Bigger Love Page 4

  “Not quite.” She gestured toward Odd, who was waiting by the half-open front door, whining. “You better get him outside.”

  Truman and Odd stepped out into the night. They walked around to the side of the house, where Truman could look down the bluff at the Ohio River flowing just below. The moon, a shimmering silver crescent, spread out on the black water. Truman remembered when he used to walk Odd Thomas down to its banks, cutting through woods. He used to love to chase sticks and sniff the detritus that had washed up on the river’s sandy banks. The two of them would spend hours down there. In summer they’d even brave the river’s admittedly dangerous current and swim out to the little tree-covered island in the middle. Truman smiled as he remembered lying in the sun on the island’s pebbled bank, Odd Thomas snoring at his side.

  But now all Odd Thomas could manage was a quick trip around the house to take care of business and then back inside, usually to lie down once again on the couch or on his worn fleece bed. Truman sometimes wondered how much longer he had left with his friend. Then he’d push the idea away because it made him sad.

  Mission accomplished, Truman headed back inside with Odd Thomas. For a reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, Truman was nervous. He felt like he was poised between now and then. And yes, he knew we are always poised on that particular point, but it felt as though something momentous was about to occur, something that just might upset the balance of Truman’s world.

  He hung up Odd Thomas’s leash and harness and rubbed his sweating palms on his thighs. He took a few steps toward the kitchen and the back door. There was low laughter underneath the music, which was now Al Green himself singing “Take Me to the River.” Truman had a sudden urge to take himself to the river, to sit alone on its moonlit banks and ponder both the future and the past. Fragile things that never seemed to remain still….

  “Truman?” Patsy’s voice floated in through the open window over the sink. Truman noted the dirty dishes stacked there, along with Patsy’s cast-iron skillet. A plate, covered in foil, presumably his supper, waited nearby. He wondered what was underneath. He hoped fried chicken. Patsy made the best.

  “Honey. You want to come outside for a minute?”

  Truman swallowed and briefly considered pleading hunger. Could she wait until after he’d eaten? But even he knew how rude and immature that would be. Still, what was keeping his feet rooted to the floor?

  “Truman!” He recognized the peeved tone.

  He hurried outside. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust. There was a little concrete slab out there, with a redwood picnic table and a Weber grill arranged on it. The only light came from a flickering citronella candle.

  “Hey, honey,” Patsy said. Truman edged nearer and could see the man at the table. His first thought was that he looked familiar, yet he couldn’t place him. “I want you to meet someone. This is George Stewart.” The man looked up at him and nodded. Truman, even in the dark, could make out the pale ice blue of his eyes, framed with long black lashes.

  George rose to extend his hand. Truman reached out to shake, and his hand was practically swallowed up in George’s grip. Truman feared his joints might be crushed. When he spoke, George’s voice was raspy and deep, maybe from too many cigarettes. “How you doin’, son?”

  “Good. Pleased to meet you, sir.” Truman drew his hand away and looked to Patsy, hoping she’d hear the pounding of his heart, would understand, and say something along the lines of “George here was just leaving.”

  He suddenly, desperately wanted his mom all to himself. The want was that much stronger, simply knowing this particular wish wouldn’t be granted anytime soon.

  Truman backed toward the door, knowing how sheepish his grin looked and wondering if the want and worry were obvious.

  “C’mon and sit down, Truman.” Patsy patted the bench next to her. “You can tell George and me about the play tryouts. What was the show again?”

  Barely finding breath to put behind his voice, Truman said, “Harvey. It’s about an invisible rabbit.”

  George nodded. Truman noticed his thick, curly dark hair, cropped close to his head. He eyed Truman as he lit a Marlboro Red. On his exhalation of smoke, he asked, “Wasn’t that a movie? With Jimmy Stewart, maybe? I think I saw it a few weeks ago on TV.”

  Truman shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.” Why are you acting like you don’t know the movie? He looked away from George and directed his gaze at Patsy. What do you see in this guy, Ma? He smokes! He’s a big lug! I bet he doesn’t have the brains God gave a squirrel! You deserve better.

  Patsy cocked her head. “You feelin’ okay, sweetie? You look—a little pale.”

  Truman tried to smile, fearing it came out as more of a grimace. “Just tired. And hungry. I saw a covered plate in there. Was that for me?”

  Patsy nodded. “Barbecued chicken, potato salad, and baked beans.” She looked away from Truman to glance at George. “All homemade.” She smiled.

  Truman was almost to the screen door. “Well, sounds better than the usual leftovers from the diner.”

  He ducked inside before Patsy could admonish him.

  He took the foil cover off the plate and looked down at the perfect char on the chicken breast, the bowl of baked beans, and the mustard potato salad—all his favorites—and didn’t feel hungry anymore.

  “Just nuke the chicken and beans for, oh, like a couple minutes, Tru.” Patsy’s voice drifted in through the window.

  “Sure, Mom.”

  He took the plate and went toward the front of the house and ducked outside to the porch, where they had a glider. He sat with the cold plate in his lap, thinking of standing up, walking to the back, and just pitching it over the embankment toward the river.

  Odd Thomas, probably aroused by the smell of chicken, scratched at the screen to be let out. Truman sighed, put his plate down at his side, and went to comply. Tail wagging, Odd immediately went to the food. Even though he knew it probably wasn’t good for him, Truman moved the plate down onto the porch floorboards. The chicken breast was boneless, so Odd Thomas should be okay. But the beans, the barbecue sauce, and potato salad? Truman shrugged.

  “Enjoy it, dude,” he whispered, leaning over to scratch the dog behind his ears. He was wolfing down the food as though, at any moment, someone would yank it away. “Because after you eat all that, it’s gonna be diarrhea city around here.”

  Truman snickered as he thought of Patsy cleaning it up.

  And then immediately felt a deep wave of shame roll through him. What’s wrong with me? Don’t I want Mom to be happy? He reached down and snatched the plate away from Odd Thomas. “Sorry.”

  And then it hit him why the guy out back was familiar. He looked exactly like the gorgeous, quiet boy, Mike, from Alicia’s bus stop on the first day of school.

  Why, they could be father and son. And at that thought, Truman smiled and then shuddered.

  TRUMAN WAS just drifting off to sleep, Odd Thomas curled up under the covers in the crook of his knees, when the creak of his bedroom door opening woke him. A slant of light fell on the braided rug next to the bed.

  Patsy crept into the room in her bathrobe.

  Truman rolled over, rubbing his eyes, feeling a little disoriented. He’d been dreaming of traveling with Patsy in a car, something new and relatively luxurious, and the two of them had just crashed through some bushes at the side of a road and were airborne above a bluff. The weird thing wasn’t that Truman felt terror at the prospect of crashing down hard on whatever was below, but the contentment he felt, the lack of fear. They were flying… and it was okay.

  “Honey?” Patsy whispered. “You awake?”

  Truman got up to a half-sitting position. Odd Thomas crawled from beneath the covers, shook himself, farted, lay back down, and continued snoring.

  Patsy sat down on the bed. She was so little that her presence barely registered. Truman, although he only weighed about a hundred and fifteen pounds, realized he now weighed more than his mom.

/>   She squeezed his calf.

  “Is he still here?” Truman blurted, unsure from where the question even came.

  Patsy sighed. She removed her hand and then folded her arms across her chest. “Yes,” she said.

  Truman crossed his arms. “Is he going home soon?”

  Patsy sighed and didn’t say anything for a long while. “If ‘soon’ is first thing in the morning, then yes.” Patsy lay down next to Truman and played with his hair for a minute. Truman closed his eyes, basking.

  She turned to him, and he opened his eyes to peer back at her, her face less than a foot away from his in the dark. How many conversations had they shared—just like this—over the years? Too many to count, Truman was sure. He felt a little lump in his throat as he wondered if all that was about to change.

  Quit being such a baby! You’re almost eighteen years old!

  “You don’t like him, do you?”

  “Who?”

  “Tru,” Patsy admonished. “Come on….”

  “I don’t know him well enough not to like him. I’m sure if I did, I’d hate him.” He laughed, but Truman wasn’t sure how much truth there was in the joke. “Was he the guy who was here a few weeks ago?”

  “Yes.” Patsy rolled over on her back and stared up at the ceiling. “And he’s been here several other times. You just didn’t know.”

  “Slut.”

  “Brat.” Patsy chuckled. “I really like him, Truman. I might even be falling in love. Can you imagine?”

  I can imagine all too well. I just don’t know how I feel about it. “Yeah, I can imagine. Even with the very, very limited exposure I’ve had to the two of you, I can sense it. Love is in the air.” Truman laughed, or maybe it was a choked sob? “Or maybe just gas….”

  “He’s a good guy, Truman.”

  “He smokes,” Truman said, and then felt lame. “This is going somewhere, then?”

  “It already has.”

  Truman rolled over toward the wall. He felt all of seven years old again. He drew in a deep breath, reminding himself to be the young man he knew he was becoming and not a petulant child. He knew he should be happy for his mother, his pretty, charming mother, who’d done nothing but work her fingers to the bone all her young life in support of him. His lovely and loving mother, who, he knew for a fact, had turned down many a man so she could stay home with him and eat frozen pizza while they watched Project Runway or played Yahtzee at the kitchen table.

  He thought of an old Diana Ross song he’d heard recently on Pandora, and thought it applied here—not to him, but to Patsy. The song? “It’s My Turn.” It was Patsy’s turn now, to not only find someone to love, but also to find someone who would love her in a reciprocal, grown-up way. His head said he hoped Patsy had found joy; his heart hoped this relationship would come to an abrupt end—sooner rather than later.

  Truman turned back to Patsy and touched her cheek. She really was so beautiful—with her dark hair, porcelain skin, and fine-boned features. “I’m happy for you,” Truman whispered, the words coming out a little breathless and broken.

  Patsy smiled. “No, you’re not.” She ruffled his hair. “But I hope you will be.”

  They lay there like that for the longest time, not saying anything.

  And then Truman heard George get up and pad to the bathroom between their two bedrooms. He could hear him peeing and then the flush of the toilet.

  “I should be getting back.” Patsy rose from the bed, and Truman had to resist the urge to hold out his arms, to beg her to stay with him.

  But he lay there, still, on his back, waiting to hear her walk away, bracing himself.

  Patsy stopped at the door and turned. “Truman?”

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “You know I’ll always love you best, right? You know that?”

  Truman couldn’t speak. He was too choked up, too overwhelmed. He sniffed. Odd Thomas got up and rearranged himself closer to Truman’s pillow. Truman hugged him.

  “I know you know,” Patsy said. “Because nothing is truer.”

  Truman wanted to say something, wanted to tell her how much he loved her, but if he did, he’d sound like a baby, speaking through broken sobs.

  Patsy closed the door softly behind her.

  Chapter 4

  GEORGE WAS gone the next morning.

  When Truman awoke, it was to the smell of pancakes and coffee. He struggled out of bed around the furry, lumbering, snoring mess of Odd Thomas, stood, and stretched. He picked up a T-shirt from the foot of his bed and pulled it over his head.

  Sunlight, like golden honey, streamed through his window. Today was going to be good, he told himself. Not only were there pancakes—his favorite food in all the world, despite the copious carbs hiding in them—but today was the day Mr. Wolcott would post the cast for Harvey.

  What part would he get? Dare he hope for the lead, Elwood P. Dowd? The cabdriver near the end had a great speech, pivotal, but it was such a teensy role. The old saw about there being no small parts, only small actors, popped up in his head. And that saying probably came from someone who only got small parts.

  He padded out to the kitchen barefoot. As he left the bedroom, he listened for Odd Thomas to follow, but all he heard were snores. Such was the new normal with his senior best friend. He glanced back at the dog, stretched out on his side, and a rush of love for the creature coursed through him. Each day with Odd Thomas was becoming more and more precious as Truman witnessed his time-lapse aging process. There was a very sad day in the near future, Truman knew.

  Oh, stop it! Enjoy your time with your dog! Don’t ruin it by being maudlin over what’s to come. For all you know, he may mourn your death sometime soon. The thought gave Truman a chill, which he tried to quickly dismiss.

  The kitchen was flooded with sunlight. Dust motes danced in the air. Shafts of pale smoke lingered, testimony to recently fried bacon. He felt both pleased and guilty at the knowledge that Patsy knew how vulnerable he was feeling and wanted to make it up to him. To show him, in effect, rather than tell him, that he was her number-one man.

  Truman didn’t wait for Patsy to serve him. Those days were long past—so long, in fact, he couldn’t even remember them. He piled a plate up with four pancakes and six pieces of bacon, poured himself a cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice, and—artfully balancing it all—seated himself at the table.

  “Good morning!” Patsy entered the kitchen wearing a pair of dark jeans and a gauzy white top. She’d pulled her hair up on top of her head in a casual knot. “I have to go in to the diner for the breakfast shift, and I’m already late, of course! But LaVonne needed me to cover for her, and she’s covered for me so many times in the past, I just couldn’t say no.”

  Truman shifted a mouthful of pancake to one side of his mouth. “Thanks for taking the time to make me breakfast. You didn’t have to.”

  She waved his thanks away with a flick of her hand. “I know I didn’t have to. But number one, I know you’d probably just leave here with a cup of instant coffee in your belly and maybe a bowl of Froot Loops if I left you to your own devices. And number two, um, well, I just wanted you to know how much you were loved.” She tousled his hair.

  “Don’t make me lose my appetite, Ma. This Mrs. Butterworth’s is sweet enough as it is.”

  “Oh, shut up.” Patsy grabbed her bag and keys from the kitchen counter. At the door she turned to Truman. “Is it today you find out if you got a part in that play? What was it called? Henry?”

  “Harvey. And yes, Mr. Wolcott’s supposed to post the list today.”

  “You think you got something?”

  “Of course I did, Mother.” Truman patted the back of his head and sat up straighter. “How could I not?”

  “Well, they’d be fools not to cast you. I’m sure you were far and away the best.”

  “Thanks. Praise like that coming from one’s mom always means a lot.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Text me and let me know what part you got.”


  “I will.”

  Patsy started out of the door.

  “Mom?”

  She turned, a little patient smile on her face. “I’m late….”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Just a quick question—does George have any kids?”

  Patsy grinned, and Truman thought she was glad he was showing some interest. “Um, yeah. He has a boy, about your age, I think. Mike. Mike Stewart. Do you know him?”

  I wish, Truman thought, both intrigued and weirded out by the coincidence of his mother falling in love with the father of the boy Truman was falling in love with—if falling in love wasn’t too strong a descriptor. “Nah. Not really. I might have seen him at the bus stop.”

  Patsy nodded. “By Alicia’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  Patsy nodded. “He lives over that way with his mom. You probably won’t cross paths. He’s in the vocational program. Wants to be a woodworker or somethin’.”

  I bet he’s good with his hands, Truman thought lasciviously. He was a little disheartened that Mike wasn’t college preparatory like Truman. The vocational kids were in a separate building down the hill from the main school. Truman was a little ashamed suddenly that even he looked down on those kids, not that they gave a rat’s ass what Truman Reid thought about them, he was sure.

  Lost in thought—and bacon—he didn’t even notice Patsy had left. Just as he was finishing up, Odd Thomas wandered in, and Truman leaped up from the table to take him outside. In the early morning sun, the dog squatted—he couldn’t lift his leg like he used to—and let go. Truman watched and encouraged him with a “Good boy.”

  They went back inside, and Truman glanced at the clock. If he didn’t get a move on, he too was going to be late. And he had to clean up, feed Odd, and, most important, decide what to wear.

  He wondered how long it would be before Mr. Wolcott posted the cast list.

  Chapter 5

  MR. WOLCOTT posted the cast list at the end of the day, after the last bell, when everyone was rushing outside to get in one of the yellow buses assembled in the parking lot. “Great timing,” Truman grumbled, rolling his eyes.