Rod Read online

  ROD

  By Nella Tyler

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Nella Tyler

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  Chapter One

  Trish Fitzgerald

  Dad rushes into our house, speeding past my mother. His standard blue jeans, white t-shirt, and graying hair are a blur. Dinner’s aroma permeates the house as my mother tries to ascertain what crisis he currently faces. He slams doors behind himself, but she barges in. Not being one to be left out of the loop, she confronts him.

  Sasha and I sit at the dinner table awaiting dad’s presence at the head of the table. Out of respect, my mother always says that dad gets to eat first.

  “He provides for all of us,” she rants before his grand entrance.

  “But it’s going to get cold,” I protest.

  Sasha sits there in silence trying to gauge my mother’s response. Mom’s face says she has no time for any of this. She looks deep in thought, but breaks that image by saying, “Whenever you start paying the bills, then you can eat whenever you’d like.”

  I shrug.

  “Until then, you have to wait.”

  Commotion between our parents breaks the silence and Sasha trembles at the sound of dad yelling uncontrollably. At twelve-years-old, Sasha is sweet and innocent and has no idea what’s going on. Sometimes, I feel it’s foreign to me that they argue so much, but I play it down for her sake.

  “Are mom and dad fighting?” she questions me. I have just about as much information as she does.

  “I have no idea, maybe something happened at dad’s work.”

  I put my finger over my mouth, say “Shhh,” and sneak over to dad’s office door. I affix my ear to the door so that I can make out their words.

  Listening in, I hear dad yelling about the club. Something is wrong. He’s pissed.

  My mother tells him from behind the door, “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

  He yells, not at her, but it’s still a mind numbing howl just the same.

  “Max Vella fucked up the books. Fuck,” he explains.

  “Honey, I’m sorry.”

  I picture her rubbing his shoulders as if the gesture will cure his financial woes.

  “One more fucking time and I swear that fucker is out.”

  “Kick his ass,” my mother eggs him on. “Sometimes it’s the only way guys like that learn.”

  “We shouldn’t be talking about this,” he says quietly. Their voices get lower and I gather that whatever she’s doing to calm him is probably working.

  It’s a warm Sunday evening and almost time for me to run Sasha to her mother’s place for the week.

  I creep back to the table quietly and sit down. Sasha stares me down with her big green eyes and bouncy blonde curls.

  “What?” I ask her.

  “Was dad yelling at mom?”

  “No, he’s just upset about something that happened at work,” I try to convince her.

  “Oh.”

  They come out of dad’s office and we give them the look of innocence. He sits down at the head of the table and looks to our mother as she doles out the food. Our house comes across as the perfect 1950s household to people on the outside looking in.

  Mom dips out dad’s food and sets the rest of the containers in the center of the table. I eyeball the dark golden pork chops, the buttery goodness of the mashed potatoes, and the green beans like I haven’t eaten in a week.

  Diving in to the food before us, dad looks up at me.

  “Are we still good for you to run your sister to Missy’s?”

  “Yup.”

  The table sits in silence while the good disappears. Mom cringes at dad for his use of “Missy” instead of calling his ex-girlfriend “Melissa.” Still, he makes no apologies.

  We consume our dinner quickly and mom takes it as a sign that it tastes great. I wait as dad prepares Sasha for the week ahead.

  “I’ll see you next weekend, buttercup,” he tells her.

  I want to gag.

  “

  “How about next Saturday I take you shopping for shoes or whatever it is you kids are into these days?”

  Her face lights up.

  “It sounds great, daddy.”

  Mom joins me in my feelings of disgust. Dad is playing the role of the loving, well-meaning father and I won’t stand in his way.

  “Alright, buttercup, give your old man a hug,” he tells her. She runs to his arms and they squeeze each other tight. My mother gives a roll of her eyes as if to say, ‘Let’s get this over with already.’

  I gear up to leave, but dad stops me. He paws me a bill, of which on later inspection proves to be a twenty.

  “For gas,” he mutters. Hinton Heights isn’t that far of a trek on the bike, but I won’t tell him otherwise. I shove the folded up bill and stuff it in my pocket and get my helmet from the garage.

  Part of me wants to rip my dad a new ass for never taking me shopping, but I stop myself. I can’t ruin the moment for Sasha, it’s not her fault she’s his favorite.

  Sasha grabs her backpack followed by her favorite yellow purse. She stuffs the purse inside of the backpack and throws it over her shoulder. She looks like she’s ready to take off for school.

  Together, we walk out to my pink Harley in the garage, between mom and dad’s motorcycles. Hanging on the wall on a nail is Sasha’s black helmet. She puts it on and I do the same. I hop on first, steady the bike and help her up. I rev up the motor and we speed off to Hinton Heights where her mother lives. It’s just outside of the township, but mom forbids dad from going there. Instead, it is my weekly mission to avoid any arguments over the matter.

  Thirteen years following dad’s affair with Missy, and it’s still a sore spot for mom.

  The wind is a bit cooler tonight as I ride us down our street and up an old gravel road. It’s a shortcut that I frequently take to get there faster. I would feel a draft, but Sasha huddles up to my back.

  When on the road, I become hyper aware of my surroundings. The fields we pass smell vibrant and when we hit the black asphalt, I know it’s smooth sailing from there. We ride together for twenty minutes before hitting Hinton Heights. A few streets down and a left at the next block is Paragon Street, where Melissa lives. The Harley’s roar signals our presence ahead of time.

  The street lights come on as I park my bike on the curb. Melissa emerges from the house wearing these funky looking mom jeans and a royal purple sweater.

  It’s a quaint little place, painted a faded blue color with black shutters and a white fence out front. It’s not exactly the American dream, but it apparently suits their purpose.

  “See you later, kid,” I tell Sasha as she walks onto the front porch.

  “Bye, Trish; see you Friday!”

  Sasha waves and her hair appears paler in the light radiating from the porch’s ceiling.

  Her mother bends down a bit to hug Sasha and for the moment, I wonder what kind of life they share in that tiny house. They live at a distance from the club and I guess that’s on purpose.

  Sasha still wonders what dad does for a living, just about as much as I wonder what goes on in that little house in the middle of suburbia.

  “See you Friday!” Sasha yells in my direction.

  “Friday,” I punctuate with a wave back. Her mother is welcoming and seems to be friendly, but mom says that I should stay away from her.

  Melissa waves at me with a smile as she yells a prompt “Thank
you!”

  Her voice has a southern twang to it and she’s not at all this skanky vixen that mom says she is. She looks every bit the part of a second grade teacher.

  I hop back on my bike and get it going. With a leg off of the pavement, I’m back on the road and moving away from suburban life and to what I like to call civilization. The paved roads of the city don’t quite compare to the dusty, dirty back roads where I live with my parents. The wind on my skin feels electrifying and I can’t imagine doing anything else.

  “Thank you for visiting Hinton Heights,” the sign reads as I ride past. I slow down for a moment to take in the next sign. It’s creaking in the wind and looks like it was made from a shoddy piece of wood and hand wood-burned by a toddler.

  Holding up my bike with one leg cocked on the packed dirt of the ground, I speed past the Hinton Township sign. It reads: “Hinton – Population: 14,983.” The sign is dusty, old, and rusting.

  I weave and the wind trails up my back, causing a brief shiver to engulf me. I dodge a pothole on Fletcher Street and ride to the highway where I can keep my head on a swivel and zip my way home in a flash.

  I head to the club, this time with a purpose: I will convince my dear father, the great Ronan Fitzgerald, to let me in to the Green Dragons. I remember the first time I asked to be allowed membership and it has been one argument after the other since.

  I ride the old brick road to Farmer Road and hang a slight left. I pull up to the Dragon’s Lair, still fretting internally about whether or not my dad will see reason. The Lair is a giant brick establishment, but it isn’t welcoming to outsiders.

  I desperately hope for the best as I ride up to the parking area. Most of the members of the club have known me since I was knee-high to a grasshopper and would sponsor my inclusion.

  I calm the restlessness in my stomach. I hope my dad can overcome his inability to see reason and allow me in.

  A previous conversation of ours regarding my acceptance into the Green Dragons had become volatile quickly. He would likely erupt again into fits of anger and quite possibly throw things, but I still try.

  I park my pink Harley Davidson motorcycle outside of the club next to my father’s pride and joy: his black and white vintage 1968 Harley Davidson FLH. He calls her “Baby.” She’s a beautiful piece of machinery that sometimes I think dad treats better than he does me. Not Sasha, though, she’s his little pride and joy. I pass Baby by and prepare myself for another rejection.

  I glance upward at the sign hanging down from the building’s entrance. It’s an intricate design of a wood-burned dragon hanging from black wrought-iron hooks. The sign reads: “The Lair” and it gives off a confusing vibe to outsiders.

  Nearby is our family’s store, Fitzgerald Market. It’s a more rundown looking building that my mother manages on a daily basis. Club members get a discount for getting their goods there, but I gather that they do it moreover because it’s closer than the grocery store.

  The club is nondescript for the most part, and could be mistaken for someone’s house. Swinging the club’s door open, I stand there taking inventory of the club. It’s dark at six o’clock in the evening and I realize that my father isn’t holding a meeting today – or is he? Dad’s been busy doing everything in his power to keep me out of the loop with regard to the Dragons.

  I walk inside and flick the lights on one by one. The vintage wooden bar shines in the light and the place instantly feels like home. At the age of 21-years-old, I tended bar here, but at the first sign of trouble, dad let me go. He always says that he can’t risk my safety, but I know I can take care of myself, despite what he says.

  The place reeks of cigarettes, booze, and a mixture of perfume and various colognes. In its previous splendor, I assure myself that the place was probably a fine restaurant and bar, but now the windows are covered by dirty white shades and the establishment is exclusive to club members.

  Dad’s office light shines brightly through his door; he’s here. It’s just us. Maybe this time I can convince him that I have something to offer the club. Hopefully he won’t just dismiss me as he’s done in the past.

  Clutching my cell phone, I begin calling my mother to ask if there is a meeting tonight. Before I can tap the last number, the roar of another bike emanates from the parking lot. Yes. There is a meeting tonight. I shove my phone back in my pocket.

  I scramble to get beer glasses, refill the ice basins and stock the napkins for the night’s gathering. I take a white cloth rag, sop up some soapy water, and run it up and down the square bar’s surface.

  I hope that my father is in a good mood because he likens the cleanliness of the bar to Godliness. He also likes a certain order about things. He usually allows me entrance into the back room with the “Private” sign because he and I share the same penchant for cleanliness.

  Before he gets down to matters of business, he always tells me to see my way out of the door. His office door is partially ajar, so I slide my hands in the crack and open it slowly so I don’t scare him.

  “This better be important,” he growls, before pausing. “Oh, it’s you. What is it this time?”

  “Dad, I’d really like to sit down and talk about becoming a member of the club. I’m old enough and I have a bike.”

  I look around the office and see that it’s littered with paperwork, files, and a half-eaten cheeseburger. Grandpa’s memorial flag adorns the wall along with a plaque, but I can’t read the inscription. Dad’s cheeks are already reddened as if he has been barking orders at people all day. I get nervous.

  He grumbles as if to say, ‘We have been down this road before.’

  My father has bags under his eyes and a line of his salt and pepper hair has been retreating from his head. His eyes are dark brown, beady and focused. Wearing blue faded jeans and a white t-shirt, my father doesn’t look like a force to be reckoned with, but it’s something that usually comes to his benefit. When he smiles, it’s completely genuine, but when he’s angry, people frequently clear a path. I consider clearing a path right out of the bar, but think better of it. I need to see this through.

  “Trish, now you know it takes more than wanting to become a full patch member and having a bike,” he rants as he punctuates his statement with a sigh. He clears his throat. I can tell it’s going to be another no.

  “I know that, daddy, but it’s time. I can do this,” I try epically to convince my father. He nods his head in disagreement.

  “What do you bring to this club?” He asks. I look around as if I’m lost in that question. Before I can summon an answer, he reminds me, “The Dragons need more than a beer bitch, Trish. Any one of the prospects can do that. What do you bring to the club?”

  His voice grows louder with his last question and I realize that I don’t really care for being put on the spot.

  “Loyalty,” I stutter, before continuing. “I can do whatever the club needs me to. I take Sasha back and forth to her mother’s place for you and I don’t say shit when you ask me to wash your bike.”

  “And for the time being, that’s nothing of real importance,” he tells me.

  Feeling crushed, I beg, “You can just let me in; it’s your club.”

  He obviously feels insulted at the suggestion.

  “Favoritism has no place in this club.”

  I feel a sense of defeat and he knows it. He groans as if he has reached an internal compromise. I fidget around in my seat, eager to hear his words. I fixate my eyes on him as he takes in a deep breath.

  “I’ll tell you what. Come back to me when you can think of something of importance that you can contribute to this club and I’ll seriously consider you as a prospect.”

  I light up immediately. “I can do the books, you know, the treasurer’s job.”

  He nods once again. “That job is already taken by Money Max, you know that.”

  “Shit, dad, I dunno,” I crumble. “Filing?” I propose after taking visual inventory of the mess that surrounds him.

  “Fi
ling? No. This is an organized mess, believe it or not,” he mutters. I think his mood is shifting in my favor, but his body language tells a different story.

  “I guess I don’t really know the answer to that question right now,” I say, feeling down and out.

  “Come back when you do,” he stands in all of his gruff glory and I take that as my cue to leave. “Shut my office door behind yourself.”

  I walk outside, pulling his office door shut. The back room has become alive with the chaos of new prospects and officers. I pass by the only woman officer, Jasmine Bridges, on my way into the room. I really need a drink.

  “I’m only here to make sure there’s enough beer,” I tell her, trying to disarm her. Her bright red lips outline a smile and she dismisses me as I clamor toward the drink area. I use drinks as an excuse to get close to the club without my father pitching a bitch fit.

  She stands there surveying the room with her long, black hair, pinup looks and million tattoos. Like a vixen straight out of a 1950’s magazine, the men eye her up and down. She’s quick to point out that, “Sucking up won’t help,” but they persevere.

  She turns to me and says, “Mingle for a few minutes; if your father comes in, I’ll keep him busy.”

  “He is not in a good mood,” I say. I don’t pause and instead opt to enjoy the freedom.

  I grab a cold beer from the bar and sit down on one of the red dilapidated stools.

  I overhear the sounds of some of the newer members trying to guess my identity.

  “Is that Trish, the big man’s daughter?” One asks.

  “Yeah, but don’t fuck with her or the big man will kill ya,” another replies.

  Another voice from behind me whispers, “I hear he lets her in to set up and then kicks her out.”

  I take a swig of my beer.

  A man sidles up to me on the open stool and says, “Hey.”

  His voice is different from the others who huddle up to talk shit. He doesn’t sound familiar at all.

  “Hey,” I say back without looking directly at him. He smells great. His scent is sort of a mix of musk, sandalwood and soap. I engross myself in the red label of my beer, trying to tune out my rejection.