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His shadow hadn’t said one word, but Connor had dug in and he’d done a fair bit of work for such a little guy.
“What do you want for lunch?” Maverick asked as he took Connor’s coat. The boy shrugged and glanced toward the kitchen. Maverick had a feeling he was going to do most of the talking, but he was okay with that.
“I guess we’ll have to see what you have in there, but first we need to wash up.” Maverick frowned. “Is there a washroom down here?”
Connor turned and took off down the hallway, pushing open a door near the back entrance. It was a small half bath with just enough room for a sink and toilet. Connor turned on the water, while Maverick squirted soap onto his palm before handing over the container to his companion.
He stood behind the boy, smiling down at the sweaty curls as Connor methodically washed every inch of his hands. Once he was done, he grabbed the faded blue hand towel and then handed it to Maverick.
“This what we call teamwork, bud,” Maverick said with chuckle.
The two of them headed back to the kitchen and in less than half an hour, they were sitting at the small table eating mac & cheese and hotdogs. Maverick grabbed a beer and poured Connor an apple juice.
He took a bite of his hotdog and held up his beer can, eyes on the boy to see what he’d do. Connor chewed his hotdog, eyes on the can and when he swallowed his food, he reached for his glass. At first he didn’t do anything but Maverick waited patiently for nearly thirty seconds, and when the little guy held up his glass, Maverick clinked his can against it.
“Cheers,” he said, eyes still on Connor. “Because we’re real men, now is when we take our celebratory drink.”
Again he waited for Connor and when the boy slowly brought his glass to his mouth, Maverick did the same. They each took a good pull from their respective beverages and when Maverick set down his can, he winked.
“We’ll have to do that again, don’t you think? Being real men and all.”
Connor dug into his bowl of mac & cheese with gusto and, damn, Maverick thought that he must be turning soft. Something about this little boy got to him. Even something as simple as watching him eat brought a lump to his throat.
“When I was a kid we’d go up to my aunt and uncles place on a lake. In the winter we’d spend hours outside playing hockey. And when we were done.” He pointed at their feast. “This right here? This is what our reward was. My aunt Eden still makes the best mac & cheese and dogs you’ll find anywhere. Hands down. But these are pretty good, don’t you think?”
A slight nod was his answer.
We’re moving in the right direction.
They cleaned up their dishes, Maverick washing and drying them quickly, while Connor put them away. The kid might not say much but he was helpful, Maverick would give him that.
A quick glance at the clock told him that he had a couple of hours to go before Charlie was due back.
“Connor, where’s the keyboard I sent over?”
That was all it took. The little guy’s face lit up like a light bulb and he dashed from the kitchen, Maverick on his heels, and headed for the front room. The furniture had been moved around to make room for the keys, and Connor climbed onto the bench, his face a mask of concentration as he immediately began to play the song that Maverick had taught him days earlier.
Connor was good. His memory was sharp and the dexterity in his fingers was something else for such a young child. But more than that, he had feel. Maverick heard it in the notes and saw it in the way he held his head—the way he moved to the piece.
“Connor, buddy, you’re a natural.”
Music was a living, breathing thing. It wove its way into the fabric of everyday life. It was in the hum of electricity and in the rolling tires of the big rigs on the highway. It was the summer breeze, the foamy waves off the ocean and in the cries of a newborn. Maverick felt sorry for those who couldn’t see it or feel it or open themselves up to it.
But this kid, well, he got it.
Maverick slid onto the bench beside Connor and began to play another simple piece. This one was full of minor chords and was a bit melancholy, but at the moment, it’s what Maverick felt.
Connor listened and slowly began to join in, adding bits and pieces here and there. But they were bits and pieces that fit. His ear was good and Maverick marveled at how well he’d adapted in such a short period of time.
The two of them traded off for what seemed like hours, but in truth, it wasn’t all that long. When Maverick finished in a dramatic flurry of classical notes, he grinned down at the kid, but his smile soon vanished.
Connor was looking up at him, his little hands frozen on the keys, his pale eyes shiny and bright. But the expression in them was haunted. It sent chills down Maverick’s spine.
“Hey, you all right, bud?”
For a few seconds there was silence, and then Connor spoke. His voice high and thin.
“My daddy died.”
