James King - Bill Warringtons Last Chance
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Bill Warringtons Last Chance: summary, description and annotation
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A magnificent debut about a mans odyssey toward family redemption- with his granddaughter along for the ride Bill Warrington realizes he has Alzheimers and his lucid days are numbered. Determined to repair a lifetime of damage to his estranged adult children, Bill takes off with his fifteen-year-old granddaughter April on a cross-country drive, bound for San Francisco, where she dreams of becoming a rock star. As the unlikely pair heads west, Bill leaves clues intended to force his three children-including Aprils frantic mother-to overcome their mutual distrust and long-held grievances to work together to find them. In this dazzling road trip novel, James King masterfully explores themes of aging, sibling rivalry, family dysfunction, and coming of age, against a backdrop of the American heartland. Unflinching, funny, and poignant, Bill Warringtons Last Chance speaks to that universal longing for familial reconciliation, love, and forgiveness.
James King: author's other books
Who wrote Bill Warringtons Last Chance? Find out the surname, the name of the author of the book and a list of all author's works by series.
James King
James King
James King
Bill Clegg
James Wolfe
Martin Squire
Bill James
Bill Griffeth
Belichick Bill
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Bill W.
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Table of Contents
To Joanne, my inspiration,
and Katie and Daniel, my motivation
CHAPTER ONE
Bill Warrington listened to the final huffs and pings of the engine and the crackle of the vinyl settling about him as he removed the key from the ignition and let his arms drop into his lap. He sat quietly for a few moments, staring at but not really seeing the rack of garden tools hanging on the wall in front of him. Discipline was needed, a little self-control. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
It had been a good decision, he thought now, to attach the garage. He had considered building a separate one, similar to the one he had played in as a boy, sneaking into his fathers DeSoto coupe and grabbing on to the thick steering wheel and pretending to drive out of the musty garage and onto the broad streets, waving at the awestruck neighbors as he made his way out of Woodlake, maybe even out of Ohio altogether. He had envisioned a son, maybe a couple of them, who would spend hours, as he had, dreaming up the kind of car they would drive someday, the places they would visit.
But the drywall installer had told Bill hed be making a mistake. His future wife would complain about having to haul in groceries from an unattached garage, especially in foul weather. Thats all they do after you marry them, hed said. Complain.
The guy had been wrong about Clare. And he, Bill, had been wrong about the boys. Mike never took much of an interest in cars when he was young, and Nick was convinced that the garage housed not only cars, but also boy-eating monsters.
Bill opened his eyes. He was wasting time, sitting there like that.
He got out of the car and went into the kitchen, directly to the counter drawer where he kept the address bookthe same pocket-sized, vinyl-covered directory with his name embossed along the bottom in gold letters that hed gotten some thirty or forty years ago as a holiday gift from a supplier. He fished around, wondering if hed left it someplace else.
Bill studied the open drawer. Nothing to worry about, he told himself. This sort of thing happens all the time, no matter how old you are and no matter what any smart-ass doctor says.
He yanked the drawer out, emptied it onto the counter, and sifted through the items: a slim Woodlake telephone directory, several years old; a black umbrella cover; a sports watch with a broken band; the smiley IsoFlex ball Clare had used to take her mind off the pain; the Phillips screwdriver hed spent an hour looking for in the garage last week; a pad of yellow notes stuck to the inside of a Tupperware lid; a Greetings from Grand Canyon key chain.
But no address book.
Bill picked up the ball, turned, and leaned against the counter. If he could remember the last time hed had it, he knew everything would come flooding back. He squeezed the ball gently, then turned it over in his hand to smooth out the bulges. He may have done this a number of times without realizing it, for he gradually became aware of a chime. It took him a moment to recognize it as the front doorbell.
Who the hell?
Bill guessed the boy to be twelve or thirteen. He was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, with a chain of some sort running through his belt loops and into one of his front pockets. Bill squinted. Was this kid wearing eye makeup?
Mr. Warrington?
The kid looked eager to get out of there, but apparently had the stones to stick around long enough to say whatever hed come to say.
I know you? Bill asked.
The boy nodded. Blaine Rogers? From down the street? My dad told me to ask you if you need help with the leaves.
Bill looked over the kids shoulder. The trees had somehow gone bare without his noticing. The front lawn was a rumpled blanket of fading red, orange, and yellow.
We have a blower, Blaine said. He fiddled the chain around his pencil-thin waist. Wouldnt take long. I wont charge you or anything. My dad said you might want to take care of them in time for the pickup.
A glance at the brown piles that lined the curbs told Bill that almost all his neighbors were ready for the giant vacuum truck the city sent out to collect the leaves. The oblong mounds looked like freshly covered graves. Why hadnt he noticed them? And why hadnt he realized it was time? Raking leaves was one of the few chores hed always lovedespecially before they outlawed burning them. The boys would stand by the fire on the side of the street, waving their arms back and forth while chanting incantations theyd made up or heard in a cartoon. Later, over Clares pot roast, mashed potatoes with thick gravy, and tall glasses of ice-cold milk, theyd argue about who the smoke had obeyed more. Clare would laugh.
Mr. Warrington?
What?
You want me to blow your leaves, or what?
Bill looked at him. Your old man the one with that ridiculous yellow Hummer?
Blaine shifted his weight.
A Hummer. Yeah.
There a war around here I dont know about? Bill asked.
Now the boy appeared confused.
Listentell your dad thanks for volunteering you, but Im not crippled yet. Do I look crippled to you?
No, sir.
The sir surprised Bill. He smiled.
All right, then. Anything else I can do for you? Like maybe lend you a real belt?
Blaine looked down, then back up at Bill. He offered a half smile before turning and walking across the front lawn. Bill was tempted to call out to him that front walks were made for a reason, but he stopped when he noticed that his was almost completely covered by leaves.
Bill closed the door and turned back toward the kitchen, hesitating for a moment before remembering what hed been looking for. He then decided to check the dining room. Last time she was here, Marcy had been in there, cleaning
Marcy! Of course!
He walked back into the kitchen and to the wall phone that she had brought him last year. Shed made a big deal out of the speed-dialing feature, pointing to the column of black buttons and reading what shed written on the tiny white directory next to them, as if he couldnt read the names of his own children. The only other entry was 911.
You apparently dont know this, Billy Boy, Marcy had said, but you can actually place calls and not just receive them. So, every now and then, pick up the goddamn thing and punch one of these buttons. Thats how well know its not time to collect our inheritance.
Bill smiled at the memory. His daughter was a smart-ass, for sure, with the mouth of a drill sergeant, but she always could make him laugh. And she was the most likely of the three to help him. She might even come over and clean the place up. Itd been a while. He never asked, but she always ended up doing some housework during her visits. A female thing, he supposed.
He tilted his head back, straining to read the names next to the buttons. Why in the hell hadnt she written them bigger? He gave up and punched the third one from the top, assuming they were set up according to birth order. First thered be Mike, then Nick, then Marcy.
The call was answered on the fourth ring, but the voice was deep and low. That sour feeling flared up. Whos this? he demanded.
Dad?
A geyser made it halfway up Bills throat. This jackass had refused to call him Dad when he was married to Marcy, so why now? And what was he doing at Marcys anyway?
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