It was with Mom. The last time I smiled that brightly, it was with Mom.
“I won’t give up on you, Beau,” she says.
Isn’t that what every therapist should say to their patient? “That’s sweet.” If wasted. “Goodbye.” I leave her office and make my way down the stairs, and the moment I burst out of the door, I take in air urgently, as if I could have been holding my breath for the past forty-five minutes.
Sad truth is, I feel like I’ve been holding my breath every minute of every day for two years. I can’t remember what it feels like to breathe easy. To not have to think about each inhale and every exhale, just to make sure I’m actually alive.
And then the inevitable sinking of my heart when I realize I am.
It’s a vicious cycle. A continuous, torturous, dizzying merry-go-round I can’t get off.
Misery.
Bang!
I jump out of my skin, despite expecting the ear-piercing boom, as I pull up at the back of Hardy’s Hardware store. I have to take a few moments for my heart to settle down. Every damn time.
I push back the impending flashback and open my eyes, finding an elderly lady with a hand on her chest. “Sorry.” I smile mildly as I shut off the engine of my dilapidated Mustang and get out. I don’t bother locking my car, never do, and wander into the store. The smell. I take a moment to breathe it in. Paint, metal, wood—a heady mixture that never fails to ease me.
I spot Mr. Hardy behind the counter winding rope around his hand, his coveralls decorated with years’ worth of service to downtown Miami. His gray, wiry hair is in his eyes, his beard looking like it needs a good groom. When he looks up, his eyes shine, and I make my way over and lean on the counter, forcing myself to not look at the rope and instead helping myself to one of the mints he keeps in a jar by the ancient cash register.
“Beau,” he says, his southern accent heavy. “How much oil is that old jalopy of yours going to spill on the road outside my store today?”
I crunch into the mint, making him wince. “My car cries, Mr. Hardy. It cries because everyone is mean to it.”
He chuckles and sets aside his wound rope before claiming a mint for himself, though he doesn’t crunch into it, his false teeth preventing him. “How’s business, Beau?”
“Slow,” I admit, blasé. “I’m not worried. Something will come up soon.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Aunt Zinnea wants me to redecorate her bedroom.” I reach for one of the paint samples and start flicking through. It doesn’t need decorating. I only did it a few months ago, but, apparently, she’s bored of the canary-yellow and turquoise stripes. It has nothing to do with the fact that she’s trying to keep me busy. “My specification in sumptuous and sexy.”
Mr. Hardy laughs and leans over to scan the colors with me. “I’d expect nothing less from your aunt Zinnea. What about that one?” He points to a deep pink that’s right up Zinnea’s street.
I cock my head, considering what I could match it with. “Midnight blue,” I say, turning the samples in search of a suitable hue. I spot it in a heartbeat, the perfect shade. “I’ll have a gallon of each.”
On an agreeable nod, Mr. Hardy makes his way to the paint mixing machine and starts to load it up, while I head to the first aisle to collect a new brush, the same type of brush I’ve always used. The brush Mom insisted on. The brush that helped make me a half decent decorator. But the space where it should be is bare. “Mr. Hardy.” I poke my head around the end of the aisle. “Where are the two-inch natural bristled brushes?”
“Ah.” He looks up as he slips a tin of white base into the mixing machine. “Discontinued.”
“What?” Is that panic rising in me? It’s my signature brush. The only brush I can use to cut in—to achieve a perfect straight line. Mom tried plenty of others. None compare. “They can’t discontinue our brush.”
“I’ll let them know,” he replies sardonically, shutting the door of the mixing machine and settling in front of the computer, tapping in the codes for the shades I’ve ordered.
My shoulders drop, and I go back to the shelf, frowning as I finger through a few other brushes. I pull down a lame alternative and make a mental note to search Google when I get home. A pang of guilt grabs me as I pick up some new paint trays and roller covers before making my way down the aisle. I shouldn’t be resorting to the Internet. It feels like a betrayal. Mr. Hardy’s store has been nestled in between two old factories downtown for over forty years. It’s the only place I use to buy my decorating supplies—support your locals, as Mom taught me. Plus, it’s calming in here. And it’s never crowded. “But he doesn’t have our brush, Mom,” I say quietly, browsing the shelves, as if I don’t know what’s on each and every one.
I stop in front of the utility knives, my head tilting.
Keep walking.
A few paces more, I come to the rope section. Rope of various thicknesses. Various colors. Various strengths. I reach forward and pull at one of the thickest options. The strongest option.
Keep walking.
I make haste to the front of the store and place my replacement brush on the counter with a little pout as the paint mixing machine starts jolting around, and the store is filled with the whirling and banging sounds. “I suppose this one will have to do,” I shout over the noise.
“Broaden your horizons, Beau,” Mr. Hardy replies, frowning at the machine as it jumps toward him. That machine has been on its last legs for as long as I can remember, but since I’m the only one who ever requires paint mixing, Mr. Hardy—understandably—is reluctant to replace it.
“Mr. Hardy, when are you going to retire?” He must be in his mid-seventies by now, and I know for a fact his business limps along. I’m his best customer. I could be his only customer. I never see anyone else in here.
“And do what?” he asks, shutting the machine off and swinging the door open.
“Relax. Take up a hobby.”
He lifts another tub of white base into the machine and taps a few more buttons on the computer before shutting the door and turning it on. “My hobby is working.” He lifts the lid of the first tub, and we’re blinded by the brightness of the pink.
“Perfect,” we say in unison.
While Mr. Hardy sees to the rest of my paint, I help myself to a bag and load my buys in, and then flick through a local newspaper that’s sitting with a pile of others on the counter. My scanning eyes stop flitting when an article catches my attention, and I zoom in on the mug shot of a man I recognize. “Jesus,” I whisper, laying out the paper so I can read the report.
“Oh yes,” Mr. Hardy pipes in, and I look up to see he’s looking at the mug shot too. “They dragged his body out of the river.”
“The Snake. Mom was tracking him for years,” I say quietly, swallowing hard. “He always managed to slip through her fingers.”
Mr. Hardy smiles sympathetically. “Well, whoever sliced his throat before they tossed him in the river certainly didn’t let him slip through their fingers.”
“Sliced throat?” I ask, going back to the report.
“Yes. And the tongue that ordered all those deaths? Cut out. They reckon he’s been at the bottom of the river for a couple of years at least.”