Dylan went down on one knee and took Adam’s face in his hands. Adam’s eyes were filled with water and his pale cheeks were splotched. The effort not to cry about had him hyperventilating, and Dylan was very proud of his son. “I can tell you’re really trying to be a big boy this year,” Dylan said. “And that’s all I asked, so that’s all that counts. If you want to cry, go ahead.” Adam wrapped his arms around Dylan’s neck and Dylan rubbed his back. “Son, there are just some times in a man’s life when he has to let it out. If it feels like one of those times to you, then that’s what you gotta do.” Dylan hated this; it tore at his aching heart and left him feeling battered and bloody. It clogged his throat and made the backs of his eyes sting. Adam’s silent tears soaked the collar of Dylan’s oxford cloth shirt. “I wrote down all the area codes and the phone numbers where I’ll likely be, so you can get hold of me anytime. I put the list in your suitcase. Whenever you want, you just give me a call, okay?”
Adam nodded.
“But your mom’s probably going to keep you too busy to miss me much.” He glanced up at Julie and she had that wide-eyed “What do I do now?” look he recognized. As always, leaving it up to him to know what to say and do. As much as Dylan wanted the responsibility of his son, there were times when he resented the full weight of it. When he resented her. Like now, when he had to pretend he wasn’t all torn up inside. When Julie might have stepped in and helped out a little. When she could have at least tried but she didn’t, and Dylan tried not to let his irritation show. “You’re going to have lots of fun with your mom and grandpa, and when you come back, we’ll go catch that Dolly Varden that got away from you last time, okay?”
Again Adam nodded. “Okay.”
“I’m proud of you, son.” Dylan removed Adam’s arms from around his neck and leaned back to look into his son’s face. “You about under control now?”
Adam wiped the back of his hand across his wet cheeks. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He wiped a tear from Adam’s chin. “I think that went well. You’ve behaved like a man this year,” he said as he stood and handed Adam his suitcase. “Did you remember to pack your crayons?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He took a step backward. “I love you, Adam.”
“I love you, too, Dad.”
Dylan gave an abbreviated wave, then turned away from the sight of Julie taking Adam’s hand and walking away.
In less than a minute Dylan was back in the parking lot, where he’d left his truck. He opened the door, climbed inside, and shoved the key into the ignition. The morning sun shone on the blue hood and his vision blurred.
It felt like one of those times. One of those times when a man just had to let it out.
Chapter Ten
SQUIRREL IS PROVEN APHRODISIAC
Other than the opening day of hunting season, the Fourth of July celebration was the premiere event in Pearl County. The nation’s birthday was kicked off with a parade down Main Street, which continued around the lake to the grange hall. The field around the grange was mowed down and Corvase Amusements turned the area north of the building into a swell of motion and beckoning lights. The whirs of the Scrambler and the Ferris wheel collided with the plummeting screams from the Zipper, all but drowning out the enticing calls of carnies, coaxing the citizens to try their luck at such games as Slam-Dunk, Flip-a-Frog, and the Quarter Toss.
Rows of craft booths owned the area south of the carnival, where the Mountain Mama Crafters proudly displayed their latest accomplishments. Their artistry ranged from traditional quilts and flower wreaths to toilet-paper cozies and crazy-eyed, long-haired, neon-colored owls glued to hunks of driftwood. No one had the heart to tell Melba that her owls were truly ghastly.
The smells of boiled corn, fried onions, grease, and brewer’s yeast hovered like smog on the hot summer air. It was ninety-eight degrees in the shade, and the dry heat sucked moisture from the skin and toasted unprotected flesh. Next to the food stands was the first-aid tent, where two paramedics bandaged cuts, handed out Pepto, and alleviated heat exhaustion. Deputies Plummer and Williams kept their eyes on the crowd and tended drunkenness. By 6 p.m., Hayden Dean had passed out behind the Hot Dogs for Jesus booth, and at six-oh-five, one of the Hollier kids was caught trying to steal his wallet.
Across the field from the first-aid tent, Paul Aberdeen stood behind a chalk line, determination on his red face, a toilet bowl on his shoulder.
“Come on, baby, you can do it,” Shelly called out to him. “You’re a lean, mean, toilet-tossing machine!”
Hope glanced across her shoulder at her neighbor. Toilet-tossing machine? Shelly held her bandaged hand to her forehead to block out the vicious sun. Her freckles stood out against her pale skin, and her cheeks were flushed. But they were nothing compared to her husband’s. Paul’s face looked like a tomato.
For reasons Hope would never understand, and despite the heat, both Paul and Shelly wore matching Wranglers, cowboy boots, and frilly shirts with pearl snaps. In fact, almost everyone at the fair had duded up as if they were backup singers in a country-and-western band.
Hope on the other hand, had dressed for comfort in her short khaki skirt, black tank top, and leather flip-flops. “Do you think he’s going to pass out?” she asked.
Shelly shook her head. “He better not. He only ha
s to gain two inches in this throw to move a head of everyone else.”
A hush fell over the spectators as Paul spun like a shot-put thrower and heaved the toilet. It flew about ten feet, landed on its base, then fell over onto its side.
“Yes!” Shelly raised her good fist into the air. “The big-screen TV is mine.”
Unfortunately, Shelly’s euphoria lasted only until Burley Morton hoisted the toilet onto his shoulder, moved to the line and hurled it eleven feet four inches. The crowd went wild, Burley moved into first place, and a new toilet-toss record was set.
Paul walked away with a second-place ribbon, a hunting knife, and a sore back.
“Is it over now?” Wally asked. “I want to get my face painted.”