Detours

Detours

By Jeffrey Ricker

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Jeffrey Ricker

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Synopsis

Joel Patterson should be happier than ever. He's just returned from a two-week vacation in London, where he met Philip, who might be the man of his dreams. Instead, Joel's heading to Maine for his mother's funeral. He quits his job to fulfill one last request for his mother: unload his parents' albatross of an RV by delivering it to an old family friend—in California.

Somehow, Joel's high school friend Lincoln has invited himself along on the ride—and into Joel's bed. The other person who's invited herself along? The ghost of his mother, who still has plenty to say about her son's judgment (or lack thereof). Joel has to get the RV to San Francisco, get rid of Lincoln, and get back to Philip. It would also make him feel better if he learned what's keeping his mother tied to this earthly plane. However Joel manages it, the route is likely to be anything but straight.

DETOURS

© 2013 By Jeffrey Ricker. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-613-7

This Electronic Book Is Published By

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 249

Valley Falls, NY 12185

First Edition: November 2011

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES, AND INCIDENTS ARE THE PRODUCT OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, BUSINESS ESTABLISHMENTS, EVENTS, OR LOCALES IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

THIS BOOK, OR PARTS THEREOF, MAY NOT BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM WITHOUT PERMISSION.

Credits

Editor: Greg Herren

Production Design: Stacia Seaman

Cover Design by Sheri ([email protected])

Acknowledgments

As much as they say writing is a solitary profession, I’ve had a lot of help along the way. It takes a village? In the case of my first novel, it took a small metropolitan area. This book would not have turned out the way it did without the support and input of many people. I hesitate to name them for fear of omitting someone, but I would be remiss in not thanking ’Nathan Smith, Rob Byrnes, Alexander Chee, Elizabeth McNulty, Pamela Merritt, Huntington Sharp, Timothy Lambert, Becky Cochrane, and Cindy Fehmel and everyone in my writing group, Writers under the Arch.

Thanks especially to my editor, Greg Herren, for his wonderful friendship, unflagging enthusiasm, and always-constructive advice.

Thanks also to my parents, for counseling practicality while reminding me also to dream.

Last, but certainly not least, thanks to Mike, who was a book widow on many nights when I didn’t crawl into bed until hours after the lights were out. Sweet dreams.

For Brad,

who always believed, even when I didn’t

Chapter One

We always think we know how the story ends. In the case of my mother’s death, the end of her story coincided with—caused, really—the end of one story for me and the beginning of another. It was the sort of thing she would have claimed she did on purpose.

I might have believed her, but that says more about our relationship than I need to think about at the moment.

I wasn’t thinking about my mother at all at the time. I had just gotten home from a vacation in London, and I was thinking about Philip.

We met at a secondhand bookstall under Waterloo Bridge. I had found an old Jane Austen and an out-of-print Paul Bowles. Philip was holding a beat-up Anne Rice paperback. I don’t remember what he said, but he struck up a conversation when I tried to slide past him. The longer we talked, the easier it was to overlook his questionable taste in books. His lopsided smile, typically English, charmed me. He didn’t bother to brush the fringe of brown hair off his forehead. The sudden flush of high color in his cheeks could have just been the wind off the Thames.

How much longer are you in town? he asked. His voice was deep, and I could have listened to his accent for days.

Only until Sunday, I said.

He frowned, looked at the ground, and stroked his chin for a second. Well then, I guess you’ll just have to have dinner with me tonight, won’t you?

I smiled. Normally, I would have suggested a later date—but Sunday was only four days away. He didn’t look like the sort of person who’d beat me up in a bed-sit or leave me face-down in an alley. As I debated, the wind caught the edge of his Nike jacket and exposed the crisp white T-shirt he was wearing.

I said yes.

We had a deadline, so we wasted as little time as possible getting each other’s backstory. Philip was single, in his thirties, and a computer consultant. The job paid well enough for him to afford a flat in central London. It also required him to travel a lot. His parents were retired. His sister, a primary school teacher, lived with them outside the city. He went on dates about as often as I did—not very. He didn’t have to tell me this, though; his goofy, crooked, unself-conscious yet earnest smile gave it away, making him even more endearing. So did the accent. So did the bottle of wine we finished.

After dinner, we lingered over coffee until we were the only diners left. We both got up from our seats reluctantly. Outside, Philip asked, Tell me again, how long are you here?

Four days, I said.

I memorized as many details about that moment as possible. The chill in the air and the dampness threatening rain, turning our breath to fog. The curl in Philip’s hair, also brought out by the humidity. How the shoulders of his coat bunched around his ears when he jammed his hands into his pockets. The spring dresses in the shop window across the street that made promises the weather felt unlikely to keep.

What are you looking at? Philip asked, glancing over his shoulder. Instinctively, I put a hand against his cheek and turned his face back to mine.

Everything, I said. You just look right here.

I expected a gentle kiss. Instead, we stumbled against the door hard enough to make the glass rattle. I looked behind me—the waitress inside stared back, an upturned chair in her hands. Our glances intersected. She smiled and went back to stacking chairs. Philip guided my lips back to his. It felt like he was trying to outrun the end of the evening, as if he could somehow get us in front of it. I gasped when we finally parted, breathless from the race.

Philip laughed and pulled me close again.

Let’s go to my place, he said.

Four days equals ninety-six hours. We spent all of them together, and tried to spend as many of those hours awake as possible. On the last day, Philip was still in bed when I left his apartment to head for the airport. I told him I didn’t want him to get up. I wanted our parting to be quiet and everyday, like I was slipping out to go back to my own place, with plans to meet up later.

Coffee, he said, his voice still tangled in dreams.

I’ll make it, I whispered, and slid out of bed into the blue-gray morning. It was not quite seven yet.

Coffee and a shower woke me up. When I returned to the bedroom with Philip’s mug, I stopped in the doorway. Like four nights before, I tried to memorize the contours of the moment: the softness of the gray world outside the windows, the clefts and valleys where the bed sheets flowed over the curve of Philip’s back, the tangle of his hair against the pillow. I wanted to be able to take out this picture later and look at it when I couldn’t recall a detail.

Do you have to go? Philip mumbled, reaching vaguely for his mug. I aimed it toward his hand.

I’ve been gone two weeks, I said. I hate to imagine what my in-box at work looks like. This did not answer his question exactly. It’s only been four days, I tried to remind myself.

Well, he said. He set his coffee on the nightstand and stretched his arms over his head, like a cat. I have to say these have been the best four days of my year.

That’s not saying much. It’s only March.

Philip rolled onto his side. His eyes had lost their half-asleep veil. I figured that might be less unsettling than saying they’ve been the best four days of my life.

*

I wasn’t ready to be home yet, so I drove in the wrong direction.

Once I’d negotiated my way through baggage claim and picked up my car, I headed in the opposite direction of home, across the Missouri River through St. Charles.

Now that I was back, every direction felt like the wrong one. It made as much sense as anything else that I was heading farther into the suburbs. I rolled down the window for a blast of March air to wake me up. The exits passed by in a blur until I reached Wentzville about half an hour later. The temptation was to keep heading west toward Columbia and Kansas City. Beyond lay the flat emptiness of Kansas and eastern Colorado, both places I’d never visited. If I kept going long enough, I’d get to California and the ocean. If I went even farther, I’d be back in London again.

I could even keep going until I came up behind myself.

Instead, I veered east toward the city, back across the river and through the Chesterfield Valley, where the largest strip mall in the country—maybe the world—sprawled along the highway. In some ways, St. Louis was like that strip mall to me—trying to be bigger than it was, but lacking in originality and seeming distant and standoffish.

It was almost midnight when I finally got home. The apartment smelled of dust and neglect. On the kitchen table was a pile of mail, and a note from Carrie. She’d watered the plants and Dudley was eager to see me. On the answering machine was a message from Mom. She’d gotten my postcard, wanted to talk about the trip and a few other things. That could wait until tomorrow. Dudley, unpacking, sorting through the bills and junk mail—it could all wait until tomorrow. I filled the kettle, put a teabag in a cup, and sat at the table.

The phone rang. I felt for a moment as if I had dozed off, and glanced toward the kettle instead of the wall where the phone hung. I didn’t recognize the number right away. It was a 207 area code, which my exhausted brain eventually realized meant Maine, and home. Home of a sort, at least. When I picked up, it was my father.

Son, he said. His voice was small and distant. I had to strain to hear him. I think you’d better sit down.

*

The part I couldn’t wrap my mind around was why she’d said nothing. She hadn’t told my father about her cancer until he found her doubled over in the kitchen with the refrigerator open and one hand on the counter to keep her from falling to the floor.

The next day, she went to the hospital and never came out.

After promising I would book a flight right away, I hung up and sat for a moment at the table, unsure which way to move. The kettle whistled, so I made my tea and sat back down, waiting for it to cool. Again, I was sitting still when I should have been in a whirlwind of motion, frantic to get back out of town as soon as possible, the same way I felt when I’d been driving down the highway not wanting to come home.

Instead, I started to cook, which is a sort of forward momentum. The refrigerator contained little that was salvageable after two weeks away: a wilting head of lettuce, four bottles from a six-pack of beer, some eggs, butter, and a chunk of Swiss cheese that, amazingly, hadn’t turned green and fuzzy while I was gone.

I shredded the cheese and melted the butter with some flour. By one o’clock, I was back at the kitchen table. My tea had long gone cold, so I opened a beer and waited for the soufflé to rise. It seemed right to make something fragile.

I called Carrie and told her what had happened. I’ll be right over, she said.

Bring Dudley, I added before she hung up. I needed my dog.

While I waited, I emptied my suitcases—two weeks of dirty clothes now separated into piles on my bedroom floor—and began filling the largest one with clean clothes for my trip home.

It was odd to think of Portland as home. It had been more than fifteen years since I’d lived there. After college, I’d moved directly to St. Louis for a job. It was supposed to be a temporary relocation. I pictured myself someplace bigger, like Boston or Chicago, maybe even New York one day. Even though I always meant to, I just never got around to leaving.

I didn’t have enough clean clothes to fill a suitcase. I remembered I should pack a suit. I picked one at random and placed it carefully across the other clothes. The doorbell rang as I shut the case.

Carrie had brought Dudley and a twelve-pack of Rolling Rock.

She had also brought Matt.

I hope you don’t mind, she said after we hugged. I figured there’s strength in numbers.

Numbers of friends or numbers of beers? I asked, trying to prove I hadn’t lost my sense of humor.

Both, Matt said, hugging me as well. He always smelled freshly washed. Even though he spent his days at the nursery up to his wrists in dirt and fertilizer, he seemed fresher now than he ever had as a lawyer in tailored suits and silk ties. We’d dated then, and he’d always seemed exhausted. Now, the lucky bastard glowed.

While Matt and Carrie offered their condolences, Dudley grew tired of waiting. He shuffled over to his empty food bowl, then arranged himself on the corner of the sofa.

We each cracked open a beer and waited for the soufflé. I gave Dudley his belated welcome home. He agreeably rolled over onto his back, consenting to a belly rub, which was about as demonstrative as he ever got. After, he hopped off the sofa and returned to his bowl, looking back at me.

Okay, I get the hint, I said.

I dumped a scoop of kibble in his bowl and he dove in. It dawned on me then that it was long past his suppertime, and breakfast wouldn’t be due for another four hours. Already duped, I wasn’t about to take his food away. The oven dinged and the soufflé was ready.

The first bite of soufflé is always the best. It never seems as light after that, and that first bite is like a cloud melting over the tongue. This one I’d pretty much knocked out of the park. It was company-perfect.

Joel, Carrie said, are you awake?

I had closed my eyes for a moment to savor the cloud. I’m awake, I said, but kept my eyes shut.

Are you okay? Matt asked.

Not really. I tried to conjure up the image of Philip lying in bed yesterday morning. I felt a hand settle over mine.

Thinking about your mom? Carrie asked.

Yeah, I lied. Telling them I was thinking about this great guy I had met on vacation would have deflated all the sympathy in the room. I ate another spoonful of soufflé, finished my beer and opened another. I said, I should get online and book a flight.

When I opened my laptop, an e-mail from Philip was waiting in my in-box.

The world seemed suddenly much smaller than it had when I’d said good-bye to the man lying in the blue light. That was five thousand miles ago. The postcards I mailed on vacation hadn’t even arrived yet, but here was this message arriving as if I had just left him across town—the way I had wanted it to seem.

I hesitated to open Philip’s e-mail, and in that moment, a flood of other messages pushed it farther down the queue and out of sight. I shut my e-mail and bought my ticket. By the time I finished the next beer, I was booked on a flight later that morning, requiring an absurd connection through Raleigh / Durham, and an even more absurd amount of money.

Maybe it was Philip’s e-mail—which could have said anything and existed only as potential so long as it remained unopened—but I was itching to start moving again. At the same time, though, I was so tired that I could barely keep my eyes open. Whenever I closed them, there was the tantalizing, unreachable guy across the ocean.

I sat back down at the kitchen table. This was another scene worth saving: my friends, my faithful dog. Carrie scooped some more soufflé onto her plate and asked us if we wanted any more. I held up my plate. Matt replaced my empty beer with a fresh one. Finished with his food, Dudley flopped on the linoleum under the table.

I wasn’t ready to peer into the dark well of my mother’s death. Instead, I said, Let me tell you about my trip.

Chapter Two

Carrie left at three thirty. She said she had to get home before her husband woke up and realized she was gone. Only a few beers remained by then, and I was a little buzzed. My flight out left at eleven thirty, so sleep seemed futile.

So, she said, pushing her chair from the table, what do you want to do about Dudley?

I’ll take care of him, Matt said. I looked toward the living room. Once the soufflé was gone and the hope of any stray crumbs hitting the floor, Dudley had once again withdrawn from the kitchen and curled up on the sofa, feigning sleep; his ears still twitched when he heard his name.

You’re sure you’re going to be all right? Carrie asked, pausing at the front door. I wasn’t sure of anything, but I said I would be. She gave me a hug, one lasting longer than the hug she’d given me when she arrived. There was a hesitation in it, as if she were on the verge of asking me something but changed her mind.

Matt stayed until the rest of the beer was gone, then pushed his chair back from the table as well. I’m opening the nursery tomorrow, he said. He looked at his watch. I mean today.

I started gathering Dudley’s things—his bed, chew toys, bags of food, and biscuits. We loaded everything in Matt’s truck and then took Dudley around the block to pee.

How old is Dudley now? Matt asked while Dudley sniffed the six-foot radius his leash permitted. His nose is grayer.

He’s nine, I said. Gray happens. It was happening to me too, creeping over my ears and getting harder to ignore. Matt was two years younger and hadn’t succumbed yet.

Nine? Already? Matt asked.

I’d adopted Dudley when he was less than a year old. Dudley had been three when Matt and I started dating. The more years I spent with Dudley, the more I marked time based on how old my dog was when things happened. Met Matt: three. Broke up with Matt: four. Got my latest job: also four. Mother died: nine.

Once Dudley finished doing his business, we walked down Lindell Boulevard to Matt’s truck. It was a relatively new Ford, but the battering it took on the job made it look older. The name Randall’s Nursery and Landscaping was painted across the door. I opened the passenger door, and Dudley hopped in. He was always ready for a ride. I gave him a hug. I’d spent two weeks away from him and only a few hours with him, and was handing him off to the care of someone else. Again. I am a responsible pet owner, I told myself. Meanwhile, he sniffed my ear before licking it.

He’ll be fine, Matt said. He gave me a good-bye hug. Dudley glanced at me through the window before turning to face forward, eager to be going.

I tried not to take it personally.

I’m not so sure about me.

Matt leaned back so he could look at my face. You’ll be fine too.

And, much to my surprise, he kissed me. It was a good kiss, but I