Chapter THIRTEEN
Jamison drove the pickup to the Recovery Center and asked if he might take his granddad for a ride. A short while later, and with an IV hanging from an old rifle rack, the two struck out for parts unknown. The nurses had tried to dissuade them, but once Jamison had suggested it, Granddad's mind was set.
Only the large grumpy nurse, whose bark was much worse than her bite, had the balls to dress down the Scotsman all the way to the truck. Right before they'd driven away, however, she'd winked at Jamison with a teary eye, then threatened to call the police if he didn't have the old coot back in an hour or so.
His granddad waved the woman closer, digging in his pocket. “I’ve got something for you, Madame.” When he pulled out his hand, his middle finger was raised and he waved it at her.
Jamison sped away before the silly Scot could come up with another insult, and in the rear view mirror he watched the big woman bend over, laughing.
Granddad cleared his throat. “That's no way to treat a woman, me boy.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Nurse Harmon is no woman. She's my auld drill sergeant, painted wi’ lipstick and dressed in his sister's knickers.”
Granddad’s laughter was loud and rude, as if it, too, had been saved in that shirt pocket for a chance at some air.
A few minutes later, after the man caught his breath, they settled into a comfortable silence and listened to the sound of the old engine.
“I spent many a year of me life in this trook. ‘Twas a grand idea, goin' for a ride.” Granddad rolled down the window. He struggled, and it took him a good minute, but it looked like he didn’t want help. When the old clouded glass was finally down, he leaned out to face the breeze, smiling into the sunlight that felt anything but warm to his driver.
“I'm taking a load of wood over to the school,” Jamison hollered, “for the Homecoming Bonfire.”
The old man pulled his head back in, looked into the truck bed and laughed. “That the wood from the auld pig shed?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, that will make for a fair pungent fire, laddie, if'n the rain and snow from last season didn’t wash the away the stink.”
It didn’t take long to get to the school. Granddad grinned and waited patiently while the ominous wood was unloaded. Next, they rolled around town, talking about townspeople Jamison barely remembered, or pretended to remember. At last, the talk turned to Grandma and what the couple had planned to do when they’d retired.
“What seriously pissed her off was dying just before the retirement checks were to start. If someone could stay alive out of spite, she'd have done it.”
It seemed as if thoughts of Grandma drained his energy faster than anything else and Jamison turned back toward the Recovery Center. The big woman was standing there with her hands on her hips, as if she hadn’t taken a step while they’d been gone. She whistled and two men came outside, one pushing a wheelchair.
“Drive around the car park once, me boy, just to piss in her tea.”
Jamie did what he was told. His grandfather giggled the whole time.
“Thank ye for the adventure, Jamie lad.”
“You're welcome, Granddad.” Jamison grabbed the man’s arm before he could open the door. “I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to do it a hundred times.”
Granddad looked at him for a long minute, then his eyes got wet. “Sometimes, son, one good ride is worth a hundred others.”
All the way to the mall, Jamison fought to swallow the boulder in his throat. This was no day for emotion.
Step 5. Check, damn it.
***
Jamison had cash. No one would trace his purchase, and if the guy at the counter had been sober enough to remember any specific customer that afternoon, it would have been the blue-haired, nose-pierced, tattooed thirty-year-old-trying-to-look-eighteen who was standing in line behind him.
Besides, the store had been dim. Other than his blond hair, there was really nothing memorable about him, or his purchase, compared to the raunchy stuff everyone else was there to buy. Thankfully, Jamison looked a bit older than he was and the wasted employee hadn't asked for ID.
Step 6. Check.
The list was a great idea. Not only did it keep him from forgetting anything, it kept his head clear; there was no need to keep reviewing things he'd already worked out. He only needed to do everything as planned. An added benefit was that it kept him calm enough to choke down some food. The last thing he needed was for his stomach to growl at the wrong moment, or his strength to give out.
While pounding down a Big Carl and fries, he drove around town, looking for the right sucker to help him with step seven. It was just after four—plenty of time to walk if necessary—but he'd rather stick to the plan.
He was about to give up and head back to scour the mall parking lot for the second time, when he spotted her.
Miss Phillips from English class. Alone. Coming out of the old-fashioned music store.
Granddad's truck wasn't the sexiest vehicle, but it would have to do. Jamison pulled up behind her car and rolled down, by hand, a very unsexy window.
“Miss Phillips, I presume.”
She spun around and smiled. “Mr. Shaw, as I live and breathe. The Southern gentleman who is so humble he believes himself to be a coward.” She prowled over to the truck as seductively as any Southern belle, clutching her bag in both hands.
He realized she was pushing her boobs together on purpose. Interesting.
“It's not humility, Miss Phillips. It's honesty.”
“Uh huh.” She dropped the Southern belle act. “Can you believe that crap? Calling us Miss Phillips and Mr. Shaw? I think he does it so we'll think he's cool, like he thinks we're all just adults, sitting around shooting the breeze. As if.”
“I don't know. At least his class hasn't been boring. Yet. But I've only been in it a couple of times.”
“Well I heard,” she leaned on his open window, “that Mr. Evans likes to date eighteen-year-olds. My friend heard that Mr. E calls lots of his old students after they graduate. To. Hang. Out! Can you imagine? He's like almost 60!”
Again, Jamison toyed with the thought of getting his hands on Mr. E’s cell phone. Maybe it was watching a man his age so into texting that made something seem...off about the guy. If he was texting young girls, that was sick, as in...sick.
Suddenly Jamison wished he could keep Mr. E from reading his essay from that morning.
Ew, and he so did not want to be calling him Mr. E!
Someone honked.
“I gotta move.” He started rolling away and Miss P backed up, no doubt preparing to pounce on him as soon as he was parked.
Sure enough, as soon as the pickup stopped moving, she was back at his window.
“Miss Phillips?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell is your name?”
She laughed. “Rachel.”
“Well, Rachel. I need a big favor, and I thought you might have the time to help me.”
“Oh, anything. Really.”
And he believed her. Really.
Step 7. Check and then some.
***
Step eight was easy enough. After he pulled the pickup under the carport of the shed, he ducked inside the tack room and shut off the breaker for the yard lights. When night came, the lights wouldn’t come on automatically, as they usually did. No one would notice, though; they'd just think the night was unusually dark, or so he hoped. He and his mom had turned them off plenty of times for star-gazing, and it was always days later, after a couple of comments about how dark it was outside, that someone would remember to turn the yard lights on again.
***
It was early yet when Jamison arrived back at the school. All the student-officer-sweatered kids were delicately building up the wood for the bonfire. Even from the parking lot he could hear one young man giving orders, reminding the others that since he was an Eagle Scout and knew more about fires than they ever would, they'd better do just as he said or they'd be sitting around trying to get the damned thing lit all night. Another kid shouted he had lighter fluid and wouldn't let that happen and the struggle for dominance was on.
Jamison walked to the bleachers, out of earshot, and sat down to wait.
It was going to be a long night. He wished he could take a nap, there on the cold aluminum seats, but he didn't want to wake up frozen to death, or miss Skye. If she came and couldn't find him, she might take off and jack up all his plans.
It didn't matter if those idiots got the fire started or not, it only mattered that she showed. There was no other chance. It had to be tonight. Who knew how long it would be before he woke up with his memory wiped out again? Even now he feared waking up to the smell of real bacon cooking. Maybe bacon would scare the shit out of him for the rest of his life.
Pity, that, his granddad would say.
Pity, all of it.