by Tracey Lange
They’d argued about her staying home for her mother’s bullshit health scare. He’d had a plan for that trip, one that had been in the works for months. After scrounging for the better part of a year, he’d pulled together the money and booked the trip to Magens Bay. They were going two months after Denny’s wedding. He had the plane tickets, a confirmed ten-day reservation for a waterfront bungalow, and the simple ceremony had been scheduled. While they were in Ireland he would find a special moment, hand her the postcard. Wait for her to flip it over and see what he wrote on the back.
And it would be their secret. No upstaging Denny and Theresa, no pressure from anyone—Maura—to plan a church wedding. He wasn’t even going to give her the ring until they got out of town. When they returned home they’d be married, and that would be the line of demarcation. No more half living together. Their marriage would take precedence.
So when she told him she was staying home, he fought her on it. But he relented in the end because he didn’t want the countdown to their elopement to be marred by drama, to start off under duress. He decided to wait until after Ireland, when things were calmed down. Like so many other times he’d given in when it came to the family. And it had cost them so much.
Everything.
* * *
He’d been waiting with Jackie back at the house for a few minutes when Denny walked in wearing a haggard expression. Gone was the anger from earlier, his face drained of its usual color and animation. Denny didn’t respond when Kale asked where he’d been because the kitchen door swung open and Sunday appeared. Her shoulders drooped in relief, and she tilted her head, silently scolding her brother. In the taut silence that followed, Denny took slow steps across the living room until he stood in front of her.
“I’m sorry, Sun,” he said. His voice was raw, subdued.
“I’m just glad you’re home.”
“No. I’m sorry he hurt you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop it.”
Sunday’s eyes filled, and when Denny reached out and put his hand on her shoulder, she drew in a sharp breath, a last attempt to shore herself up. But then he pulled her toward him and she let her forehead fall down against his chest. The only sound in the house was her uncontrolled crying.
Kale looked away because he had to. He felt like he was intruding, and at the same time he wanted to nudge Denny aside and take his place with her. That’s when his eyes landed on Jackie.
Jackie, who had known all this time, who had known years ago when she left. The urge to reach out and grab him, yank him away and demand answers, was sudden and powerful. But now was not the time.
He couldn’t take being in that living room any longer. It wasn’t her grief he couldn’t take, it was the fact that he couldn’t grieve with her. He turned and quietly left the house.
* * *
But he didn’t go home. He couldn’t face the volley of questions he knew Vivienne was waiting to throw at him. Not that he blamed her; he’d been cagey earlier when he called to ask if Denny had stopped by. She said no, then started asking what was going on, where he was. He just told her he’d be home soon and ended the call.
He ruled out going to the pub, couldn’t bring himself to go back there that night, not with remnants of her disclosure still hanging in the air. After driving without a destination for a few minutes he ended up at Hollis Park, a large green space with a pond, walking paths, and lots of trees, near the center of town. The park he and Sunday had walked to countless high school nights. He would meet her in the alley behind her house, always a touch amazed when she was there again, waiting for him on the back porch. He’d take her hand in his, a point of contact he’d spend all day looking forward to, and they’d wander into town, sit on the park bench by the small pond, and talk for hours.
When his cell phone buzzed again, he didn’t even look. It was Vivienne. But when it stopped ringing he sent her a text—All good. Be home soon.
He had no idea what he was going to say to her. He’d been procrastinating telling her about the financial mess until he’d secured the loan. But he couldn’t tell her now because that would lead into everything else. And he didn’t think he could tell her what happened to Sunday, it would feel like a betrayal. Something else he’d be keeping from his wife.
He dropped his head in his hands. He fucking hated secrets. Maybe it was because there’d been such secrecy around his mother’s departure. No one ever talked about it. Maybe it was because he’d never been any good at keeping secrets, even when he was younger. The one time he tried had ended with a crushed Sunday walking home from the town festival alone. She had wanted to tell Denny about them, just lay it on the table. Kale had asked her to keep it quiet until he found the right way to talk to him about it. As usual, she’d been right.
After going off on Denny that night, he’d taken a long walk to cool off and ended up at the Brennan back porch, convinced she wouldn’t be there. But she was. He remembered rushing up the stairs, stammering about it wasn’t what she thought, he wasn’t with that girl, but she had cut him off.
“I know. Denny told me.” The way she slid her hands in her pockets and waited was disconcerting. Like the next words he chose would decide an awful lot.
“I’m sorry. I should have set everyone straight as soon as I got there—”
“We should have been honest from the start, instead of lying about it.” She shook her head in frustration or disappointment, and he feared he’d blown it. In his effort to avoid making a critical mistake with her, that’s exactly what he’d done.
“You’re right. I was afraid Denny was going to tell me to stay away from you…”
Her eyes drifted toward the ground.
“… but I don’t care what he says, it doesn’t matter. This is what I want.”
She picked her head up and studied him for a moment. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Well, he’s okay with it.”
“Seriously?”
She smiled. “He said he thought you were just being a guy, that he didn’t realize…” Despite the dark he knew she was blushing. “… you know, he didn’t know…”
The space between them hummed with possibility.
“That it’s a lot more than that?”
“Yes.”
And then he did something he’d been dying to do for weeks, since the day they sat in the commons together. Something he refused to do until Denny knew about them. He kissed her. Not a peck on the cheek or brush of the lips, which is all he’d had the nerve to do so far. He took her face in his hands and, without any misgivings, he really kissed her. It started soft and slow, but became hot and breathless with staggering speed. The first of many nights Kale would summon his self-control when it was time to step back.
Denny cleared the air the next day. “I’m cool with it, man. But you hurt her…” He dragged a finger across his throat. “… I’ll fuckin’ kill ya.” No more was said about it. And from that day forward Kale and Sunday became a fixed and permanent entity in everyone’s mind.
* * *
He couldn’t muster much concern over Vivienne being annoyed when he got home. She was waiting up, sitting stiff and straight in one of the kitchen chairs. Arms folded across her silky red robe, one bouncing leg crossed over the other.
He poured a cup of tea he didn’t want and joined her at the table, told her Denny was stressed about the new pub and had a few too many after work. “I just needed to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid.”
“Was Sunday with you?”
“Just at the house, when I stopped by.”
“She’s been back six weeks now. Do you think she’s going to stay?”
“I don’t know, Viv.” He took a sip of his lukewarm tea.
“I bet she decides to stay. Her life in LA couldn’t have been too great if she was out driving drunk and getting into accidents.”
He did not want to talk to her about Sunday. He stood. “I’m going up.”
“I’ll come with you.”
When she reached for him in bed he claimed exhaustion even though his mind was racing. Her offended disappointment settled between them on the mattress, along with her silky red robe.
While he lay on his back in the dark, waiting for morning to come, he retraced the timeline between his return from Ireland and when Sunday left New York. He’d spent much of that time trying to find the right opportunity to give her the postcard, but they had trouble reconnecting after he got home. She was happy to see him, even cried when he walked through the door. But then she was sick for a while—or so he believed—and there was a blur of activity in the weeks surrounding Denny’s wedding. Two days after the ceremony he and Theresa moved into their new house. Sunday was distant during that time, but he assumed it was because of everything that was going on. With Denny out of the house Maura was needier than ever. But even after all that died down Sunday was more and more on edge, snappy with everyone, even Shane.
And then, just like that, she was leaving. She told him she’d gotten a job as a content writer for some media company and had to give it a shot. Such a flimsy explanation that would have fallen apart under the barest of cross-examination. But he’d let her go because she was miserable and angry, and nothing he did helped. She’d taken him and her family wholly by surprise, been so insistent. They had no time to process it all, and the idea that she was lying never occurred to them.
Except for Jackie. He had known she was lying. He knew what happened, watched them all rack their brains wondering what was going on with her. He stayed quiet when she loaded up in a taxi with a couple of bags and left for the airport, said nothing when Shane ended up in a full-on episode at the store—yelling and beating himself about the head—when a coworker said he heard Sunday wasn’t coming back.
Kale wanted answers from Jackie about how he let it all happen, when at any point along the way he could have simply raised a hand.
* * *
After Vivienne and Luke left for school the next morning he headed to the Brennan house. He walked in the back door to the kitchen, where Clare, Mickey, and Shane were eating breakfast.
“Well, who’s this coming in the door?” Clare asked. “Do yous recognize him?”
“It’s Kale, Auntie Clare.”
“I know that, Shane. It was a little joke because we’ve not seen hide nor hair of him lately.”
“Did you come for breakfast?” Shane asked.
Clare was out of her seat. “Now you sit and I’ll get you a cup. Denny will be back any minute. He took Molly to school, like every morning, God love him.” She put a hand to her chin and gave him the wide eyes. “Or is it Sunday you’d be looking for?”
“Sunday left already,” Shane said. “But she said she’s gonna meet me after work today.”
Kale smiled at him. “I’m sure she will. Is Jackie around?”
Mickey pointed to the ceiling. “Still upstairs. He’s not late, is he?”
“Not at all. He’s been a huge help.” Kale turned for the stairs. He had to catch Jackie alone.
As he climbed the steps he scanned the gallery of photos. There were, by far, more pictures of Kale on that wall than had ever hung in his own house. He hadn’t been on the second floor since the night he helped Jackie get Sunday to her room, when he thought he was going to pass out from the flood of memories, the visceral reaction to just being in there again. He slow-walked down the hall because, from the sound of it, Jackie was in the shower, and the door to Sunday’s room was open.
A wistful longing forced its way in as he approached. He’d spent a lot of happy time in there. Afternoons studying with her, wishing to hell her mother didn’t have a sixth sense—Sunday Ann Brennan, door open! Climbing up the trellis, to the window over her desk. Spending nights on the floor under that white quilt with the purple flowers because her box spring made too much noise.
Still hanging above her desk was the award she won in high school, for the short story she’d written about him. He’d read the stories she published in that LA arts magazine, several times now. They were essentially tributes to Denny and Shane. Her style was still clear and smooth, but it had matured. The characters were complex. She found humor in shitty circumstances. Reading those stories was like getting a small glimpse into the last five years of her life.
The shower turned off so he walked down to Jackie’s room and stepped inside the open door. Kale had been invited up there several times last summer, when Jackie was working on a portrait of Luke. Not for a specific reason—no birthday or holiday, just because. That was how Jackie did things. His latest project sat on the easel, a sheet draped over it. Kale raised the sheet and let it hang off a corner. Then he stepped back to take a look.
The woman in the painting was sitting on the floor with her legs pulled up to her chest.
Her head hung down, resting on her knees.
He couldn’t see her face, but he knew she was crying.
She was Sunday.
It was like getting all the air knocked out of him, similar to fifth grade when a careening dodgeball had hit him squarely in the chest and he doubled over, unable to take a breath.
The background was dark and shadowy, so attention was drawn to her. Her long hair falling forward to cover her face. Her hands hooked on her knees while her pale forearms hung down. Her gray sneakers with the toes turned toward each other.
“Hey, dude.”
Kale turned.
Jackie was wearing boxers and a T-shirt, hair damp, eyes wide. “You all right?”
He finally sucked in some oxygen. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t, man. It wasn’t my place.”
Kale stepped toward him. “That’s it? That’s all you got?”
“She was desperate. She made me promise—”
“You let her leave.” He grabbed fistfuls of Jackie’s shirt and slammed him back against the wall. “You could have said something, anything!”
“What’s going on?” Denny asked from the doorway.
Jackie kept his arms at his sides. “It wasn’t my secret to share.”
Kale yanked him forward, gave him another shove against the wall. “Fuck that. When she couldn’t do it, you should have.” He felt Denny’s hand land on his shoulder.
Jackie stayed limp and stared at the floor.
Denny tugged at him and Kale stepped back. “Kale’s right. You should have told someone before she left. I don’t know what the hell you were thinking.”
Jackie pushed off the wall. “You’re goddamn right you don’t know. I found her that night, I took care of her afterward when she was a mess. Don’t you think I wanted to say something?” He brought his hands to his chest. “Do you know what it was like to watch her leave and not say something? But it was her choice.”
Denny shook his head in doubt.
“What did you want me to do?” Jackie asked. “Overrule her like that fucker tried to do that night in the Penny Whistle?”
Kale shuddered. “No.”
Denny ran a hand down his face. “You should have tried harder to get her to talk to someone.”
“I did get her to talk to someone,” Jackie said. “She told Mom.”
“What?” Denny asked.
“Sunday told Mom what happened a week before she left for California.”
Kale knew it with certainty before he said it. “Your mom told her to keep it quiet.”
Jackie nodded.
“No, she didn’t,” Denny said. “That’s ridiculous.”
“She did.” Jackie’s voice was soft but clear. “Mom said no good could come from talking about it, it would just upset everyone. She told Sunday there was no point, the guy was gone. That she basically did it to herself. It would hurt the family, and things with you”—nod to Kale—“would never be the same.”
Those specifics, very much statements Maura Brennan would make, seemed to wash away any doubt for Denny. He stepped back and dropped onto Jackie’s bed.
Kale had no words. The tragedy
of it, a daughter asking her mother for help at such a crucial time, and getting turned away. He didn’t really believe in hell, but for a split second he hoped Maura Brennan was feeling the heat.
“What’s that?” Denny had finally spotted the painting on the easel. No one answered him. He stood back up and stared at it. “Is that…?”
Kale braced himself for the knee-jerk reaction—What the hell are you doing painting that shit? But Denny stayed quiet.
“I went back to the Penny Whistle later that morning,” Jackie said, slumping back against the wall. “After I got her home from the hospital.” He seemed younger right then, shirt bunched up where Kale had grabbed him, touch of defensiveness in his voice. “I had this whole plan, to wait and get him alone, beat the shit out of him. I was so fucking angry. I even brought the gun from the bar, to scare him good.”
Kale’s eyes met Denny’s for an instant. If Jackie had found Billy Walsh that day who knows what might have happened.
“But the owner said Billy had gone back to Ireland.” Jackie turned his hands up. “I didn’t know what to do. After she talked to Mom she told me she just needed some breathing room, time away to heal, work it out. That she’d be back in a few months. She sounded so sure.”
And that made sense to Kale. Sunday had always been the voice of reason, so good at knowing what everyone needed. Why wouldn’t Jackie have trusted that she once again knew best.
* * *
He and Denny walked to the pub and went about their routine prep in silence. It was like neither of them knew how to put voice to what they’d learned in the last twenty-four hours. They were on the cusp of losing the bar. Denny’s whole family was facing full financial ruin. Five years ago Sunday had suffered a miscarriage and her mother shamed her into leaving.