by Jones, Brent
“Mind yer fucking bishness, ya fuck.” The man steadied himself, groaning and spitting red. He dried his mouth on Brennan’s shirt and trudged toward the sidewalk. “Tell ’at faaat ugly fucking friend of yurrs he juss got luuucky.”
* * *
Brennan returned to the room to find Rocco on the edge of a double bed. He faced Franky, who was seated across from him next to a television thick with dust, and wrapped his hands in towels packed with ice.
“What was that about?” asked Brennan.
Franky grunted, shifted positions on the chair. “Won damn near two thousand bucks.”
“Jesus. No wonder the guy was pissed.”
Franky nodded toward a pile of loose cash on a desk in the corner of the room, its wooden surface peppered with chips and dings. “That oughtta cover a chunk of our trip.” He looked at Rocco, grunted again, lowered his voice. “You can hang on to some of your money. Catch up on those car payments when we get back.”
Brennan was surprised that Franky already knew about the impending repossession, but reasoned that Rocco had wanted to spare him any feelings of guilt. Franky, on the other hand, lacked the guile to consider his words before speaking.
Rocco shook his head with vehemence. “Thanks, but I don’t need the help.”
“Christ, you’re proud,” Brennan said. “Don’t forget, I don’t mind chipping in, either. You guys both know that.”
Rocco turned to Brennan, the bed creaking beneath him. “I told you, Bee. This is something we wanted to do for you. You keep your money. And you—” He stuck a finger in Franky’s chest, “—that was stupid. You shoulda just walked aw—”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it. I know. It’s just . . .” He didn’t have to finish the sentence. His friends both knew that after a few drinks, strangers started to look an awful lot like his father.
Brennan cleared his throat. “That guy doesn’t have a friend in the world, huh?”
Rocco licked his lips, nodded. “You can say that again.”
Brennan grabbed three plastic cups from the bathroom and a brown paper bag off the nightstand. He poured them each a drink of Jim Beam. “I guess—” He thought back to his dream of Fender the night before, “—the hopeless have no need for friends.”
Rocco took a sip of his bourbon. “That’s, ah, kinda deep, isn’t it?”
“I guess.” Brennan shrugged. “You guys know I almost picked up friendship bracelets for us today?”
“What are we, twelve?” asked Franky, sitting up in the chair. “Were they matching, too?”
“Harlem’s only nine, and I’m damn sure he wouldn’t wear no damn hemp and beads out in public.”
Both men laughed and Brennan joined in, happy to have lightened the mood even if it was at his expense. “I’m serious, guys. Look, I know I haven’t been . . . myself on this trip so far.”
“No kidding.”
“But I was thinking, you guys have done so much for me. Bringing me—” He looked at his dog, curled up on a pillow, “—and Fender on this trip.”
“It’s nothing, Bee.”
“No, it is, I’m serious. I appreciate it. I appreciate . . . you guys.” He raised his plastic cup. “To good friends.” The other two men raised their cups in turn, even though it caused Franky pain to lift his hand.
“You’ve always been the mushy one,” said Rocco.
“He’s the heart of the group,” said Franky. “Always was.”
“So what does that make you, Franky?” asked Brennan. “The muscle?”
“Yeah, and Rocco’s the dick and balls.”
Rocco finished his drink, smirked. “I’m the brains next to you two goons.” He looked at Brennan, his forehead scrunched in thought. “What was that thing you said a second ago? Something about being hopeless?”
“The hopeless have no need for friends.”
Rocco clicked his tongue, pensive. “And yet here we are.” He smiled, refilled all three of their cups. “What made you think of that?”
“I, uh, heard someone say it once. A long time ago. Always kinda stuck with me.”
“You really are the heart and soul of this group, Bee. Always held us together. Good friend. Always did right by your family, too. Good husband and father.” Rocco raised his cup. “To Rosie and Abby.”
“To Rosie and Abby.”
Brennan raised his cup to his lips and stared at the brown liquid for a moment before setting his bourbon on the nightstand. “On second thought, I think I’m just gonna head to bed.”
Chapter 14
Rosie lowered herself onto a gliding chair, rested a hand on her round belly. She marveled at the marigold walls, pastel furnishings, assorted blankets, a mobile dangling from the ceiling, a baby monitor still in its packaging. “You did such a good job, babe. The nursery looks great.”
“Thanks.” Brennan occupied an ottoman opposite his wife, rubbed his temples, kept his eyes lowered. His clothes were splotched with fresh paint. He felt apprehensive. She appeared to be stalling, and he thought that was out of character.
She brushed her bangs to the side, curled her lips into half a smile. “You want to have that conversation now?” Her tone was flat, and it suggested she was making more of a statement than posing a question. “If you’re ready.”
Brennan looked to Fender for support, who rested on the floor, specked in marigold, next to an expensive bassinet—Eleanor and Carter had made sure to leave its price tag attached. He faded in and out of sleep, acclimating himself to his post as guardian of the new arrival.
Brennan nodded, kept his focus downward. “Shoot.”
She exhaled rhythmically, a technique she had learned in her maternity yoga classes. “Look, I don’t want you to get defensive, but we need to talk about your drinking.” She fidgeted with her hair again, tied it back in a ponytail, watched her husband for a reaction.
“What about it?”
She parted her lips to speak again, hesitated, put a hand on his knee. “I think, with a baby girl on the way—”
“Or boy,” he interjected.
“—or boy, right. With, ah, a baby boy or girl on the way, maybe we—”
“You mean me.”
“—should dial it back a bit.”
He finally looked up. “It’s never been a problem, has it?”
Rosie considered her response with care, hummed to herself under her breath. If she were at work, things would be different. Even seven months pregnant, she pursued new business with reckless abandon. But in the comfort of her own home—located in a new Williamsville housing development—she felt unfocused, uncertain. She took a deep breath, tried to keep her tone light, deliberate. “I think the danger is waiting until it’s a problem.”
“Like what kind of problem?” He touched his tattoo.
“Like . . .” She hummed again, deep in thought. “Let’s say our little boy or girl sees you drinking every day.”
“I don’t drink every day.”
She sat back in the chair and waited with her hands folded across her belly.
“Fine, I drink every day.”
“Well, when she’s—”
“Or he’s.”
“—a little older, she, or he, might get the wrong idea, and start thinking that drinking all the time is normal. That it’s okay.”
“Rosie, Jesus. Isn’t it okay?” There was an edge to his voice. He brushed back his hair and glanced at the bassinet. “I’m not out at bars ’til all hours. I’m not passing out in the front yard. I’m just . . . I like to have a drink, that’s all.”
“But she . . . or he,” Rosie added, “is going to learn from your example. Same with the smoking. You don’t want our baby to see you smoking, do you? Thinking it’s cool? Thinking smoking and drinking is what adults are supposed to do?”
Brennan shook his head.
“Don’t you think it’ll be hard, especially meeting other parents? I mean, are you going to be the dad who brings a flask to little league games?”
It was earl
y evening, and Brennan was past due for his first drink of the day. He felt defensive, gritted his teeth and said nothing, just held his tongue.
“All I’m saying, babe, is that it sends the wrong message. And if you need help, I’m here for you. I love you, and we can go to a program togeth—”
“A program?” He leapt up from the ottoman, stomped to the window. “You think I need some kinda program?”
Rosie got to her feet. She frowned. “I do.” She followed him and touched his shoulder, shifting her weight to one foot. “I just wanna help, Brennan. I—”
He shrugged his shoulder, bucking her hand. He glared at the overpriced bassinet from the corner of his eye, felt hot anger rush to the top of his head. “You’ve done enough, Rosie. Leave me alone.”
“Bren—”
“Leave me alone!” He slammed his palm on the window sill.
She nodded and gave a heavy sigh, frowning again, and exited the room in small steps.
Brennan turned his back to the wall, slid to the floor, where Fender peeked at him next to the bassinet. “What have I done?”
Chapter 15
The sun burned bright in the western sky, giving rise to flares of reddish gold across the jagged Montana landscape. Brennan squinted through his sunglasses for a better look, his eyes drawn to a cluster of clouds that somehow reminded him of Abby. A sassy purple elephant, he thought. Abby’s cloud.
A fast food joint off the interstate lured them in for dinner, and Franky held the door open for Rocco. “Isn’t it a rule that you have to eat steak for dinner when you’re in Montana?”
“You can get yourself a steak burger,” Rocco replied. “Close enough.”
They finished the drive to Missoula early that evening and arrived on Brooks Street, which looked to be the main stretch through town. There they found a Howard Johnson where they checked in for the night.
The trio climbed the stairs to the second level and entered their corner unit. Brennan, who hadn’t finished his dinner, opened the miniature refrigerator to find it dark, warm. He tossed his leftovers in the trash and turned to his friends. “There’s a hot springs ’bout thirty miles southwest of here. Saw it on a sign on the way in. Wanna go for a soak?” He nodded at Franky. “Might do your swollen hands some good.”
Rocco opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“I’m kidding, guys. Fuck.”
Franky grunted, cackled, his round stomach bouncing.
“Let’s just stay in,” said Brennan, “and do the last seven hours to Seattle first thing.”
Franky sat on the bed, flicked on the television. “Isn’t that where Starbucks comes from? Seattle?”
“Yup,” said Rocco. “But since when do you drink lattes and mocha-choca-bullshits?”
Franky gave him a blank stare. “I don’t. But it’d still be cool to go see it. The very first Starbucks. You guys figure there’ll be basic bitches everywhere or what?”
“I don’t even know how to answer that.” Brennan glanced at Rocco. “You try.”
“Sure, Franky. They’ll be all over the place. A whole army of white girls in UGG boots. Chinese lettering tattooed on the backs of their necks. Those thick glasses with the big frames, too, and they’ll all be wearing expensive yoga pants.”
Franky grinned, whistled, unaware that Rocco was being facetious.
Brennan took Fender out for a stroll. He walked back down the steps to the parking lot and headed for the far edge of the Howard Johnson property. Fender appeared to be mostly healed—his appetite still came and went, but he wasn’t limping, and he seemed a touch less lethargic. “You’re getting better, little buddy.” He smiled, said to himself, “And so am I, one day at a time.”
His phone rang and he peeked at the screen. He thought about letting it go to voicemail, but answered out of sheer curiosity. “Hello?”
“Brennan.”
“Hi, Carter.” It was nearing ten o’clock back home, and Brennan assumed his father-in-law must have had a good reason to be calling at this hour.
“Just took a little drive out to Williamsville to see you.”
“Oh?
“And it looks like you’re not home.”
“I’m not.”
“And where might you be at this hour?” Carter made no effort to disguise the contempt in his voice. He addressed Brennan in a tone cold and sharp, as if he were interrogating a man suspected of homicide.
“Carter, I’m out right now.” He rubbed his temple with his free hand. “What can I do for ya?”
Carter was slow to respond, but no less accusatory in his tone. “You can start by telling me what the hell you’re thinking leaving town right now.”
“What makes you think—”
“I talked to that Mexican neighbor of yours. The one collecting your mail while you skip town with those bums you call friends.”
“Oh, that neighbor. So much diversity in Williamsville, couldn’t be sure which Mexican you meant. And she’s Colombian, just for the record.”
“Very funny. I knew this would happen. I knew it. I told Eleanor. Told her for years. I said, ‘You mark my words. Rosalie’s gonna marry that guy and he’ll ruin her life.’ ”
“Carter, you and I are on the same team here. I—”
“You let her die, Brennan, alone. My granddaughter, too. You let them both die alone. It was your job to protect them and you failed.”
Brennan looked down at Fender, who was looking back up at him. They weren’t alone, he thought. Fender was there, and he survived. “It wasn’t my fault and you know it.”
“Of course it wasn’t. Nothing’s ever your fault, right? Spoken like true Masten Park trash. You leech off a good girl like my Rosalie for years, playing house while she’s out working to support you. Then her body’s not even cold in the ground and you’re already off spending that big insurance payout before it’s even yours.”
Brennan wasn’t sure how to respond. He was caught off guard, and days’ worth of guilt came rushing back to him. His pulse quickened and his breathing turned ragged.
“I’m gonna contest it, you know. Not that Eleanor and I need the money, but I’d rather burn it before letting you get your greedy little hands on it.”
Brennan wiped tears from his eyes. “You do that, Carter. More power to ya. Anything else?”
“You n-never loved her.”
“Carter . . .”
“You never l-loved her.” Carter muffled sobs between attacks. “Not like her m-mother and I did. She deserved better, you know.”
Brennan couldn’t disagree on that point. He whispered, “She deserved the best.” He stared straight up toward the evening sky, phone pressed tight to his ear, and spotted what he was certain was the same cloud he’d seen earlier that day. Abby’s cloud, he thought. “Do you feel better now, Carter? Now that you’ve made me the bad guy? You can make me the bad guy all damn day, but it won’t bring either of ’em back.”
A loud sniffle, then, “I wish it h-had been you.”
“If I could trade places, I would.”
“She was gonna leave you, y-you know. She told her mother that earlier this year.”
“That’s nonsense. You’re just trying to—”
“It’s not. I’m many things, Brennan, but I’m not a liar.” His words came out less forceful than before, now soft, subdued, deliberate, and clear. “She was going to leave you for good. And we told her to do it fast and to take Abigail with her. And never to look back.”
Brennan hung up and slid the phone in his pocket, angry, sad, defeated, confused, but mostly disappointed that he allowed his father-in-law to get under his skin. He looked back toward the sky, trying to make sense of it all, and saw the sassy purple elephant was right where he had left it.
He began to walk back toward the room with Fender, dragging his feet and kicking rocks. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said. Then louder, “It wasn’t my fault.” Finally shouting, “It wasn’t my fucking fault!” And for the first time since th
e crash, he found himself believing it.
It made no sense that Carter had blamed him for the death of his daughter and granddaughter, but neither did throwing himself in The Big Sioux River. He got down on Fender’s level and scratched behind his ears. “Guess we’re all fucked in our own way, huh?” He glanced up and saw that Abby’s cloud was gone and sighed. “No one deserves to mourn the death of their child, little buddy. He isn’t ready to hear it, but I know exactly how he feels.”
Chapter 16
Brennan finished clearing the dinner dishes and rounded the corner to find Rosie reading a novel on the couch. He stood in front of her and waited for her to look up. “It’s been two days,” he said.
She stopped reading and took off her glasses, studied his face.
“Since I last had a drink, Rosie. It’s been two days now.” He sat beside her and cleared his throat. “I can do this on my own.” He glanced at Fender, who was curled on a leather recliner. “You shouldn’t have even had to ask.”
Rosie held his stare. She put her hand on his and allowed him to continue.
“It’s just, ah, since, you know . . .”
“You lost Colin.”
“Yeah.” He swallowed hard and hesitated, wondering if he should elaborate. “Since then, I’ve, uh, just got used to taking the edge off, you know? I know that was years ago now, but . . .” He fidgeted his fingers beneath hers. “Somewhere along the way, it became a habit, I guess. It’ll . . . I’ll stop, my love. I swear.”
She smiled, moved an inch closer to him. “I believe in you, babe. I do. And I know you’ll do what’s right for our baby.” She brushed her fingertips across his face, kissed him.
“I’ll get help if I have to. But I think I can beat this thing on my own.” He motioned toward the recliner. “I’ve got Fender for support, too.”
Rosie leaned in for another kiss and stopped halfway. She tried to muster another smile but couldn’t. She stared at her lap. “Listen, there’s something else I want to talk to you about.” She moved a couple inches away from Brennan.