easier. Her moods were like the weather. Sunny, breezy, gloomy -- and always changing. He wondered how much was hormones and how much was the lingering effects of losing her mother. It had been nearly two years since the accident, but the tears still came almost every day.
Jen leaned into him, put her head on his shoulder. Years ago he might have whisked her up and taken her in his arms. But that couldn't happen anymore. Davis knew he had to just sit there and wait things out. As he did, he noticed the room. It looked different. The posters on the wall had changed -- High School Musical was gone, replaced by a graffiti-strewn banner of something called Less Than Jake. A band, he figured. The old dolls and stuffed animals were gone too, probably stuffed in a closet. This bothered him. Not that she was discarding her childhood, piece by piece, but rather that she was doing it on her own. No, Dad, can I give this stuff to Goodwill? He wondered how long ago things had started working that way.
"Dad--" she sniffled, "I want you to stop the bad language."
"Bad language?" Davis tried to remember what the hell he'd said. "Baby, you hear worse than that a hundred times every day in school."
"No! Mom never allowed it in the house, and with her gone, it's up to me to keep you in line."
In a reflex probably born from some long-ago martial arts training, Davis took a deep, deep breath. "Your Mom was a strong woman, Jen. I'm glad you are too. I promise to mind my tongue."
Her head came up and she used the corner of a bed sheet to wipe her eyes. As she did, Davis noticed the framed picture on the night-stand next to her bed, the three of them with arms around shoulders, smiling on a ski slope. At least that hadn't been stuffed in a drawer.
He said, "And you have to promise not to throw any more hair care products at me."
She smiled. "Sorry."
He gave her a lopsided grin -- the one that Diane had always said was roguish. The one that Jen said made him look like a big doofus. All a matter of perspective, he figured. "Okay. Let's get ready."
"But I still need something for my hair."
Davis got up and headed toward the door. "I'll go down to the kitchen and get you a twisty tie -- you know, the ones we use for the garbage bags." Davis bolted for the stairs. Too slow. Just before he rounded the corner, a flying hairbrush smacked him in the hip. He heard the giggle, her mood having completed its one-eighty.
With no small amount of pride Davis thought, That's my daughter. Her hormones might be in a blender. But her aim was dead sure.
Ten minutes later, Jen was waiting in the car.
Davis was still in the kitchen poking buttons on the dishwasher, trying to get it out of the damned "pot scrubber" cycle, when the phone rang. Davis wanted to ignore it. Should have ignored it. He picked up.
"Jammer here."
There was a pause at the other end of the line, then, "Hello, Frank."
Aside from the occasional phone solicitor or census taker -- people he didn't want to talk to anyway -- there was only one person in the world who called Davis by his given name. "Hello, Sparky."
Only one person in the world called Rita McCracken anything but Mrs. McCracken. Or Assistant Supervisor McCracken of the National Transportation Safety Board. Davis had given her the name on the spot when they'd first met, a not so subtle jibe at her fiery red hair. Davis often gave call signs to his friends, but in her case it was more like naming a hurricane. After first impressions had gone south, he'd kept at it just to torque her off. Not good form with the boss, but that's how Davis was. And probably why he'd never made it past the rank of major in the Air Force.
"Pack your bags," she said.
"Pack? Why?"
"Haven't you seen the news?"
"No, I'm a busy guy."
"Well, you just got busier. A World Express C-500 went down in France yesterday. I need you to go to Houston this afternoon for a seventy-two-hour on the captain."
Davis frowned. Much of the information gathered in
Jen leaned into him, put her head on his shoulder. Years ago he might have whisked her up and taken her in his arms. But that couldn't happen anymore. Davis knew he had to just sit there and wait things out. As he did, he noticed the room. It looked different. The posters on the wall had changed -- High School Musical was gone, replaced by a graffiti-strewn banner of something called Less Than Jake. A band, he figured. The old dolls and stuffed animals were gone too, probably stuffed in a closet. This bothered him. Not that she was discarding her childhood, piece by piece, but rather that she was doing it on her own. No, Dad, can I give this stuff to Goodwill? He wondered how long ago things had started working that way.
"Dad--" she sniffled, "I want you to stop the bad language."
"Bad language?" Davis tried to remember what the hell he'd said. "Baby, you hear worse than that a hundred times every day in school."
"No! Mom never allowed it in the house, and with her gone, it's up to me to keep you in line."
In a reflex probably born from some long-ago martial arts training, Davis took a deep, deep breath. "Your Mom was a strong woman, Jen. I'm glad you are too. I promise to mind my tongue."
Her head came up and she used the corner of a bed sheet to wipe her eyes. As she did, Davis noticed the framed picture on the night-stand next to her bed, the three of them with arms around shoulders, smiling on a ski slope. At least that hadn't been stuffed in a drawer.
He said, "And you have to promise not to throw any more hair care products at me."
She smiled. "Sorry."
He gave her a lopsided grin -- the one that Diane had always said was roguish. The one that Jen said made him look like a big doofus. All a matter of perspective, he figured. "Okay. Let's get ready."
"But I still need something for my hair."
Davis got up and headed toward the door. "I'll go down to the kitchen and get you a twisty tie -- you know, the ones we use for the garbage bags." Davis bolted for the stairs. Too slow. Just before he rounded the corner, a flying hairbrush smacked him in the hip. He heard the giggle, her mood having completed its one-eighty.
With no small amount of pride Davis thought, That's my daughter. Her hormones might be in a blender. But her aim was dead sure.
Ten minutes later, Jen was waiting in the car.
Davis was still in the kitchen poking buttons on the dishwasher, trying to get it out of the damned "pot scrubber" cycle, when the phone rang. Davis wanted to ignore it. Should have ignored it. He picked up.
"Jammer here."
There was a pause at the other end of the line, then, "Hello, Frank."
Aside from the occasional phone solicitor or census taker -- people he didn't want to talk to anyway -- there was only one person in the world who called Davis by his given name. "Hello, Sparky."
Only one person in the world called Rita McCracken anything but Mrs. McCracken. Or Assistant Supervisor McCracken of the National Transportation Safety Board. Davis had given her the name on the spot when they'd first met, a not so subtle jibe at her fiery red hair. Davis often gave call signs to his friends, but in her case it was more like naming a hurricane. After first impressions had gone south, he'd kept at it just to torque her off. Not good form with the boss, but that's how Davis was. And probably why he'd never made it past the rank of major in the Air Force.
"Pack your bags," she said.
"Pack? Why?"
"Haven't you seen the news?"
"No, I'm a busy guy."
"Well, you just got busier. A World Express C-500 went down in France yesterday. I need you to go to Houston this afternoon for a seventy-two-hour on the captain."
Davis frowned. Much of the information gathered in
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