and be back in a flash.”
He drank his beer and watched her work in the kitchen. She was efficient and smiled and laughed a lot, but there were emotions that ran deep in her brown eyes, something false, as if the layer of lightheartedness she displayed covered up other, darker feelings. Her smile seemed a little forced and there was a hardness to her that bothered him.