In An Instant, Chapter 7

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Chapter 7. The Unanswered Question

By three o’clock on Saturday, it was clear to Dean that Beth was not going to call.

What had he been thinking, anyway? A first date with a kid along? Was he really that desperate?

Distraction. That was all this was supposed to be. A quick and easy fling, to get Jen out of his head.

But why hadn’t she replied to him? Did he say something stupid on a text that pissed her off?

He scrolled their exchanges for the last two days, then growled with disgust and got in the car to head over to work.

As he walked into the garage, his employee glanced up from beneath a red sedan on the hoist and shook his head. “Shoulda known you couldn’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Take a day off.”

“Shut up.” Dean turned his back and ducked under the car. “Toss me the wrench, will ya?”

He didn’t leave work until eight o’clock. He drove by the truck stop, but Beth’s car wasn’t there, nor were the lights on in the house by the church. Back at home, he showered and settled in for a good, self-indulgent sulk.

But as he emerged into the living room, his mother looked up from the TV and said, “Jen called.”

Waves of hot and cold doused him one after the other. “What?”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, young man!” She picked up his phone and waved it. “It’s bad enough you hang around with that spoiled little brat. You don’t need to cop an attitude about it.”

“Sorry,” he said automatically. Why had she answered his phone? “Are you sure it was Jen?”

“What other spoiled little rich girl would it be?”

Dean had never understood his mother’s antipathy toward Jen, but she’d always been polite about it, until now. One more reminder that nothing would ever be the same.

He took the phone from her. It had to have been Beth, right? Except in twenty-five years, Mom had never mistaken one of his friends’ names. But all bets were off these days. Holding his breath, he checked his missed calls.

Beth.

He had to brace himself on the counter for a minute, waiting for his equilibrium to come back. He didn’t know whether he was relieved that Beth had called at last or disappointed she wasn’t Jen.

Idiot. As if Jen was gonna call him. Shaking his head, he dialed.

Beth answered instantly. “Hello?”

“Hi, Beth.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said in a rush. “I had my phone turned off all day. I was in Cedar Falls for rehearsals, and Prescott wanted to eat before we came back.”

“Prescott? The choir guy?” He hated the edge in his voice, but he couldn’t catch the words before they came out. “What rehearsal?”

“Stuff at the university.” A defensive tone. “Prescott had a church meeting with some other choir directors. We carpooled, that’s all.”

Dean took his phone away from his ear and beat the case on his forehead three times. He was screwing this up top to bottom. Why did he care so much?

Because Beth was refreshing and authentic and adorable, that’s why. Even her awkwardness brought him joy.

He took a deep breath and put the phone back to his ear. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought.”

“I’m really disappointed about the orchard,” she said. “It sounded like a lot of fun. I haven’t been there in years—not since I was a kid. Are they open on Sundays? We could we do it next weekend. Oh, no, wait, I can’t do next weekend.”

His stomach soared and plunged from one sentence to the next. “Why not?”

“We’re going to Chicago. The choir, I mean. We’re singing at Prescott’s parents’ church. And Prescott got these tickets to…” She stopped suddenly.

“To what?”

“Well, it was a donation to the symphony, I think, I mean, the Chicago Symphony, you know how they do those fund drives?” she said, all in a rush. “It’s a chamber concert at an art gallery. He asked me months ago if I wanted to go. Maybe, um…maybe we could do the orchard in two weeks? Do you think it’ll be too late in the season?”

“I dunno,” he said dully as his stomach settled somewhere in the basement. “I could call and find out, I guess.”

“I really would like to go,” she said. “I think Toby would love it.” She hesitated. “And so would I.”

A cool breeze of hope swirled through his gloom. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll check. I mean, I imagine they’ll still be open. I hope the weather holds, though.”

“Me, too.”

There was a brief silence on the line. He pictured her again, breathless with his kiss, the smile on her lips magnified in those big gray eyes. He cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You will? Oh, at church. Okay. See you then.”

“Night.”

He hung up the phone feeling more cheerful, and unexpectedly ravenous. When had he eaten last? He opened the pantry door and found himself face to face with a gallon jug of milk. What the—? He unscrewed the cap and winced at the putrid blast. Suddenly, it all seemed pretty damn unimportant—Jen, Beth, Ponytail Guy, the whole works. He dumped the gloppy, aromatic mess down the sink and went out to the living room. He sat down beside his mother and laid a hand on hers. She turned to him with an innocent grin. “Hi, honey. Are the kids asleep?”

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat and patted her hand. “Yeah, Mom,” he said. “Yeah.”

***

By the time church was over the next morning, Dean was so mixed up in the head, he didn’t know what to think about anything. There was a moment, midway through the service, when Prescott leaned down to whisper in Beth’s ear. She had smiled and—he was sure of it—blushed.

Afterward, he tried to talk to her, but she was wrapped up in an argument with Ponytail Guy about harmonies and chords and jazz versus traditional counterpoint. He could see she wanted to talk to him, but the way she lit up talking modes and sevenths and all manner of indecipherable lingo made him feel just how out of his league she was. And when she finally managed to disentangle herself from the choir guy, her dad was there suggesting they go out for i-c-e-c-r-e-a-m and a trip to the park after Toby’s nap. Dean hoped she might invite him, but maybe the thoughtful way her dad regarded him scared her off.

All in all, not the reassurance he’d been hoping for.

Arriving home to hear his mother in the kitchen, shrieking, banished all other angst. He rushed into the kitchen in time to see her throw a skillet across the room. It hit the back wall, leaving a dent in the wallpaper. “Mom!” he shouted. “What’s the matter?”

“Where’s the goddamn iron skillet?” she roared. “All I can find is this nonstick piece of shit!”

Dean’s jaw dropped. In all his life he’d never heard a single expletive out of his mother’s mouth, not to mention two in the same breath. “In the oven,” he said. “Remember, Mom? You keep it in the oven.” He guided her to the stove and pulled open the oven door, then hesitated. “I can make breakfast if you’re hungry.”

Her nostrils flared; her chest heaved. “I am perfectly capable of making breakfast without no interference from you, Jasper. Now get out of here and change your clothes! We got work to do today.”

“All right, all right!” He retreated. In the hallway, he stopped in front of his father’s picture. “Now she thinks I’m you,” he said. “I know I promised, but Dad…”

Jasper Townsend gazed down on his son with distant, placid amusement. Dean sighed. His entire life, he’d never won an argument with his dad. Why should it be different just because Dad was dead?

After breakfast, his mother fell asleep in front of the TV. Dean went out onto the porch. It was warm for October, the sugar maples just beginning to turn. He leaned on the railing, resting his forehead on his fists as Dad’s voice replayed in his memory. Six decades of cigarette smoke had turned Dad’s lungs into a tar pit, one that was slowly choking him to death. “Don’t you leave her,” Dad had rasped. “You understand me, boy? Promise me you’ll take care of your mother. No matter what.”

Dean had done as his father asked. He’d shepherded Mom through the months after her husband’s death, when she was nonfunctional with grief. Through the heartbreak of watching her elder son’s life fall to pieces. Through the increasing pain of rheumatoid arthritis. And now, the long, slow downward spiral of a ravaged mind.

Seven years, he’d kept his promise. How much longer could he hang on?

His chest seized, his hands shaking, heart pounding. He had to burn off some steam before he imploded.

Dean slipped inside and put on his sneakers. Then he shoved the door out of the way and bounded down the stairs. He was running even before he reached the sidewalk.

He ran for ten minutes before his panic receded enough to let a thought to float up. The park. Beth was going to the park this afternoon.

He turned the corner and began to run with purpose. It was half a mile to the city park, where an asphalt trail wound around a small lake and crossed the creek to the high school sports complex. The track was deserted. Dean ran two laps before the iron grip on his chest began to ease. Two more and he was finally ready to cool down.

The placid groan of the year’s last bullfrogs washed over him as he crossed the bridge back to the park. The path passed near the playground, where a wrought iron archway proclaimed, “Welcome to Candyland.” He and Jayce had spent hours here when they were kids, playing king of the hill and teasing little girls on the candy-cane-striped slides and swings. The equipment was all different now—that plastic stuff with tornado slides and rotating tic tac toe boards. The only relic left from those days was a battered frame, which housed a single baby swing, occupied by a small child whose squeals of glee disrupted the still afternoon.

Beth caught sight of him and lit up. “Dean!” she said, waving. He detoured, and she stepped forward to meet him. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to see you,” he said, before he thought it through enough to come up with something less obvious.

But it seemed to be the right answer. She beamed, then bit her lips to try to hide it. All of which pushed his freak-out a little farther out of focus.

“Hello there, Dean,” said another voice.

He glanced to the side and saw Ron Rhinehardt emerging from the darkness of the shelter house. “Afternoon, sir.” He held out a hand, acutely conscious of his sweaty body. “How was the ice cream?”

Ron grinned. “A hit, of course. Say, I hear you brought pizza over the other day when Toby was sick.”

Dean stole a glance at Beth. “Yeah,” he said, but he didn’t know what else to say.

Beth glanced back and forth between them and intervened. “I didn’t know you were a runner.”

He shrugged. “I just started a few years ago.” Seven, to be exact. “It gets the bad energy out.”

Toby squealed, and Beth turned quickly. But her father made shooing motions. “I’ll get him.” He stationed himself behind the swing and began pushing.

Beth returned her attention to Dean. “So, do you race?”

“Meh. I’m not really fast enough.”

“Why, how fast do you run?”

“Well”—he gestured—“according to the Des Plaines police department, six miles an hour.”

She glanced where he was pointing and saw the white radar speed limit sign parked along the road, then burst out laughing. Ron Rhinehardt stopped pushing Toby to give Dean a penetrating stare that made him distinctly uneasy. What had he done?

Suddenly, Toby began thrashing so violently that his grandfather stopped the swing. Toby put his arms up, and with a groan, Ron Rhinehardt pulled him out. Toby ran straight for Dean and began jumping up and down. “Uh—uh—uh!”

“Whaddya want, kid?” Dean asked, crouching, and Toby reached for his ear.

Beth laughed again. “He wants you to do the magic trick.”

“Oh, man.” Dean patted his hips, but he had no pockets. “I can’t do that today, kiddo. But hey,” he added, thinking fast. “you wanna come down to the creek with me? If we’re real quiet, maybe we can spot a bullfrog. Whaddya think?”

“Yeah!”

Dean glanced up at Beth. “If that’s okay with you?” he asked belatedly.

“I’ll come along,” said Ron. “Beth was just telling me she wanted some peace and quiet. Right, Beth?”

“Uh…” She looked startled. “Sure.”

He gestured at the lake, which sparkled gray in the watery sunlight. “Well, here you go.”

Beth’s eyes darted from one man to the other. She had to be thinking the same thing Dean was—why did her father want to get him alone?—but clearly she was too chicken to challenge him on it. “Okay,” she said.

But Ron Rhinehardt showed no sign of broaching any topic that couldn’t have been discussed in front of Beth. As they puttered about the creek, he asked Dean about work, about Mom, but nothing uncomfortable. Not that there was much time to talk. Dean was too busy pointing out tree roots, floating leaves, minnows—all the interesting things a boy could find along a drainage ditch. Toby was particularly keen to get his hands on a slimy rock that jutted up in the middle of the stream.

“Here,” said Ron. “Let’s get those socks off so you can get out there properly.” He rolled up the preppy little corduroy pants and held his grandson’s hands for support, winking at Dean as Toby, giggling, stamped in the mud at the edge of the stream. “Our secret. Beth’ll be furious if she finds out we let him go in the water in this weather.”

Dean chuckled and stripped off his own socks and shoes, then rolled up his sweatpants. “Wow!” he said as he stepped into the water. “Jeez, this is cold!” Ron relinquished Toby to him. He felt like he was on trial. He kept a death grip on both chubby hands for the five steps it took to reach the rock, and didn’t let go till he was sure Toby was steady on his feet. “You like that rock?” he said.

“Wock!” Toby grinned and clapped his hands.

It happened so fast, Dean barely registered the panicked look before Toby wobbled and went down on his bottom in the water. “Toby!” shouted Dean. He snatched him up and headed for shore. “Are you okay? Are you okay?”

Toby was so stunned that he had to look back and forth between his grandfather and the man holding him twice before he made up his mind on that point. Then he started wailing. “Ma-ma! Ma-ma!”

Ron shook his head, smiling wryly as he reached out to take his grandson from Dean. “Oh, you’re all right,” he said, and then, to Dean, “He’s fine. Just relax. He panicked because you panicked.”

Beth came tearing down the hill so fast that she slipped on the thick carpet of oak leaves. Dean caught her, but the force of her momentum plowed him over in a tangle of arms and legs and hair in his mouth, gagging him. As he toppled backward he was acutely conscious of her body pressed up against his stomach. Then he landed in the creek with Beth on top of him.

There was a moment of silence. Then she gasped. “Augh!” Dean jerked violently as her fingers dug into his ribs, the most ticklish spot on his body. He curled up instinctively into fetal position, which threw him off balance and sent him back into the water face first. He came up, sputtering and shivering, to find Ron Rhinehardt laughing as he held out a hand to help Beth out of the creek. “Toby’s fine, honey. Relax. He just lost his balance, that’s all.”

She grabbed Toby from her father. “You let him go in the creek?” Her voice went up at least an octave, and she turned accusing eyes on Dean, who froze.

“I let him go in the creek,” said Ron. “Don’t you blame this on Dean.”

That wasn’t exactly true, but he wasn’t going to argue. Beth was white and shaking, but now that Toby had buried his face in her shoulder and stopped crying, she had begun to calm down. With a groan, Dean hauled himself upward. The cool air shrink wrapped his sweats against his skin. “Brrr,” he said, struggling for balance at the edge of the rocky stream. He glanced up to find Beth’s hand outstretched.

“Sorry,” she said. She braced her feet as she hauled him out of the stream. “I overreacted. Are you okay?”

“Well,” he said, “that’s one way to cool down.”

Ron Rhinehardt snorted. Beth’s eyes widened, and then she, too, began to laugh.

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In an Instant, Copyright 2026 Kathleen M. Basi. No part of this may be reprinted without written permission. Sharing this post, however? That, the author wholeheartedly approves of.

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