by Lisa Jackson
He’d spent every waking hour trying to find ways to be with her, making love to her in fields, barns, in the back seat of his mother’s old Ford, in the river while skinny-dipping. Wherever he could.
And she’d let him—she’d reveled in his lovemaking, enjoying it as much as he.
“Damn, what a mess.” He shouldn’t have signed the lease. It would be impossible living next to her and not remembering. He stripped off his shirt, poured himself a drink and walked onto the balcony, where he stared across the railroad tracks and watched a half-starved dog nudging through the garbage. Brandon whistled and the beast took off, running and ducking through the shadows as if he’d been beaten a hundred times before. Brand felt an immediate kinship with the dog—a setter of some kind. He knew what it felt like to be beaten down so far you never thought you’d climb up again.
He took a sip of his liquor and scowled as it burned a path down his throat. He didn’t drink all that much—usually considered it a crutch. With an oath he poured the Scotch onto the bleached barkdust two stories below. Things had changed since he’d been here last. He’d left town at the bottom and come back on top.
Everything would be just fine, except that he didn’t know what the hell he was going to do about Dani.
* * *
“I was wonderin’ when you’d show up,” Venitia said, reaching for her glass as Brand walked through the front door. The smell of stale smoke, cheap perfume, cleaning solvent and grease hung in the air just as it always had. If he’d crossed the threshold with his eyes closed, he would have recognized the odors of the home where he’d spent his youth. Even though there had been several years when Venitia hadn’t lived in the house while she and Al were living in Washington, those years when Brand had rarely seen her, the little bungalow hadn’t changed.
“I had business in Rimrock.” Striding into the living room, he felt the same cloying feeling he’d experienced as a teenager that the dingy wallpapered walls were about to close in on him.
His mother was sitting in a corner of the couch, one foot propped on an ottoman, the television turned down low. A talk show was in progress. Newspapers were spread on the coffee table and a half-worked crossword puzzle had been transformed into a coaster for her glass. One of her menagerie of cats wandered across the back of the couch, a second was seated on the window sill, tail switching as he stared through the glass at birds fluttering around a feeder.
The phone rang and she answered it quickly. “Hello . . . No, he’s not here right now. Can I take a message or tell him who called? . . . I’m not sure, any time now . . . all right, then.” She hung up and sighed. “Your brother. Not even twelve and the girls are calling. Just like you.”
“I don’t remember the girls calling.”
“They did,” she said with a wistful smile. “Night and day for a while.”
“I was older.”
“Times were different.”
He hadn’t come here to discuss his adolescence; in fact, he’d been reminded of that painful time of his life too much lately. Get used to it. Living next door to Dani is only going to make it worse. Settling onto one of the overstuffed arms of the couch, he asked, “How’re you feeling?”
The corners of her mouth tightened. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not what the doctor told me.”
“He shouldn’t have told you anything.” She reached for her glass and took a long swallow.
He cringed inside knowing that every drink was killing her bit by bit. Her liver was already damaged and she wasn’t doing it any favors. Cirrhosis was in her future if she didn’t abstain. But her dependence upon “a couple of glasses of wine” hadn’t diminished over the years. How many times had he come home from school to find her passed out on the couch? How many times had he cooked dinner himself—usually canned spaghetti or macaroni and cheese or peanut butter sandwiches? He wondered if his kid brother did the same and felt guilty for not doing something about the situation earlier. He’d tried, right after Venitia’s divorce from Al, but she’d shunned all his attempts at help.
“I thought you gave that up.” He tried not to sound as if he were standing behind a pulpit as he motioned toward the glass in her hand.
“And I thought you agreed not to lecture me.”
“I’m just concerned about your health.”
“My health. Not yours.”
“What about Chris?”
She finished her drink. “He’s doin’ okay.”
Brand sat down on the edge of the sofa. “He’s not doing okay. He wrote me a letter. Said he was worried about you.”
“I’m—we’re both doin’ fine.” A calico cat crawled across her lap and settled in, purring softly. Venitia absently patted the animal’s head. “I know you think you can come in here and wave your money around and make things better, but you can’t.”
“You could move. I found a house closer in—”
“I don’t want to move. I like it here. You’re the one who talked me into keeping it,” she reminded him with a smile. “And you were right. It’s bought and paid for now.”
“But you could have a newer place with a garage and a sun porch and—”
“And strings attached. No more. I had enough of that when I owed Jonah,” she said with a sad shake of her head. “No thank you, son. I know that your intentions are probably for the best, and I appreciate your concern, but just leave me alone.”
“Maybe you’ve been alone too much.”
“I’ve got Chris. So what if Al turned into a jerk and left us behind?” She found an empty pack of cigarettes, crumpled it and tossed it into a brown paper bag she used as a wastebasket. Her lips pursed. “Never had much luck with men,” she said reflectively as a hummingbird flitted to a feeder near the front window. “Your pa took off without even botherin’ to marry me and then there was Al.” Clucking her tongue, she shook her head. “He couldn’t stick around, either. I know you think I should move. Start over. But this is my home, Brand. It may not be the fanciest house in town, but it’s mine and I feel safe here. Comfortable.”
They’d been over this ground a hundred times. “Okay, but at least let me fix it up for you. Weatherstrip the doors, put in double-paned windows, shore up the porch, that sort of thing.”
Sighing, she pushed herself to her feet. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know that.”
“You already pay most of my bills.”
“I can afford it.”
“It’s not right, a son taking care of his mother. Should be the other way around.” She crossed to a secretary pushed into one corner, opened a drawer and found a fresh pack of cigarettes.
“You did take care of me.”
“Not very well.”
“The best you could, Ma. Now I’m able to afford to help you out a little.”
She tapped the pack on the desktop before opening it. “I don’t like taking handouts, even from my own son.”
He wasn’t going to argue with her. “The bottom line is that this is your decision. Just don’t think of it as charity.”
Footsteps clomped on the front porch. The door swung open and banged hard against the wall. “Sounds like your brother’s home,” Venitia said as she lit up. Relief crossed her eyes and Brand realized that Chris was giving her the same worries that she’d been through with him.
His half brother thundered into the room. He was a skinny kid, tall for his age, with dark brown hair, green eyes and the hint of what would someday be a mustache. Though only eleven, he could easily pass for fourteen. “Hey, Brand!”
“Hey.”
“Is that your car?” he asked, eyes round as saucers.
“’Fraid so.”
“Cool!”
“Want a ride?”
“Are you kiddin’?” He was practically bouncing off the walls. The kid was energy in motion. Though it was eighty degrees outside, he wore long baggy jeans, a long-sleeved flannel shirt tossed over a ratty T-shirt and a baseball cap turned backward
.
“Oh, Lord,” Venitia whispered.
Brand tossed Chris the keys. “I’ll be right there.” Chris, all arms and legs, sprinted out the door.
Venitia sighed, a soft cloud of smoke trailing from her mouth. “I’m afraid he’s a little out of control. He didn’t take Al’s leaving very well, and he’s discovering girls or they’re discovering him—they call all the time.”
“Does he call them back?”
“Not really. He’d rather be skateboarding or in-line skating, but he’s beginning to show some interest.”
“He’s too young.”
“You were twelve.”
“No way—”
“Polly Henzler started calling you in the seventh grade.”
“She was just a kid.”
“You didn’t think so at the time.” Venitia peered through the window. “Uh-oh, he’s in the driver’s seat. That’s a dangerous sign.”
Brand started for the door. “We’ll be back in an hour or two. You need anything from town?”
“A jug of milk and a bottle of—” She cut herself off and smiled slightly. “Milk’ll do.”
He walked on the porch just as he heard the engine rev. Vaulting over the rail and a row of withering petunias, he raced to the car and convinced his half brother to slide into the passenger seat.
“This is one kickin’ car,” Chris said, his dirty fingers caressing the leather interior gently. “How much did it cost?”
“Too much.” Brand looked over his shoulder and reversed out of the two gravel ruts that were his mother’s driveway.
“Are you rich?” Chris angled his head upward, his eyes squinting against the sun.
“I do all right.”
“Are you a millionaire?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“An easy one.”
“Don’t you know it’s rude to—”
“Are you a millionaire?” Chris insisted, playing with the electronic windows.
Brand slid the kid a look and slipped the car into drive. “None of your business.”
“A billionaire?”
“No.”
“So you are a millionaire!” Chris let out a long, low whistle. “When I grow up, I’m gonna be just like you instead of a loser like my old man.”
“Al’s not a loser.” Brand forced himself not to wince.
Chris’s smile fell away from his face and he looked suddenly older than his years. His jaw jutted forward defiantly and his lips were pulled hard against his teeth. “Yeah? Well, what do you call a bastard who leaves his wife and kid?”
“Maybe he was just—”
“A loser.” Chris slid down in his seat and stared out the windshield. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
Brand understood. He’d never met his own father, never seen a picture of the old man. Kendall had had enough of a conscience to send money orders every other month or so—no letter included. Venitia had never heard from him again, but she’d decided to have her baby alone despite the fact that her parents had disowned her and her sister, good old Aunt Roma, had never spoken to her since.
Frowning at the dark turn of his thoughts, Brandon drove Chris to McDonald’s for a burger and soda.
“Someday I’m gonna have a car just like this,” Chris said around a mouthful of his cheeseburger as they drove home.
“What kind of car you drive doesn’t make a difference.”
“Sure it does,” Chris argued and Brand held his tongue. He remembered once thinking that if he was as rich as Max McKee and had a dad who bought him expensive cars and boats, he’d have the world by the tail.
“I’m selling it.”
“No way!” Chris’s face fell. For the moment, he forgot his cheeseburger. Incredulous, he asked, “Why would you do that?”
“I need something a little . . .” Less flashy. Not quite so ostentatious. Unlike L.A. “. . . more rugged.”
“Jeez, Brand, don’t do it for a while, okay?”
“You can come and help me pick out something else.”
Chris’s infectious smile returned. “A Ferrari or a Porsche or—”
“A Jeep.”
Chris chewed slowly. “Will it be jacked up with big tires and have a CD player and fog lights and—”
“We’ll see,” Brand said.
“It could be good. Not as good as a Benz, but—”
“Better.”
Chris slid a French fry past his lips and waved wildly when Brand passed a group of kids on in-line skates, bikes and skateboards.
“Friends?”
“Nah. Some jerks from the eighth grade.”
Boys he wanted to impress. Brand’s insides grew cold. He remembered how important it was. How he hated to be considered poor, though that wasn’t the worst of it. There were quite a few of his classmates who didn’t have much money, others who grew up without one of their parents in the picture, but he was the only kid he knew who had never laid eyes on his father. The only one who was truly “a bastard,” or “illegitimate.” Words that still cut him to the bone. When and if he ever came face-to-face with good ol’ Jake Kendall, he’d . . . what? Spit in the guy’s face? Call him a coward? Rant and rave at all the injustices and pain Brand and his mother had suffered? What if the guy were dead, or seriously ill or just scratching out a living and feeding his six kids?
Years ago, Brandon had sworn he’d beat the living tar out of the man, pound him with his fists to let Jake know the rage and agony he’d suffered. But now Brand had mellowed, made his place in the world, and though he suspected that he’d spent the past twelve years trying to prove to himself and everyone around him that he was as good as the next guy, he no longer felt the need to use his fists to show how tough he was.
He slid a glance at Chris, who had devoured all his food, put the scraps and garbage into the bag and was drinking the remainder of his soda while eyeing the side streets and parking lots, hoping to see someone he knew, someone he could impress just by riding in a damned car.
Brand turned onto the street where he’d grown up. The trees that were planted too close to the sidewalk had caused it to buckle, and weeds were as common as flowers in the yards. His mother’s was distinctive. Along with the overgrown flower beds that were the norm for the neighborhood, she had flower boxes and hanging pots with trailing blooms on the front porch. Birdbaths and bird feeders stood high over the unmown grass. An old-fashioned swing, in sad need of detergent and water, sat on the porch with three cats curled on its lumpy cushions. “Just how many cats does Mom have now?” he asked Chris as he cut the engine.
“Eight . . . no, seven. Inky died a couple of weeks ago. Got hit by a car.”
“Seven? But why so many?”
“They just end up at our house,” Chris said with a shrug. “She feeds ’em, posts notices that she found ’em and eventually keeps ’em if no one else’ll take ’em. They’re all neutered.”
“Good. Otherwise she’d have a couple of hundred.”
The cats were a new obsession with Venitia. She’d always had one or two hanging around, but when a stray had shown up, she’d found a home for it. Now it seemed that the cat just settled in with the rest of the family.
Chris opened the door and climbed out of the car. “I kinda think they’re cool. Especially Lazarus. He’s the one she found and gave up for dead—had feline leukemia or somethin’.”
“But he made it.” Brand locked the door.
“Yep. He’s part Siamese and tough as nails, that’s what Ma said.” Chris bounded up the steps and Brand followed, eyeing the dandelions that dared grow between the cracks in the sidewalk and the thin layer of barkdust that had bleached in the sun. Venitia had always taken pride in her yard. Until Al left and she’d been forced to move back here. Then she’d started letting things slide.
Brand walked up the front steps, making a mental note that the bottom one was loose and that the gutter needed replacing. He was keeping a list, and whether his mother wanted his help o
r not, he was going to improve the house—add smoke detectors, insulation, a new roof and windows. If she wanted a little bit of remodeling, he’d even throw that in, but if she didn’t, he’d back off once he knew that the building was safe.
He touched the molding near the window and watched as the caulking crumbled. Yep, the place needed a lot of work, but he had the time and the means and he’d convince his stubborn mother to let him help her.
He opened the screen door and caught Chris sifting through the mail stacked on the old lace cloth covering the dining-room table. The letters and bills slipped through his fingers and his eyes darkened with pain. He glanced at Brand and his chin slid forward defiantly. “Did I get any mail?” he yelled toward the back of the house.
No. answer.
Brackets showed near the corners of his mouth making him look older than he was. With a pang, Brand was reminded of himself and the chip he’d carried on his shoulder at that age.
“Just lookin’ for some CD’s I ordered through this company. You get six for a penny a piece.”
“Didn’t come, eh?” Brand said with a smile, as if he bought the kid’s story, even though there wasn’t any doubt in his mind that Chris had been looking for a letter from his father. A part of Brandon ached for Chris. He knew what it was like to be rejected, to live with false hope.
However, if Brand had anything to say about it, Chris wasn’t going to live the rest of his life thinking his dad didn’t love him. Brand was going to call that useless son of a bitch and convince Al to show some interest in his own kid. He thought for a second and decided that while he was at it, maybe it was time to try to find out if his own useless father was still alive.
Chris escaped to his room at the back of the house and Brand walked into the living room where his mother was propped up on the couch, a forgotten glass of wine sitting on the table, the ashtray filled with half-smoked cigarettes. She was snoring softly, blissfully unaware of all the emotional turmoil in her two sons.