by L. E. Rico
“It’s okay to joke around. You know how much your father appreciates a good laugh,” he reminds me. “Besides, I think it can only do him good to hear you—your voice. Your laugh.”
“You think?” I ask, genuinely interested in his answer. “It’s been so long…do you think he’d remember what I sound like?”
The kindly priest smiles at me. “Scott, this man was there the day you came into this world. Trust me when I tell you that, from that moment on—from the instant he first heard you cry—the sound of your voice was etched in his memory for all of eternity.”
I start to make a comment but stop myself.
“Something else troubling you?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, no. I’m just…this is just a lot, you know?”
His turn to nod. “I do.”
“Father, have your ‘sources’ ever filled you in on why I left home?”
I’m not sure where the courage to ask the question comes from, but there it is before my filter can catch it. Father Romance looks at me for a long moment before answering.
“No one has ever told me, Scott. And, even if someone had, I’d never presume to give credence to something of that magnitude unless it came directly from you. Of course, I’ve always known of your love for exploration and foreign lands. But I also know that Project Peace was a convenient route to escape whatever demons were haunting you at the time.”
“Well, I appreciate that, Father Romance. There’s just so much that we left unsaid… And now, if something happens to him…” My voice peters out before I can complete the thought. Not that I have to. He gets it.
“What I can tell you for sure—and this is based on a lifetime of experience, including my own—is that a lot goes unsaid between fathers and sons. And that can make for some tragic misunderstandings. I’ve always suspected something like that happened between you and Big Win. But don’t you worry about that now, Scott. Because you’re here, home, where you belong. And I have every faith that you’ll have time to work through all of it with your father.”
I’m not so certain about that, but I don’t debate the point.
“Tell me,” he begins before I have time to formulate a comment on his last statement. “What are your plans for this evening?”
Well, I certainly didn’t see that one coming. Is Father Romance asking me out on a date? Is this what they call a “bromance?”
“Uh…nothing, really,” I reply, tearing myself away from my crazy thoughts. “I guess I’ll maybe get a quick bite out and come back here…”
“No, no, no. Your father wouldn’t want you fussing over him for hours on end. I have a much better idea.”
I’m immediately on guard. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“Well, tonight’s the final round of the pub quiz at O’Halloran’s. We never did get to it the other night what with Bailey’s crowning and all—so we postponed till this evening. Only, one of the teams is short a player. I was hoping you’d come join in. It’d be a good distraction for you, I think, and I’ll even buy you a pint,” he offers with an inviting grin.
“Oh, I don’t know if that’d be appropriate… Not with my father in this condition.”
“Of course it’s appropriate,” he insists. “Come at six, and we’ll get you set up with a team.”
“I should really check to see if Jameson needs help or a babysitter or something. With her arm in a cast…”
“Nope. I happen to know that Jackson and Win have a standing Tuesday night date at Sir Cheese-a-lot.”
“They do?” I find it hard to believe my brother would willingly spend an evening among screeching, germy children and a singing mechanical rodent.
“For all his faults, Win’s an exceptional father, Scott,” Father Romance says, reading my mind. “You can be proud of him on that count, at least.”
“But maybe not so much on the brother front,” I mutter, realizing, too late, that I sound like a bratty little kid.
The priest sighs and sits back in his chair, folding his surprisingly muscled arms across his chest.
“Scott, oftentimes people will go to great lengths to protect themselves from the past and, in the process, they end up doing the opposite—they hurt themselves and everyone around them. Now, I don’t know what happened between you and your father or you and Win… I don’t know why you chose to leave home so abruptly and never come back. But you’re here now, son, and I’d encourage you to use this time to face your demons. You don’t want another ten years to go by with this distance between you. Besides, your father may not have that kind of time.”
“I appreciate the advice, Father,” I mumble. And I do. I’m just not ready to hear it—or act on it. I can tell by the expression on his face that he knows what I’m thinking.
“Scott?” he asks me with a seriousness that makes me think he’s about to tell me how to handle all of this.
“Yes?”
“Do you recall the state bird of Minnesota?”
“What?”
“You know, the loon, son. The loon! You’d best be brushing up on your state trivia. There are always at least one or two questions about it that come up during the pub quiz.”
Home is where the loons are. And I’m officially home.
Chapter Thirteen
Jameson
“So…you think maybe you kissed the guy. While you were under the influence of some heavy duty narcotics. But you’re not sure,” Hennessy says, recapping what I’ve just told her as she sticks her head into the refrigerator.
“Yeah…that’s pretty much it,” I agree, absentmindedly chewing my fingernail.
“Stop it. You’re going to ruin your nails,” she chides, extricating herself and a peach yogurt before grabbing a spoon from the silverware drawer.
“Uh-huh…”
“Well, it could have been a dream. I mean, you were on Percocet, for God’s sake. We all know what that does to you,” she says, gesturing to the ceiling of our kitchen with her spoon. “I’m surprised you didn’t wake up thinking you were engaged to Ryan Gosling.”
I breathe a small sigh of relief. She’s right. It was probably just the Percocet talking.
“Although…” And once again my breath hitches as she continues. “They say that when people are drunk or stoned or, you know—on a substance that lowers their inhibitions—their ‘real’ feelings come out. So I suppose it is possible that you acted on some deep-seeded attraction for Scott Clarke.”
Definitely not what I want to hear right now.
“Since when are you a psychiatrist?” I demand with a skeptical scowl.
“Oh-ho! Hit a nerve, did I?” Now she’s pointing the spoon at me, and if she’s not careful, she’s going to be pulling it out of her perfectly upturned little nose in a minute. “You, sister dearest, doth protest too much.”
“What? I’m not protesting at all!”
“So you admit it!” she snipes back victoriously.
“No! Yes… Wait! Quit it, will you? I don’t know what… I can’t…” I stop, throwing my arms up in total frustration, only to be smacked by a jolt of pain that practically brings me to my knees.
“Oh! James! I’m so sorry…come, sit down at the table,” she says, spoon and yogurt tossed to the sink so she can pull out a chair for me. I accept it gratefully, and she sinks into the one next to it, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “I think so. My last dose of Tylenol is wearing off.”
“Tylenol? Is that strong enough for a break that bad? You must be in some serious pain!”
“Please don’t remind me. And yes, it’s fine—so long as I take it every six hours. It’s been about eight.”
Henny is up in a flash, pouring me a glass of water and setting it down, along with the red and white bottle. I toss a couple of caplets into my mouth and wash them down with a long gulp of water. When I look up, my sister is staring at me with some concern.
“Are you?” she asks.
“Am I what?”
/>
“Are you…attracted…to Scott?”
Yes.
“No! How could I be? I’ve known him for like five minutes.”
“You can’t deny he’s pretty damn hot.”
True.
“Is he? I hadn’t really noticed.”
“James, I’m not asking if you’re in love with the guy. I’m just wondering if maybe he’s making you rethink the whole ‘swearing off men’ position you’ve taken.”
Her words are a reminder. “Okay, listen,” I say, dropping my voice so Bailey won’t overhear from down the hall where she and Jackson are watching Bubble Guppies. “I maybe do think he’s—you know—handsome. And he’s really sweet and funny. But he’s also Win’s brother.”
“So?” She shrugs.
“So…you don’t think that has disaster written all over it?”
“Why should it? You’re divorced. He’s single. Win is no longer your husband, which means Scott is no longer your brother-in-law. Please, Jameson, I think Win’s the only one who’d object to the two of you as a couple.”
I hear Win’s voice in my head… “James, I don’t think you should be hanging around with Scott.” And I promptly put it aside.
“A couple…?” I scoff. “He’s only been in town for a few days and he’s going to leave as soon as things with Big Win are resolved…either way. Besides, even if I were interested—which I’m not saying I am—Win isn’t wrong about Scott’s tendency to cut and run. No sense thinking about something that’s never gonna happen. Even if he…”
“Even if he what?” My sister latches onto the three words with the tenacity of a pitbull.
I reach up and rub my temples in small circles to ease the ache that’s growing behind them. “I don’t… I’m not sure. I think he said something to me last night.”
“You mean when you were high?”
“I was not high! I was loopy. And silly. And beautiful…”
Henny sits up straight, quirks an eyebrow, and tilts her head. “He said you were beautiful, huh? And that’s when you kissed him, isn’t it?” she demands, trying to wear me down the way she does a witness on the stand in the courtroom.
“I don’t know!” I blurt out. “I think maybe so…but I’m not sure.”
“So let me get this straight… Scott Clarke brought you home and helped you undress and shower. He made sure you got all tucked into bed…”
“Please…I really don’t know…” I start to protest, wanting only for her to stop.
“He told you that you’re beautiful and then you kissed him. Does that sound about right?”
“Henny, what part of ‘I don’t know’ don’t you understand? I. Don’t. Know!”
She stops and sighs, adjusting both her manner and her tone. “Listen, James, I’m just pointing out that you were stressed, in a lot of pain and, I think, a little bit smitten. There’s no telling what he actually said to you. There’s no telling exactly what you did—or didn’t do—to him. That is, unless you want to go right to the source and just ask him what happened.”
“Smitten? I am not smitten!” I protest indignantly.
She’s reclaimed her snack from the sink and is now poking around for another spoonful of yogurt, not bothering to respond to my denial. She shrugs, and I want to slug her with my obnoxiously pink cast.
“You know what, Henny? I don’t give a flying fruitcake what you think about all this.” I mean for the words to come out as decisive, but they fall flat, landing somewhere in the neighborhood of petulant.
My sister looks at me, then down at the container in her hand. She twirls her spoon around in it thoughtfully before pulling it out, putting it in her mouth and licking it clean.
“You sure about that, James?” she begins, pointing the spoon in my direction like some royal scepter. Or maybe a magic wand. “’Cause you look pretty concerned right now.”
I grunt in frustration because she’s right. I’m smitten. And that’s just terrifying. Because if Hennessy can see through me, it won’t be long before someone else does, too.
Scott: “Hey, Siri, what’s your favorite pie?”
Siri: “That one. No, that one. Or maybe that one. Yep. That one.”
Chapter Fourteen
Scott
The truth is not an inanimate object. It is a living, breathing entity that is in a constant state of flux. It grows and shifts, changing shape and size and color to accommodate whomever it is that’s holding onto it. And that is what makes the truth so dangerous…one man’s isn’t necessarily the same as another man’s. That is also what makes the truth so elusive. But, by far, the worst thing about the truth is that what you believe it to be, and what it actually is, can be two entirely different things.
I don’t know what the truth of my past is, but as I sit at my father’s bedside, transfixed by the hums and buzz of machines all around us, I try to sort out a different truth. The truth of right now. Right here, in Mayhem.
“I…uh…I wish you could talk right now, Dad… Jeez, that sounded dumb, didn’t it? Of course I wish you could talk and open your eyes and breathe on your own. But, if you could talk, I’d want to ask your advice about something…about someone, actually.”
I pause and take a look around, just to be sure no stealthy nurses’ aide or phlebotomist is lurking in the half-lit room. Satisfied that I’m just being paranoid, I go for it.
“Well, I—uhhh…I find her really, really attractive, you know? But that’s just normal guy stuff, isn’t it? I mean, we’re wired to notice pretty girls. The thing is she’s not just pretty—beautiful, actually—she’s smart and funny and…and my God is she sweet. So you can probably see where I’m going with this…” I debate whether or not to reveal to my comatose father that she kissed me but decide against it. If he can hear me, the last thing I want to do is give the poor guy a heart attack!
“Anyway, Dad, don’t worry…I won’t act on it or anything. It’s too complicated, her being Win’s ex-wife and all. I promise I won’t disappoint you. And when you’re up to it, you and I can sort out all the other stuff, okay?” I give his hand a squeeze. “I love you, Dad.”
I berate myself all the way out of the hospital, into the parking lot, and out onto the road. Yeah, what a big, brave guy I am, spilling my secrets to a man in a coma so I won’t have to hear the disappointment in his voice or see the concern on his face.
While I was combing the house for my missing paperwork, I came across a shoebox in the top of his bedroom closet. Inside I found every letter and postcard I’d ever sent home over the last decade—not that there were many of them. Each one had been carefully opened, read, and repackaged in their envelopes, sorted by date. There were also a few press clippings about the work Project Peace does in Mexico, one of them with a grainy, black and white photograph of me and a few others with pickaxes and shovels slung over our shoulders.
I’m in my father’s truck now, navigating my way down Main Street with a little time to kill before this pub quiz thing starts.
“Why did I say I’d go?” I ask the empty cab of my father’s truck as I slam a hand on the steering wheel. I’ve been asking myself this stupid question all day. And each time I get the same ridiculous answer back in return.
Because I want to see her, that’s why.
“Nope. Nope, nope, nope,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head. It occurs to me that if anyone were to see me talking to myself, they’d think I was nuts. And they wouldn’t be wrong, considering the ideas that keep popping into my head, unbidden. And that, right there, is the God’s honest truth.
…
I’ve no sooner walked through the door than Janet Lahti comes flying out of the kitchen to greet me.
“Scotty! Scotty Clarke!” she shrieks happily as she throws her arms around me. “I knew you’d come! I’ve already got that table by the window in the back for you, and I just made a freshly brewed pot of coffee. Strong but light and sweet, right? Like that wonderful coffee they serve down in Mexico.”
I can only nod against the vice grip she has around my chest. When she finally lets go of me, even my voice seems a little squished. “But how did you know I’d be coming?” I ask before I can stop myself. Stupid question.
Janet Lahti has a very unique skillset. Not only is she one hell of a baker, she’s also a medium of sorts. And her medium “medium” of choice is pie. She claims that she receives messages through the pie. Some from the “great beyond,” some from the universe. Sometimes it’s a warning—other times a clue. Whether or not you believe in that sort of thing, she’s always entertaining and the pie is always exceptional.
I’m already debating what kind of pie I want to order as she directs me to the small table by the window, where a cat is lounging on the deep sill, taking in the morning sun. It’s wearing a lightweight gray sweater with a collar—a very nice accent to its silky white fur.
“Chairman Meow!” Janet exclaims, swooping in to grab it. “How did you get out here? You know very well that you can’t be in the dining room!”
“I’m sorry, but was that cat wearing a sweater?” I ask once she’s dispensed with her furry friend and returned, her wispy red-brown curls waving wildly around her head.
Janet nods. “Oh, yes. It’s from the Knitty Kitty.”
My mind reaches back for an image of Fluffy the iguana. “Oh! Yes, I’ve heard of that! This woman on the plane told me all about the owner…what’s her name? Julie…”
“Julie Freddino,” Janet supplies. “Scott, the woman is a genius with yarn and needles! And you know, it all happened because we adopted those cats…”
“Wait, adopted what cats?” I ask. Looks like maybe Iguana Lady left out a few details when she was telling me about Fluffy’s upcoming fitting.
“Oh, goodness, I suppose it was right after you left Mayhem… You remember all those storms down south that year? Well people all over town participated in a mass adoption of displaced cats. But that first winter those poor things froze their furry little butts off until Julie started knitting sweaters for them. And now she’s a dotcom millionaire! Good Lord! Taylor Swift buys them for her cats. In fact, Meredith Grey and Olivia Benson are guests of honor at the Knitty Kitty Katwalk coming up. You just know the Swifties will mob Mayhem for that!”