Free All the Winters After by Seré Prince Halverson Page B

poetic psychobabble. But, hell, maybe there was something to it.
    He pulled up to a drive-through, an orange-and-blue coffee truck called the Caboose Cuppabrews. The brittle air blasted through his open window while a dark-haired boy of about eleven took his order.
    â€œAren’t you a little young to be a coffee barista?”
    The boy shrugged. “A bar what?”
    A woman laughed from somewhere behind the boy. “We start them working young here, sir. He’s my son, so we skirt around those pesky labor laws.”
    â€œMarion?”
    â€œYes?” She bent down, and he took in her face. She had the same dark eyes and high cheekbones and still wore her hair parted in the middle and straight. She had hardly changed. “Kache? No way!” She leaned out farther, spilling the coffee on her wrist. “Ouch! Shit. Sorry. Wait, don’t move.” And she disappeared back through the window, leaving the boy to sponge up the coffee, shaking his head with a small, somewhat parental smile.
    Marion had pulled on a parka, sprinted out from the backside of the truck, reached in through the window, and wrapped her arms around Kache’s neck before he could open his door. “I thought they were holding you hostage until we agreed to say Texas was the bigger state after all. Lettie didn’t take another turn?”
    He teeter-tottered his hand. “My aunt thinks she’s at death’s door. Gram’s confused, but for someone who’s ninety-eight years old…”
    â€œYou’ll have to say hi to my grandpa. Remember Leroy? He’s happy as long as they let him fish the hallways. My ex says Leroy’s got the best fishing spot on the peninsula, right there in his head. Lettie’s been so sharp until recently. How long are you here?”
    He shrugged. “Not sure.”
    â€œYou got someone special?” She smiled that old Marion smile.
    â€œNot as of two days ago. You?”
    Now she teeter-tottered her hand. “Still singing?”
    He shook his head. “You?”
    â€œOf course. Playing?”
    He shook his head again.
    â€œYou’re shittin’ me. You need to come down to the Spit Tune. We still play a few nights a week. Mike, Chris, Dan—all of us. Bring your guitar and that voice of yours. Rex will do cartwheels down the bar when he sees you.” She turned toward her son. “Ian, this is Kache. He’s a helluva guitar player, and he’s got a voice some hotshot reporter called ‘both wound and wonder.’”
    Kache laughed. “Is there such a thing as a hotshot reporter in Alaska?”
    Several cars had pulled up behind him. “Ha-ha. Gotta get back to work, but do not leave town without us catching up. I’m here every morning except Christmas, New Year’s, and Easter. Seriously. No excuses, okay?”
    He smiled. “Scout’s honor.”
    â€œYou dropped out of the Scouts!” she shouted as he pulled away.
    Wow. Marion had a kid. Marion was still singing. The band was still together.
    His old house, a museum of his eighteen-year-old life. And his old girlfriend, still playing with their band. He might as well make this trip back in time complete. He turned toward the spit and headed out to see Rex. Since Kache had arrived, he’d already done more socializing than he had in years. Janie would be shocked.
    â€¢ • •
    Only two days before, he’d lain wedged in the permanent indent he’d caused in his and Janie’s sofa, the TV cradling him in its familiar steel-colored light. On his chest, the cat Charlotte had purred and slept. He’d turned down the volume for the commercial, the warm Austin air carrying aching guitar riffs in D minor along with aromas of barbecue from the restaurant across the street. Another do-it-yourself show was about to start. He should get up— Arise! Go forth! —and turn off the TV, but he didn’t. He let Charlotte sleep.
    Each