In Pieces

by Alexa Land

  “I’ve never taken drugs in my life, Reggie. Do I seem like I’m on drugs?”

  He considered that for a moment and finally conceded, “Well, no.”

  “And I don’t know why the hell you’re suddenly pretending to be the caring father, trying to clean up his son – who, by the way, doesn’t need cleaning up. You’re not that kind of parent. You’re the kind who pulls a fucking gun on his kid.”

  “Of course I care about you. It don’t even matter that you hate my fuckin’ guts. I will always care about you, and if that occasionally means havin’ to resort to desperate measures to try to get through to you, so be it.”

  “That’s not even ‘desperate measures,’ it’s your go-to! Something doesn’t go your way? You immediately default to threats and violence.”

  He shrugged and said, “Yeah, well, that’s who I am.”

  “It was bad enough you threatened me, and probably a sign of how deeply warped our relationship is that I’m even here talking to you after that,” I said. “But I need to say something to you, and I need you to really listen. You are never to threaten Kieran again. That’s crossing a line, and I will not tolerate it.”

  “Oh yeah? What’re you gonna do to stop me?”

  I stared him down, my voice low and rock solid as I said, “Whatever it takes.”

  He watched me for a long moment, then grinned a little and said, “That’s the very first time you ever sounded like the son of Reggie the Roach.” I sighed and leaned back in the chair, and my father asked, “Are you talking about that big guy in the grey suit?”

  “Yeah. My boyfriend. The one you pointed a gun at.”

  “So is that the real reason you’re here? To warn me away from your boyfriend?”

  “In part. I also came to tell you that it all needs to stop. I thought you’d gotten over this need to control me. But then, there you were, showing up and trying to ruin the biggest night of my life.”

  “I wasn’t trying to ruin anything.”

  “Did you even bother to look around you in that warehouse? Do you know what that was all about? That event you dismissed so flippantly as a circus was actually my debut art show. Hundreds of people came out to see my paintings. It meant the world to me, not only because it’s going to launch my career, but because some friends of mine put that event together for me as a surprise. But you walked right through it with tunnel vision, concerned only with your own agenda.” He looked away, and I asked, “Did you even glance at any of the paintings?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and didn’t say anything, so I reached for my backpack and pulled out a little square bundle wrapped up inside an old pillowcase. It was a ten-by-ten inch-square canvas, which I unwrapped and put on his lap. “This is what I can do. A lot of people who see my work think it’s good, they think I have a gift.” He didn’t say anything, so I added, “I paint because I have to, because I’m driven to, and I work really hard at being the best I can be.” He glanced at the painting and crossed his arms over his chest, turning his head away from me.

  I sighed and picked up my backpack. “You can keep that portrait. It’s part of a whole series I did of Mom, so I have a lot of others. I’m not sure I remembered her exactly right, I didn’t have any pictures to go by.” I got up from the chair and said, “I don’t even know why it matters to me. It shouldn’t. But I’d like it if you’d just try to understand this most fundamental thing about me, if you could somehow get that this is who I am.” I turned and walked away from him.

  I’d reached the doorway when he said quietly, “You got it right.” I turned back to him. The expression on my father’s face was unreadable, the painting held carefully in both his hands. “And you don’t need pictures to go by,” he said. “All you gotta do is look in the mirror. Christ, you’re her spitting image. Looking at you, it’s almost like a part of Isobel is still here.”

  After a moment he continued, “I know you blame me for her death. I know that’s one of the main reasons you hate me so much. You know what? I blame myself too.”

  “I’ve always blamed myself every bit as much as I blamed you,” I admitted quietly.

  “What? You were a little boy when she took her own life! How could you possibly think it was in any way your fault?”

  “I could have been a better son. I was bratty and prone to temper tantrums. I must have been such a pain to deal with.”

  “No. You were a great kid, and she loved you so fuckin’ much.”

  “Just not enough to stick around.”

  “Chris, your mother was mentally ill. I didn’t know what to call it at the time, but I figured out much later that she was bipolar. She’d have these huge mood swings, she’d go from being so happy and full of life to just being racked with despair. I didn’t know what to make of it. I was ignorant, I didn’t know there were medicines that could have helped her. And that’s where I blame myself for her death. I didn’t know enough to get her the help she needed.”

  I’d always known that on some level. But still, I had blamed my father and myself. Even knowing it was kind of irrational, part of me still clung to that. Maybe I just had to blame someone. All my hurt and anger had to go somewhere, and as I said before, I just couldn’t let myself blame her.

  Thinking about all of this now was like driving a knife into a wound that had never really healed. I could so clearly remember that day, the ambulance coming to the house, Mom in her bed, so pale. She just wouldn’t wake up, I’d tried to wake her again and again and again….

  “I have to go,” I said, and turned away from my father.

  “You know why I keep chasing you?” he asked. “Because you keep running away from me. If you stopped doing that, maybe I’d stop, too.”

  I looked at him over my shoulder. “You and I are really bad for each other, Reggie. Neither of us is ever going to be what the other one wants. You can’t stop being a gangster, and I won’t stop being gay, or an artist, or the million other things you hate about me. Maybe it’s time you let go.”

  “No. I’m never, ever letting go of you, Chris. Don’t you get that? I love you, kid. I mean, ok, maybe I have a really fucked up way of showing it. I’ve never really known how to be a father to you, that’s probably pretty obvious. You came along when I was fifty-six, and then your mother, she went and left us both alone when you were just this tiny little guy. I thought I was doing good, just because my old man used to beat the shit out of me, and I figured as long as I wasn’t doing that, I was doing alright by you. I know I made mistakes, but I always honestly believed I was doing the right thing.”

  I turned to face him, and we both just sort of watched each other for several long moments. Finally, I admitted quietly, “I’d never have imagined you’d be capable of that speech.”

  “Well, maybe if you’d ever stopped and listened instead of always running from me, I could’ve gotten it out years ago. Oh, and by the way, I retired from the business almost ten years ago. I’m not a gangster anymore.”

  “You pulled a gun on me last night. Like hell you’re not a gangster.”

  “So, old habits die hard. But I showed a hell of a lot of restraint last night, too. You think I don’t know who your friend was? It fuckin’ killed me, seeing my own kid hanging out with Dante Dombruso. Every part of me wanted to put a bullet between his eyebrows. But did I do it? No.”

  I stared at him and said, “Congratulations. You managed to avoid committing homicide. I’ll be sure to write that on your parent of the year application. Unfortunately, on the line above that, I’m going to have to include threatening your kid and the most important person in his life with a firearm, which just might make the application null and void.”

  “Most important person in your life? That’s what that guy is to you?”

  “Yeah. Kieran’s the best thing that ever happened to me. And I meant what I said about you never threatening him again.”

  “You know, I wouldn’t have had to threaten anybody if you’d just agreed to this – just to talk
to me.”

  “Oh, do not make it my fault!”

  “Ok! Christ, you’re touchy.”

  “Touchy? How would you have felt if someone had pulled a gun on Mom?”

  “It’s not the same thing, you can’t compare the two.”

  “It’s exactly the same thing, Reggie. It’s the same love, gay or straight. There’s absolutely no difference.”

  He thought about that for a few moments, then asked, “You love that guy?”

  “Yeah. I love him. I haven’t gotten up the courage to say that to him yet, but I love him with all my heart.”

  After another pause while he mulled that over, he said, “What did you say his name was? Kevin?”

  “Kieran.”

  “What is that, Irish?”

  “Yeah. It’s Irish.”

  He considered that too, then said, “I got no problems with the Irish. Back in the old neighborhood, me and Pat O’Shea were thick as thieves. And believe me, it don’t get any more Irish than a red-haired kid name of Patrick O’Shea.”

  I grinned a little. That was probably as close as my father could come to saying he was ok with the fact that I was dating a man in general and this man in particular. He’d been so mad when he found out I was gay, but gradually, over the years, it seemed like he was coming to grips with it. Apparently age was mellowing my father, in some pretty surprising ways.

  I said, “I think I’m going to go. We’re on an unprecedented roll here and should really quit while we’re ahead. You know, before one of us starts screaming at the other and then firearms come into play.”

  “That reminds me. Someone confiscated all my guns, and I want ‘em back.”

  “No.”

  He thought about that for a beat, then said, “Yeah, ok. I couldn’t have taken ‘em on the plane anyway.”

  “How’d you even get them here?”

  “I bought ‘em when I got to San Francisco, on the black market.”

  “And you’re not a thug anymore.”

  “So sue me for having connections. I was coming into Dombruso territory, I damn well was going to be armed to the teeth. Finding them with you, by the way, that I hadn’t counted on. I was trying to make it in and out of town without a confrontation.”

  I frowned at that, and after another pause asked, “What did the doctors say about your head injury, by the way?”

  “She said I’ll live. It’s a mild concussion. Takes more than a bump on the head to bring the Roach down.”

  “Alright. Well, I’m going to go.”

  “Yeah, ok.”

  “Take care of yourself, Reggie.”

  “You too, Chris.”

  I sighed and said, “Is it really so hard to call me Christopher?”

  “Tell you what. I’ll start calling you Christopher when you start calling me Dad.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, and turned to go.

  “One last thing,” he said, and I glanced over my shoulder at him again. “A bit of advice. Never wait to tell people you love ‘em. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that life is unpredictable. If this Kieran kid is your happily ever after, for Christ’s sake, what are you waiting for?”

  “Really? You think you and I are at a place where you can give me fatherly advice?”

  “It’s damn good advice, no matter who gives it to you.”

  I considered what he said, then told him, “It is, actually. But we’ve only known each other a few weeks. I don’t want to freak him out by saying it too soon.”

  “I knew your mother three days before I proposed marriage. And I knew within minutes of meeting her that she was the one for me. My point is, the right person’s not gonna freak out at those three little words. You shouldn’t hold back.”

  “You kind of have a point. Thanks, Reggie.”

  He grinned at me and leaned back against the pillows, looking very satisfied. “It’s been good talking to ya, Chris. Don’t be a stranger, ok?”

  I nodded and left his hospital room, kind of in a daze. I’d just had a relatively normal conversation with my father, which had almost never happened before. Maybe we were both mellowing with age.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When I stepped out into the parking lot at Rosewood, I found Kieran in full police uniform, leaning against his patrol car. “Hey,” I said, coming up to him. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Just making sure you’re ok. I know you said you wanted to do this alone, but I don’t trust your father. I wanted to be close at hand just in case the situation got out of control.”

  I smiled up at him. “Thank you, you’re always looking out for me. I really appreciate that about you.”

  He grinned and said, “Really? I thought you’d be mad, because you wanted to handle this yourself.”

  “Nah. It’s nice to know you’ve got my back. Just like I have yours.”

  His smile lit up his face. “Always.”

  “So, you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I love you.”

  Yeah, I just blurted it out, without build-up or fanfare. It wasn’t some big, Hollywood moment. It didn’t need to be. The words were enough.

  He stared at me for a moment, his lips parted in surprise. And then he grabbed me in his arms and lifted me off the ground, and kissed me with such incredible, overwhelming passion that I just melted into him. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his waist, and when we finally broke apart a little I murmured, “Kier, you’re in uniform. We shouldn’t be making out in public, you could get in trouble.”

  “Don’t care.” He kissed me again, and then he said, “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I love you too.” He beamed at me and added, “I’ve been wanting to tell you that for a while now, but I figured it was too soon and I’d freak you out.”

  “Ditto.”

  “So, what made you finally take the plunge?”

  “The first good piece of advice I ever got from my father. He reminded me that life is unpredictable, and telling you how I felt about you was far too important to put off.”

  “That is good advice.” He kissed me again before saying, “I really didn’t expect that from Reggie the Roach.”

  “Me neither.”

  I kissed him deeply once more, and when we came up for air he asked, “Can I come over tonight?”

  “Hell yes. Do you even need to ask?”

  “I don’t want to be presumptuous,” he said with a smile.

  I kissed him yet again and finally untangled myself from him, straightening the collar of his shirt, and said, “Be careful out there, Kier. See you in a few hours.”

  “Can’t wait.” He winked at me and slid behind the wheel of the police car, then pulled out of the parking lot with a wave out the window. As usual, worry settled in the pit of my stomach. I doubted I’d ever learn to relax while he was out on patrol.

  A few minutes after I got home, Dante dropped by. He handed me the painting I’d asked him not to sell, which he’d had beautifully framed for last night’s art show. It still amazed me how much he’d gotten done on short notice, right down to that little detail. “I wanted to deliver this personally,” he said, “just to make sure nothing happened to it in transit.”

  I thanked him and invited him in (which again felt weird, because I thought of this as his and Charlie’s apartment), and removed one of my paintings from the wall, hanging this one in its place. “Maybe I should have tried to sell it,” I said. “Though I doubt anyone would want to buy it. It’s such a personal piece, I can’t imagine anyone else identifying with it.”

  “Since the overriding theme of this painting is loneliness, I think a hell of a lot of people can identify with it. Someone offered me fifteen thousand dollars for it last night, as a matter of fact,” he said with a grin. “But that could also be because this is the painting that was featured in the paper and on the cover of that national magazine. It’s highly sought-after.”

  I stared at
him wide-eyed and murmured, “Oh.” Then I said, “Is it too late to sell it? Kieran paid my tuition for next quarter. I’d be able to pay him back the majority of it if I sold this.” I started to reach for the painting, but Dante stopped me with a gentle hand on my arm.

  “Keep it,” he said. “You don’t need the money.”

  “Sure I do. I stopped turning tricks, and haven’t had any income in days. And I really want to be able to pay Kieran back as soon as possible.”

  “You told me I could sell the rest of your paintings, remember? I’m going to be handing you a check in the next day or two once all the payments are in.”

  “Some of them sold?”

  “All of them sold,” he said with a grin. “All seventeen of them. I priced them based on what I’ve paid at galleries in the past for similar works. I hope you’ll think I priced them fairly.”

  “I’m sure you did fine. What did you get, a couple hundred dollars apiece?”

  His dark eyes shone with amusement as he said, “No.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s ok. Even if it’s less than that, I can still use the money.”

  “Christopher, I sold your paintings for five thousand dollars each.” I sunk to my knees right on the spot, and Dante chuckled and crouched down beside me. “You ok?”

  “But that’s…I mean, there’s no way. I’m a total unknown. No one would pay that kind of money for a student’s paintings.”

  “You were a total unknown. Not anymore. Now a hell of a lot of people know the name C.R. Andrews.”

  “This is…I mean, seventeen paintings at five thousand dollars each?” Dante nodded, and I stammered, “My God, that’s eighty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Before taxes. Don’t forget that the IRS is going to want their share. And you don’t mess with those guys.”

  I shook my head and dropped into a seated position. “I have to be dreaming. This whole day is just too good. Kieran told me he loved me today,” I said.

  Dante grinned and replied, “That’s awesome.” Then he too sat down on the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees, making himself comfortable.

  “And my father and I actually carried on a conversation without screaming or gun play, which is unprecedented. And now this.” I shook my head. “I’m trying to absorb it all, but I just can’t.”