Gus

by Kim Holden

  Pax calls out, “Shotgun!”

  I reach into my pocket, pull out a key, and toss it to Pax.

  He catches it and looks questioningly at it.

  “I call shotgun, but you’re driving, dude,” I counter.

  Scout shakes her head. “You’ve never ridden with him, Gustov. He is not driving my car.”

  I smile and taunt her. “You’re such a pussy when it comes to driving. Seriously, he can’t be that bad?”

  She’s not offended, but she’s gone from shaking her head to nodding. “He’s that bad.”

  Pax is pointing to himself. “Standing right here. And I can hear you.” It’s a reminder, that while she’s not offended, he is.

  “Well, dude, try not to kill me then. Or wreck your new-to-you car.”

  His eyes bulge like a cartoon character. “What?” It’s loud, which is so unlike him. The people across the lot are gawking at us now.

  I smile and point to the car parked next to Impatient’s. It’s fifteen years old and has a shit ton of miles on it, but it’s a clean beater and runs great. It’s also Pax’s now. I bought it yesterday. “It’s yours. We’ll call it an early birthday present.” His birthday is tomorrow.

  He’s stunned.

  Impatient is stunned.

  This is priceless.

  I love doing nice things for people. Not that it has to be a grand gesture, because let’s face it, a car is a little over-the-top. Just something nice. It’s grounding. It reminds me that we’re all in this game called life together. It’s also circular … you give it … you get it.

  I gave it.

  And looking at them, standing here so gracious, and so happy, I’m getting it back tenfold.

  And now it’s Pax’s turn to hug me.

  And then it’s Impatient’s turn to hug us both.

  We’re standing here, in a group hug, practically singing fucking “Kumbayah.”

  The people across the lot are still ogling.

  I buckle in next to Pax and ride home with him.

  Scout was totally right. Pax could use some lessons in signaling, merging, stopping, and even just keeping the car in his own lane. I’m not a religious man, but I may have recited the Lord’s prayer two or twenty times during the ride.

  When Pax walks ahead of us into the house, I pause with Impatient outside. “You’re right. He’s fucking horrible. The dude has no fucking depth perception. He tails the car ahead of him like he’s being towed. The passenger side imaginary brake pedal is for real. I wore it the fuck out.”

  She smirks. “Told you.” And holds out her fist.

  I bump knuckles. “I need some fucking gum. My nerves are shot.”

  Wednesday, December 20

  (Scout)

  “They didn’t even call, Scout. It’s my birthday and they couldn’t even make a goddamn phone call.” There’s disappointment in his voice, like he’s floating alone in a sea of letdown.

  I nod and battle with myself, wondering if this is the time to tell him about his mom.

  He beats me to it and starts talking again before I do. “I shouldn’t be surprised, really. I’m sure mom’s drunk and dad’s busy.”

  It’s then that I make the decision. “Paxton, Jane’s in rehab.”

  He’s sitting on the corner of my bed with his back mostly to me, but turns to face me. The movement is slow like he’s trying to decide if he heard me correctly or not. His eyebrows are tight with confusion, but his eyes look hopeful—an expression that contradicts itself, like he’s been handed the gift he’s always wanted but if he opens it a grenade might go off. “Rehab?”

  “Uh-huh. She checked herself in about two months ago. From what I understand she can’t have contact with anyone outside the facility until she completes the program. She’ll be there another two to three weeks.” I’m holding my breath the entire time I’m telling him, because I don’t want him to be let down if she doesn’t complete it. My dad’s a career alcoholic; I know what it’s like to be in Paxton’s shoes. I knew never to let my heart hope.

  His eyes drop. He’s thinking about it, but when his eyes rise and meet mine again the momentary hope is gone and he shakes his head doubtfully. “She’s not strong enough. She’ll never do it.”

  My heart clenches like a dishcloth being wrung out inside my chest. “Sometimes it isn’t a matter of being strong enough, Paxton. Alcoholism is a disease.”

  “Don’t. Just don’t, Scout. I know you’ve lived with it, too, but she chooses to wake up every day and drink. She chooses it over me. Every fucking day of my life.” He takes a deep breath and it’s as if the happiness of the past few weeks is deflating before my eyes.

  I know how he feels. My dad’s alcoholism is the reason I haven’t lived with him since I was eleven. It’s the reason uncle Jim thought it would be better if I lived with him and Jane. Here’s the thing about alcoholism. It’s destructive on many levels and to many degrees. While Jane uses it to dampen her feelings, the depression, the inadequacy; my dad was a partier. He used it to turn himself into the person he wanted be. The person he thought other people wanted him to be. The problem was he forgot who he was when he was sober and embraced the drunk version instead. And when that happened I never saw my real dad again. He was absent. The drunk dad pursued people and a lifestyle and forgot to be a parent. It’s not that he’s forgotten about me altogether. I still talk to him about once a year. Does he love me? Sure. Is he good at showing it? Not at all. That’s life. I’ve accepted it.

  Paxton hasn’t. I’m not saying he should. He’s only eighteen. And Jane’s depression immobilizes her. Couple that with the alcohol, and it breeds resentment in Paxton.

  His eyes are filling up with tears. I hate this part. It kills me when he cries. I’ve seen it too many times. He has the gentlest heart and watching it get crushed repeatedly is almost too much.

  “Come here,” I say gently.

  I’m sitting on my bed with my back against the headboard. He crawls up the bed toward me and is sobbing by the time he wraps his arms around me. I hold him and I let him cry, just like every time before, and I pray to God that Jane helps herself so that I don’t have to watch this sweet boy cry anymore.

  When his breathing resumes to a natural cadence and he’s just resting his cheek on my shoulder, I ask, “Did you have a good birthday, Paxton? I mean before all of this.” I know he did.

  He nods against my shoulder.

  “What was the best part?” He needs to focus on something positive.

  He sniffs a couple of times to clear his nose. “I don’t know. The cupcakes were really good.” He lifts his head slightly so that he’s looking at me, and he quickly apologizes, “No offense, Scout, you make really good cakes.”

  I laugh. “None taken. I agree; Audrey’s cupcakes are way better than my cake.”

  He smiles and rests his head back on my shoulder. “I think what I liked most was just hanging out with you and Gus and Audrey. It felt like a real family, you know? I know eighteen-year-old guys shouldn’t get so excited over a barbeque, watching their favorite movie, and eating cupcakes … but I did. Everyone just wanted to make me happy today.”

  “Of course we want to see you happy, Paxton.”

  “I know you always do, but they don’t have to. They just do it. And not just on my birthday. They do it every day. Every day they’re nice, Scout. I like it here. Why couldn’t you have found Audrey and Gus ten years ago?”

  I laugh. “Because I was fourteen, I wasn’t really in the market for a job then.”

  He laughs, too. “I guess so.” It’s quiet for several moments before he says, “I’m glad things didn’t work out between you and the jerk.”

  “Why do you say that?” I know he never liked Michael. He always called him the jerk and that was after meeting him once.

  “Because there’s someone out there who’s perfect for you. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

  “You think someday I’ll meet the one?” I ask, smiling.

 
; “I think you’ve already met him.” He’s talking about Gustov. I know he is.

  I don’t answer.

  Friday, December 22

  (Gus)

  “Is this the Joe, proprietor of the infamous Joe’s Bar?”

  “Hey, man, is this Gustov the globe-trotting rock legend Hawthorne?”

  “Nah, this is just Gus. I am shopping the hell out of some groceries at the moment though. That’s as legendary as it gets in my world these days.” I’m in the middle of the grocery store pushing my cart down the cereal aisle and trying to decide between Fruity Peebles and Captain Crunch.

  He laughs. “I won’t keep you long. I know Rook is big shit now and you’ve outgrown my bar, but the band that was supposed to play New Year’s Eve just backed out on me. I was wondering if you guys would like to slum it and play a set? Should I be talking to your management or something? Like I said, I know you’re big time now and you can tell me to go fuck myself, but I miss having you guys in here.”

  Anxiety initially grips me, but without thinking I’m asking, “So, next week?”

  “Yeah, I know it’s short notice. Sorry, brother.”

  And then I’m confirming, “We’ll be there.” Where the hell did that come from? Playing in my bedroom is one thing. I don’t know if I’m ready for the crowds again.

  “Really?” He sounds shocked.

  “Let me call the guys, but yeah, I think we can make it happen. I’ll call you back.”

  “Right on. Call me.”

  “Will do. Gimme five.”

  I send out a text to Franco, Robbie, and Jamie. They all respond immediately, which means that they’re hyped. And now, so am I.

  I call Joe back. “We’re on, dude. What time do you want us there?”

  “You can go on at eleven o’clock.”

  “Sounds like a plan. See you Saturday.” And just like that, excitement takes over. I hope it’s the real deal.

  Saturday, December 23

  (Gus)

  My phone rings in my pocket. When I see the name on the screen, I smile.

  “Well, if it isn’t the stud from the frozen north.”

  Keller laughs on the other end before he says anything. “Nah man, not the stud. How about the dad? And greetings from cold and snowy Grant, Minnesota.”

  I never think much about the weather here because it’s always fairly consistent year round, but I’ve always been fascinated by the extreme changes most of the rest of the country experiences. Not that I’d ever want to live through it, but it’s fascinating. “Cold up there, huh?”

  “Yeah, it’s a little chilly today. I don’t think we’re going to break zero for a high. It got down to twenty below last night.”

  “You may as well just live in the Arctic Circle, dude.”

  “The only downer about it getting this cold is that Stella can’t go outside and play. She’s a snowman building machine lately. She pretends she’s an ice princess from one of her movies. She’ll sing the entire soundtrack before she’s done.”

  “Ah, Miss Stella’s a singer. She’s a natural performer.” She is. She’s got more personality and charisma than most adults I’ve met.

  “She says she wants to sing like Katie. That’s fine by me, but I swear I need to buy her another movie, because I hear those songs in my dreams. They haunt me. I can’t get away from them.” He chuckles, and I smile. He’d probably listen to those songs every day for the rest of his life if it made his little girl happy. That’s one of the things I like most about Keller; he always puts others ahead of himself.

  “What else is Stella up to?”

  “Just getting ready for Christmas. Stella’s really into construction paper, glitter, and glue at the moment, so every available flat surface in our apartment is adorned with sparkly paper reindeer, bells, mistletoe, trees, ornaments, etcetera, etcetera. Stella swore she didn’t, but it’s very suspicious that even Miss Higgins is sporting a glittery shell this holiday season. Stella’s blaming the new bling on Santa’s elves who apparently visit at night while we’re sleeping. And I’m choosing to believe her story because she wants so badly for it to be true.”

  Now I’m laughing. “Stella bedazzled her turtle?”

  “She did. There’s probably some kind of animal rights violation involved there, so don’t tell anyone.”

  “My lips are sealed. I don’t want Stella spending Christmas in the gray rock motel wearing an orange jumpsuit. So, are you going to Chicago for Christmas?”

  “No. My father’s actually coming here tomorrow and spending a few days with us. We’re all going to Shel’s parents’ house on Christmas day. Dunc’s finally going to propose to her. He’s had it planned for months now. I can’t wait to see the look on her face.” He sounds happy.

  “That’s great, dude. They’re good people.”

  “They are,” he says sincerely. That’s another thing I really like about Keller. He genuinely wants the best for others. “How about you? What are you doing for Christmas?”

  “We’ll hang out here at the hacienda with Pax and Scout. Introduce them to early morning cinnamon rolls on the beach.”

  “You know, Stella asked if I would make cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning. She remembers Katie making them for us last year.”

  “You gonna do it?”

  “Of course. I’m no baker though. I bought a tube of them at the grocery store last night. They’re the pre-made kind you just throw in a pan and bake. They won’t taste like homemade, but they’ll taste a helluva lot better than my attempt at homemade.”

  “You’re a great dad, dude.”

  “I try, man. Well, Stella’s ballet lesson is just about done. I’d better let you go. I just wanted to call and wish you a Merry Christmas. Tell Audrey, too, if you don't mind.”

  “Will do. And Merry Christmas to you and your little ice princess.”

  “Thanks. Bye, Gus.”

  “Later, Keller.”

  And just like that, my Christmas is made. That one unexpected conversation helped reinforce what I already knew; that life is all about people.

  And before I do anything else I log onto Amazon and I buy Stella every Disney movie that Gracie used to watch and loved to sing along to. I don’t know how many are in the cart by the time I checkout, but there are at least ten. I also throw in a few more current Disney movie soundtracks on CD and a little purple CD player for Keller. And I pay the extra shipping fee to get them to Grant by tomorrow.

  Sunday, December 24

  (Scout)

  Audrey mentioned yesterday that she had company traveling in today from out of town, so I’m not surprised to see a cab in the driveway of her house as I’m returning from my morning run.

  The driver is pulling a suitcase out of the trunk as a tall, distinguished looking middle-aged man pulls a few bills from his pocket. They say their pleasantries and the visitor starts walking toward the front door with his suitcase rolling behind him.

  When he reaches the front door and raises his hand to knock, I call to him. “No need to knock. You must be Audrey’s friend.” I’m sweaty and out of breath, so I keep my distance.

  He turns at my words and addresses me quite formally. “I am indeed, miss.” He has an accent that sounds foreign, maybe Eastern European.

  I approach him and extend my hand, and he reaches out with his. Slender, extremely long fingers wrap around mine and shake firmly. It’s the act of someone who does this frequently, professional, yet friendly. His warmth eases my nerves. I’m always nervous when I meet someone new. I clear my throat. “Hi. My name’s Scout MacKenzie. I’m Audrey’s assistant.”

  His resting face brightens into a smile and wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes. “Ah, Scout, of course. I’ve heard so much about you.” My nerves must show, because he adds quickly, “All good, my dear. All good.”

  I can’t help but smile at his words, I don’t know if it’s his accent or if he’s just so charming that the compliment is working double time on me. “Well, come in …
”

  He fills in the blank for me when I pause at his name. “Gustov.”

  Gustov? That is not a common name. Is this a coincidence?

  He chuckles at my confusion. “I’m Gus’s father.”

  All of a sudden the names, and people attached to those names, flip in my mind—this is Gustov and Gus is Gus. I nod, “It’s nice to meet you, Gustov,” while at the same time taking in everything about him. I always thought Gustov—I mean, Gus— resembled Audrey. They’re both tall, with the same blond hair, same nose and lips, and same commanding presence tempered by a kindness that’s unmatched. But looking at this Gustov, I see Gus’s same intense dark brown eyes, same bone structure in his face, same tall, broad frame, and same warmth. An uncanny ability to put anyone at ease.

  When I open the door, he follows me inside. I wait while he removes his tweed blazer and drapes it over his suitcase that he’s parked up against the wall. Just as I’m about to tell him I’m going to go find Audrey, she walks around the corner.

  “Gustov!” she exclaims. “It’s so good to see you.” She’s beaming.

  “My Audrey. Come here.” He’s wearing a smile that exudes such warmth, such affection, that it must be reserved only for those closest to him. Those he cherishes.

  And when they hug, it hits me: if this is Gus’s father, this must be Audrey’s ex—boyfriend or husband, I don’t know. This officially just got weird. Until it only gets weirder when Gus walks in the room and says, “The sperm donor returns. How goes it, maestro? How was the journey from bean town?” And now he’s smiling, too.

  Three people.

  Family.

  All trading hugs and smiles.

  I feel like I should leave the room because I know I’m staring. My family is certainly anything but traditional, and has plenty of skeletons in the closet, but Audrey and Gus seem so normal. Exceptionally perfect, despite the lack of a father in the picture. I’ve just always thought of them as not needing another man in the house, like they were so complete together, just the two of them, that Gus must’ve been the product of an immaculate conception.