by Jeff Seats
Craig could see his dad sitting on the garden stool next to the tree, trimming away the lacy leaves and new branches in the spring; opening up the red canopy giving it a filigreed, lightness. His trick, he said, was not to allow one branch to touch another. And he always would cut off the stubborn shoots poking straight up towards the sunlight or the subversive ones that would U-turn back and under towards the trunk. The result of his endeavors was the envy of the other gardeners in the neighborhood who couldn’t grasp his approach or had no desire to take the time away from pursuing other life options.
Starting in late Spring, his dad would drag out the various garden products to spray the foliage with just the right amounts designed to encourage bigger blooms, kill pests, or strengthen root systems. His dad would fill his Hudson sprayer with this or that chemical and the correct measure of water, pump up the pressure in the container, and go into battle against the evil-doers trying to destroy his handiwork. Craig shook his head at the memory of seeing him, shirtless, skin glistening in the sun from the sweat of hard work, sprayer hung from his shoulder and ready for an ice-cold Oly. His reward for another hard-fought battle won.
It wasn’t until his father’s Parkinson’s diagnosis that this image of the happy garden warrior, taking on the weeds and the insects with surgical strikes of poisons like a general laying out elaborate battle plans, came to him. The doctor had told them there could be several possible causes for Parkinson’s. This guy believed the number one cause was environmental. As in exposure to chemicals. Craig’s immediate first thought was of his dad spraying with no shirt. Or gloves. Or mask. Inhaling the noxious spray as it misted back onto his exposed chest and arms. And how the fungicides and herbicides must have mixed with the sweat on his skin and then was rubbed into his pores when he wiped off the excess moisture with the gasoline rag from the lawn mower. His dad had turned his own body into a toxic Superfund site and set up the ticking time bomb that would lead to the debilitating end Parkinson’s would bring.
“What’s going on with you Craig?” Liz Adams asked from the passenger side of the car.
“What?”
“You’ve been acting weird since Saunders died. And now this visit to Eugene to see your mother. And you drag me along with you?”
“You know my brother died.”
“Yes, you told me, but how long has it been? And now you decide to visit her. Did you even tell your mother that you were coming?” Realization began to wash over Liz. “Just when was the last time you saw your mother?”
“Huh?”
“When—”
“I call her every week,” Craig said defensively.
“Do you talk with her?”
“Sometimes I call when she’s out and miss her, but I leave a message on her machine.”
“Well, I guess you are a good son after all,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm.
“Hey, I have another brother you know,” Craig growled at her. “Between my calls and his visits and calls, she gets lots of contact.”
Liz turned her body to face Craig. He looked straight out the windshield, not making eye contact with her, his hands still firmly grasping the wheel. She reached over to him and gently placed her hand on top of his. She could feel the tension but wasn’t sure what was going on with him. Was the man who could stare down a vampire afraid of his eighty-year-old mother? A slight smile formed on her lips. Maybe there was another reason for his apprehension. She looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was time to break whatever spell he was operating under and get him inside. Otherwise they’d run out of time and have to rush to catch their flight.
“Come on big boy. Let’s go. Come on. We came here because of you. Now let’s do it.” She slipped out of the car without looking back to see whether he moved or not.
Craig blinked a couple times and turned off the engine and got out of the car, joining Liz on the front walk. Craig hesitated as he held up his hand towards the doorbell. Liz shook her head and pushed the button instead of waiting any longer.
His mother greeted them at the door, “Craig! What a nice surprise and who did you bring to protect yourself from me?”
“I, uh . . .,” Craig stammered.
“Hi Mrs. Wright, my name is Liz Adams.”
In typical fashion, she greeted Liz like an honored guest and long-lost friend, as she ushered them into the living room.
“I’ll make some lunch.”
“Sorry mom, no time to eat we have to catch a return flight to D.C. Can’t keep away from the senator too long.” He smiled weakly as he forced the lie out of his mouth.
His mother eyed him with suspicion then glanced to Liz. “You work for the senator too?”
“Senator? Uh, no. I’m with F.B.I.” She gave a wink to Craig.
“I wish Craig had tried for the F.B.I. Seems like he’s rather old to still be an intern for a senator.”
“Mom! Not this again.”
“I have a right to express my opinions.”
“Yes, you do Mrs. Wright,” Liz said with a grin having a bit of fun at Craig’s expense.
“You can call me Rose,” Craig’s mother said, giving Liz’s hand a gentle squeeze. “So, are you important people able to stay long enough for a cup of tea?”
“That would be delightful, Rose,” Liz spit out before Craig could say something stupid.
“Craig give your mother a hand,” Rose said moving towards the kitchen.
He followed her looking back at Liz and mouthed something that she thought was “Fuck you.” She grinned her response.
“The kettle is on the counter.”
That meant to fill the kettle with water. Which he did, flipping up the faucet handle and watching the cold water enter the darkness of the metal pot. After he set the kettle on the burner of the stove and turned it on, he reached for a towel to dry his hands.
“That one is for dishes,” he heard her say. “The hand towel is over there where it usually is.”
He turned and rolled his eyes, even with his back turned toward her she knew.
“There is a difference you know. I taught you better.”
“Yes, you did.” He reached for the red towel hanging on the lower hook.
“Now you have to throw them both in the laundry.”
“Of course I do.” He sighed heavily and tossed them into the basket just inside the laundry room door, which dad had converted from a mud porch just off the kitchen.
“What’s the special occasion?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“For the visit. I haven’t seen you for—”
“It’s only been six months.”
“It’s been eight months, three weeks, and two days.”
These discussions never ended well for him. He clamped his jaw tight and grabbed the edge of the counter with his hands very firmly. Slowly, drawing in a breath to mask his irritation he responded, “Sorry. Eight months, three weeks, and two days . . . I call all the time,” he added in weak protest.
His mom folded her hands and rested them over the top of her beloved crossword puzzle. Her eyes glazed over, looking straight ahead. “I know you aren’t here because of Tim’s death.” Rose paused, trying to summon words that wouldn’t turn Craig into a defensive ten-year-old. But there were things she needed to say, and now was the time. “Something is going on. You have something to say to me but for some reason, you can’t.”
Craig turned back to the counter and moved the teacups around on the white surface; the square tiles becoming the checkerboard of a chess game and his mother just opened with a classic master’s move—honesty.
“I worry about you. Ever since your father died.” She kept up her attack moving pieces across the board not allowing him to counter.
“I’ve never believed that aide for a U.S. senator story. I look for you sometimes on the news standing behind the important people as they make their pronouncements to the cameras. After all this time I should have seen you at least once. You know, you never hav
e told me the name of your boss.”
“His name . . .,” Craig only had his mother to tell his cover story too, and he had never thought that she would care enough, so he never came up with a senator’s name to hide behind. “His name is . . .,”
She was now dangerously close to capturing his king, and he hadn’t even made his first move.
“You know there’s nothing to worry about,” he said.
“I have had these dreams ever since you joined the army. I see you in danger, and I don’t know from what. But my mother’s intuition says that the danger isn’t coming from the Senate floor.”
Craig looked into his mother’s eyes, dampness welling up, pleading with him to come clean. But he couldn’t. What am I supposed to say? That I came to see you one last time before I get my ticket punched by a vampire? That there are times that I don’t even trust myself.
The whistling kettle saved him from further discussion. He poured the boiling water into the teapot and his mom bobbed the tea ball up and down several times, then she hit him with a sneak-attack question, “So is that pretty thing your girlfriend?” She gestured towards the open doorway looking out from the kitchen towards Liz, who was sitting a bit awkwardly on the sofa. His mother had replaced her dour expression with a mischievous grin.
“Mom, no! We’re friends. That’s all.”
“Well, not many boys bring their female friends home to meet their mothers.”
Craig gave a sigh of resignation. “I give. Yes, maybe. We, um, haven’t really talked about it. But yeah, I think . . . something is going on. I don’t know.”
His mother gave him a perceptive smile. “A little bit of mystery makes things interesting.” She finished pulling the tea ball out of the pot and walked through the door. “Bring the cups with you . . . please.”
Liz turned as Craig, and his mother returned with tea.
“Mrs. Wright your collection of watercolors are very interesting.”
“Those are my mother’s, she started painting when she turned 60. Never took a class. They call her a primitive.”
“Well, they are certainly very nice.”
“Thank you.” She took a sip of tea. “I hope you like chamomile.” She smiled and turned to Craig. Now his mother seemed like she was ready to play along with him and his ruse. She sighed dramatically. “It wasn’t that much of a surprise your brother died when he did. His health wasn’t all that great these past several years. Had to have been about his third or fourth heart attack and I’m sure the M.S. didn’t help matters much.” His mother said in a wistful tone.
“Or the smoking,” Craig added.
“Or the smoking,” her voice fading out as she got lost in a memory loop. “Janice had him cremated. I told her to bring his remains home whenever she feels up to it and we’ll have him buried with your father.”
Craig shook his head, “We were never close.” Taking a deep breath, he stood. “This tea has gone right through me. Be right back.” He set the full cup on the side table and headed down the hall.
He had to get out of there. The memories of this place, and his brothers growing up, were giving him vertigo. Rounding the corner, he stopped outside his parents’ room. On the wall, he could see the three photos of the boys taken in the late ‘60s each with their hair neatly combed, posed just so for the perfect vision of innocence and family harmony. The last time he looked at those was when he was helping his father get dressed one morning before he fell and had to go into rehab, aka the nursing home. “So, Craig, do you have any kids?”
“No, dad, I’m not married.”
“Really? Our Craig isn’t married either.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Yes dad, two brothers, Ryan and Tim.”
“Really! OUR Craig has two brothers named Ryan and Tim.”
“Dad. There. I’m in that picture there.” He had pointed to the one in the middle, buzz cut with enough hair left in front to do a slight flip, kept in place with a dab a Butch Wax. His dad had been an old-school guy who brought his own fashion sensibilities to his boys.
“Thanks for your help. I wish our Craig was as good to me as you are.” His dad said.
The comment had cut him deeply. Until that point, he saw the humor in this harmless exchange with his father and his demented mind. And even though he totally understood his dad didn’t know what he was saying, it still hurt. A few months later his father fell while Craig had taken a weekend off to go camping with friends. Caregivers need a break every now and then. He was taken to emergency, then a short stay in the hospital followed by a required assessment in a rehab center. And then a permanent room in the nursing home. A few months later he died.
He had helped his dad as well as he could, which helped his mother immensely. No point in dwelling on what could not be changed. Craig wiped the wetness from his cheeks and returned to the living room but stopped before he entered; appreciating the portrait of a mother talking with her daughter-in-law. A lovely view of a life that couldn’t be.
“I guess we have to go to catch our flight,” he announced as he entered the room looking at his cell phone screen.
Liz looked at the clock on her cell, “There’s plenty of—”
“No, you two shouldn’t be late,” Rose said. “It was a nice visit. Thank you for dropping by,” she stood unsteadily.
“Nice to have met you Mrs. . . . Rose,” Liz smiled and warmly hugged her.
His mom returned the embrace, “And you too Liz.”
Craig stepped towards the door and gave his mother a stiff, awkward hug. “Love you, mom.”
“I love you too,” she said wrapping her arms tightly around her son, afraid to let go. Then she asked Liz, “Please make sure the ‘senator’ isn’t too rough on him, will you? Craig is such a sensitive boy. And you be careful around those F.B.I. agents.” She winked. “You hear?”
“I’ll call you next week mom.”
She smiled, “You always do. Wait. I have something for you.” He watched her go back into the kitchen and then come back out hastily wrapping something in the crossword page of the newspaper and handed it to him. “You might need this. Now go, don’t be late for your flight.”
A couple more awkward waves and then Craig and Liz were out the door. Liz watched Craig take a quick peek at what his mother had given him. She couldn’t see what it was, and Craig just as quickly wrapped the newspaper back around it. When he got into the car, he carelessly tossed it on the console separating their two seats. As they drove away, Liz watched his mother give a hesitant wave, then turn and close the door, not looking back. Switching her gaze to Craig, she saw that he had a firm grip on the wheel, knuckles almost white, looking straight ahead. She thought that he might be crying. Then she looked down at the console where the package was resting. Peeking out from the edge of the newsprint were the silver beads and crucifix of a rosary.
COMMANDER COLE, SAMANTHA , head of the Center for Specter Control, West, straightened her desktop for the fifth time. Studying her effort, she seemed satisfied this time the tape dispenser was neatly in place, the lampshade was tilted just so, stray papers had been corralled and stacked in the baskets or filed away, and pens were lined up according to their importance of use. She grabbed her coffee cup and peered inside before putting it to her lips. Cold but not older than this morning, which was better than swallowing the little islands of mold that sometimes formed when she wasn’t paying attention.
To say she was nervous might be an understatement. No superior could make her nerves so on edge than the visitor who was being escorted into the “Asylum” (the nickname given to the extra secure, secret facility fenced off from all non-authorized personnel that made up the regular contingent of Mount Home Air Force Base.) The phone on her desk rang, giving her a bit of a start. Picking up the receiver, she shook her head in a self-scolding motion. What is wrong with me? She asked herself as if she didn’t know.
“Cole,” she said bluntly. “Thank you, please escort him
in.” Hanging up, she grabbed the first piece of paper within reach and pretended to read it; showing how swamped with work she was. As the door opened, she noticed the document she had grabbed was the season schedule for the Boise State Broncos. And it was upside down. Too late. There he was standing at parade rest in front of her. Cole looked up into those twinkling blue eyes. His beaming smile said it all.
Caught! She stopped being the commander of CSC West and was back at her enhanced training all those long years ago with Master Sergeant Terry chastising her for some minor infraction of military etiquette. She stood and reached her hand across the desk.
“What? So formal? It has been a while, but you don’t even have a hug inside you for your favorite drill instructor?” He asked arms extended out calling her into his friendly embrace.
Slightly abashed, she brought her hand back down and brushed it along the side of her pants; smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles as though that was her intent all along. Then she walked around the desk and instantly she was twenty years old, and this father figure of a man was warmly smiling; reassuring her all would be good just as soon as she would, “Stop FUCKING around and focus on your training soldier!” The tenor of his commanding voice still rang through her head anytime she was about to make a bonehead move, and even louder after she made one. Samantha looked into his face and saw none of the old, hard-assed drill sergeant she had remembered. Today she was no longer the sniveling newbie needing to be molded. Today, in fact, she outranked him. But still, old instincts faded slowly.
Terry still held out his arms to her. Seeming determined not to lower them until they made contact. He smiled and wiggled the fingers of his open hands calling her towards him. Then he gave her a wink.
That was all it took, and she stepped into his waiting arms, as a boat entered its slip, and wrapped hers around his back. His thick, muscled biceps immediately enveloped Cole’s lighter frame giving her a firm, reassuring squeeze. The bond was still there. They warmly hugged. Two genuine friends. Opening her eyes, she saw her assistant was still in the room, grinning from ear to ear.