Keeping Cole's Promise. Cheryl Harper
it’s soon. A man gets thirsty in this heat.” EW rubbed his mouth. “Figure you might need a ride, once you get your feet under you. Let me know.” Then he tilted his head. “You got a driver’s license still?”
Cole nodded. “Yes, sir. Need to renew it, since it’s about ten years expired.”
EW grunted. “You need to borrow the truck, rent’s cheap.” He winked and mimed drinking from a can.
Cole slid out of the truck and waved as EW’s truck lurched on down the road to his own trailer.
“Home, sweet home. Again.” Cole scuffed one prison-issue sneaker in the grass as he tried to convince himself this was what he’d been dreaming of for years.
Except his grandmother was gone.
And there was no telling what memories would boil up today.
Unless he kept those memories and the emotions they stirred up contained, they’d destroy his chance at freedom. It would be too easy to do something stupid under the influence of grief or fear.
The sun was beating down on his head. The temperature inside the two-bedroom trailer might be worse, since there’d been no one to pay the electric bill for years now. Whatever his grandmother had left would have gone to taxes and the monthly rent on the spot in the trailer park.
Air-conditioning had been a luxury reserved for the hottest of days when he was growing up. Today would qualify, even for his frugal grandmother. As soon as he got a job, he’d crank the cold air in her honor.
Cole climbed the three steps leading to the door carefully. The railing he’d helped EW add listed to one side, and he wasn’t certain the wood would hold his weight. “Rot. Wonderful.” And a warning about what he’d find inside.
Before he yanked open the door, Cole closed his eyes. He’d never been good at meditation, not even after the class offered by the jail’s shrink. Controlling his temper had been a problem when he was young and stupid and angry. At least prison had taught him why he’d want to learn how to keep his cool. It was the only way to keep his promise.
To help, he tried to picture his grandmother’s face, not as she’d been during visitation or even as sick as she was the last summer he’d been home, but on the first night he’d slept in her spare room. Now he understood that she had to have known his mother was dumping him, but the joy in her eyes as she’d held out her arms had been real.
That joy. She’d never lost it. It dimmed, but it never disappeared.
“Come on. Don’t be a wimp. It’s four flimsy walls, and you can leave any time you like.” His voice was loud. If any of the neighbors were watching, they had good reason to worry about the convict frozen on the front steps. At least they would keep their distance.
He squared his shoulders and opened the door. Once he was inside, he took a quick look around the tiny, dusty kitchen and cramped living room. Other than the stale air of a house closed for too long, the place was frozen in time. Cole left the door open and stopped at every window to unlock it and throw it open. A weak breeze stirred the yellowed white curtains as he dropped down on the ancient green sofa that his grandmother had hauled home one afternoon, a gift from one of the families she cleaned for.
The letters he’d written her from prison were stacked next to the photo album she’d always kept front and center on the rickety coffee table. He didn’t open it. He knew what he’d find: every awkward stage of his life captured in a school photo or candid shot.
And next to that photo album was EW’s gift, a stack of newspapers. Cole flipped through them. “Holly Heights. Austin. Surely there’s a job in this pile somewhere.” At some point, food would be a necessity. What little money he had would go toward the grocery store and getting the utilities turned on.
While he was still inside, he’d taken every course he could volunteer for. Only landscape design had been interesting. His reintegration adviser had gotten him guaranteed employment working for a landscaping company out of Houston, but he’d come home to Holly Heights. Would that be the second-worst decision he’d made?
Finding a job where every single employer knew he’d served time was going to be a challenge, no matter how well prepared his counselor promised he was or how big the tax incentive the government offered.
Quitting before I even start.
The thought sounded so much like his grandmother that he almost looked around. Surely there was a recorded message or her ghost.
Cole rubbed his forehead and snatched the first paper. “Let’s see, Austin. What have you got for me?” As soon as he saw the first listing for lawn maintenance, he jumped up and dug around through the familiar junk drawer to find a pen. “Only a phone number. Wonder if EW has phone service.”
After he’d circled five jobs, the realization that there was no way he could make it into Austin every day for work crashed around Cole’s head. Half a second later, he’d balled the paper and tossed it as far away as he could. His fingers shook until he pressed them hard against his thighs.
So weak. The disgust tasted bad in his mouth.
No matter how good his intentions might be, the odds were still too high. He was going to fail.
The temptation to borrow EW’s truck and go after the beer that would make EW happy and might numb some of his own panic washed over him, but Cole gripped the photo album hard with both hands and concentrated on remembering his grandmother’s face.
The tears in Rachel Baxter’s eyes hadn’t fallen on their last visit, but her voice had wavered. “Promise me. You stay out of trouble.”
They’d ended every visit the same way. Why did it even matter now? She was gone. His promise meant nothing. Robbing that new flashy gas station wouldn’t net him much cash, but he’d learned how to navigate prison. This new old world? He was lost.
“Brought a turkey sandwich. Chips.” EW shuffled his feet awkwardly on the yellowed linoleum. “Door was open.”
“Good. I’m starving.” Cole cleared his throat. “These papers are nice, but...” He shook his head.
EW didn’t answer, just held out a plastic bag with sandwiches wrapped in napkins. “One paper? You givin’ up after one paper?”
Cole shoved half a sandwich in his mouth. Snapping in anger or whining after all EW’s help would never do. “Nope.” He grabbed the Holly Heights newspaper and flipped to the two-page classified spread. “Used car. House for rent.” He shoved the other half of the sandwich in his mouth. Talking and chewing would have gotten him a smack on the hand if his Mimi were still here.
In the last column, he found it. A job listing for an assistant manager at an animal shelter. “Paws for Love.” He glanced over at EW. “Know anything about it?”
EW wadded his empty napkin. “Down the road a piece, maybe two miles. Pet project for the new millionaires.”
Cole waited for EW to either acknowledge his pun or explain the “millionaires” comment.
EW stretched lazily and shuffled through the papers to slide one out. On the front page, a full-color photo showing four beautiful women grinning with absolute joy caught Cole’s eye. A surge of jealous bitterness shot through him, turning the sandwich into a hard lump in his stomach. “Local lottery winners Rebecca Lincoln, Stephanie Yates and Jen Neil celebrate the open house at Paws for Love.” As he read the headline, Cole had a vague memory of them at Holly Heights High School, but they were a year or two ahead of him and they’d moved in different crowds. “And Sarah Hillman. Looks like some things don’t change. Hillmans are still running this town.”
He scanned the story about the shelter’s reopening with new funding provided by the foundation set up by Rebecca, Jen and Stephanie. Sarah Hillman was listed as the organization’s director and the day-to-day manager. That would be a problem. He expected a Hillman would set low priority to hiring people like him.
“Two