~

Chapter Forty-four

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Never occurred to me someone might struggle findin’ their home in the dark. Assumin’ at one time Nuel lived with her parents. But it was true every house we’d passed the last twenty minutes looked identical to the twenty before it. Like cracker boxes, lined up in a row. Maybe a garage on the left or the right, otherwise indistinguishable.

Don’t Northerners care anythin’ about individualism? Though, I thought back to the townhouses Ike’s parents live in on the North Slope. They look a little identical to each other too, so it isn’t just a human trap.

Nuel tromped up a third sidewalk only to come back shakin’ her head. One more of those and she must have decided on one, because she knocked on the door, which I thought was odd.

My ma doesn’t knock on my door. And I don’t knock on my parents’ door. We’re a bit more familiar I guess than Northern ogres. Not that Pa would ever wander over to my place. That’s somethin’ only the hens do, maybe. If he wanted to see me, he’d call me to meet him at the pub. That happened exactly once. He just needed company to watch a rugby game.

Like every other house, it was pitch dark. Nuel was reachin’ out to knock again when the window to the left brightened a tinge with a light that appeared jiggin’ up and down a little. A couple locks were thrown before the door opened. A bull who looked a lot older than I expected peered into the dark at us, one hand holdin’ a campin’-style lantern, the other a baseball bat.

“Dangerous to be out,” he said.

“Hey, Papa.”

The bull leaned the bat up against the corner and stepped forward, arms wide for a hug. I got a better look at his face as his head pulled next to his daughter’s and the lantern drew closer to his face.

This bull didn’t look like his daughter at all. Too old. Much darker, squarer features. I don’t understand expressions, but I can discern features.

The two prattled on. I got impatient. We’d been walkin’ a couple hours. The hen has no concept what two miles is. I was hungry. Grumpy. I wanted the stupid evenin’ to be over, pretty much. They continued to talk all smoochy, like they hadn’t seen each other in decades.

Yada yada yada. Yeah she wore her arm in a sling. Yeah, she’d been shot. Yeah, he’d have to bring her home to keep her safe. Yeah the world had gone crazy. Yeah he was heartbroken to hear she’d been shot. Gag me. And all this time no mama came to the door.

Worst part, the talk about her pain made my wrist throb.

Finally he pulled away from Nuel, asked who she was out with on a night like tonight. But he recognized me, I could see it in his face. It stinks gettin’ as famous as my stupid cousin.

“Kriz, I assume.” He held out a hand, which didn’t try to break my knuckles, which is good because it was the hand I’d slammed into the door, and it already, really hurt. But I was still disappointed he didn’t shake like he had serious tusks. That’s kind of sad.

Pa had warned me not to trust a bull that didn’t try to break my hand.

Nuel didn’t seem surprised she didn’t have to introduce me. Introduced Jam, who cracked the old bull’s knuckles good. Made me smile inside. After Asog, that’s his name, recovered, he demanded the three of us follow him inside.

Thankfully, Nuel hinted she had promised there might be food available off the grill. The old guy laughed, like it was a joke. I found that disappointin’ a little too.

I have to admit I may have dozed off for about an hour as the three of ’em chatted about thin’s that couldn’t be important to anyone, anywhere. I sat on the dark side of the casual room, think he called it the lanai, and closed my eyes. I woke up enough later to note the aroma of charcoal in a hot blaze, but there were no drippin’ smells accompanyin’ it yet, so I closed my eyes again.

Next time I roused, there were good smells, finally. But what woke me was the old guy ploppin’ down next to me on the couch. Through the glass sliders I could see Nuel stood with Jam out by a barbecue the size of a human car. Guess Asog does like to grill.

“Saw yar look,” he said.

My look? What kind of look do I make when I sleep?

“Most are more subtle,” he continued. “But Nuel told me ya’re on the spectrum.”

I waited.

Everyone talks too much. Don’t know why how my brain works is important to anyone, or to the current situation, whatever situation he referred to.

“Don’t expect ya’re the kind not to find out one way or the other, what ya’re curious about.”

That was an odd statement, but waited some more. I was more interested in the aroma comin’ from the patio. Considered tellin’ him that. Would it be rude? Maybe not if I didn’t point at him at the same time. Since pointin’ I’ve been told is rude.

“She’s never made it a practice to explain it to anyone. Most ignored—ya know.”

It? Now he was startin’ to sound more interestin’.

“Someone breakin’ the ceilin’ fallin’ in love with a troll, maybe be able to understand more than the average.”

I felt my jaw drop. Well, of course Nuel would blab about my so-called scandal. Not like hens have any kind of boundary when it comes to their cacklin’. I closed my mouth and waited. Should I tell him if she held whatever situation he was talkin’ about as kinda private, it was none of my business? Somehow some words snuck out anyway.

“Ya’re way too old to be Nuel’s papa. And she’s got none of yar features. But her family condition is none of my business.” Wow. I actually said that.

He smiled. “But now yar curiosity has doubled, hasn’t it?” Asog asked.

Well. I’d hate to lie about that. I save my lies to get out of trouble, more or less. Or to double up on insults. Yeah, more the latter. I waited for the question—why was I speakin’ Trollish?

~

Nuel

~

I flashed the light into the lanai to see where Papa had gotten off to, saw him sittin’ by Kriz, and my lungs and heart froze in my chest. Oh jeez. A conversation between those two couldn’t be good. I demanded that Jam take the clappers and sprinted toward them, took no more than five steps before wackin’ my shoulder good in the side of the slider in the dark.

If I hadn’t been blinded by the dark the pain would’ve done it. I went to my knees hearin’ someone groanin’ like they were dyin’. Could that be me? It didn’t sound like me. Too far away. But who else could it be?

“Sweetie. Sweetie,” Papa was repeatin’ from above me. “What’d ya do, Sweetie?” His warm hands softly clasped my arms. His dreads dangled across my back.

I was still groanin’ too much to speak.

The idjit said, “Ran into the door. That must’ve hurt.”

Jam must have been behind me. He asked if he could help me. When I caught my breath, I told ’em all to shut up. Ouch. The pain was not goin’ away. Papa pulled up at my arms, encouragin’ me to stand and I shook my head hard. Which generated a lot of hurt too. He probably couldn’t see me shake my head in the dark, but probably felt it.

Kriz suggested Jam watch the grill. Ever the practical ogre. No confusin’ his priorities.

Tears flowed down my cheeks. Hittin’ the door may have hurt more than gettin’ shot in the first place. A slow bomb, versus an icepick jab. And twice as embarrassin’, bein’ self-inflicted. Don’t sob. Don’t sob. That’ll really hurt—my ego.

I finally worked to stand but Pa’s help hurt more than helped. I gritched a stop-it at him, and he stepped back. Standin’ full up hurt only marginally more than slumpin’ forward. The blood poured hard into my head. As I got my arm relaxed in my sling, the pain dropped a couple agony-points, but the tears still washed down my face.

My makeup was gonna be a mess.

I sensed that Kriz must have joined Jam at the grill, since I didn’t get any ridicule vibrations from close by.

“Ya assumed I was tellin’ him yar story,” Papa whispered.

I managed a nod. Which he probably couldn’t make out.

“Better it comes out now,” he said. “He’d more likely put it out there before ya got to—”

“Ike wouldn’t care one way or the other. And I don’t care if Kriz cares or doesn’t care. He’s an idjit.”

Papa sighed. “Ya talk more about Kriz than ya ever talk about Ike.”

No stinkin’ way. Could that be true?

“I think ya care more about what Kriz thinks than ya want to confess.”

I groaned. Not from the pain. I hate when Papa makes statements that counter my inner reality. Never known him to be wrong.