The Fifteenth of June

by Brent Jones

  Logan entered, pausing to embrace Drew at the door, his eyes then scanning the empty space before him. “This is where you live?” he asked, mouth agape.

  “Not for long.” He retrieved the eviction notice from his desk and handed it to his brother. “Any legal advice?”

  Logan took it and read the first few lines. “Pay your rent on time is my best advice.”

  “Hysterical. I didn’t get paid until Friday.”

  “You’re living paycheck to paycheck now?”

  “Jesus Christ, Logan. I asked for advice, not a sermon.”

  Logan exhaled deeply, plainly exasperated, and scanned the document further. “This isn’t an official document, Andrew. Just something your landlord made up.” He handed it back. “Plenty of slumlords do this kind of thing. It’s a scare tactic. Just pay what you owe and you’ll be fine.”

  Drew nodded. Fucking Patel.

  “We can talk about this later, Andrew. How are you dealing with all of this?”

  “I’m managing.”

  Logan didn’t look convinced. “I’ve started making funeral arrangements and I’d like your input.”

  He didn’t even want you for a son, and now you’re taking care of his funeral.

  “And I thought we should stop by Russell’s house,” Logan continued, “just to make sure everything’s in order. At least until we figure out what’s going to happen with his estate.”

  Taking a road trip with Logan didn’t sound appealing, least of all now, but he had nowhere else to be. And he was duty-bound to assist, considering his brother was footing the bill. Drew closed his laptop. “I’ve got a spare key. Let’s go.”

  “Your car or mine?”

  “Better take yours. Mine’s in the shop.”

  *

  The car ride over had served as an opportunity to discuss minute details. Who would contact whom—the limited social circle Russell had—who they would ask to preside over the funeral, what type of floral arrangement would be most appropriate, and the like. In almost every case, Logan had a suggestion at the ready, to which Drew simply replied, “Sounds good.”

  They entered their father’s house, an unopened stack of his mail in hand, and it was all the things Drew had learned to appreciate over the years—quiet, modest, and vacant. Its many riches felt like home. The old card table in front of the miniature television, the jaundiced, peeling wallpaper, and the saturation of pungent cigarette smoke in everything.

  Logan walked in and marveled at its familiarity. “This place hasn’t changed a bit.”

  Drew envisioned his father sitting at the card table—no pants, chain smoking to reruns of sitcoms, and slurping his coffee—while Logan paced between rooms, examining each one in its entirety, as though he had just stepped through a time warp. “I haven’t been here in years,” he said.

  “How does coming back here make you feel?” Drew felt strange posing such a personal question to his brother, but unable to make sense of his own emotions, he was curious.

  “I feel nothing but sadness.”

  “Sad that he’s gone?”

  “No. Well, sure, but I meant sad that he lived this way. He’s at peace now, but his life was kind of tragic.”

  Drew was irritated at first, angry at his brother’s thoughtless comment, but understood after a moment what he had meant. It was tragic, after all.

  They spent the next hour exploring every inch of the house, uncovering old family photo albums tucked away in the basement, alongside Christmas decorations and a cigar box full of jewelery.

  Logan pulled an ornamental angel out of its packaging, its left wing cracked. “Russell never could get this thing to stay on top of the tree.”

  Drew held up a string of pearls. “Mom used to wear these out to dinner.” He examined each pearl between his fingertips. “Dad kept them all these years . . .”

  They found other treasures Angela left behind: a snow globe, a handheld mirror, a silk scarf, and a short stack of handwritten notes and birthday cards. The rest of the basement was littered with shop tools, old work clothes, and a couple of bowling trophies, all coated in thick dust.

  Drew flipped through the first few pages of a photo album, stopping on a black and white photo of Russell. He was handsome and muscular, his hair was neat. He stood in front of a small industrial office building, the headquarters of his once thriving business. A banner stretched above its glass doors announced its grand opening. Drew traced his father’s figure, lost in thought.

  They relocated to Russell’s bedroom. Logan, being slightly taller than Drew, pulled a heavy Bankers Box from the top shelf of the closet. He opened it and began sifting through its contents. Old insurance paperwork, the odd tax return, some bank statements, and then, “Andrew, did Russell have a will?”

  “I have no idea. He never mentioned one. Don’t think he had much to give.”

  “This house and his car, maybe, which we’ll have to sort out, but . . .”

  “Logan, take it. It’s all yours as far as I’m concerned. You paid his hospital bills and, uh, I don’t have much to contribute to his burial. So I think—”

  Logan raised his forefinger to silence Drew. He shuffled a few pieces of paper, flipping between them. “He had a will, filed with probate court and everything.”

  “He did?”

  Logan nodded. “Dated—wow, almost ten years ago.”

  “He probably forgot all about it.”

  “Probably.” Logan read on. “His house, his car, and whatever is in his checking account—he left it all to you.”

  * * *

  Chapter 27

  They debated at length, Drew insisting that his brother take the house and sell it. He could mitigate his losses, having covered both the medical and funeral expenses. Logan declined over and over again, contending that Drew was the rightful heir to the estate.

  Realizing that he couldn’t persuade his brother to take it all, Drew changed his strategy, suggesting they sell their father’s assets and split the proceeds down the middle. Logan still refused. “Stephen and I don’t need the help,” he said. “You do. Besides, you were always closer to him than I was, and he wanted you to have it. This could be your chance to start over.”

  Drew was maddened by Logan’s stubbornness, and he resented being treated like a charity case. At the same time, he was touched by Logan’s kindness. He had done nothing to earn such generosity from his brother.

  In the end, Drew decided to weigh his options—to sell the house or keep it, for now. Under normal circumstances, he would have preferred the isolation of his own apartment, allowing himself to sleep on his internal conflict in his own domain. But he felt somehow apprehensive about returning to Palmer Heights for the night and elected to move into his father’s house for a few days, at least until after the funeral. Perhaps to feel closer to him even after death.

  Logan spent the remainder of the afternoon helping Drew relocate his belongings from his apartment to the house—everything but his thrift shop furniture and his mattress. It was a straightforward exercise, given that most of his possessions were still in boxes.

  After hauling the second and final load inside—his bike had taken up most of the space on the first trip—Drew said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve given you lots of shit for working in criminal defense.”

  “You have.”

  “What I want to know is—” He unpacked a few of his belongings, placing his laptop on the card table, along with a phone charger and his bottle of vodka, “—why choose that career path after all our family has been through?”

  Logan appeared to do some soul searching. “Let me answer your question with another question. Why did you start drinking?”

  “I don’t know.” Drew shrugged. “Wanted to numb my brain, I guess.”

  “You wanted to dilute your feelings, right?”

  “What little feelings I actually have.”

  �
�Well, when I left home as a teenager, I started drinking, too. Then one day I said to myself, ‘Why not try to understand my feelings instead of running from them?’ ”

  “You became a lawyer to get in touch with your feelings?”

  “No, but I thought it might help me understand why violent people do the things they do. Why somebody would hurt another human being the way somebody hurt Mom.”

  “Did it help?”

  “I think so. I learned to feel compassion and I learned to let go of some of my anger.” Logan scratched his head, as if debating how much he should share. “I gave up drinking before my twentieth birthday. I haven’t touched the stuff since. And I’ve discovered that not everyone who does horrible things is a horrible person.”

  But you do help horrible people get away with doing horrible things . . . then again, I got charged with a crime this morning. Maybe I’m a horrible person, too.

  “Doesn’t make what happened to Mom right,” Logan continued, “but I can’t change the past. Best I can do is accept it and go on with my life and hope that karma is a real thing.” Logan walked toward the door. “If you need anything, just call.”

  Drew found himself alone in what had always felt like his true home—his childhood home, at the very least. But even as an adult, Russell’s house had come to be a safe haven of sorts. A place where he felt content to be himself, whoever that was.

  Drew plugged in his phone, allowing it to charge while he took a shower. He dressed himself in one of Russell’s old robes hung on the bathroom door. It smelled just like him—like cigarettes, its white cuffs stained with nicotine. He reminisced for a moment, teary, the memory of his father heavy and unrelenting. He collected himself and took a look in the fridge to discover weeks’ worth of spoiled food. He pulled a can of beef stew from the cupboard and heated it on the gas stove until it was lukewarm. In the living room he turned on the small television. The size of the screen didn’t matter—it was an amenity he didn’t have at home. He watched a local news broadcast cover Fourth of July celebrations around town. It would be dark out soon and time for the fireworks to begin.

  There was the lingering problem of the vodka in front of him. His body craved its effect, but it seemed a bit like reaching for a smoking gun. He was torn.

  His phone vibrated.

  Sierra: Hey Drew. Are you ok?

  Drew: I’m surviving

  Drew: Sorry to cut our chat short this morning

  Drew: Still want to get together?

  Drew: I’m at my dad’s house at the moment

  Sierra: Family there?

  Drew: Not anymore

  Sierra: I can swing by if you’d like?

  Drew sent her the address and put his phone aside, battling the burning desire to drown his jumbled insides.

  His guts in knots, he turned his attention to his laptop. Keeping a diary—written, visual, or otherwise—had its place. It had the potential to be an outlet for his inner workings, but in retrospect, it seemed that he most often recorded what he did for the day. His misadventures mostly. Nothing provocative or introspective, and certainly nothing that addressed the future.

  Was Sierra correct that his collection of special moments was a tie to the past that he was unable to sever? Was it possible that his recorded ramblings were nothing more than an anchor to what was, an invitation to ignore what could still be? Drew thought about these things until he drifted to sleep in his father’s chair, the glow of the television illuminating his face.

  *

  Rain pattered against the windows, darkness smothering the house. There was a gentle tap at the front door. Drew rose from his seat in a deliberate manner, tightening his father’s robe around him. He turned on the living room lights and trotted to the door.

  Sierra was soaked head to toe, clumps of wet hair matted to her face. “Are you going to invite me in?”

  He motioned for her to enter, closing the door behind her. “Did you jog over here?”

  “No, I drove, but it’s really starting to come down hard.” She started to choke. “Oh God, dude—it smells like an ashtray in here.”

  “Dad was a heavy smoker, hence the lung cancer.”

  “Yikes. Must have been. Three packs a day I think you said.”

  Drew turned off the television, gesturing for her to take a seat on the couch. “Do you want anything? I, uh, don’t think there’s much to offer you. Soda or water, maybe.”

  “I’m fine.” She glanced at the vodka on the table. “You been drinking?”

  “No.” He sat down beside her. “Haven’t had a drop all day.”

  “How come?”

  “Got myself into some trouble last night. Driving under the influence.”

  Sierra shook her head. “Not cool. You coulda killed someone or been killed.”

  “I know. Car’s impounded and I lost my license for a while.”

  “Been a rough day, huh?”

  “You have no idea.”

  They sat, temporarily silent, as fireworks glowed in the distance. Sierra was first to speak again. “So why your dad’s place?”

  “Wanted to feel close to him, I guess.”

  She pointed at his robe, faded and tattered. “Was that his?”

  “I borrowed it for the night. Well, in fairness, this is all mine now. He left everything to me.”

  “Nothing for your brother?”

  “No, and he’s insisting he wants me to keep all of it. I think he feels sorry for me.”

  “Maybe he just wants to help.” She looked around. “What’re you going to do with it?”

  “I’m going to stay here a few days and then decide.”

  “Think you might actually keep it?”

  Drew was slow to respond. “Looks like the property taxes are paid for the year and this is the house where Logan and I grew up. Plus it’s full of goodies that belonged to Mom. Maybe I could turn it into something.”

  Sierra took him by the hand. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you talk about the future.”

  “So it is.” I was wondering why I had a headache.

  Sierra rested a hand on Drew’s knee. “It’s heartbreaking how you lost your dad. I can only imagine how much you must be hurting right now, but maybe something good can come of this.” Her eyes were sincere, gifting him her undivided attention.

  Drew found himself immersed in her presence, defenseless. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why did you kiss me in the park the other night? What was that all about?”

  Sierra bit her lip. “I wanted a kiss, I guess.”

  “Yeah, but why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  He thought back to downplaying his appearance to Kara, who had promptly whacked him with her handbag. “Because I’m the best looking motherfucker in town.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I’m serious. Why did you kiss me?”

  “Dude, you kissed me first—on the cheek. I kissed you back because, well, I wanted to see how it would make me feel.”

  “And how did it make you feel?”

  “I had to go home and finger myself for hours.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No, dude, of course not! Who do you think I am, Kara?” She cracked up. “The kiss was innocent. It felt nice, that’s all. Perfect, just like it was supposed to feel.”

  “I actually felt connected at that moment, to another person—to you I mean. I felt connected to you at that moment.”

  She grinned—a goofy and toothy smile, but an honest smile—then snuggled herself against him, still damp from the rain.

  “What would you do if I kissed you again?” he asked.

  “I’d probably like it all over again.”

  He put his arm around her, drawing her to him—their lips joining to exchange an embrace that stopped time, a kiss that had the warmth to melt ice. Their lips parted after a moment, both of them reluctant, their eyes still shut tight.

  “Come he
re,” she said at last. She guided Drew’s head to her chest where she held it for a minute—her heartbeat in his ear—then moving it to her lap, running her fingers through his hair, reassuring him back to sleep, the lullaby of the evening rainfall cleansing the day’s events.

  * * *

  Chapter 28

  The morning sun spilled into the living room. Drew was spread out on the couch, alone, his arms folded across his chest. It appeared Sierra had let herself out.

  Slowly, deliberately, he crossed to the card table, glaring at the vodka. He took the bottle in his hand for a beat, his fingers clasped to its sealed cap. He twisted it open and moved to the kitchen, pouring the contents of the bottle in the sink. He lingered for a moment, staring into the stainless steel drain, watching the final splashes of vodka tumble to their death. A sense of panic washed over him, followed by a calming sense of relief.

  He changed out of his father’s robe, grabbed his bike, and walked out the door.

  *

  Drew sucked in the crisp morning air, the long bike ride to Transtel having winded him. Short hills felt like mountains, his aching legs rebelling against the workout.

  Yesterday had been the Fourth of July, making today a federal holiday, but not for Transtel employees. Drew was scheduled to start work in twenty minutes. He ventured to the secluded cubicle on the far side of the call center floor and rounded its corner.

  “You’re here early,” Hungry Paul remarked.

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  He minimized a few reports on his screen, then swiveled his chair to face Drew. “Please, sit.”

  “No, it’s okay, Paul. I won’t be long. Dad died on the weekend.”

  “Oh, Drew, I’m—”

  You’re sorry, right? You and everybody else. “No, let me finish. I came by to tell you that I won’t be coming back.”

  “You’re entitled to three days of bereavement.”

  “Ever, is what I was going to say, Paul. I won’t be coming back ever.”

  Hungry Paul feigned surprise. It likely wasn’t his first time having someone quit the call center on the spot. “Are you sure?”