Unexpected Family

by Molly O'Keefe

  “I’m fine. Just a knick.” He smiled around his thumb as if to convince her.

  Her heart thudded hard in her chest at that sweet smile of his and she dropped her hands.

  “Didn’t mean to spook you,” she said.

  “Don’t worry none.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes, furtive and searching all at the same time.

  She liked it.

  All of those men at her church in L.A.—widowers and divorced men, asking her out for coffee or ice cream after prayer group—handsome men, devout and reliable, some of them were even rich. But they left her cold. Unmoved.

  Why this man? she wondered.

  “I brought you a sandwich.” She pointed to the sad sandwich beside his foot.

  “It’s 9:00 a.m,” he pointed out, and she actually willed herself not to blush.

  “Thought you might be hungry.”

  He pulled his thumb from his mouth and she saw the thin trickle of blood from the pad of his thumb. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “You need a bandage.”

  “I’m fine, Sandra. I’ve had worse cuts in my life.”

  The silence stalled and sputtered around them. “What happened with Carla?”

  “She left.”

  Sandra laughed before she could help herself. “Any idea why?”

  “I told her to.”

  Sandra nodded as if that made sense. As if that were the wisest course of action. “They’re running out of people willing to come out here and meet you.”

  “Good.”

  “You mean to make it hard on them?”

  “I mean to not have a babysitter.” He went back to his wood, the knife in his hand, despite the fact that he was bleeding. Despite the fact that his hands trembled half the damn day, despite the fact that she was standing right in front of him. Itching. Absolutely itching for a fight.

  “It’s so simple for you, isn’t it? Damn what everyone else wants or needs.” She was nearly yelling and Walter gave her one astonished look before glancing back down at the wood in his hands.

  The impulse to rip that wood out of his hands startled her. I’m so damn tired of being ignored by the men in my life.

  “I don’t want to fight you, Sandra.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  His eyes glittered, hot and then cold, and she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even begin to talk.

  Yes, she thought, this is it. The beginning of something. Anything.

  “Thank you.” He attacked the wood as if it had attacked him. “For the sandwich, for taking care of this ranch like you have all these years. We are in your debt. I…am in your debt. But please…” His eyes held worlds of sadness. “Leave me alone.”

  You said you were going to fight, but you avoid me. You love me and you can’t even look at me. I don’t know how to do this. How to feel this way and not be ashamed.

  But I am not going to leave you alone.

  “No.”

  “I hurt you, Sandra. Put hands on you.”

  “You thought I was Vicki.”

  “Doesn’t matter. A.J. would skin me alive.”

  A.J. A.J. It always came back to A.J. For her, for everyone around her, and she couldn’t stand it anymore. She couldn’t keep up the act anymore. Years of being the dutiful wife and she was sick to death of it.

  Enough, the tiger of her temper roared, enough.

  “A.J. didn’t love me.”

  Walter nearly dropped the knife. “What…what are you talking about? Sandra, you were married for thirty years. He worshipped you.”

  She laughed, unable to stop it. “Worshipped? What a funny word to use.”

  “Sandra. You’re confused, you’re—”

  “Do. Not. Tell me what I am,” she said. “He didn’t love me. Not…not like a husband should.”

  “He was a hard man, quiet.”

  “It was more than that, Walter.”

  “What…what are you talking about?” He stared at her, a lost kid confused.

  Oh, what was she doing? Why was she going to inflict this secret on Walter?

  Because I am stuck behind it.

  Lost behind it.

  Tired of carrying it.

  She couldn’t admit she wanted this man, this damaged but determined man. She certainly couldn’t fight for him when the whole world believed she and A.J. had been happy.

  “What are you saying, Sandra?”

  She’d never said it. Not out loud. Didn’t actually have proof other than years of observing a man who was constantly repenting something. And suddenly looking at Walter she couldn’t do it.

  She turned to flee back to the house, but Walter stood, grabbed her hand. She gasped at the touch, the heat of his skin against hers. The size of his hand, the strength. She closed her eyes in surrender to it. In longing for it.

  “Sandra—”

  “He loved me as a friend,” she said.

  “Was it an affair?”

  She shook her head. “I…think he was gay.”

  Walter dropped her hand, his face red. “Nonsense.”

  “He was my husband, Walter. He had secrets.”

  He stepped back. And back again. “You’re wrong.”

  “I spent years praying that was the case, but…I don’t think I am. I think there was someone before we were married. He hated himself for it. I think—secretly—he hated me for it.”

  Walter stared up at her and, in an instant, all that anger was gone. And she was left cold and guilty. So cold.

  “I shouldn’t have told you,” she murmured, and walked away, ashamed that she wanted him to stop her and then more ashamed when he didn’t.

  * * *

  LUCY MET BEN AT THE BUS stop again on Thursday afternoon. Gray storm clouds clung to the mountains, sending thick feelers over the peaks. The whole world looked dark and fierce. Exactly like she felt.

  “What are you doing?” she asked once the bus was gone. She crossed her arms over her chest determined not to be undermined by a kid.

  He’s a kid. You’re an adult. Act like it.

  “It’s Thursday, I’m coming to your house.”

  “Yeah, but why did you tell Jeremiah that everything was going fine. Why did you lie?”

  “Why did you?”

  “Ohhhh, no.” She took a step back. “What are you after?”

  He shrugged. “I like it here.”

  “Sleeping in the barn?”

  “I’m not sleeping.”

  She had visions of matches and dry hay, the ranch on fire. “What do you do?” she asked in a hard voice.

  “Talk to Walter.”

  If he had said “talk to the chickens” she wouldn’t have been any more surprised. “Walter?”

  “The old guy. Yeah.”

  “What…” She didn’t even know how to compute this. “What do you talk about?”

  Ben shrugged, lifting his backpack over his shoulder. “Stuff.”

  “That’s…crazy.”

  Ben didn’t like that and he turned, stomping toward the ranch.

  “Ben, I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever. I thought this would be good for you. You get to be the hero with my uncle and you don’t even have to deal with the screwed-up kid—”

  “You’re not screwed up,” she said after him.

  “That’s all you’ve been calling me since we met.”

  She gasped, stopped in her tracks. Oh, no. Was that…was that true? “Ben…I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever.” He sneered over his shoulder and just kept on walking toward the barn.

  She’d hurt him. When she’d meant to help.

  Walter wasn’t at his seat and she watched Ben disappear into the shadows at the back of the barn. Ben wasn’t going to talk to her. It wasn’t a matter of letting him cool down, she’d crossed a line with him. Crossed it nearly the first time she opened her mouth.

  With her heart like lead in her chest, she realized that she had to go ask Walter—of all people—to look after Ben.
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  She’d blown all her fresh starts.

  * * *

  WALTER PACED THE HALLWAY, the thump and slide of his crutch loud in the silence. He knew Sandra could hear him in her room, but she wasn’t coming out. In front of her door he lifted his hand to knock but found himself unable to do it.

  Good Lord, he wanted a drink. He wanted a whole damn bottle. He wanted to drown himself in whiskey.

  A.J. Gay?

  What a secret. And the real ache—the real pain—was that it didn’t matter if it was true or not; Sandra believed it was and she lived her life with that doubt.

  Beautiful Sandra pretending for all those years that her marriage was perfect. And his friend. His best friend, A.J., living a lie.

  Gathering his ragged courage he knocked on the door and waited. She didn’t open it, but he could feel her on the other side.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to the wood. “I…didn’t do that right. If…you… Ah, Christ, Sandra.” He thunked his head against the door. “If you want to talk…or whatever…I’m here. I’m…yeah. Here. For you. If you want that.”

  Why would she? he thought. You desperate old drunk.

  He waited one more second, the silence pounding and pulsing in his head.

  “Walter?” Lucy’s voice flooded the hallway and he turned as quickly as he could with his gimpy foot and headed toward the kitchen. Not wanting to be caught outside Sandra’s door.

  They met in the foyer. There was something in the air for the Alatore women today. Lucy looked as shattered as Sandra.

  Did Lucy know about her dad? Did anyone? Had Sandra carried that all alone?

  “You okay?” he asked, and she stopped in her fancy boots, her feather earrings lifting in the breeze she’d created.

  “No, Walter. I cannot believe I’m about to say this—” She shook her head like she just couldn’t believe what was happening. “I need you.”

  “Me?”

  The big breath she sucked down shook at the bottom and he realized she was far more upset than she appeared. “It’s Ben.”

  “He in the barn again?” He leaned sideways to look out the glass surrounding the front door.

  “He says…he says you talk to him?”

  “Well, I’d hardly call it talking.”

  “Then what do you call it?”

  “I didn’t kick him out of the barn. He told me he gets in trouble and I could relate. That’s about it.”

  “Whatever it is you’re doing—” she was getting shrill, accusatory “—it’s certainly better than whatever I’m doing. I’m totally failing… .” She stopped herself, swallowing her wild emotions, and Walter, without the cushion of being drunk, felt scraped raw just being near her. He wasn’t sure what to say, what she needed him to say.

  It was Sandra all over again.

  For a wild moment he thought about saying nothing and walking away. Surely there had to be a bottle around this house somewhere? That’s what he would have done two weeks ago. And hell, maybe two weeks from now he’d do the same thing, but right now he was stuck.

  Lucy hung her head. “I need your help, Walter,” she whispered.

  It had been a very long time since he’d been needed for anything and for a moment it was uncomfortable. Resentment reared its head.

  Sober and needed. Never thought he’d see the day. Again.

  But then purpose shored him up, stayed his childish tongue. Once upon a time he’d been a man people could count on. A man other men pointed to and said, “Walter McKibbon can get the job done.”

  He’d been proud of that. And how long had it been since he’d been proud of himself?

  More days than he could count.

  “It’s all right, Lucy. I can handle it.”

  Her unhappiness with the situation was no vote of confidence. Obviously reluctant, she nodded. “Thank you.”

  Walter headed out to the barn and he didn’t let himself doubt. He didn’t even give himself a chance to wonder if his instinct was right or not. He’d been stuck in mud for so damn long, doubting himself, that if he gave himself a second he’d get stuck again.

  Work was what was needed. Some good honest labor. He found the bucket in the tack room and filled it up with two parts water, one part vinegar. He threw in some sponges and rags. Water sloshing down his leg, he carried them over to his chair.

  Back in the whitewashed tack room he pulled his saddle and bridle out from behind Jack and Mia’s gear. Mildew and mold had turned the brittle leather white. There were two other saddles behind the tack that got used more often—his ex-wife’s—and the small one he’d used with Jack when he was little.

  They were white and brittle, too.

  What the hell, he thought, and tried to pull them out. He strained, dropping his cane, stumbling slightly with the awkward weight. He swore, loud enough that anyone in the barn could hear.

  “Do you need help?” a voice asked, and Walter turned to find Ben.

  That worked at least, he thought.

  “I would, son. Thank you.”

  The nine-year-old wasn’t all that strong, but at least his ankle worked. It took them a few turns to get all the stuff but soon they had all the old gear spread out in the grass in front of his chair.

  “What are you going to do?” the boy asked.

  “Grab a cloth,” Walter said as he sat and pointed to the ripped T-shirts hanging over the edge of the bucket.

  The boy hesitated and Walter squinted up at him, the muted end-of-day sun resting just over Ben’s head, creating a halo. Unlikely, but he wasn’t the one to judge.

  Walter bent back over his work, pushing the cloth into the mixture until it saturated, and then working it over the brittle leather, trying to get rid of the mildew.

  “It stinks,” Ben said.

  “Vinegar.”

  “What’s it do?”

  “Gets rid of the mold.”

  “Why is it moldy?”

  “I haven’t used it in a while.”

  “You’re sick, right?”

  Jesus Christ, what the hell is this? Was he asking about the Parkinson’s or the drinking?

  “I guess.”

  “You gonna die?”

  Walter paused, his heart taking a hard, heavy chug in his throat. He’d been killing himself with drink. Not taking his medicine. It was all part of his plan to ease right on out of this life.

  He thought about Sandra, the bruise on her wrist, the fire in her eyes. Why did she tell him about A.J.? Him? What did she want? What could she possibly be looking to him for? A month ago he’d been a dead man walking and now…now he didn’t know what he was.

  But maybe he’d earned himself a few years to figure it out.

  “Everyone dies. But hopefully I’ve got some time.”

  “My mom died.”

  Walter nodded, not daring to look up at the boy. He was too old for this. Too uneasy in his sobriety. Too lost in his feelings for Sandra. He couldn’t add Ben’s grief to his already full plate.

  Full plate? He nearly laughed at himself. There was nothing on his plate. Not one damn thing. Scaring away nurses? Ignoring Sandra? Trying every damn minute of every damn day not to drink?

  He needed distraction. He glanced sideways at the boy and saw a kid so twisted with grief he didn’t know where to go.

  He’d been there. Spent years in that place. Turned to a bottle to make it better.

  “I’m real sorry about your mom. And your dad.”

  “I barely remember him.”

  Walter nodded like he understood, but he didn’t. No one could. Silence stretched and pulled so hard Walter shifted just to break the soundless scream in the air around him.

  Ben collapsed cross-legged next to him and reached for a cloth. “Everyone wants to talk about my feelings.”

  He said feelings the way Walter would say feelings, like it was a bad word.

  “I don’t.” Walter wanted that clear.

  Halfheartedly, the kid rubbed at the brass tack on Jack’s small saddl
e.

  “You won’t get any mildew off like that. You gotta get in there.”

  The kid put some elbow grease into it and Walter nodded in approval.

  “But no one wants to talk about my mom.” The kid attacked the leather, his hand a blur. His face red.

  He wants to cry, Walter thought.

  “What if I forget her, too?” the boy whispered.

  Oh. Oh, Lord. Please let me do this right. Please.

  “Your mom is a hard woman to forget.”

  “Then why doesn’t anyone want to remember her?”

  Because it hurts to remember. It’s why he drank. But there was no explaining that to a nine-year-old.

  “You know that creek that separates our spreads?” Walter asked, putting the T-shirt back in the bucket and squeezing it out.

  “Yeah.”

  “You know how it rises when it rains?”

  “Mom always told us to stay away from it after the rains. She said it was dangerous.”

  He laughed. “Well, I figure she would know. I had to save her and a nearly drowned calf one year. She couldn’t have been much older than you.”

  “What…” The boy stopped rubbing the saddle, his hands fists in his lap. “What happened?”

  “There’d been a big storm the night before. Scattered all our new calves to hell and back and she was chasing one down and they both got too close to the creek.”

  “She fell in?”

  He looked up at the boy. “Your mom? Hell, no, boy. Annie Stone jumped in after that calf. Got caught in a tree limb that had fallen across the water and I found her about an hour later, screaming her head off.”

  A muscle twitched in the boy’s face—a smile maybe.

  “Where was the calf?”

  “On the side of the creek waiting for her. Two of the saddest animals I’ve ever seen.”

  Again, that little muscle twitched in the corner of his mouth. And then slowly, Ben reached into the bucket and rinsed out his cloth. He bent back to his work, but calmly. The frantic emotion gone.

  “Work on the white stuff on the bottom,” Walter said, passing the saddle to the boy and picking up the bridle.

  “You know any more stories about my mom?”

  Oh, man, so many of them were lost to the booze and the years. But there were a few pieces he still remembered.

  “She had a dog—”

  “Pirate. She told us a lot about Pirate.”

  “Did she tell you Pirate nearly killed my dog Duchess?”