Sunday Kind of Love

by Dorothy Garlock

  Pete was six years younger than Hank. He idolized his older sibling, wanting to eat every meal across the table from him, demanding to sit next to him at the barbershop so they could have their hair cut at the same time, and often sliding into Hank’s bed at night to sleep beside his big brother. For the most part, Hank returned Pete’s affection, even if the kid could sometimes be a royal pain in the ass.

  The Ellis boys looked a lot alike, both tall and trim with bright blue eyes. They had the same taste in movies, music, and clothes. Both lived and died with the fortunes of the Cincinnati Reds baseball team. Both attended church, held doors open for others, and behaved, for the most part, as gentlemen. But as Pete grew older, Hank noticed that there were differences between them.

  Where Hank found comfort in being alone, Pete was at his best around others. When he entered a room, all eyes turned toward him. He could talk to anyone, young or old, learned or uneducated, rich or poor, and make people feel like they were important, like someone was listening to what they had to say. Girls flocked to him, drawn as much to Pete’s charm as to his good looks. He had more friends than Hank could keep track of. Before Pete had even entered high school, everyone in Buckton had forecast great things for him. Everything was perfect.

  Until the day their mother got sick.

  Eleanor Ellis was as bright a presence as her youngest son. She baked cookies and cakes for Buckton’s annual Fourth of July picnic, sang in the church choir, hosted a bridge club for a dozen friends, and volunteered at the library. She was loved by one and all, but especially by her sons. To Hank and Pete, Eleanor was an angel. She fed and clothed them, kissed away the pain of their many scrapes, and guided them as they grew toward manhood. It was because of her that they stayed on the straight and narrow. They didn’t want to disappoint her.

  But then one day, now more than a year back, in the cold of January, Eleanor had collapsed in the kitchen while making dinner. For a week, she’d talked about being tired, worrying that she was coming down with the flu. After a couple of days in bed without improvement, they’d taken her to the doctor.

  It was cancer.

  Tears were shed. Pills and promises were given, but none of them worked. Four weeks after she fell, their mother was dead.

  In Eleanor’s sudden, shocking absence, Hank stepped into the void her death had left. He cooked and cleaned. He paid the bills. He helped Pete with his homework; with the loss of their mother, the brothers grew even closer. Unfortunately, Hank did all these things because his father couldn’t.

  Without his wife, Myron Ellis fell apart, struggling to find the strength to carry on. A woodworker by trade, he started to let jobs slide, failing to complete the work he’d been hired for. Hank, who had apprenticed to his father for years, managed to keep up, apologizing to their unhappy buyers. As the months passed, Myron grew sullen, quick to let his temper loose. He stopped shaving, grew a patchy beard, and wore the same clothes for a week at a time.

  But worst of all was his drinking.

  Myron had never been a teetotaler, but the only drinking Hank could remember him doing was having the occasional beer while he listened to a ballgame in the workshop. With Eleanor’s death, that changed. Myron began to drink whiskey straight out of the bottle in a misguided attempt to drown his sorrows, not stopping until he passed out in the workshop, the kitchen, wherever he happened to fall. Hank would haul his father to the shower and pour him cups of steaming black coffee to try to sober him up, all while being yelled at, insulted by a downtrodden, broken man whom Hank still loved with all his heart.

  Month by month, week by week, even day by day, the stress mounted for Hank, eating away at him. He didn’t think it could get worse.

  But it did.

  Three months ago, on a rainy night not unlike this one, Pete had been killed in a car crash, and as far as everyone in Buckton was concerned, it was Hank’s fault.

  Because of him, his brother was dead.

  Soon after Hank had gone back to working on the chair, his head snapped up at the sound of glass breaking, the noise loud enough to cut through the din of the storm. He looked out the workshop’s double doors toward the house. A light was on in the kitchen. He heard shouting but couldn’t make out any of the words. Hank knew who was yelling.

  It was his father.

  For a moment, Hank considered letting Myron be. He’d run out of steam eventually. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  But Hank wasn’t that kind of son. He took a deep breath, put down his tools, and headed into the storm, hurrying against the stiff rain.

  Myron was in the kitchen. He sat at the small table, his head on his arm, his mouth smushed against the wood. An empty glass lay on its side, a long trail of whiskey leading over the table’s edge to pool on the floor. A half-empty bottle was clutched tightly in his hand. Soup was splattered against the wallpaper on the other side of the room, sliding down into a heap of food and broken dish.

  “What happened?” Hank asked.

  “Soup was too cold…” his father mumbled.

  “And that was reason enough to throw it across the room?”

  “Felt like it at the time…”

  Myron stirred, reaching blindly for his glass, but all he managed to do was knock it to the floor with a clatter. Undaunted, he raised his head and took a long swig from the bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork as he drank.

  Back before his wife died, before he allowed himself to slide down a slope slickened by alcohol, Myron Ellis had been a handsome man. He was tall and a bit thin, with his shock of thick black hair and no small amount of charm, he’d had his own share of success while courting Buckton’s pretty young ladies. But now, sitting in the dark kitchen, drunk and struggling to stay conscious, he was almost unrecognizable. His eyes were bloodshot and wet. His skin was pale, with the exception of his cheeks, which were flushed red. His shirt was stained with Lord knows what. Myron looked utterly beaten, and he’d surrendered without much of a fight.

  Looking at his father, Hank felt many different emotions all at once. He was angry, sad, and plenty worried.

  But most of all, he was disappointed.

  Over the last couple of weeks, Hank had allowed himself to hope that his father was finally coming out of his depression. He wasn’t drinking every night, and when he was sober, Myron seemed more like his old self. He’d mowed the grass, cooked a stew, and even come out to the workshop to look at his son’s craftsmanship, making a suggestion here and there, although he hadn’t picked up his own tools for months. They’d shared a laugh about Johnny Temple, the diminutive second baseman for the Reds, wondering whether he’d ever manage to hit another home run.

  Now all that hope was gone.

  Hank bent down and began to pick up the broken pieces of the dish his father had hurled against the wall.

  “Always cleanin’ up your old man’s messes, ain’t ya?”

  Hank didn’t answer.

  “Must be quite the sight…”

  When his father drank, he became maudlin. His melancholy made him want to drink more, creating a cycle from which Myron never seemed able to escape.

  “How about I put on a pot of coffee?” Hank suggested.

  “If you’ve got a hankerin’ for it,” Myron answered. “As for me, I got my own drink right here, though I’m gonna have to make do without a glass…”

  When his father lifted his bottle to take another drink, Hank snatched it from his hand. He took it to the sink and began to pour it down the drain.

  “Now, wait a minute!” Myron barked, his voice sounding panicked. He made to get out of his chair, his irritation fueling him, but he was too soused to manage it. When he plopped back down, he nearly tipped over and had to steady himself on the edge of the table.

  Even as the last of the whiskey disappeared, Hank didn’t feel victorious. Every time he found liquor in the house he got rid of it, but his father had proven to be sneakier than expected. He hid bottles everywhere—in the backs of closets, beneat
h the basement steps, even in the attic, tucking them among the exposed beams. It was a war Hank couldn’t win.

  “Ah, it’s probably for the best,” Myron said, surrendering with a shrug. “It wasn’t helpin’ me forget ’bout Pete anyhow…”

  Hank stood at the sink with his back to his father. A flash of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating his reflection in the window for a quick second; his face was creased by a deep frown, his lips drawn, his jaw tense. His hands squeezed a dish towel so tightly it was as if he was trying to strangle it.

  “The other day…I was at the grocery store…” his father continued. “There were these two ladies lookin’ at me from down the other end of the aisle. They must’ve thought they were far enough away that I wouldn’t hear ’em, but I could…” His voice changed, becoming higher, almost theatrical as he tried to imitate the women’s conversation. “‘Look at that poor man. Isn’t he the one whose oldest boy killed his brother in that car accident a couple months back…’”

  Hank didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

  He’d heard it all before.

  Myron chuckled, but it came out a humorless wheeze. “You know, I thought ’bout goin’ over and tellin’ ’em that they didn’t know the half of it, but it wouldn’t do a lick a good. People believe what they want to believe. To them, you and me, we’re what they call a…call a…”

  But that was as far as Myron got before finally passing out with his head on his arm, leaning hard against the table.

  Hank sighed. He slipped an arm around his father’s waist and lifted the older man out of his chair. In the living room, Hank laid Myron down on the couch, then pulled a blanket over him, hoping he would sleep it off. Only now, overcome by all the liquor he’d drunk, did his father look at peace.

  Deep down, Hank believed that a lesser man would give up, pack his things, and hit the road, leaving his father to face his demons alone. But Hank wouldn’t abandon him. He just couldn’t. For all Myron’s problems, his son loved him fiercely. He wanted him to get better, and still thought that he could.

  “Get some rest, Dad.”

  Back in the kitchen, Hank looked at his workshop through the rain. He knew he should go back and try to finish that chair, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. His head was a mess, full of too many ghosts.

  So instead, he snatched up his keys. He’d take his truck for a drive, listen to music, anything to distract himself. He couldn’t stay.

  Out he headed into the still-raging storm.

  Chapter Four

  THIS IS ABOUT you and me getting married…

  Gwen sat at the dining room table, dumbstruck. It was as if Kent’s words hung in the air, taunting her, daring her to respond.

  A grin slowly spread across Kent’s face, an expression that, she had to admit, made him even more handsome. From the way his eyes danced, Gwen knew he expected her to blush, cry tears of joy, clasp her hands together, and accept his sort-of proposal. In Kent’s mind, there could be no other outcome. Rejection wasn’t an option.

  Glancing across the table, Gwen saw that her parents were equally expectant. Meredith’s bright eyes lit up the room while Warren nodded slightly, as if he was giving his approval. Gwen knew that this was what her parents had always wanted for their daughter. They had struggled to send her to Worthington and pushed her to make the right choices, all in the hopes that she would have a better life than they’d had. And now, right before their eyes, she was on the cusp of succeeding beyond their wildest dreams.

  All Gwen had to do was utter one simple word.

  Yes…

  But she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  Undeniably, there was a part of Gwen that had always fantasized about becoming Kent’s wife, yet another part remained cautious. She loved him, of that there was no doubt, but she knew it wasn’t that simple. In the end, it came down to the one obstacle they’d yet to overcome: Kent didn’t want her to become a writer. Until the matter was settled, she couldn’t possibly accept.

  “Kent, I…I think that…” she managed, unsure what, if anything, she should say.

  “I told your father about the Lutheran church on Wheeler Avenue,” Kent said, acting as if she’d reacted every bit as emphatically as he’d assumed she would. “I know it’s a little Gothic-looking, but it’s perfect for the ceremony, large enough to hold all the people who would attend.”

  “And later we’ll have a celebration here in Buckton,” Meredith added. “Something for family and friends who can’t make the trip to Chicago.”

  “A lavish party!” Kent said enthusiastically.

  “I’ll make the best cakes you’ve ever tasted, Gwennie!” her father chimed in. “Everythin’ you loved when you were a kid and more.”

  “For the honeymoon, I was thinking Niagara Falls,” Kent continued, sounding a bit like a traveling salesman using the hard sell to peddle his wares. “I’d prefer somewhere more glamorous, myself. Hawaii, maybe. But with all my work at the firm, I can’t be gone for that long. Still, I’m sure it will be wonderful!”

  Gwen could only sit and stare, stunned at how everyone was acting. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. What was she supposed to do now? Should she speak up, point out that she hadn’t agreed to marry Kent, thereby throwing a bucket of cold water on their good cheer? Or should she just go along with it, smile and nod her head, saying as little as possible, all while waiting for an opportunity to talk with Kent alone and set everything straight?

  Or should I just give up my dreams of becoming a writer and be happy to become Mrs. Kent Brookings?

  “What kind of flowers would you like, Gwendolyn?” Meredith asked while Warren and Kent began discussing the merits of Champagne. “I know you’ve always been fond of roses, but lilies would look better with a white dress.”

  But as Gwen struggled to reply, the front door opened and then closed with a bang, followed by the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. She turned in her seat and finally learned who’d be joining them for dinner.

  It was her aunt Samantha.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, breezing into the room, rainwater dripping from her short-cropped hair. Samantha unwound a soaked scarf from her neck and flung it onto a chair by the kitchen door. Half a dozen bracelets around her wrist clattered together as she took off her coat.

  “I told you we were eating promptly at six,” Meredith scolded.

  “You should know by now that if you wanted me here at six, you should have told me we were eating at five thirty,” her sister-in-law replied.

  “Samantha will be late to her own funeral,” Warren said to Kent.

  “Probably,” she said with a wink.

  Other than a few almost unnoticeable wrinkles, her aunt was just as Gwen remembered her. Samantha was only a couple of years younger than Warren, but she carried herself more like she was Gwen’s sibling. She dressed in the latest fashions, styled her hair like the stars in the Hollywood gossip magazines, and listened to rock-and-roll music, all in an effort to stay as young as possible. Though she was a beautiful woman, always talking about men who interested her, she had never been married. In fact, she’d never stayed in a relationship for long. Gwen had often thought that it was because her aunt was always on the move. If she settled down, she might miss something exciting.

  Finally free from her coat, Samantha came around the table to stand beside Gwen, smiling down at her niece. But then, seeing Gwen’s shaken expression, her good cheer faltered. “What’s the matter, sweetie?” Samantha asked. “You’re as white as a sheet!”

  “Well, I…I just…” Gwen sputtered.

  “She’s getting married!” her father blurted, bursting with pride.

  “She is?” Samantha asked, looking every bit as confused as Gwen felt. She glanced at Kent and said, “And I suppose you’re the lucky fellow…”

  “Kent Brookings,” he introduced himself, smiling brightly as he extended his hand. While Samantha shook it, he added, “I’ve heard a lot about
you.”

  “I just bet,” Warren said with a chuckle.

  Samantha had always been Gwen’s favorite relative, one of her favorite people, actually, and she’d spent hours telling Kent about all the scandalous things her aunt had done: wearing a skirt short enough to make Reverend Jordan write her a disparaging letter or driving her brand-new convertible down Main Street with the top down during a rain storm, laughing as she honked the horn. Samantha Foster did as she pleased, no matter what anyone else might think.

  “Are you taking good care of my niece?” she asked Kent, her eyebrow arched, looking comically like a movie detective grilling a suspect.

  “Of course,” Kent answered, his voice honest and his smile bright, all his charms on display. “I love Gwen with all my heart.”

  His words cut through any skepticism Samantha might have felt; Gwen’s aunt was a romantic, through and through. Seconds later, she had joined in the wedding planning, tossing ideas around the table.

  “There has to be a band!” she declared. “A big band!”

  “Like Tommy Dorsey’s?” Warren asked. “I thought you were listening to all that newfangled stuff, with all the noise and whatnot.”

  “Not like with horns, you goof,” Samantha replied. “I mean someone with lots of sound, a band that knows all the latest hits!”

  “The music has to be something everyone will like,” Meredith added.

  “Who wants that old fuddy-duddy stuff?” her sister-in-law asked.

  While her family began to bicker, Gwen leaned over and squeezed Kent’s arm to get his attention.

  “Isn’t this great?” he declared. “Everyone is so—”

  “We need to talk,” Gwen said, cutting him off.

  “What about?”

  “About us getting married,” she told him, the words sounding strange, almost unbelievable to her own ears. “Right now.”

  “This instant?” Kent asked, looking across the table at her parents and aunt still discussing wedding details. “But we haven’t even had dinner. We—”

  “Now!” Gwen hissed, finally putting her foot down.