Sidecar Crush

I got to a cupboard with a mix of glasses and mugs. Most of them were in decent shape, so I wrapped them in newspaper and put them in a box. Way in the back, I found a mug with a chipped edge. I hadn’t seen it in years, but I remembered it well. I pulled it out and turned it around. World’s Best Mom.

Us kids had gotten that mug for our mom for Mother’s Day one year. She’d used it all the time—so much the lettering had started to fade. I could still remember her, sitting with her fingers wrapped around the handle, blowing on the hot liquid before bringing it up to her lips.

I had no idea what to do with something like this. Would anyone want it? Should we just let it go? I wasn’t the sentimental type, so keeping an old mug—even our mom’s old mug—didn’t hold much appeal. But I set it aside so Scarlett could at least see it. Even if she didn’t want it, she might like to reminisce over it first.

The front door opened, and in came Jonah, followed by Bowie. Scarlett and Gibson weren’t far behind. They all chatted for a few, saying hi and whatnot. I nodded to my siblings but kept working. The sooner I finished, the sooner I could get out of here.

My brothers split up. Gibson took the garage while Bowie and Jonah headed upstairs. Scarlett came into the kitchen to help. I showed her Mom’s mug. She held it for a few moments, tracing her fingers across the words.

“We can let it go,” she said.

“You sure?”

She nodded. “I think there’s a lot of lettin’ go that needs to happen.”

“I reckon you’re probably right.”

She glanced toward our dad’s bedroom door. Not the first time she’d done so. I could tell she didn’t want to go in there.

“If you want to finish up in here, I’ll go start on the bedroom,” I said.

She nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

I put an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.

“Oh, knock it off,” she said, pushing me away.

I messed up her hair, then went into Dad’s bedroom.

Another chill passed down my spine, worse than when I’d first come into the house. He’d died in here.

I swallowed hard, deciding to put that all aside and do what needed to be done. It was just a bedroom, and what was in here was just stuff. He was gone.

Most of his clothes were fine for the thrift store, so I packed them in big garbage bags. When the dresser drawers were empty, I decided to tackle the closet.

I groaned. It was packed, the contents bulging out. The police hadn’t exactly cleaned up nicely after they’d searched the house.

Clothes hung on the rack and boxes were piled on top of one another. I spent some time going through the clothes, separating what we could donate from what was too old and worn and needed to be thrown out. Hauled bags out to my truck. By the time I finished with the clothes, Scarlett had gone out for lunch and brought it back. We took a break on the porch, but only for long enough to eat. None of us said much. Seemed we were all wrestling with being here.

But I was glad to not be here alone.

After lunch, I sorted through more stuff in the bedroom. Helped Scarlett haul boxes from the kitchen to her truck for a run to the thrift store. When her truck was full, I went back inside and started pulling stuff out of Dad’s closet.

There was no telling what was in all the boxes. I opened the first one and rifled through. Seemed to be a mix of things—papers and envelopes. A handful of old photos. In one of the envelopes was a picture of the four of us, all sitting on the porch. Looked to me like I might have been five or six years old. The back said first day of school. I put it aside to show Scarlett.

Tucked in the envelope among some more photos was a yellowed piece of paper—looked official. It was a speeding ticket with my dad’s name on it. That wasn’t too odd. I reckoned my dad had probably had more than a few traffic violations in his day, although I wondered why it had been stuffed in an envelope with old pictures. What caught my eye first was the state. New York.

That was odd. When had my dad been in New York state? Then I looked at the date. Twelve years ago, almost exactly. The summer Callie Kendall had disappeared.

I knew that date. Not just because the town still talked about Callie, or that her missing persons posters still hung outside Moonshine. I knew it because that was the last summer Leah Mae had come to Bootleg.