The Dragon Keeper by Mindy Mejía Read Free Book Online Page B

since her last conversation with her mother, and even though the cancer had wasted Theresa Whittaker down to eighty pounds and killed her less than a week later, on the phone she’d sounded as immutable as ever. Meg had arranged the funeral, shipped the body from Florida back to Minnesota, sold her mother’s prize show dogs, and returned to work, all before her father had even booked his flight.
    “Meg, there’s some things I’ve been meaning to say to you.” He started in, and she almost gagged. People said that—plenty of washed-up old men who’d alienated their families for their entire lives said that—but they were generally in twelve-step programs or banging late-life bibles, not looking healthy and even prosperous from their luxe new retirement in Ireland.
    “Save it. Unless it’s something that’s going to change the past, I don’t want to hear it.”
    He was quiet for the rest of the ride.
    ~
    Meg pulled into the driveway of 1854 Belmont Avenue and turned off the Buick’s engine, silencing the high-pitched squeak of the belt she still hadn’t replaced. With its edging of rust and smatters of chips, dents, and scratches, the car looked more ancient than some of the houses in this old St. Paul neighborhood. Most of the homes in Groveland were built after World War I, and whoever built them had money. Gingerbread-looking Victorians lined up next to Spanish-style adobe places and three-story mansions with the occasional turret, if Meg looked closely enough. The neighborhood had that urban snobbery—full of mom-and-pop shops that looked more like young-and-yuppie, with tree-lined streets and private academies every mile—but it was still better than the vacuous burbs and strip malls that surrounded the America compound. Meg liked it because Groveland was its own kind of zoo, the houses just like exhibits with their meticulous landscaping and functionless ornaments, all crowded up against one another and yet still completely isolated. Driving down the street and glancing in living room windows was like making the rounds in the Reptile Kingdom.
    Meg rented the downstairs apartment in an old Victorian that had been converted to a duplex in the sixties. When she and her father arrived, Ben was in the driveway, buried up to the waist under the hood of his truck. His frayed jeans bagged low under the sweaty T-shirt hem, revealing pale hips but, luckily, no ass-crack. As Meg killed the motor, her father grunted.
    “Is that your landlord?”
    “It’s Ben.”
    Her landlord, a guy named Neil who lived upstairs, was probably around here somewhere. Neil was like Andy Warhol in Dockers. Meg had no idea whether he had a job. He sat on the upstairs porch most days, drinking a Bloody Mary and doing crossword puzzles, and when she came home from work, he always asked if she had set the bears free. Sure, Neil. Keep drinking.
    “You’re still seeing Ben?” The concerned father: It was amazing how he could pull it off with so little practice.
    Instead of replying, she grabbed her lunch bucket from the back seat.
    “I didn’t know he was living with you now.”
    Everyone thought it was such a big deal. Gemma and even Paco, Ben’s acid-rock-listening, pot-smoking business partner, both called it a “step,” as if they were on some giant relationship staircase with a fat prize at the top. It just worked out this way. Four years ago, Ben and Paco bought a corn-dog stand from Paco’s uncle and started working the fair circuits. They hit every county and state fair from Nashville to Billings, starting out in mid-May and arriving back in the Twin Cities in time for the season-ending Minnesota State Fair in the last week of August. It was a gold mine—if you could stand fourteen-hour days of sweating grease and batter—and even though Ben made more than enough cash to loaf around and watch the news the other eight months of the year, he’d defaulted on his rent last summer while he and Paco were on the road. By the