by Kelly Jensen
“Uncle Mal, Uncle Mal!”
Unlike the accident that had wrecked his legs, Mal could see this one coming. He braced one crutch against the brick step, digging the rubber tip into a groove as his niece and nephew crashed into him, and for a bare second, he thought he’d be okay. Then he was tipping backward, crutch falling away, leaving one arm free to flail while the sky wheeled overhead. The time before he hit the ground seemed endless. Flashes of memory assaulted him—the sensation of flying, bright lights, voices out of nowhere, and fear. His recollection of the accident didn’t always coincide with what had actually happened, but the moment the car had hit him, that sudden and sharp impact, would always be remembered as fear.
A strong arm caught him around the back of the shoulders. Mal slipped sideways a little, his braced leg sliding across the bricks, but the anticipated smack of hard concrete didn’t happen.
“Hey! Hey, I’ve got you,” his rescuer said.
Donny hauled Mal upright and the wrench in his knee sent a flare of pain up and down his right leg. Swallowing a yell, Mal concentrated on keeping a hold of his remaining crutch—though it might have been better to let it go. His right shoulder wasn’t happy, and all he needed was to rip open multiple old injuries. But Donny held him steady and stood there, arm still around Mal’s shoulders, until Mal offered him a nod.
“How’re we doing?” Donny asked.
Rather than admit that a curl of fear still lingered in his gut and that everything hurt, Mal tried for a smile that felt more like a grimace. “I’m good.”
His niece chose that moment to burst into tears.
Christmas Day was off to a great start.
Arriving at the scene of averted disaster, his mother pushed through the struggling mess of Donny and kids, and immediately echoed Mal’s expression, lips thinning as she shook her head. Like it was his fault he was standing there with a leg brace, one crutch, and various aching body parts. At least he was wearing a coat?
“You okay?” she asked, frown softening.
“Yeah, Ma. I’m okay.”
She pulled her bawling granddaughter into a hug. “See, Uncle Mal’s just fine.”
If only she knew.
Mal jerked his chin toward his car. “I’ve got some stuff in the car.” He made to turn and she stopped him.
“No, no. You go on inside.” After pushing him toward the door, she started organizing the children, directing each of them toward a task. Didn’t matter whose house it was, his mom was in charge of logistics.
A short while later, Mal found himself on the couch in the family room, braced leg propped up on an ottoman and a steaming mug of hot chocolate cupped between his hands. He bent forward to inhale the aroma and winced. Spiked hot chocolate. “What’s in this?”
“Whiskey,” Donny answered, sitting next to him on the couch, a similar mug in hand. “How’s the leg?”
“Which one?” Mal leaned forward to massage the left, which had started to ache, and for a moment, emotional fatigue threatened to overwhelm him. God, he was sick of being sore, of being less able, worried, broken, afraid of falling. Of feeling old before his time. Tired of wondering if he’d ever run the Patriots’ Path again. Complete another section of the Appalachian Trail.
He didn’t want to think about running a marathon. He generally saved those thoughts for when he was really depressed.
Beside him, Donny looked on quietly, as he sometimes did, almost certainly deciding between comfort and motivation. “You’ll be steady come springtime,” he finally said.
Motivation it was.
Mal tried to find the right mood, the right response, and took a slug of his doctored hot chocolate instead. And coughed and spluttered. “Jesus. How much whiskey did you put in this?”
“Enough to make sure you had a good day.”
“I need to be able to drive home.”
“You live three blocks away. I think we can manage something. Or you can stay.”
Instantly, Mal drew in. Not go home? “Lois is expecting me.”
Donny laughed. “You do realize Lois is a cat?”
“Humph.”
“Finish your hot chocolate and I might let you come play in my new kitchen.”
Mal did as he was told because it was easier to let go. He didn’t want to be the guy who cried on Christmas Day, and he did love his family, even if every one of them but him shared the same naively optimistic philosophy: everyone was going to live long, trouble-free lives, that a setback was merely a reminder that life needed to be lived, and that everything could be fixed by a shot of whiskey.
His niece and nephew both gave him socks for Christmas, to keep his feet warm until springtime. His parents gave him a gift card to REI, where he never shopped because their cheapest hiking gear was too expensive. They meant well.
“For springtime,” his mom said, ever optimistic.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Donny gave him a bottle of whiskey. “It’s actually from Scotland.”
Studying the label, which proudly proclaimed the bottle as The Finest Scotch Whisky, Mal said, “I’d hope so.”
“No, I mean I ordered it special, doofus. Can’t get it here.”
“Thanks, Donny. That was real nice of you.” And it was.
Donny’s wife, Rachel, gave him a new trail guide for Northeastern Pennsylvania. “For springtime,” she said as well.
Blinking away tears, Mal nodded and pretended deep interest in the survey-quality maps until the focus shifted from him to someone else.
Food happened, more whiskey happened, wine too, and Mal forgot his melancholy mood. He even started to believe he might be using the trail guide come spring. Or by summer at the latest. His shoulder had stopped throbbing and his left leg, the one he’d broken, had gone pleasantly numb. His knee sent an occasional ping from beneath the massive dark brace enclosing most of his right leg, letting him know it was there. He’d managed to hobble from the table to the couch without using his crutches, but now his bladder was reminding him he’d had more than a bit to drink, and a trip to the bathroom was going to require aid, especially as his head had started to wander tipsy paths.
“Need a hand?” his dad asked.
“Yeah. I want to get down the hall. Can you get my crutches?”
“You can lean on me. I’m heading that way.”
Rather than argue—not even sure why he wanted to—Mal levered himself back to his feet and limped alongside his father to the hall bathroom. After Mal took care of business, his father said, “Wait here,” and took his turn.
Were they going to have some sort of father-son bonding moment in Donny’s drafty hallway?
“So how are you doing?” his dad said, emerging from the bathroom a minute later.
Yes. Yes, they were.
“You know how it is.”
“No, I don’t. That’s why I’m asking. You don’t look so good, Malcolm. I mean, you’re healthy enough to pacify your mother, but you’re quiet and snippy.”
“A car hit me, Dad. And left me on the side of the road with a lot of broken bones and one seriously messed-up knee.” Three torn ligaments. All the important ones. The most important so beyond fubar, he’d had to have surgery. Hence the big, obnoxious brace. “If this graft doesn’t take, I’m fucked.”
His dad’s eyebrows rose up at the curse, but he didn’t comment.
Mal bowled on, “And I was lying there for twenty minutes before anyone saw me.” He’d been knocked unconscious, which in retrospect had been a blessing. It had been an ugly leg break. Three different places. “Now I don’t know if I’ll ever walk properly again, let alone hike, and you know that’s my sanity check every summer. Forget ever running another marathon. Coaching the track team.” Then there was his love life, the lack of which he would prefer not to discuss with his father. “So, no, I’m not doing super fantastic, but I’m okay. I’m trying to live the family philosophy.”
His father winced at that. “What can I do?”
“Stop
asking if I’m okay.” And get me another whiskey. Or cut me off. Mal felt as though he was in that place where the day could teeter into disaster or oblivion and couldn’t quite decide which direction to go. And he didn’t know why he was suddenly so angry. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to snap.”
His father gripped his shoulder. “Are you seeing anyone?”
Nope. Not going there. “Why?”
“Because I care. I’m worried and I’d like to know if there’s someone else worrying. Someone looking out for you.”
Brian’s handsome face teased the periphery of Mal’s thoughts. He gave his head a quick shake. “No, there’s not.”
“Why not? It’s been years since you and Noah broke up.”
Seven, not that Mal was counting.
“You know your mom’s friend, Daphne? Her son—”
“God, Dad, no.” Mal held up one hand and stopped just short of making a warding symbol. “I don’t need you guys to set me up. Jesus, the last date Mom set up was the absolute worst.”
His dad tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a chuckle. They’d all enjoyed that story.
The son of another of his mother’s friends had been told Mal was interested in history and hiking and so had decided a trip to Gettysburg would make a great first date. Fantastic idea, in theory, until the date’s car had broken down halfway and he hadn’t had any roadside assistance. Mal had had to call his. After the car was towed and they’d been dropped off at a rental place, the date had discovered he’d left his wallet in his car. Mal had rented them a car and paid for the lunch on the way home too, because he hadn’t been going to tempt fate any further, despite the date’s insistence they could still salvage the weekend. That was when Mal had learned that a room had been booked and the date had wanted to surprise him with an overnight, on a first date.
So not his thing.
Putting away a smile, his dad clasped Mal’s shoulder. “I wish I could say the word and make everything right for you. I hate seeing you unhappy.”
“I’m happy, Dad. Deep down, under all this current misery, I’m very content, okay?” As content as he could be, having spent his fiftieth birthday recovering from the first of several surgeries that, so far, had only made him feel older. At least he’d had Donny at his side, turning fifty eight minutes after he did.
He’d always have Donny.
After dessert, when Mal was on a stool in the kitchen, pretending to dry the dishes Donny kept stacking in the rack beside him, Donny said, “Leo called me last night.”
“Yeah?”
“Said he was worried about you.”
“Seriously? I just had Dad corner me in the hallway.”
“I know. He was our elected official.”
“Jesus, Donny.” Yep, he’d always have his brother.
“Leo said that prick Kenway was sniffing around you at the bar last night.”
Cheeks flushing, Mal said, “And what business is that of Leo’s? Or yours?”
“I know Kenway. Sort of. Through his clients.” Donny worked with their father in real estate. “I made the mistake of calling him when I wanted quotes on my kitchen, and he not so politely informed me that if I wanted twenty kitchens, and the houses around them, he could help me. Apparently construction managers only consult on large projects.”
“Heh.”
“Yeah. And then he gave me the number for the idiot that took eight months to finish the job.”
Yikes. “Ah.”
“I don’t like the way he does business.”
“Are you actually warning me off this guy?”
“Which guy?” Rachel had wandered into the kitchen.
“Brian Kenway.”
“Oh, I know him!” She turned to Mal. “Are you and Brian a thing?”
“What? No. And Donny’s doing his best to make sure we’re not.” Which only made Brian more attractive, of course, in a whiskey-addled, you’re-not-the-boss-of-me kind of way.
“Why not? He’s a lovely guy. Handsome too!”
“How do you know him?” Donny asked.
“He’s on the board for the Smart Kids Foundation.” Rachel worked at the high school as well, as a guidance counselor.
“So he gives money to disadvantaged kids. Bully for him.”
“He does a lot more than that. He’s the one who reviews the scholarship applications and he writes to every one of the recipients after graduation to congratulate them. I’ve seen those letters, Donny. They’re on file.”
“It’s easy to write a nice letter,” Donny said.
“Why don’t you like him?”
Not currently a part of the conversation, Mal watched as husband and wife sized each other up as if to determine whether the argument was worth it. Then Donny turned to him. “Leo says he’s a player, and I didn’t like his attitude on the phone. I’ve seen him at work too—he’s ruthless. The fact he has a soft spot for kids doesn’t make him nice. He’s not your type, okay?”
“Did Leo forget to tell you I blew him off?” Mal said.
“You what?” Donny choked.
Rachel had gone bright red.
“Oh for God’s sake. I turned him down. Not . . .” Mal waved a hand.
Rachel recovered first. “He really is handsome. I’d—”
“Jesus, Rach.” Donny looked as though he wished he were still choking.
Meanwhile, Mal was letting his tired and drunken thoughts amble down the hallway of the Colonial, toward the bathroom, where he had never taken a guy, but had stumbled over a few. He wasn’t the sort to get to his knees in a public place, and with whiskey rushing through his veins, Rachel giggling to one side of him, and Donny spluttering into the sink, he couldn’t help but wonder if that was part of his problem.
Even before ending up with two broken legs, he hadn’t exactly been living life to the fullest, had he? He made it seem like he did. But fantasizing about sucking a guy off in public and doing it were two very different things.
Was he too old to try something new? To actually get out there and do what he said he would? And was Brian Kenway the guy to try that with?
Maybe.
Maybe? Way to be assertive, Mal.
Sighing, he pushed off the stool and limped away in search of the whiskey bottle.
Brian listened to his sister’s voice mail prompt for the fifth time before hanging up. He hadn’t heard Ellen’s voice in over thirty years, and the flattened cheer of her asking him to leave a message pulled at memories he’d worked hard to suppress: a moment of simultaneous joy and horror, and the day that had changed the course of his life forever. The eighteen or so months that had followed his unprepared tumble into living somewhere other than home.
Did she ever wonder what had happened to him?
Shaking off the creep of thoughts he’d rather not entertain, Brian dialed her number again. If she’d listened to his first four messages, she knew who was calling, why, and what he thought of her in as much detail as the message time had allowed. His sixth call went to voice mail. With a growl, Brian threw his phone toward the end of the bed.
Loneliness often poked at him, but this morning the feeling seemed stronger, even though he had a guest. Brian wanted to roll over, bury his head under one pillow, hug another one, and tug the quilt over his head. Bed was warm and the world was cold. But after he got up, it would be obvious that he’d left only one dent in the bed. No one waited to welcome him back inside the cozy huddle of blankets and pillows. That had been the best part about being in a relationship. Sex was awesome, but sharing a bed through the night and into cold winter mornings was more intimate. Having someone to talk to, even if there were parts of his self he couldn’t share.
Could he have told Simon why having Josh here had him so off-balance? Brian glanced at the stack of pillows next to him. Would he have been able to share the coincidence of him and his nephew having a family expiration date of fourteen years?
Groaning, Brian pulled the quilt over his head. Simon was as much a
specter of his past as Ellen. He’d managed to stop thinking about his sister. Obviously he needed some practice excising happier memories.
“Uncle Brian?”
Brian flipped the quilt back and looked at the ghost hovering in the doorway. Josh’s hair seemed even bluer in the filtered daylight pushing through the drawn blind. His skin more pale, and his cheeks more gaunt. The jut of his Adam’s apple extra prominent. What a gawky kid. Cute, though, in a not-quite-as-offbeat-as-he-wanted-to-be way.
“What’s up?”
“Can I, um, get something to eat?”
“You’re asking now? Why not break another window?”
Josh rocked back, face furrowing with frown lines that were too deep for a fourteen-year-old.
“Sorry.” Brian pushed his quilt down far enough to indicate he was getting up. “I’m not a morning person.” Usually, he was. Or used to be. He poked his legs out over the side of the bed and half sat, half rolled out of bed. “Careful when you go downstairs. I swept last night, but didn’t vacuum. You were out and I didn’t want to wake you.” And now he sounded like a grandmother. Speaking of whom, “Why aren’t you at your grandmother’s?”
Eyes widening, Josh shook his head. “She, um, doesn’t like me.”
“Huh. Well, she didn’t have much time for me, either.” Except to stuff a twenty in his hand and tell him to get lost.
“Is it true you left when you were fourteen?”
Brian grunted. “Runs in the family, doesn’t it?”
He slipped his feet into slippers that he hated and treasured at the same time. A gift from Simon, they were the ugliest footwear imaginable: a moccasin-type thing with tassels. But the Sherpa lining hugged his feet and kept his toes warm. He grabbed a sweatshirt from the end of the bed, dislodging his phone, and pulled it on over his bare chest. The phone got tucked into the pocket of his sleep pants. Josh hovered, watching everything as though Brian getting out of bed was a lesson in how someone should get organized in the morning. He moved aside when Brian waved him through the door, and waited for Brian to pass him and lead the way downstairs.
Brian scowled at the cardboard taped over the lower pane in the kitchen door. His crude patch seemed to be working, though. No arctic breezes trailed down the hallway and his kitchen was sunny and warm.