by Jones, Brent
Rocco began to nod. “Yeah, Bee. You took it hard. Always blamed yourself for not seeing it coming. The drinking every day, and—”
“We love you, Brennan,” Franky interrupted. “We both do. Like brothers. You know, no homo.”
“Nobody says no homo anymore, you goon. Bee knew what you meant.”
“Yeah, I got it,” Brennan said. “Don’t think we’ll ever know exactly why he did it. Guess childhood took a toll on us all, didn’t it?”
Rocco turned on the wipers, the trickle of rain morphing rapidly into a violent downpour.
“My old man,” Franky started, “used to take a fucking round out of me, boy.” Brennan and Rocco had both heard this story a dozen times, but they knew Franky found catharsis through retelling it. “He’d come home late after a bender and start laying in to me and Mama. Fuck, ’til that one day he underestimated me. I was—what then?—fuck, fourteen or fifteen. But I was a big boy for my age.”
“We know.”
“He comes home shouting, yelling for Mama to get downstairs. ‘You fucking whore,’ he’s calling her. ‘Get down here and get what’s coming to ya.’ ” The pitch of Franky’s gruff voice rose. Even from the backseat, Brennan could see Franky’s freckled face flush with rage. “Well, that night I wasn’t gonna let her take it no more. I laid right into him and busted his fucking jaw with my bare hands. He took off screaming down the sidewalk in the middle of the night, me chasing his drunk ass down and beating him to the ground. Got ’im good, and I’ll bet he coughed up blood for a week. Pissed blood, too, I bet.”
“Bet he did,” Rocco added.
“Never saw that cocksucker again.”
Rocco moved his head in agreement as Franky spoke, empathizing where he could, but unable to fully relate. He’d never taken a beating the way Franky had, nor had he ever lost a child the way Brennan had, but Rocco was too proud to ever admit being out of his element. The nice clothes, the expensive ride—Rocco had something to prove, and appearances were everything to him. He glanced in the rearview. “Talked to your mom since the funeral?”
Brennan shook his head. “Not since the wedding. As far as I know, she doesn’t even know she has a granddaughter.” He hesitated, adding, “Had a granddaughter.”
“Good thing you had that big boy in there with you.”
“What’s that?”
“When you were a kid,” said Rocco. “When your mom had men traipsing in and out at all hours, you used to tell us that big German Shepherd of yours kept you safe.”
“His name was Vicious. Nothing vicious ’bout him, at least not with me, but he’d guard the edge of my bed while I slept. Kept watch all night. Never made a sound, but listened to every voice and every footstep in that house.”
“He was a good boy,” said Franky.
Fender had retired from the window. Brennan rubbed his belly, which always made his ears twitch. “Just like Fender.” He allowed a beat to pass before adding, “It’s a wonder the three of us made it out of Masten Park at all.”
Rocco narrowed his eyes in the rearview and his fingers tensed around the steering wheel. “Not all of us left Buffalo, Bee. Some of us . . .”
Then it hit Brennan all at once—what that something was. “I’m starting to lose count.”
“What’s that, Bee?”
“The last thing I ever said to Rosie.” He rubbed his temples, the memory flooding back to him. Her, propped up in bed with pillows stacked behind her, reading a Nora Roberts paperback next to lamplight. Him, climbing in beside her and caressing her leg, his fingertips traveling up her inner thigh. “I was complaining that we hadn’t, you know . . .”
Rocco nodded. “Got it.”
“Well, she was tired after work, you know. Always working late. She told me, ‘Not tonight.’ And before—” He swallowed hard, “—I could stop myself, I told her, ‘It’s been a while.’ ”
Rocco exhaled slowly, exchanged a worried frown with Franky.
“I mean, it had been two weeks or so. I wasn’t keeping track to prove a point or anything. Wasn’t doing it on purpose, I swear. I just—” His eyes watered and his voice cracked, “—m-missed her, you know? I mean, fuck, her coworkers s-saw her more than I did. And she just p-pushed me away so easy. So she says, ‘Are you keeping count now?’ And do you know what I said?”
“What?” Rocco asked in the rearview. He scratched his head again but this time Brennan didn’t notice.
“I told her I was starting to lose count.” Brennan cupped his head in his hands, let the tears flow. “That’s the l-last thing I ever said to my wife. The—the next morning . . .” He didn’t have to finish the thought. All three men knew what happened the next morning.
“Bee . . .”
“I’m such an asshole,” he blubbered. “I’m such a fucking asshole!”
“It’s not your fault, man. You couldn’t have known,” said Franky.
“It’s just like what happened to Colin.”
“No, it’s not,” said Rocco. His tone was hard, sharp, and he clenched his jaw as he said it. “Colin made his own choice. Rosie and Abby didn’t, and neither did you.”
“But I s-shoulda been there!” Brennan was hysterical, his speech muffled and unsteady. “I shoulda been able to keep them s-safe and healthy and happy and alive. Just l-like her parents always said. That I wouldn’t be there when she and Abby needed me. That I’d be off with you guys and up to no good. And they were right. They were so fucking right. Now she’s gone forever, both of them . . .” He tried to catch his breath, his chest heaving, his voice now lowered to a hoarse whisper. “. . . and here I am hundreds of miles from home with you guys.”
Rocco allowed a moment to pass, said, “You were good to Abby and Rosie. It ain’t gon’ be easy. It’s gonna take time, Bee.”
Brennan gave his head a shake and his eyes a wipe. “Maybe.”
“We could probably all use a break, huh?” asked Franky. “Bet Fender’s gotta piss so goddamn bad. Maybe we should pull off up here.”
“You want a smoke break, in other words?”
Brennan chimed in. “Make that two of us.”
Chapter 6
After a five-course dinner, the first dance, speeches, and cutting the ceremonial cake, Carter rose from his seat, a glass of wine in his hand. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glassy, and he took long, deliberate strides to where Brennan was standing.
Brennan, who had made it clear he didn’t care for eccentricities and extravagance, felt out of place at his own wedding. The celebration his in-laws had put on cost more than the house he grew up in.
Carter remained silent for a moment and took a deep breath. “Rosalie’s making quite the name fer herself,” he said, taking a gulp of wine. He kept his eyes on Brennan through the raised glass. “Twenty-four yearsh old, already has millionsss in accounts.”
Brennan, unaccustomed to hearing his father-in-law slur, tried to figure out what Carter was getting at. “Yes, I know. She’s doing great.”
“Her career’sh rrreally taking off. Very succeshful, my Rosalie.” His speech had a slow cadence to it, his tone flat, and his teeth whistled on certain words.
“Yes, she works hard and she’s as talented as she is beautiful.” He looked his father-in-law up and down and gave silent thanks that he had decided to remain sober. He craved a drink, but held a glass of water in his hand. He had learned it was best to stay vigilant whenever his in-laws were present.
Carter tilted his head back and finished the glass, setting it on a nearby table. He rubbed his chin. “And how’sh werrk goin’ for you?”
And there it is, he thought. “Still at the newspaper for now. I—”
“You bin working ’ere ’bout two yearsh now, yesss?”
Brennan nodded, cleared his throat. “About that, yeah.”
“It mush pay well.”
He was slow to respond. “It pays just fine.”
Carter gave his head a slow nod. He opened his mouth, searched his mind for the right
words, settling on, “Don’t you think isssha bit unfair to Rosalie?”
Brennan set his water on the table. “Don’t I think what’s unfair?”
Carter motioned to Eleanor across the room—she was standing near the bar—to bring him another glass of Pinot noir. “That yer wife—” He grimaced, wrinkled his face at describing his daughter as your wife, “—ish going to have to shupport you fer the resta her life?”
Brennan felt his shoulders tense, rise to his ears. He bit his tongue. He had overheard his in-laws speak poorly of him before. He had heard Rosie defend him to her mother on the phone. He had grown tolerant of their passive aggressive remarks over the years, but never had Carter been so direct, so blatant. He knew nothing good could come of fighting back.
“If ya want any kinda life worf livin’, that ish. I know you came from . . . humble beginningsh and all, but I eckshpect better for Rosalie.” He gestured toward one of Brennan’s aunts, who stood at a table of late night snacks, stuffing popcorn into her mouth a fistful at a time. “Yer not eckshpecting Rosalie to liff like yer family, are ya?”
Brennan watched his aunt. She was a heavyset woman with a dragonfly tattoo on her neck, a large mole on her cheek, long hair tied in a loose ponytail. She ignored the napkins beside her and wiped her mouth on her hand, looked around, and then wiped her hand on her dress. It was poorly fitted and beige bra straps were exposed on her hulking shoulders.
“Chrisht, I didn’t know Salvation Army had sssuch great ssselection.”
Brennan saw his field of vision blur with anger. “Are you serious right now, Carter?” He realized he had been grinding his teeth. “Rosie and me just got married, and you can’t find a nice thing to say?”
Carter chuckled to himself, put his hands together as if he were praying. “Well, let’sh see . . . at leasht yer here today, which ish more than I can sssay for yer father.”
Brennan grabbed his glass of water, drank half of it, urged himself to remain calm, concentrated on his breathing.
“Rosalie sheems to like you, but I shuspect that’s because she ssstill thinksh there’s hope for you.” He stared at Brennan’s aunt again, his head wobbling. “God, look at ’er. You’d shwear she’s shtarving, poor heifer, the way she’s packing herssself wif all the food I paid fer.”
“What would Rosie think if I repeated all this to her? Told her all the things you’re saying? You think she’d like that?”
Carter chuckled again, muffled it with his hand. “Sure, go riiiight ahead. Get yer wife to fight yer battles fer ya. Might ash well ssstart practicin’ now.”
“Is this because I didn’t get your blessing before asking her to marry me?”
Carter shook his head, gave another muffled chuckle, put a liver-spotted hand on Brennan’s shoulder. He whispered, “If you’d been shtupid ass enough to asssk, we wouldn’t be here having thish conversssation.” He withdrew his hand, took a step back. “Thisss ish because I think yer no good and I alwaysh wanted to sssay so.”
Brennan leaned in close, enunciated each word for effect. “If you’ve got something to say, that’s fine. You say it to me. I’m a big boy and I can take it. I know you’ve never liked me, never liked my friends, or where I came from. That’s fine. We don’t have to get along. But leave my family out of—”
Before he could finish his thought, a ruckus arose on the dance floor. Brennan’s mother, Candice, had collided with another guest, shrieked, fell to the floor, unsure how she got there. A couple nearby rushed to her side, saving her son the embarrassment of having to go help her up.
“Ah, yesss, and there’sh yer mother. The way she’s been guzzlin’ vodka sssodas all night, I’m s’prised ssshe was able to shtay standing this long.” He shook his head. “Tell me, Brennan. Has ssshe ever been somewhere as nice as thish? Is ’ere an open bar where’er ssshe goesh to pick up her food shtamps?”
Brennan seethed, balled his hands into tight fists.
Eleanor approached, handed Carter his glass of wine. She gave Brennan a hard look, a superficial smile, put her hand on her husband’s arm.
“So nice to meet the family Brennan comesh from, ishn’t it, dear?”
Eleanor suppressed a laugh, flashed another thin smile, and gave her head a shake. She looked at the floor.
“How long do ya think it’ll be, dear, ’fore Brennan followsh in his father’sh footsteps? Abandoning Rosalie an’—” He pointed to Rocco and Franky, who were sitting with their dates, “—taking off wif those two clownsss, wasting every dime Rosalie worksh for?”
Brennan considered walking away, but didn’t want to show weakness. He wanted to strike Carter, but held back for Rosie’s sake. He stood there without a response, having never imagined the night going this way. He was angry, but hurt at the same time, even if he would never admit it out loud. He weighed his few options and said, “Carter, you’re drunk.”
Eleanor gasped, raised her hand to her mouth, shocked to hear Brennan make such an accusation.
“Look, I get it. Neither of you like me. Never have. But I’ll show you. I’ll show you what I’m made of, Carter, I will.” He decided the high road was his only way out. “I love Rosie, and we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, and we’re gonna be happy, and . . . well, you’ll see. Both of you.” His words were bitter but his tone lacked force. He knew he couldn’t change their minds.
Rosie appeared behind Brennan’s shoulder in an elegant, flowing gown, her hair styled in extravagant loose curls, a heart-shaped diamond pendant around her neck. “What’s going on here?”
Carter raised his glass. “We wurr jusss welcomin’ your hushband to the family.”
Brennan reacted fast, transforming his pursed lips into a smile. He nodded and wrapped his arm around Rosie. “Yup. Good people, your folks.”
Rosie kissed Brennan on the cheek, entwined her fingers with his. She took a step back, studied his face and frowned, biting her lip. She looked at her parents and back at Brennan. “Okay, just so long as we’re all getting along.” She forced herself to smile, heard her name called a few tables over, and left her husband with her parents.
Her mother shook her head in disappointment. “When that poor girl finds out the mistake she’s made . . .”
Across the room, Candice went down again, harder this time, out cold on the floor. Her handbag—enormous compared to the petite clutches other women carried—opened, and out spilled a dozen envelopes. No one had to get closer to know exactly what they were seeing—those envelopes, done up in expensive stationery, were addressed in calligraphy to Mr. and Mrs. Glover.
“Well,” said Carter, mocking Brennan with a pat on the shoulder, “thish really takesss the cake. Yer own mother stealing from you and Rosalie” He straightened his bow tie and donned his best look of relief, vindication, a smug grin on his lips. “I jusss hope Rosalie realizes the mishtake she’s made ’fore it’sss too late.”
Chapter 7
Brennan woke in the backseat hours later to see exit signs for Chicago. The rain had let up and the evening sky was a bluish green, accentuating the ambiance of distant skyscrapers, bright lights, and endless billboards.
Rocco, noticing Brennan move in the back, said, “Mornin’, sunshine.”
“We making a stop in Chicago or something?”
“Nah. But we’ll be back here in two or three weeks. We’ll take I-90 all the way west and I-80 back east.”
Brennan rolled his eyes. “You’re never short a plan, are you?”
They pulled up to a Motel 6 in Oak Creek an hour later—a city on the outskirts of Milwaukee—located on a broken back road highway a mile from a trailer park.
“A Motel 6?” Brennan asked.
Rocco turned around in his seat. “Something wrong?”
Brennan shrugged. “Just surprised you’d be caught dead here. Figured you’d be insisting we stay at a Hilton or a Marriott or something.”
Rocco wrinkled his forehead, taken aback by the comment. “Let’s just check in.” He shut of
f the engine and got out.
The front desk clerk took no notice of Fender, aside from uttering a passing “cute dog” remark.
Rocco insisted on putting down his credit card to pay for the room, to which Brennan feigned resistance at first. He eventually said, “I’ll get the next one.”
They entered their room and found it dark, illuminated only by harsh fluorescent bulbs in the bathroom. The fan above the toilet purred with all the softness of a concrete mixer. Fender hopped up on the queen size bed closest to the door—a mere foot from the second bed—claiming it for himself and Brennan. The two beds were wrapped in worn and mismatched covers.
Franky went to turn on the bedside lamp only to discover it was missing a bulb. He grunted, gave up and said, “I’m starving.”
“Yeah, I’m ready for dinner, too,” said Rocco. “What about you, Bee?”
Brennan sat next to Fender on the bed and inhaled wafts of stale cigarette smoke. “Sure, whatever.” He looked around the room. It was cramped, dingy, and he instantly missed his home back in Williamsville.
“Will this do, Bee?” Rocco had been following Brennan’s line of sight. “Sorry it’s not a Hilton or a Marriott.”
“It’s fine. Let’s eat.”
“I think I saw a place just outside,” said Franky.
The Lone Buckhead, a sports bar, occupied the far corner of the parking lot. It looked much more inviting than the Motel 6. The men sat at a high top table.
“These aren’t nearly as good as back home,” said Rocco, stuffing a Buffalo-style wing in his mouth.
“The cook oughtta visit the Anchor Bar sometime,” said Franky.
Brennan had ordered a plate of nachos and picked at them with disinterest. He downed a pint of beer and set the empty glass next to three others.
Rocco studied the empties with disdain. “Slow down there, tough guy.”