Page 39 of Lady Luck

I looked over at my dad and brother as they reached the first wooden plank of the dock and shared a determined look, silently forming a likely disastrous plan for getting the wheelchair from gravel to wood. I stepped toward them, ready to intervene, but I was too late.

“You’ve gotta want it!” Dad yelled, just as Liem tipped the wheelchair backwards and popped a wheelie, and then shoved the chair forward with all his might.

Which wasn’t much if we’re being honest.

I hurried forward to catch the armrests of the wheelchair and pulled Dad forward onto the safety of the boards.

“Yeah, boys! That’s how you earn your biscuits.”

Liem, a bit winded, took a moment to catch his breath. He huffed a small laugh at Dad’s comment, but he was studying the docks, where only a few boats were moored and which was, as of now, my new neighborhood.

“Free Willy Ban doesn’t extend to this side of the harbor, right?” he asked, not a sliver of embarrassment in his tone. He owned his dockside notoriety.

“No. But if you see Malachi or any of his crew…,” I said, referring to the worker who’d caught—and then banned—Liem from the docks.

“Clear out?”

“Clear out,” I confirmed.

Dad seemed to be ignoring our conversation as he took in the Gulf. He was dressed casually in a sweatshirt that read “Eufaula Marching Band Invitational 2007.” The text was encircled by illustrations of brass, woodwind, and percussion instruments as well as a many-years-old coffee stain near his belly button.

Liem and I had both played instruments but had never participated in marching band. Dad had played tuba in high school and loved the activity so much that he volunteered to work security at marching contests at local high schools, making sure to always bring home a sweatshirt from each one.

“Think you’ll be able to do much fishin’ from your new boat? More importantly, how soon can I come and see what’s bitin’?” He glanced over to where the houseboat was securely docked.

Mom and Paul were still inside, and I hoped she wasn’t giving him too hard a time.

I answered the second question, which was what he really wanted to know. “As soon as I can build you a ramp.”

“Well, hopefully I’ll get my prosthetic soon and won’t have to rely on ramps.”

A gust of wind from the Gulf came and went, and I let that line of conversation go with it.

“You seem to be feeling better,” I directed at Liem.

His answering smile was wide. “I feel great. I may even take Dad over to Dawn’s for lunch today.”

Dad tugged on the fabric of his athletic shorts, pulling it over the gauze that was taped over the wound on his stump. He glanced backward at Liem and offered a vague, noncommittal smile. Liem didn’t seem disheartened by Dad’s attitude as I nudged him aside and took over pushing the wheelchair.

None of us had discussed the fact that Dad hadn’t left the house to go anywhere but to Ari’s. I wasn’t sure how Liem managed to get him to come here today, but it was encouraging, and I didn’t want to draw attention to it for fear of messing with this bit of progress. Dad had been shockingly—almost toxically—positive about losing his leg, and if history told me anything, it was that there may be a downswing soon.

We reached my new home just as Paul was helping Mom off the boat and back onto the dock.

Dad threw on the brakes of his chair, the wheels screeching in protest at the sudden halt.

Dad’s voice carried across the planks. “Carebear! How could you! And with such a young buck too. It’s because he has two legs, isn’t it?” Dad reared back in his seat in feigned outrage.

Mom probably would have ignored him if he hadn’t used that particular nickname. The name that Dad described as the “longest and greatest con of his life,” if his story was to be believed. According to Lott lore, the full meaning of the nickname wasn’t revealed until I was a toddler and Mom was gifted a DVD of The Care Bears Nutcracker movie—from Dad, who was tired of being the sole keeper of the secret of his own hilarity.

He claimed that he started calling Mom “Carebear” shortly after they started dating because he knew that she would be his wife. And that her married name would be Cara Lott.

Car-a-lott. Care a lot.

“Monroe, I have warned you before and I will warn you again. Do not call me that.” Mom’s tone was lethal. She hadn’t appreciated being compared to a colorful, singing teddy bear, claiming it was bad for her image.

With balls of steel that must have been so heavy it was a wonder his wheelchair didn’t fall right through the wood planks and into the lapping water below, Dad ignored her and mumbled, “Carebear’s grumpy.”

Liem made a choked sound as Dad put the scowl back on his face and aimed it at Paul.

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