When Lyric Met Limerick (A Novelette), Page 2

  He snorted, folded his arms tight. Of all the misfortunes, he had to get thrown in jail during a three-day weekend. Tuesday the court reopened. Two more days.

  To pass the time, he twiddled his thumbs and listened to his cellmates grouse. A young man with cornrows looked to be the friendliest of the bunch. “What you in for?” he asked Howard, all smiles.

  “Stole a Jimi Hendrix shirt. You?”

  “Crack. Armed robbery,” he boasted as if he’d won Student of the Year.

  The kid seemed too nice to be guilty of such antics. In comparison, Howard felt like a choirboy.

  The other two cellmates appeared worn and beaten, oozing foul attitudes from every pore. He cringed at their shouted curses. Probably career criminals. He sure didn’t wanna end up like them.

  Two drunks arrived on Sunday evening. They smelled like a distillery. Now he fought nausea, as well as cold, all night.

  They were released the next morning. If wishes were superpowers, Howard would be a body snatcher and walk out of this cell a free man.

  At his arraignment Tuesday morning, he listened in numb shock to the charges against him. One count of petty larceny. One count of resisting arrest. He stifled a curse. What the—He hadn’t resisted arrest.

  He pleaded not guilty and requested an attorney.

  Due to his previous record of juvenile larceny, the judge set bail at five grand. But Howard didn’t have the 10 percent required to make bail. Two sheriffs’ deputies escorted him back to his cell.

  He called his mother, who answered on the fourth ring. When he explained his predicament, she gasped out an oath.

  “Howie. What on earth did you do to land yourself in jail?”

  “All I did was take this measly little twenty-dollar tee-shirt, Mom. It’s not like I killed someone.”

  He tuned out her lecture. Was it sunny outside this institutional eyesore? It better be pouring rain, so the folks walking free got to experience a little gloom themselves.

  “Don’t tell my boss.” His throat tightened. “Nils told him I was in a car accident, and I’ll be in the hospital for a few days.”

  “Do you know how soon you’re getting out? Do you need bail money?”

  “I don’t know nothin’. I haven’t even gotten to see a lawyer yet. Had my arraignment this morning. Bail is five grand.”

  Her intake of breath rattled the line. “Let me make some phone calls.” She exhaled. “Glen might have some ideas.”

  “Can you get me out of here today?”

  “It won’t be today.” She tsked. “I can’t do anything until I talk to Glen. He’ll be home late tonight.”

  Howard cursed. “If you hadn’t taken off for the weekend, you could’ve helped me out today.”

  “If you want my help, Howie, you’re going to have to show some respect. Call me tomorrow.” With that, his mother said goodbye and hung up.

  He dropped the phone, scowled at the deputy. “I want a lawyer, man.”

  The man might have been a robot for all the compassion he showed. “We’re short on public defenders right now. This is a peak vacation season. Memorial Day weekend, you know. You’ll get your turn.”

  One more day in this hellhole. Howard stomped back to the cell, kicked the metal slab, and winced over the pain shooting through his big toe. When he lay down again, his back protested. He shifted and twisted his body in multiple ways, but the aches and pains kept their grip.

  Nobody told him jail was so boring. He missed his guitar. And his comfortable bed.

  He clasped his hands behind his head and squeezed his eyes shut. No time like the present to compose some new song lyrics. But he needed inspiration. He needed fodder.

  Stuck in jail, need some bail—Lame.

  Bring me some booze for my jailhouse blues—Naw.

  Got prisoner boredom, gonna shoot me a warden—Now that would get him twenty-years-to-life in the slammer.

  “Jailhouse Rock”—Elvis had the right idea. Put a positive spin on it.

  Howard started to hum. The cellmates quieted as he hummed louder then broke into song.

  He sprang to his feet, forgetting his aches, regretting it the next instant. Despite his sore back, he posed like Elvis, air guitar in hand. Chin thrust forward, lip curl intact, he sang his heart out. Judging by the sudden appearance of an audience, his performance traveled to the cell across the way.

  His cornrowed cellmate clapped and gyrated. The other two men smirked, but both pairs of feet went a tapping. The applause and whistles when he finished let him pretend he’d just performed for a Kingdome full of rabid fans.

  ***

  Dreary day after dreary day threatened to stretch ahead like an endless tunnel. Howard began to fear the boredom would drive him insane.

  Someone yelled from the other side of the cellblock. “Sing for us, Elvis.”

  Their catcalls pummeled him. But he didn’t feel like entertaining. He felt like kicking and yelling as he lay on his slab and contemplated this hellhole.

  Singin’ the hellhole blues—drowning my soul in booze—

  He hummed a random melody in a minor key and opened his mouth, making sure everybody heard. “I’m singin’ the hellhole blues—drownin’ my soul in booze!”

  The cellblock quieted. Howard eased his aching body off the slab. “C’mon, everybody. Sing it!” He strummed his air guitar, putting his whole body into it. “Drownin’ my soul in booze—”

  “Ya ain’t gonna find no booze here,” called a voice from the adjacent cell.

  Howard tried again. “I’m singin’ the hellhole blues! Wish I could drown in booze!”

  Soon a chorus of voices chanted along. Clap. Clap. The cellblock rocked.

  “You a rock star or somethin’?” The mean-looking cellmate’s mouth twisted.

  “I wish.” Howard shouted over the chants. “I’m in a band. Hoping to get a record deal.”

  The man harrumphed.

  “Hey, Elvis.” Another request launched from across the way. “Do ‘Hound Dog’.”

  “Hound Dog! Hound Dog!” the chant rocked through the cellblock.

  He caved in and entertained them until lunchtime.

  ***

  “Mom? Did you and Glen come up with my bail?”

  “He’ll have it by Friday.”

  “Friday?” he shouted. “That’s two days away. How come you have to wait so long?”

  “Don’t yell at me.”

  “Sorry.” He softened his voice. “But I don’t see why I have to wait two more days.”

  “Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”

  He bit back a retort.

  “We’re not rich folks. Glen can’t just go to the bank and pull out money he doesn’t have. And our credit line is maxed out.”

  “I get it.” He gave an exasperated grunt and dropped the receiver into its cradle. He shook his head at the deputy. “Parents.”

  “Kids.” The guy didn’t bat an eye.

  Howard made sure the man heard his angry stomps.

  If something went wrong and he wasn’t out of here by Friday, he wouldn’t be seeing Luna Rickles again.

  If not for Luna Rickles, he would’ve gotten out of that marketplace long before closing time. If not for Luna, he wouldn’t be here.

  Still, he had to see her again. He visualized her glossy hair, her iridescent eyes. Those red lips he’d like to kiss.

  How had she managed to capture his essence in her five-line rhyme, anyway? Somehow, she’d known he considered life without music not worth living.

  He sighed and lay on the slab, then closed his eyes and let his mind wander to his childhood. To happier times.

  He wished he still believed in God. The God he’d learned about in Sunday school would get him out of here, without a doubt. He’d prayed a lot when he was a kid, while his grandma was still around to encourage it.

  “Howie, you don’t have to be afraid to tell God anything. He loves you like a daddy.” Howard’s daddy pulled a vanishing act when Howard wa
s four. He wasn’t sure he knew what daddy-love was all about. If God’s love was anything like daddy-love, he might as well be as bad as he could possibly be.

  His three subsequent stepdads couldn’t compare to the real thing. The first one had been decent to him, and Howard, being little, could pretend he was Daddy, the same way he could pretend Santa Claus was real. The second stepfather mostly ignored him, leaving him to raise himself through middle school and high school. If not for Grandma, he’d be a lot worse off today.

  He balled his fists. The God of his childhood stopped existing when Grandma died. But it wouldn’t hurt if he talked to some God he could pretend existed.

  The dinner tray came. He wolfed down a tasteless meal and tried to pray without the other guys detecting.

  “Hey, God. You there?” He tipped his face to the wall and kept his voice barely audible. With the other guys hollering so loud, no chance they’d overhear.

  “Get me out of here, God. I’ll do anything. If you get me out of here before this weekend, I’ll fly straight. I’ll clean up my act. I’ll never steal again.

  “And, God, I’ll do whatever you ask if you’ll let me be with Luna. I’ll be a missionary.” He flinched. “Well, maybe not a missionary. But I’ll never lie again. I promise.” He brought his hands together in a V. “Scout’s honor.” Would God count that, since he’d never been a scout?

  He opened his eyes and stared at the panel above. An odd sensation filled him—the feeling from Sunday school. An innocent trust that God would fix everything wrong in the world. In his world.

  Hope and skepticism warred in his heart the rest of the evening and well into the next day.

  “C’mon, God. Show me what you’re made of. Prove you’re a God of love, like Grandma said. Oh, and if you see her, tell her hi for me, will ya?”

  ***

  “Howard McCreary?”

  Howard bounded off his slab as the thickset deputy yelled his name Thursday morning. “Yeah?”

  The man unlocked the cell. “An attorney’s here to see you.”

  There was a God.

  He entered a square private room, where a kind-faced, middle-aged woman named Christine introduced herself. She played twenty questions and shoved forms in front of him to which he paid little attention. But he perked up when she said something about releasing him to her custody.

  “Awesome, man.”

  Christine met his eyes. “Most shoplifting is considered a misdemeanor. You’ve been here four days already. I doubt any judge will force you to serve more time.” She licked her finger and shuffled forms, pointing at one. “You had a shoplifting conviction five years ago, I see. Because of that, the judge may sentence you to community service as well as probation.”

  Howard exhaled, his tense muscles loosening. Community service would be paradise compared to jail.

  “Here’s your trial date.”

  Three weeks to wait.

  “I’ll request the judge dismiss all charges. If he doesn’t go for it, I think I can talk him into time served and probation.”

  Howard pumped her hand. “Thanks, man.”

  “Just don’t get yourself into any more trouble. Show up early at the courthouse. Eight o’clock sharp, okay? Dress nice.” She shook a finger at him. “You want to look respectable for the judge.”

  “Most definitely, ma’am.”

  “Now, let’s get your stuff and get you out of here. Do you have anybody to pick you up? Or will you be taking the bus?”

  “I’ll call my mom.”

  ***

  As he stepped into freedom, Howard relished the feel of his regular clothes.

  Yes, there was a God. Emerging into the soft morning air, he mouthed a thank you to the heavens.

  But now, the moment of reckoning had arrived. So far, God had kept His end. In return, Howard had promised God he’d straighten up and fly right.

  But how?

  Chapter Three

  A sky as blue as Luna’s eyes greeted him Saturday morning. Howard bounced out of bed at nine, grateful his boss had told him to take as much time off as he needed to recover from his accident. He’d planned his morning to the minute: He’d catch the ten-after-ten bus at the corner of Fremont, arrive at Seattle Center before noon, then hang out, and try to sneak in to the dance competition already underway.

  His mother and Glen waved goodbye as he raced out the front door and leaped, pain-free, down the steps into the fair morning. Not a hint of rain in sight. A light breeze jostled his freshly washed hair as he walked the two blocks to the bus stop.

  He shoved the last of his coins into the fare box, and then shrugged. Showing up late for paid events usually meant getting in free. He didn’t give Luna’s boyfriend any more thought than he did the stranger beside him.

  “Next stop, Seattle Center!” hollered the bus driver.

  The Space Needle loomed high above, as if it were beckoning to him. Jumping off the bus, he cased the layout of the place. Big concrete box, one main entrance. Easy to slip in unnoticed among the bodies flowing in and out of the convention center. He attached himself to a group of girls and slid inside.

  A stocky female attendant eyed them suspiciously. “Hand stamps?” Howard held his breath and half-hid his bare hand within the bevy of hands. The attendant glanced at them and nodded, gesturing them inside.

  He released the breath he’d been holding, then grabbed a program and looked for Luna’s name. The aged-ten-and-under competitors had already finished. He passed over the 11–15 group, the 16–19 category, and stopped at the 20–25 section. There she was. Luna Raquelle. He chuckled. So she used a stage name, too. And she’d be on stage for Round One in fifteen minutes.

  A few empty seats remained in the dim auditorium, so he strode casually to the back of the room, shifting from one foot to the other as he waited. The girl onstage twirled and contorted her body in ways he didn’t know could be done. When she crashed to the floor, the audience gasped. She burst into tears and fled the stage.

  He scanned the audience for Luna’s boyfriend among the anonymous faces—a face he’d recognize from the glimpse he’d caught on his way to jail. Big dude, eyes only for Luna.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice blared, “please welcome Luna Raquelle, twenty-one years old, from Seattle, Washington! Dancing to Michael Jackson’s ‘Thrrrriller’!”

  Applause roared through the room.

  At first, he saw only her luminescent yellow ponytail bouncing to the pulsating beat. Then the rest of her came into focus, and he sat, mesmerized, as she flowed across the stage in an all-black getup. She darted, then twirled, and darted again, all in precise, exact fashion, like a show he’d seen on the education channel. Foxes running and playing.

  So he’d be a foxhound.

  After she bowed and pranced offstage, he peered at the program. The top six finishers in each age group advanced to Round Two tomorrow, their names revealed at the end of the day. He’d have to wait through countless dancers before announcement time. While he waited, he entertained himself with memories of Luna Raquelle leaping and spinning like a dancing queen. Truly a thriller.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer’s voice blared, and Howard jerked to attention. “Here are the top six finishers in each category. Please join me in congratulating the following young ladies, who will continue on in the competition.” The applause thundered so loudly after each name, Howard sprang to his feet, afraid he wouldn’t hear.

  Five minutes later the announcer shouted the name he’d been hoping for. Although his stomach rumbled, he barely noticed. Making his way toward the outer hallways, he spied an exit door, which might lead backstage, and flung it open. As he meandered through a maze of hallways, crowded with contestants, he peeked in rooms and down long adjoining halls, finally jerking to a stop. There she was, not twenty feet away, slinky in red and black, hair loose and glowing as though lit from within. She didn’t see him. She was too busy enjoying kisses from the dude he’d seen her wit
h.

  Howard backed against the wall and waited. He looked at his watch, waited some more. At least five minutes elapsed before the couple pulled apart.

  Soon they started walking in his direction, gazing at each other. Howard turned sideways against the wall, his back to them, pretending to thumb through his wallet.

  He snapped his head up then followed with studied nonchalance, keeping the couple in sight. They strode, arms around each other, toward an outside exit. A swarm of bodies came out of nowhere, voices echoing, filling the hallway between him and his prey.

  But this must have been his lucky day, because, after a quick kiss and embrace, the guy left through an exit door, and Luna retraced her steps. She still hadn’t seen him. He froze, waiting.

  “Hey,” he hissed when she stood two feet in front of him.

  She jumped like a startled fox. Then recognition narrowed her eyes. “Oh wow, I can’t believe you’re here.” Her tone suggested it wasn’t a pleasant surprise. “What do you want?”

  He wanted to soak in her magic. He wanted to serenade her with Lionel Richie songs. He wanted to—but no, he couldn’t tell her so. “I came to watch the dancing. I think I’m lost, though. I’m trying to find a bathroom. Do you know where it is?”

  A flash of relief loosened her face, and she pointed. “I think there’s a men’s room down that way.”

  “Thanks.” He held her gaze. “But I also wanted to ask if you wouldn’t mind hanging out with me for one day.” He held up an index finger. “One day. That’s all I ask.”

  She stood, hands on hips, head atilt. “I have a boyfriend.”

  “You can leave him at home.”

  A chunky dancer bumped him so hard he would’ve landed on Dancing Queen—if not for his split-second reflexes. He thrust out a protective arm and dug in his heels.

  A faint smile curved the corners of her mouth. “Why would I hang out with you when I already have Brian?”

  “Because.” His tone held firm. “You should consider it so someday you can tell your children and grandchildren you once hung out with the famous Declan Decker. And it would be true.”

  Her mouth twitched. “You’re not famous, and your name isn’t Declan Decker.”

  “What makes you think it isn’t my name?”

  “You thought you could fool me, didn’t you?”