better luck breathing now. “Forgot my manners.” Reaches down for papers in the dust. “ Looking for Tharcia. She around?”
“No idea. First you tell me why you’re here, acting all full of yourself, then you leave. You are trespassing.”
“I have official business with her. And if you wanna get legal, Clay, that was assault.”
“I’m all scared, dude. What do you want with her?”
Porterfield looks around the clearing, turns his gaze back to Clay. Thinking to keep his eyes on the prize. He has a lawyer, has already discussed the possibility of adoption. While the lawyer has drafted an adult adoption pleading, the man was skeptical, reminded Porterfield in an avuncular aside that everything depends on the rapport he can develop. With the girl. The girl who cashed out mommy’s house, picked up her County award.
“Well, Clay. Um, excuse me for being rude. Fact is, some evidence came to my attention. You know I hung with Montana back in the day, and…”
Clay knows well enough. Tharcia’s mom, Montana to her friends, had been the opposite of celibate in her teens. Porterfield was only one of the bad boys she’d taken home. Or out behind the stadium. An old wound but a wound just the same, Clay wishes he’d thought of that before punching the guy, would have kicked him instead.
“So yah,” Clay sneers. “Wasn’t exactly your steady, was she?” Montana had spent most of senior year with Clay, on the back of his rebuilt Indian twin, and in other situations more guy-girl.
Porterfield grins, remembering. Color has returned to his face. “Great gal. Was sad to hear what happened.” Almost sounds sincere, but Clay hears a shoe about to drop.
“K. So. What?”
“I have proof that… Me and Montana… Well, I’m Tharcia’s dad. Her real dad.”
Clay looks hard at Porterfield. What’s left of the dude’s hair is blond, a symmetrical face, good nose, blue eyes. The two men could pass as brothers. No resemblance to Tharcia that Clay can see right off. But.
“Proof.”
Porterfield waves the papers at Clay. “DNA test.”
“ Let’s have it.” Pulse thumps in Clay’s ears.
Porterfield holds up page one, the Conclusion page. “Says here that Chester Alan Porterfield is not excluded as the biological father of Tharcia Anne Harrison. CPI is 98.666 percent.” He looks at Clay levelly. “I’m her dad.”
“You ever meet her?”
“Briefly. The memorial at Montana’s place.”
Clay recalls the scene all too well. Cold November day a year ago, cars crowded along her block. Bare winter trees and cloudy sun. The people, strangers to him mostly, talking on the porch, front door standing open. Voices, music from inside, tunes they danced to in school. The small tight smiles. Tharcia's school friends, Montana’s sister, her cop friends. And Tharcia, face so drawn, people milling through every room of the house, touching things, taking a last look at the life they’d known. Anybody could have been there. Clay doesn’t recall Porterfield.
“So what is it you want, Chester ?”
“What I want concerns Tharcia, Clay. Not you.”
“I’ll let her know you dropped by.”
“I want to see her now.”
“Leave your number. She’ll get in touch if she feels like it.”
“Oh she’ll definitely feel like it.”
Tension pops when the front door swings wide, Tharcia steps out onto the porch. Both men look across the clearing. She doesn’t notice them, holding a half piece of toast and bending down to scratch the ears of Clay’s cat Bomber, his Maine Coon. Clay doesn’t much care for how she’s dressed, the white tank top reaches her thighs. Just. Possibly undies, possibly not. What she sleeps in. Bare legs, wheat straw hair a wild thicket around her smooth face.
Porterfield doesn’t wait, calls out. “Hi Tharcia, remember me? Chet?”
She stands quickly, takes a step backward toward the door, into the shade of the porch. Says nothing, waits.
“Can we talk a minute? About your
“No idea. First you tell me why you’re here, acting all full of yourself, then you leave. You are trespassing.”
“I have official business with her. And if you wanna get legal, Clay, that was assault.”
“I’m all scared, dude. What do you want with her?”
Porterfield looks around the clearing, turns his gaze back to Clay. Thinking to keep his eyes on the prize. He has a lawyer, has already discussed the possibility of adoption. While the lawyer has drafted an adult adoption pleading, the man was skeptical, reminded Porterfield in an avuncular aside that everything depends on the rapport he can develop. With the girl. The girl who cashed out mommy’s house, picked up her County award.
“Well, Clay. Um, excuse me for being rude. Fact is, some evidence came to my attention. You know I hung with Montana back in the day, and…”
Clay knows well enough. Tharcia’s mom, Montana to her friends, had been the opposite of celibate in her teens. Porterfield was only one of the bad boys she’d taken home. Or out behind the stadium. An old wound but a wound just the same, Clay wishes he’d thought of that before punching the guy, would have kicked him instead.
“So yah,” Clay sneers. “Wasn’t exactly your steady, was she?” Montana had spent most of senior year with Clay, on the back of his rebuilt Indian twin, and in other situations more guy-girl.
Porterfield grins, remembering. Color has returned to his face. “Great gal. Was sad to hear what happened.” Almost sounds sincere, but Clay hears a shoe about to drop.
“K. So. What?”
“I have proof that… Me and Montana… Well, I’m Tharcia’s dad. Her real dad.”
Clay looks hard at Porterfield. What’s left of the dude’s hair is blond, a symmetrical face, good nose, blue eyes. The two men could pass as brothers. No resemblance to Tharcia that Clay can see right off. But.
“Proof.”
Porterfield waves the papers at Clay. “DNA test.”
“ Let’s have it.” Pulse thumps in Clay’s ears.
Porterfield holds up page one, the Conclusion page. “Says here that Chester Alan Porterfield is not excluded as the biological father of Tharcia Anne Harrison. CPI is 98.666 percent.” He looks at Clay levelly. “I’m her dad.”
“You ever meet her?”
“Briefly. The memorial at Montana’s place.”
Clay recalls the scene all too well. Cold November day a year ago, cars crowded along her block. Bare winter trees and cloudy sun. The people, strangers to him mostly, talking on the porch, front door standing open. Voices, music from inside, tunes they danced to in school. The small tight smiles. Tharcia's school friends, Montana’s sister, her cop friends. And Tharcia, face so drawn, people milling through every room of the house, touching things, taking a last look at the life they’d known. Anybody could have been there. Clay doesn’t recall Porterfield.
“So what is it you want, Chester ?”
“What I want concerns Tharcia, Clay. Not you.”
“I’ll let her know you dropped by.”
“I want to see her now.”
“Leave your number. She’ll get in touch if she feels like it.”
“Oh she’ll definitely feel like it.”
Tension pops when the front door swings wide, Tharcia steps out onto the porch. Both men look across the clearing. She doesn’t notice them, holding a half piece of toast and bending down to scratch the ears of Clay’s cat Bomber, his Maine Coon. Clay doesn’t much care for how she’s dressed, the white tank top reaches her thighs. Just. Possibly undies, possibly not. What she sleeps in. Bare legs, wheat straw hair a wild thicket around her smooth face.
Porterfield doesn’t wait, calls out. “Hi Tharcia, remember me? Chet?”
She stands quickly, takes a step backward toward the door, into the shade of the porch. Says nothing, waits.
“Can we talk a minute? About your
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