Boy on the Porch

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By Dee Holmes

Thorndike Press

Copyright © 2003 Dee Holmes
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0786252308

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Chapter One

The house was bigger than he'd expected, and for a few seconds he stood on the sidewalk just staring. The last place he'd lived had been low and square and brown with prickly bushes that always scratched his arms when he was told to cut them.

He ventured a few steps closer, his eyes wide, trying to take it all in. Lots of windows, and big enough to walk through if they'd been doors. They didn't just lay on the house like they were pasted there, they seemed to push the house back in some places and pull it forward in others. It must be like a maze inside with all those curves and angles.

He walked carefully up the walk that was made with crooked flat stones that fit together like a puzzle. He'd never seen a stone puzzle. On either side, a lawn swept toward the house, sprouting flowers at the edges and some even in the middle. And trees. Not scrawny, limp, naked sticks stuck in wire jails, but tall and fat and kingly, dressed with leaves so thick and heavy they made noise even in the slight summer breeze.

The front steps seemed to pour down to his feet from a porch with cushioned furniture, shiny tables, and baskets of flowers. It looked like an outdoor living room.

All of this to thirteen-year-old Cullen Gallagher was a mind blower. He'd thought nothing would ever scare him after that night in the last foster home, but this place did.

Not scary in a bad way; this was a good scare. A heart-pounding, can't-wait scare, a Christmas morning scare when, to his surprise, there really had been presents with his name on them.

He stood up a little straighter, walked up the steps, grinning like Linc told him. "You're happy about this, so start with a smile. Don't cringe like some trespasser." He was happy; he was psyched.

Cullen rang the doorbell and wished he'd done a better job scrubbing his hands. Women get pissed about dirty hands. Linc had told him that, too.

He rang the bell again and waited. Guess they didn't have a maid or an official door-opener like he'd seen in movies about rich people. He liked that. He wanted them all to himself.

Finally, when there was still no answer, he walked around the yard to the back. More flowers and a garage for two cars and another porch.

And a dog.

Uh oh.

Cullen skidded to a halt as the large black, brown, and white animal came forward, then suddenly stopped. He didn't look fierce as much as he looked curious. Cullen pushed his hand into his pocket and came up with a dog biscuit. His mom had always carried cookies when she walked in case she encountered a dog. Weird how he'd thought of that when he'd been getting ready to go a few hours before. But like other things his mom had said, he remembered them when he needed to.

Linc had laughed, but not in a funny way; he told him if some industrial-strength dog came at him, he'd be the one getting eaten and no biscuit would save him. To Cullen's relief, this one didn't growl or bark or charge him, he just looked.

Cullen extended his hand, palm up, like his mother had told him. "Hey, boy, you the guard around here? Sure is a nice place. You like cookies?" At this, the ears came up and the animal sat, tilting his head slightly. Cullen tossed a biscuit toward the dog, who managed to snag it before it hit the ground.

"Nice catch." The dog munched it down in two bites. Cullen threw another one and again the dog caught it, chewing and looking for more.

Cullen eased his way toward the back porch, tossing biscuits like a trail of crumbs. "Hope they didn't get you to scare away robbers, boy. If they did, they got suckered." But he couldn't wait to tell Linc that the biscuit trick worked.

On the porch, he knocked on the door and peeked in a side window to the kitchen. Jeez, he could throw a football in there and hardly ever hit a wall. The room had two sinks, pots hanging from the ceiling, and he could see a leather couch at the far end. No answer to his knock.

Then, just because he wanted to, he searched around for a door key, but found none. And then he knew why none was needed. The door wasn't locked.

No one home and the house unlocked? Were they nuts? Or maybe they depended on that fake guard dog. Too bad he hadn't planned to be a house tosser when he grew up-this place would be a great beginning.

But he didn't go inside. Linc would fry his ass if he found out.

Then his attention was caught by a porch glider. Like a wooden couch, it was big enough for three, had a yellow-and-white-striped mattress and pillows with flowers. And it moved back and forth when he pushed it. He looked at the seat of his jeans to make sure they weren't dirty, then eased himself down like he was about to bust eggs, then carefully pushed off like he used to do on that old tree swing at home. It slid back and forth, back and forth, back and forth ...

Nearby was a small refrigerator. Not a cooler, but a real refrigerator. Inside was a full unopened milk bottle, a carton of orange juice, cream, and a box of butter. He wondered why they were there instead of inside. There were a couple of cans of Pepsi and a bottle of beer.

A whole bottle of cold beer. His throat worked thirstily. He hadn't had any since ... but as he reached for it, the memory roared back.

Hey, Cullen, don't be a baby.

I'm not a baby!

So have some beer.

I don't want any.

Chicken ... 'fraid his old man will throw him out. Cluck cluck, chicken Cullen ...

I'm not.

Yeah, well prove it.

Then, later ...

You've been drinking, young man.

No ... no ...

Don't lie to me. No son of mine would drink and lie.

You're not my father. I hate you.

Get out. Get out of my sight.

Then his eyes had gone dark and he'd moved closer, smelling like old books and stuffy attics. Cullen had turned and run, his eyes bleary from tears. Why had his mother died? Why hadn't it been his old man?

Cullen squeezed his eyes closed, grabbed the Pepsi, and slammed the door on the refrigerator as if he could lock away the chain of rejection and pain. He sat again in the glider, pushing back and forth while he swigged down the soda and pretended this was his house and his glider and he couldn't wait to tell Linc everything. He closed his eyes, sinking back into the pillows, thinking he'd never felt anything so soft. Maybe this time it will work. Maybe finally someone will want to know him.

And just as he drifted off, he thought he saw the dog on the porch laying down at the edge of the steps. He wants me to stay, Cullen thought. He wants me to stay.

Annie Hunter put the top down on her BMW when she came out of the office. She was at the peak of her career as an interior decorator, and while she relished the challenge plus the enjoyment of working with a family wanting to redecorate their home, or even just a room, today had not been pleasant. Fabrics delayed, furniture back-ordered, and the cream-colored hot tub had turned out to be round when it was supposed to be angled. And then to top off the day, she had to meet her mother.

It was July and no sane person with a convertible would have the top down on such a sweltering day. Sunburn, windburn, and road grit. Enclosed in an AC climate was smarter. But it was Friday and she didn't have to worry about being poised and perfect and professional until Monday.

She glanced at her wristwatch, knowing she was going to hear it because she was late, but it couldn't be helped. Then again, her mother would have something to say even if she arrived early. Annie wouldn't call it a love-hate relationship, more of one where her mother insisted on either treating her as a child or chastising her for any behavior her mother assumed needed pointing out. Annie simply ignored most of it, but she wearied of the constant criticism, the inevitable attempt to let Annie know her disapproval.

She took off her jacket, and opened the top buttons of her blouse. In the car, she backed out of her parking space and headed in the direction of the cemetery.

Today was the first anniversary of the death of her husband, Richard. His parents were in Italy, but Annie's mother had called her before she'd left for work that morning asking what she planned to do.

"Do?"

"Like as in flowers for the headstone? Surely you didn't forget."

"I didn't forget," she muttered. Annie sighed, irritation bubbling, but what would be the point? Forget? Not a chance. In fact, she'd awakened that morning immediately recalling that terrible phone call of a year before.

"Roses, then," her mother continued. "He loved roses. And oh how his rose bushes thrived when he was taking care of them. The last time I was at your house, Annie Jean, they looked sad and scraggly."

Annie gritted her teeth. "I'll buy some roses."

"Why yes, that would be lovely. A dozen or two, don't you think? Red ones. He did love red roses."

Actually, he didn't. But Annie wasn't in the mood to argue. And so she'd called May over at Silvia's Greenhouse and ordered the roses. She picked them up on the way, arriving at the cemetery and parking behind her mother's Honda. Richard had bought it for her two years before, when her Tercel had given out.

Marge Dawson had always adored Richard, and when at forty-two he'd died of a massive heart attack while working on a restoration project in Connecticut, Annie's mother had appointed herself as the queen mourner. Annie, who'd loved her husband beyond her ability to express, had been devastated by his sudden passing, but she neither put her sadness on public display nor did she expect others to continue to offer condolences long beyond a time when it became maudlin rather than empathetic.

Her mother's overdone wretchedness, Annie guessed, was due more to her own limited social life than to true grief. She had only a few friends, none of them male, and she suffered mightily the absence of Richard to flatter her and coddle her and spoil her. He did so with abundant charm and never with impatience because, well, because he was a kind and generous man.

Annie wasn't inclined to be so solicitous of her mother; she'd always believed Richard had tried to make up for her own failings in the devoted-daughter role. Issues with her mother that mostly surrounded the disappearance of Annie's father years before were made more frustrating by her mother's refusal to talk about it, ever. That stubborn silence, when Annie desperately wanted information, had left a gulf between the two women that Annie was in no hurry to bridge.

Now, as she approached the granite headstone, her mother was busy deadheading a rose bush that Annie had planted beside the plot, the previous fall. She dropped the discarded flowers into a basket she'd brought with her. "I was wondering if you were coming, Annie Jean. And look at your hair. My goodness, I had no idea it was that windy." Then she scowled. "I thought we'd decided on red roses."

Annie put on her best face. "Richard preferred yellow. I brought red ones for you to take home. You know he always gave you red roses on your birthday."

Her mother seemed jolted by the gesture, and Annie thought for just a moment that she really should try harder to get things settled between them.

"Why yes, he did. But it's not my birthday."

"I know, but I think Richard would want you to have them."

Her eyes welled up. "Oh, Annie Jean, he was such a wonderful man. If only he hadn't died so young. If only you'd had children ..."

"Mom, don't ... please."

"Annie Jean, you should have started much sooner."

"Yes," she said softly. "We should have, although I doubt it would have made a difference."

Annie turned away. No children was one regret she couldn't dismiss. She and Richard had figured it all out as if it were the master plan for the perfect life. Get their careers established, then Annie would ease into working from home so that when the babies started coming, it would all run smoothly. They planned on a nanny for those first months, but Annie intended to take care of her children. The nanny would just be there to help in a pinch. They could afford it, and Richard wanted only the best for his wife and family.

Except no babies came. Her periods came late a few times, and her joy soared, only to be sunk when her cycle resumed. Each barren month had been more wrenching for Annie than the one before. What was wrong with her? Why could her friends produce babies as if they were mother bunnies, and she couldn't get pregnant with one? Richard suggested adoption, and after that last failed year of doctor visits, infertility failures, and frustration, she'd agreed, but only if it was an infant.

They'd just begun meetings with a private adoption attorney when all the plans and hopes came to an end with Richard's sudden death.

Months later Annie thought about trying to adopt on her own, but the attorney didn't give her much encouragement, since she wanted an infant. Most birth mothers involved in private adoptions wanted two-parent families, and frankly she couldn't blame them. A child needed a mother and a father. The attorney suggested that if she would reconsider an older child ...

But she wouldn't. And yes, that made her feel selfish, but realistically she thought it more selfish to take a child because of guilt than because of love and a real desire.

Now she placed the fanned bouquet of yellow roses in front of the headstone, her mother fiddled with it to get it just right, and they bowed their heads for a few moments of silence. Annie made sure the flowers had plenty of water before mother and daughter returned to their respective cars.

She retrieved the long white box of red roses from the back seat. She'd parked in the shade to keep the sun at bay.

Her mother cradled the box in a way she would never have held an arranged vase. "You remembered that I like to fix them myself."

"Yes."

"I'm sure they are lovely, but never as beautiful as the ones Richard grew."

Annie sighed. Why did she put herself through these never-able-to-please moments? She turned away and climbed into her car.

"You really should put the top up, Annie Jean. Now I know why you looked so mussed up."

Actually, I just climbed out of bed with a sexy stranger who made me come three times in ten minutes.

But even given the irritation she felt toward her mother, she couldn't be that flip. Although God knew she wanted to be. She started the car, but she didn't put the top up.

"Goody-bye, mother."

"Yes, yes, good-bye, dear." But her mother had already forgotten the chide; her attention was on peeking inside the box at the roses. "Now, I could put these in the living room on that pie-crust table. Right near that picture of Richard."

Annie drove away, as her mother's mutterings trailed off behind her. She drove home with the wind making an even more tangled mess of her hair. As she turned into the drive, she anticipated a quiet Friday afternoon and evening. She wanted a cool shower, an icy glass of Chardonnay, and no phone calls.

Continues...

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Excerpted from Boy on the Porch by Dee Holmes Copyright © 2003 by Dee Holmes. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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