The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three) by Aubrey Parker Page A
Authors: Aubrey Parker
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It’s not loyalty so much as feline logic. At some point, he may decide I suck and leave without apologies, but so far we seem copacetic.
According to the vet, Carl is a domestic shorthair between six and nine months old. There was no way to know which shots he’d had, so he got boosters for some and instructions to get more later wherever I end up, whether that’s Inferno Falls or somewhere else. But we did see that Carl was neutered once, probably kicked at least twice. The latter could have happened whenever, but I stand by my original assessment: He was a pet; he was abused; he was tossed like garbage. I didn’t want a pet — and really, if I need a traveling pet with my lifestyle, a medium-sized dog makes far more sense — but here we are, Carl and me, on the road.
“Don’t you feel dumb for running from me now, asshole?” I ask him.
“Meow.”
“Yeah, I thought so.”
The radio is off. When I had it on before, Carl kept singing along. It was funny for five minutes, before it got annoying. With his two-word vocabulary I’m not sure if he likes the radio or hates it. But either way, I quickly grew tired of hearing it. There’s no meowing in Johnny Cash songs, period. The little bastard is screwing with the classics, and I won’t tolerate it. Not in my truck.
A bit later, I pull into a stop. Carl looks up at me. He has this expression I’m already getting used to. It seems to say, “What are you, stupid?” Like he knows better than me. He’s black and white and sits like a statue when not lying down like a carpet. I get the feeling I’m being judged, and coming off horribly.
“I just want to check the GPS.”
“Meow.”
“For the total trip time, not the road we’re supposed to be on.”
“Meow.”
“Who are you, my mother?”
He doesn’t answer. Which he shouldn’t. He knows it’s a touchy topic. I got along with Mom about the same as I got along with Dad, which is to say we had a lot of good days and a handful of bad. I got off a lot easier than many of my friends, but we definitely weren’t a ’50s sitcom. They were a picnic compared to Uncle Ernie, though — and on the subject of that asshole, Carl at least understands he’d best not offer any opinions.
“I think we should take the extra day,” I tell him, noting the time left on our trip.
“Rowr.”
“Well, just keep your mouth shut after I sneak you into the hotel, and we’ll be fine.”
“Meow.”
“Oh, you can too.”
“Rowr.”
I think about that for a second. It’s unrealistic to think I can waltz into town on my uncle’s lawyer’s suggestion, clear out Ernie’s shitbox house, and collect whatever I can at auction then move on without anyone knowing I’m there.
I’ve thought about Maya a lot. We’ve exchanged a few polite emails, but most of our communication has been one way, in the form of postcards. I like postcards because they’re old-fashioned and are the poker face of mail communication. Someone can send you a postcard if they love or hate you, and a postcard gives nothing away. A postcard says, “I was here and was thinking of you,” and that’s it. The tone of that thought is anyone’s guess.
So really, I have no idea what’s become of Maya, other than that the baby obviously wouldn’t be a baby anymore. Maya has mentioned things about her life in our infrequent emails, but mostly her messages have been as polite and straight faced as mine, as if we never shared a bed. We could be strangers, jawing about nothing to pass the time.
Now that I’m returning to Inferno Falls, part of me wants to go for the throat of the matter. Maybe I should leap past the awkward part and see her right away, assuming I can figure out where she is. It’s a small town, and her parents won’t have moved — or will still be active in the church even if they have. Locating Maya and her family won’t be a problem. The problem is how they’ll react to
According to the vet, Carl is a domestic shorthair between six and nine months old. There was no way to know which shots he’d had, so he got boosters for some and instructions to get more later wherever I end up, whether that’s Inferno Falls or somewhere else. But we did see that Carl was neutered once, probably kicked at least twice. The latter could have happened whenever, but I stand by my original assessment: He was a pet; he was abused; he was tossed like garbage. I didn’t want a pet — and really, if I need a traveling pet with my lifestyle, a medium-sized dog makes far more sense — but here we are, Carl and me, on the road.
“Don’t you feel dumb for running from me now, asshole?” I ask him.
“Meow.”
“Yeah, I thought so.”
The radio is off. When I had it on before, Carl kept singing along. It was funny for five minutes, before it got annoying. With his two-word vocabulary I’m not sure if he likes the radio or hates it. But either way, I quickly grew tired of hearing it. There’s no meowing in Johnny Cash songs, period. The little bastard is screwing with the classics, and I won’t tolerate it. Not in my truck.
A bit later, I pull into a stop. Carl looks up at me. He has this expression I’m already getting used to. It seems to say, “What are you, stupid?” Like he knows better than me. He’s black and white and sits like a statue when not lying down like a carpet. I get the feeling I’m being judged, and coming off horribly.
“I just want to check the GPS.”
“Meow.”
“For the total trip time, not the road we’re supposed to be on.”
“Meow.”
“Who are you, my mother?”
He doesn’t answer. Which he shouldn’t. He knows it’s a touchy topic. I got along with Mom about the same as I got along with Dad, which is to say we had a lot of good days and a handful of bad. I got off a lot easier than many of my friends, but we definitely weren’t a ’50s sitcom. They were a picnic compared to Uncle Ernie, though — and on the subject of that asshole, Carl at least understands he’d best not offer any opinions.
“I think we should take the extra day,” I tell him, noting the time left on our trip.
“Rowr.”
“Well, just keep your mouth shut after I sneak you into the hotel, and we’ll be fine.”
“Meow.”
“Oh, you can too.”
“Rowr.”
I think about that for a second. It’s unrealistic to think I can waltz into town on my uncle’s lawyer’s suggestion, clear out Ernie’s shitbox house, and collect whatever I can at auction then move on without anyone knowing I’m there.
I’ve thought about Maya a lot. We’ve exchanged a few polite emails, but most of our communication has been one way, in the form of postcards. I like postcards because they’re old-fashioned and are the poker face of mail communication. Someone can send you a postcard if they love or hate you, and a postcard gives nothing away. A postcard says, “I was here and was thinking of you,” and that’s it. The tone of that thought is anyone’s guess.
So really, I have no idea what’s become of Maya, other than that the baby obviously wouldn’t be a baby anymore. Maya has mentioned things about her life in our infrequent emails, but mostly her messages have been as polite and straight faced as mine, as if we never shared a bed. We could be strangers, jawing about nothing to pass the time.
Now that I’m returning to Inferno Falls, part of me wants to go for the throat of the matter. Maybe I should leap past the awkward part and see her right away, assuming I can figure out where she is. It’s a small town, and her parents won’t have moved — or will still be active in the church even if they have. Locating Maya and her family won’t be a problem. The problem is how they’ll react to
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