Reunion: Diversion Six

by Eden Winters

  Bo clutched his hand, an anchor to hold fast to.

  Curtains fluttered in the living room window. The door screeched open a few seconds later.

  Lucky stared into eyes so much like his own. Folks called him the spitting image of his father, but his eyes? He’d gotten those from Mom.

  Her worn apron spoke of the many meals she’d cooked, and the scent of bacon clung to her like a living advertisement for breakfast.

  She launched herself in his direction. Lucky wrapped his arms around her, steadied her trembling. “Oh God, Richmond. My son. My son.” Her back and forward swaying took him with her.

  This woman gave him life, raised him, loved him, tucked him in at night, punished him when necessary—not nearly enough—and though she went silent for a while, eventually accepted the prospect of Lucky never bringing home a wife.

  Home. He’d finally come home.

  “I’m so sorry for… so many things,” she choked out.

  A hand too large to be his mother’s found the middle of Lucky’s back. He absorbed support from his lover and tears from his mother. As long as she stayed, he’d hug her, whisper, “It’s okay, Mama. I’m here now. Everything’ll be just fine.”

  All too soon, his mother stepped back, wiping her face with her apron. “Look at me, keeping y’all on the front porch. Come in, come in.” She held the door open.

  Taking a deep breath, Lucky entered a house he’d never dared hope to set foot in again. Family pictures lined the walls in the foyer, many of him and his siblings as kids. His Mama and Daddy’s wedding photo no longer hung in the same place it’d been for all of his time here.

  And there, instead, hogging a wall by itself…

  Oh, dear God!

  An eleven by twenty-inch picture frame, the largest on the walls, displayed a photo of him, along with the newspaper write-up of how he’d died saving a fellow agent.

  His knees buckled. Bo’s arm around his waist kept him standing.

  Mom stood at his other side. “We’re so proud of you for turning your life around. And deeply ashamed of ourselves.” She stared at a worn spot on the throw rug at her feet.

  Lucky nodded toward the picture. “You can take that down now. I’m not dead.”

  His mother raised her head, but didn’t meet his eyes. “But you did save a man’s life.”

  Words lodged in Lucky’s throat.

  Bo answered for him. “Yes, he did. Mine.”

  Strange being back here. Lucky never noticed the distinct smell of the old home place before, a combination of lemon-scented wood cleaner and an underlying hint of old house. And over all… bacon.

  But something wasn’t quite right. His Mama shouldn’t be looking so guilty.

  The acrid scent of something burnt hit his nose. “Mama? You got something on the stove?”

  “Oh, Lord!” Mama threw her hands up and darted to the left, through the living room, and into the kitchen.

  The closed door on the other side of the foyer caught Lucky’s attention. His parents’ room. More than likely, one oak panel separated him from his father, the same way a thin curtain had in the hospital.

  He might prove to be a nasty surprise if Charlotte hadn’t talked to the old man yet. Lucky’d often stomped up the stairs to his room, but today he put his hand on Bo’s back and urged him toward the kitchen, stepping lightly. “Welcome to the farm.”

  “You still like your coffee black and sweet, right?” Mama shoved a mug nearly as old as Lucky into his hand the moment he entered the kitchen.

  “Yes, ma’am, but I drink decaf now, with stevia.” Though a cup of sugary-sweet full-caf might keep him going a while longer.

  “I’m afraid we don’t have decaf. Or stevia.” She took the mug back. “Can I get you something else? Sweet tea?”

  Lucky wouldn’t mention tea being caffeinated and full of sugar too. “Tell you what. Got any fresh milk? The store-bought stuff ain’t the real thing.”

  His mother gave a sniff and smiled. “Sure do. Old Bossy gave us a gallon this morning.”

  Mom named every milk cow they’d ever owned “Bossy.” This current milker must be Bossy the fifteenth or sixteenth.

  “How about you?” Mama turned her watery eyes Bo’s way.

  “Milk sounds good to me.”

  Probably the lesser of the evils. And Bo’s manners didn’t allow him asking for anything else, or turning down the offer completely. Southern mamas fed people as an instinct. Better to eat than be asked every five minutes, “Are you sure I can’t get you something?”

  Mama darted between the cabinet, the refrigerator, and back, with a glass of milk in each hand.

  Not even completely cold yet. Milk didn’t come any fresher, or with traces of cream floating on top. The refrigerator and stove were new, and somewhere along the line Mama finally got her wish of a dishwasher, but Granddaddy’s handmade white cabinet still took up one wall, and a table big enough to fit all seven Lucklighters showed the marks of time—and a few scratches from the pocketknife Lucky used to carry.

  Had Mama ever found the “REL” he’d carved underneath?

  A tablet computer, a new addition, sat on the counter, a recipe showing on the screen.

  Traces of coffee, bacon, and vanilla taunted his nose, along with the ghostly cinnamon of a million apple pies. Sweetest smell in the world.

  “You boys want some bacon?” Mama tossed out a few burned bacon strips and started over cooking more.

  Mmmmm… Bacon.

  “Nah, that’s all right.” Lucky’s stomach roared, calling him a liar.

  Mama set her spatula on a nearby spoon rest, hanging her head. With an unfamiliar chill in her tone, she said, “I didn’t know how to tell your Daddy about you and Bristol. Charlotte’s in with him now, trying to explain. I thought it best if she talks to him.”

  Really? Mama and Daddy had always told each other everything.

  “I hope this ain’t a bad time, but I needed to check on how y’all are doing.” And deep down inside, the little boy in Lucky needed his parents.

  Mama sniffled. “As well as can be expected, I reckon. I keep wondering where I went wrong, like I did with…” She shot Lucky an eyeful of guilt.

  Lucky placed his hands on her thin shoulders. “You didn’t do one thing wrong, Mama. You raised us right. Not your fault we went our own way.”

  “That’s what your sister keeps telling me. I’d never have made it these past few months without her.” She sighed. “And now you’re back. I’d always dreamed of having all my young’uns here again. Now…” Silent sobs racked her body. “After you… after they told us… oh, God, how it hurt. I’d lost you twice, the first time because of stubbornness, and then…”

  Once more Lucky offered all the comfort he could. He’d shed his tears for lost years later. For now, he’d be strong. For Mama.

  She rolled wet-lashed eyes upward. “Tell me. Did Bristol commit suicide? Reverend Hildebrand says suicides can’t go to Heaven.”

  The sobbing began anew. Charlotte appeared in the doorway. “I done told you, Mama, it don’t say that nowhere in the Bible that I’ve seen.” She gave Lucky a one-armed hug and eased their mother from Lucky’s arms into hers. “’Sides, we have to wait for the coroner’s report.”

  A world of hurt in his sister’s eyes hit Lucky so hard he staggered. He wouldn’t tell them how Bristol died. Not now. Not the time.

  Charlotte made a shooing motion with her hand. “Daddy’s waiting. Go talk to him. Bo, would you mind helping me with Mama?”

  Tiptoeing down the hall like he’d done when he’d stayed out late and snuck in after curfew came way too close to the anxiety-ridden trek he’d made from free man to jail cell.

  Lucky stood in front of the bedroom door. Breathe in/breathe out.

  He put one of his counselor’s calming exercises to use:

  Name five things you hear. His own panicked breathing, a rooster crowing in the yard, his sister crooning in the kitchen, a clank like a spoon in a cup, the c
reak of the board beneath his feet—the same one he’d fallen victim to in his youth.

  Name five things you see. Cracks in the plaster on the foyer wall, the unpainted oak of his parents’ bedroom door, the antique glass doorknob, the metal skeleton key Daytona jammed into the lock about twenty years ago and couldn’t get out. The photos hanging on the wall.

  Name five things you feel. His wildly thudding heart, his fist clenched tight, the beginnings of a stress headache, the ever so slight pull from his healing incision, sweat beads sliding down his face. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. No, not sweat. Tears.

  The voice he never dared dream to hear again shouted, “Well, you planning on staying out there forever or getting your ass in here?”

  Oh shit. Show time.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Lucky turned the knob, eased the oak door open, and stepped inside. No hiding the tremor in his hands and legs.

  A patchwork quilt covered the iron-framed bed, and the lamp sported a lop-sided, hand-crocheted shade—one of Charlotte’s earlier works.

  Great-grandfather’s clock sat on the mantel, likely placed there by the man himself after he’d built the house. The faint hint of tobacco lingered—not from smoking, but from a man who’d spent his whole life planting and harvesting the stuff.

  His father cleared his throat.

  The man seated in a chair by the window appeared older than his years. His illness had taken a toll. The same furrow often found on Lucky’s face formed a permanent trench between his father’s eyes, and hair once the same color as Lucky’s bore a smattering of white.

  Daddy gripped the arms of the rocking chair, fingers stained and work worn. “Your sister says I wouldn’t be sitting here now if it wasn’t for you.”

  Lucky stayed quiet. So far so good, and talking might break the winning streak.

  “Why?” How’d Daddy manage to pour so much suspicion into one word?

  “Why what?”

  Curious eyes met Lucky’s own. “Why did you let them cut you open? For me.”

  “You’re my Daddy. I couldn’t let you die.”

  “Nice to know family still means something to you.”

  What? Daddy turned his back, not Lucky. “It always did. I don’t know what it means to you, but I talked to a lot of dial tones.” He hadn’t really expected open arms, but he hadn’t expected hostility either.

  “And my son let me believe he died.”

  “I spent the last twelve plus years eating Christmas dinner alone.” And the last one he’d eaten in a greasy spoon restaurant, but not alone. Never alone again. Not with Bo in his life.

  “And there was an empty chair around the family table.”

  “I’d of been in that chair if you’d’ve let me.” Ah, hell. Lucky never should have come here. What did he expect from a man who’d turned his back? Stubborn mule never admitted to being wrong or even listened to another’s point of view.

  Bo might comment about the apple not falling far from the tree.

  What now?

  Neither said a word, sizing each other up from a few feet and a thousand miles away. His father spoke first. “You look pretty good for a dead man.”

  Lucky flushed all the way up to his ears. “I’m sorry ‘bout that, but honestly, at the time, I didn’t figure you’d care.”

  “What kind of father do you take me for?”

  Lucky clenched and unclenched his fist. “That kind who hangs up whenever his son calls. Every time I called, you slammed the phone down. Victor dead, me facing years in prison. I needed you.”

  “I thought you’d hurt Daytona.”

  “And you never bothered to even ask? At least I got a trial with the law. With you I got condemned and sentenced without saying one damned word.” Maybe Lucky should leave and pretend this conversation never happened.

  Daddy stared out the window. “I drove down to Durham for your trial.”

  “I didn’t see you.” Lucky leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his chest.

  “I stayed in the truck. Couldn’t bring myself to go in. I was mad. And yes, at the time, I thought you were where you belonged.”

  Ouch. “It wasn’t only you. Mama, Grandma and Grandpa, my brothers. The only one in this whole family who stood by me was Charlotte.”

  If Lucky hadn’t known the man so well, he might have missed the wince. “I told them about you, how you made your living, you being more than Victor’s employee. I didn’t tell anybody but your mama about you sending drugs to Daytona, just said to leave you alone.”

  The man might never know the amount of pain he’d handed down. He’d forfeited any right to make Lucky watch his mouth. “They could have told you to fuck off.”

  Daddy nodded. “I made sure they didn’t.”

  Anger and pain ripped at Lucky’s insides. “Then I’m not sure we have anything left to say to each other.” He turned and reached for the doorknob.

  So quietly Lucky barely heard, his father said, “Please don’t go. I’m sorry, I’m screwing this up. Sit. I need to talk to you.” He gestured toward the bed. Lucky stayed put.

  Daddy sighed. “Your mama did what I told her, even though she didn’t want to. I warned her not to see you, call you, or answer your calls.” He met Lucky’s eyes. “Do you remember how we used to be? Me and your mother? When my friends told me stories about their wives cheating, spending too much, or drinking, I remembered how blessed I was. We loved each other dearly.”

  His parents’ affection gave Lucky a model to work toward with Bo. But, “Loved?”

  “Ever since I put my foot down, things have been tense, her resentment growing every day. Then… Then we got word you died. She came to me, said, ‘You cost me my son. You don’t get to tell me anything anymore.” Daddy wiped at his eyes with his fingers. “She moved upstairs to Bristol’s old room, hung that picture of you on the wall right outside the door, and dared me to say anything. I believe if I hadn’t gotten so sick, she would’ve left me outright.”

  Holy hell. “Charlotte didn’t know?”

  Daddy shook his head. “No, we didn’t talk about our personal problems to our kids, but we didn’t talk to each other anymore either. Daytona found out when he moved back home, as Charlotte did when she came to stay.”

  Of all of Lucky’s feared homecoming scenarios, he’d never imagined anything like this. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything yet. But my stubbornness is coming home to roost. My parents took your Mama’s side, now they’re not speaking to me either. And all because I judged my son.”

  Hard to feel sorry for the man, under the circumstances. “I know I’ve done my share of terrible things, but you never gave me a chance.”

  “And I’m paying the price. I just found out my living son is dead, and my dead son’s still living. And is the reason I’m still breathing. Thank you for that, by the way. ‘Specially under the circumstances.” Dad drew in a harsh breath. “That had to be a hard decision.”

  “Not at all.” Lucky parked his ass on the edge of his father’s bed, much as he’d done years ago during heart-to-heart talks with this man. “How much did Charlotte tell you?”

  “That it wasn’t you sent Daytona drugs. Most likely Bristol done it.” Daddy stared out the window. If he didn’t already know about the life insurance policies, Lucky wasn’t telling. Not the time or the place.

  Broken. He’d expected pride, stubbornness, anything but his idol fallen from a pedestal and smashed in pieces on the ground. Must be Bo’s influence, the sudden bout of compassion. “I… I missed you, old man.”

  “Wasn’t a day gone by I didn’t miss you.” The man Lucky still wanted to admire lifted his head, gave a sniff, and blinked hard. “I hear you’re some kind of cop now.”

  “I’m a senior agent with the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau. I put away guys like me.” Oh crap? Had Lucky actually straightened and held his head higher?

  “Guys like you used to be.
Charlotte also said you done bought a house and built a nice life for yourself.”

  “Yeah, Daddy, I did.”

  “You’ve turned into one hell of a man. A better man than me.” Again with the staring out the window.

  Silence lasted long enough to make Lucky worry if he should leave.

  “Are you a good enough man to forgive me for being a stiff-necked fool who turned his back on his own son?”

  Wait! What? “What did you say?”

  Pain shone in Daddy’s glistening eyes when he turned Lucky’s way. “What I did, there’s no excuse for, no matter what reason I thought I had. But if you can’t forgive me, hate me all you need to, but please don’t hold my stupidity against the rest of the family.”

  “You mean that? You’re really sorry?” And all these years Lucky’d simmered in self-hate for having deserved his shunning.

  “I’ve never been sorrier.”

  “Look—”

  Daddy held up a hand. “I know I’ll never be able to say or do anything to make it up to you, but if you’ll let me, I’ll try.”

  For years Lucky had clung to guilt for Victor’s death, and the certainty he’d lost his parents by his own actions. “I’m a stubborn ass myself, but there’s a man out in the kitchen with Mama who’d have a few choice words for me if I said no.”

  “Then he must be a good man too.”

  “None better.” For a one-time consummate liar, the truth fell so easily from Lucky’s tongue these days. But Daddy? Sorry? “You have no idea how bad your turning your back hurt me. Especially when I had no idea what all you blamed me for. I thought it was because I got arrested and I deserved to lose my family.”

  Daddy shook his shaggy head. “I’m learning. I’m getting a dose of my own medicine. It don’t taste none too good.”

  Outside a goat cried out. When Lucky lived here, he’d be making sure the critter hadn’t gotten its fool head stuck in a fence.

  Weathered skin and recovering health aged Clarence Lucklighter, his arms permanently browned by countless hours spent working in the sun. “You should know that when the doctor told me I didn’t have long if I couldn’t get a transplant, a part of me wanted to call it quits. I’m glad I didn’t. Even if you never speak to me again, and I’d understand if you didn’t, it’s good to see you again, son.”