I’m related to him, I thought, staring at his back. What would that turn out to mean?
I took a deep breath, walked to the restaurant’s main door and stepped inside.
Like Jeff Hill, I’d driven by Hunter’s plenty of times but never eaten there. It was a woodsy place with a lot of game on the menu. It was supposed to be good, but I’d never felt any impulse to go inside, perhaps on account of a childhood attachment to Bambi. Hunter’s was split in half with the dining room to the left as you entered, and the bar, where Ed and Marcus waited, to the right.
“Welcome to Hunter’s! May I help you?” the hostess chirped as soon as I entered.
“I’m meeting people. They’re waiting for me in the bar.”
She pointed to my right. I suppose there was no way she could have known that I already knew the way. That was the conundrum of her job. Was she helping people, or was she simply cluttering their lives with redundant information and greetings immediately forgotten? Then again, I wondered, how was my work any different? One could argue that the hostess’s effect was, at least, minimal and benign.
“Sasha, you remember Marcus,” Ed said.
Marcus turned around.
“It’s you,” I said, recognizing the young man I’d seen talking with Uncle Ed after my father’s surgery. “You were at the hospital when we first heard about Dad.”
“Hello, Sasha,” Marcus said. “I’m glad you could make it this time.” He didn’t sound like he was seething. In fact, he sounded like my father. The same cadence exactly.
“I’m sorry I missed you last week,” I said. “Work has been a little unusual of late.”
I found myself studying the different parts of his face—eyes, nose, ears—trying to distinguish which attributes came from our shared father and which must have come through his mother.
I thought that we had the same lips, my father’s deep cleft below the nose. The same straight-arrow hair, though his was wildly spiked while mine hung limp. But his eyes had to be hers. While I had my father’s blues, Marcus’s eyes were a dark, deep brown with long lashes, the sort only men seem blessed with. He had a nose that took a slight turn halfway down, the sort of flaw that added to his appeal, as if before the break he might have been too pretty. His unkempt hair and two-day beard only made him more striking.
“I think I remember you,” Marcus said. The coffee-colored gaze seemed neither friendly nor cold. Just curious. “Nice to meet you again, either way.”
“I hope so,” I told him.
The hostess came in to announce that our table was ready.
“I see you found your party,” she said.
That seemed obvious, but I wanted Marcus to think that I was nice. “Sure did,” I answered, as perkily as I could.
She brought us to our table. I watched her smile linger on this man who was both a stranger and my half brother.
When Marcus took off his leather jacket, I saw that his arms were lined with tattoos. They began just above his wrists and extended at least as far as the start of his short sleeves. I picked out a flower, a frog, an ornate Celtic knot before I felt him catch me looking. He didn’t attempt to cover himself up, but I focused on maintaining eye contact all the same. Even then, a little tattoo on his neck, just at the cusp of his collar, proved a challenge not to look at. Maybe that was the point.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” our waitress asked. Her eyes were also on Marcus.
I ordered a beer. Uncle Ed raised the scotch and soda he had brought in from the bar.
“Just a club soda,” Marcus said.
“You want lime with that?” the waitress asked.
Marcus shook his head.
“Lemon? Anything?” She seemed reluctant to leave.
“No, thanks. Just club soda. Just plain.”
“I was surprised when Ed told me what you’ve been up to,” I said to him. “I mean, that you were nearby. When did you leave Georgia? You know what I just learned? That Georgia was the first colony to cultivate grapes. And yet, does anyone drink Georgia wine? Is there even a wine industry down there?”
Marcus frowned. “I’m from Florida.”
“But weren’t you in Georgia at some point?”
“Only for six months,” he said. “Never by choice.”
I nodded. I wished I could remember the details of his stay in jail. “So how do you like Sacramento?” I asked, changing gears.
He shrugged. “It’s fine. Quiet. Friendlier folks on average than Floridians. At least, the Floridians I ran with.”
His comment reminded me of my mother’s excuse to Kurt and me, that California kids were nicer than Virginia kids. It struck me that she had invented that pretext because of the young man to my right.
“That reminds me,” Ed said. “I have to tell you guys this story about my trip to Mexico last month. I was on the beach and—”
Marcus cut in. “Is this that guy with the prosthetic leg?”
“Did I already—oh, of course, I told you. Yeah, that crazy leg.” Ed laughed.
“What?” I asked.
“No, if I’ve already told it,” Ed said.
“That was crazy strange,” Marcus said.
“I still can’t get over it,” Ed said. “Every time I see a pair of red sneakers.” He shook his head, grinning broadly.
“I don’t think you’ve told me,” I said.
“I’ll tell you later. It’s a long story. Remind me.”
I felt as if I were still standing outside the restaurant. Sure, it was nice how easily Marcus and Ed got along, but I found myself wondering whose family I was visiting. I studied my menu. I took a swig of beer and waited for the waitress to take our order. I looked around the restaurant and watched the hostess eye Marcus as she seated a party of five. When Marcus excused himself to wash his hands, maybe five minutes later, I turned to Uncle Ed.
“You’ve certainly buddied up to him.”
“What are you talking about?” Ed asked.
“It seems like your loyalty would be with your sister, with Mom. Especially now.”
“Loyalty?”
“Loyalty.”
“And what, precisely, did Marcus ever do to your mother?”
I hesitated. “Well, fine, so it wasn’t Marcus, it was—”
“Exactly. It wasn’t Marcus. The answer to that question is ‘nothing.’ But because of bad luck, he doesn’t get a father? He doesn’t deserve to know his relatives? It was your father’s own actions that started this, remember. That boy’s just the result of them.”
I sat with that for a moment. It felt true.
“Listen, Sasha,” Ed went on. “You don’t ask for much. You’ve never needed a lot of tending. I respect that. Marcus is the same way. So he screwed up for a few years. He’s headed straight now. That’s what matters to me and what should matter to the rest of you.”
“What about his mother? He’s got that whole side of his family.”
“He’s got a half sister eight years younger who’s back in Florida with her dad. Eloise Johnston died about three years ago.”
Marcus returned to the table then. “Are you two talking about me?” he asked with a smile.
I looked down at my napkin and shrugged. Ed took a sip of his scotch.
“That was supposed to be a joke,” Marcus said. He turned to look at me. “You have no idea what to make of this, do you? I can tell that you don’t think much of me.”
In that sentence, the drawl was gone and his enunciation was as crisp as a news anchor’s. I couldn’t pretend that I hadn’t heard him or needed him to repeat the question. I knew I could have taken Marcus’s statement literally—did I think of him much? It was true, I didn’t. Or at least, I hadn’t before the anniversary party. But that wasn’t what he meant.
“What do you mean?”
His eyebrows rose in mock surprise. He knew I’d understood.
I had to say something. “I don’t know you well enough to—”
“Nah,” Marcus said, leaning back in his ch
air and waving off the uncertain beginnings of my answer. “You’re wondering who I am and why the hell I’m here. You’re trying to figure out what I want. Whether I hate you. Whether I’m just planning to fuck things up. Isn’t that right?” He didn’t sound angry, just matter-of-fact.
“Something like that,” I agreed.
“At least you own up to it. Can’t say the same for the rest of your immediates. Blake’s cool though,” he said.
“You met Blake?”
Marcus looked at Ed, as if unsure how to answer.
“Your father and I took Blake and Marcus to a baseball game. This past spring,” Ed said.
“So Blake knows about—”
“It was just a baseball game,” Ed said. “It wasn’t a therapy session.”
“He’s got a great head on his shoulders,” Marcus said. “So much to say.”
“He’s a good kid,” I agreed.
“He’s not a kid,” Marcus said. “Sure he’s only fifteen, but he knows what’s going on. I think about all the shit I was into at that age.”
I was embarrassed. I knew Blake wasn’t a kid. And I didn’t want to follow my parents’ example by treating him like one.
“Sasha,” Ed said. “There’s a reason I insisted on this dinner.”
“Other than us meeting each other?” I asked.
“I think I mentioned that Marcus recently completed his degree,” Ed said.
“Oh, right. Congratulations.”
“In nursing,” Ed said. “He’s an RN.”
I must have looked surprised.
“What of it?” Marcus asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “That’s great. When I saw you in the hospital, you weren’t wearing a uniform.”
“I don’t work there,” he said.
“And that would explain why.”
“He’s an excellent nurse,” Ed said.
“You don’t need to pile it on,” Marcus told him. “All she’s going to want to know is whether I’m qualified.”
“Qualified for what?” I asked.
“When your father was first diagnosed, last year, I told Marcus,” Ed said. “It seemed a fitting time to reconnect.”
“I took some specialized classes,” Marcus said. “To get my qualifications up.”
“Qualifications?” I asked. I looked from Marcus to Ed and back again.
“Marcus has offered to help,” Ed said.
“Jacob,” Marcus said. “The home nursing.”
I suddenly got it. “You can do that?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Marcus said.
“Marcus has offered to provide the sort of in-home, round-the-clock care Jacob’s going to need. Your father and I have discussed everything. The insurance. Their financial situation. It’s the exact same care. It’s a gift, Sasha,” Ed said.
“You haven’t mentioned this to my mother yet, have you?”
“Frankly, I wanted to gauge your reaction first,” Ed said.
“Where would you live?” I asked Marcus. “You can’t commute from Sacramento.” Even Stockton was closer.
“It’s in-home care,” he said. “I’d expect to stay in their home.”
“Yeah, right. My mother—”
“Will realize that this is the best way to keep Jacob comfortable. Don’t you think we can help her realize that?” Ed asked.
“You mean me.”
“I’ll do my part,” Ed said. “I think you and Kurt can both appreciate how much Marcus’s help would ease the burden.”
“Dad isn’t a burden,” I said, feeling indignant all of a sudden.
“And Marcus has offered to help keep it that way,” Ed said.
“Why?” I asked.
Ed looked at me strangely. “What do you mean, why?”
But Marcus nodded. “She means, why would I offer.”
“Right. Why would you want to move in with people who never invited you in before?”
“Now, Sasha,” Ed began, “I don’t think that’s quite accurate.”
“No? When did we invite him into the house? When did we ever? It’s crazy that he’d want to come now. Isn’t it? Tell me why it’s not crazy. You don’t see me offering to move into some stranger’s house to help out around tax time.”
“It’s not the same,” Ed said.
I hated that he sounded so serene, when I felt anything but. The suggestion—that Marcus move into the Banner Hill house—was ludicrous. Anyone who understood my mother’s feelings about Marcus would have thought the same. And yet, the suggestion had a certain reasonableness and logic to it.
“She’s right,” Marcus said to Ed. “I’ve never been invited over. Not once.” He turned to me. “And I can see how you’d be wondering why I’d even offer. I mean, I have every reason to be angry. What if I take it out on our father?”
I hadn’t actually traced the thought that far. I was mostly imagining him trying to have a conversation with my mother, a woman who had effectively banned his name from her home. But it did bring up the question of care. Why hadn’t I thought of that first?
“I want to hear you explain it,” I said, deliberately vague.
“I don’t hate you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I don’t really care about you one way or another, at this point. But I wouldn’t mind a chance to know my father to some extent before he dies.”
I nodded. “But this is really generous,” I said. “I mean, you’d be giving up income for, you don’t even know how long.”
“It’s not going to be that long,” Ed said softly.
I bit my lip and looked out the restaurant’s front windows, at pedestrians wandering by. I nodded, to this fact and to the whole idea. Although Marcus’s offer was by far the most economical, this wasn’t only about economics. I trusted Ed, and he was the one who had said that you don’t punish the child. In this equation, it seemed to me, most of us were children.
“Dad’s okay with the idea?” I asked.
Both of them nodded.
“Then we’ll have to hear what Mom says.”
Chapter Sixteen
“NO,” MY MOTHER SAID. “NO. YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING. That boy? In our house? Jacob…”
The following evening, Thursday, I had invited myself to my parents’ house for dinner. Ed had invited himself, too—ostensibly, we were both there to check on my father. Blake was out at band practice and Kurt couldn’t get away from Stockton.
My father shrugged. “I thought it sounded like a reasonable option,” he said.
“My own brother.” My mother glared at Ed. “I can’t believe you’d do this. Sasha, is it me or is this crazy?”
They were all looking at me, waiting. I didn’t want to be there. I would happily have traded places with Blake, happily been treated like a kid and kept clear of the hard decisions. Everyone probably has those moments, when they realize they are no longer children, moments of maturity that tend to sneak up on you. This was one of those.
“It would make things a lot easier financially,” I began, hesitant. “On the other hand, it might be stressful. For you, the rest of us, probably even Marcus himself.”
“More stressful than having to deal with Jacob’s cancer alone? Than not being able to afford a treatment that Dr. Fisher recommends?” Ed asked.
“You’ve got an agenda,” my mother said. “You want him here. You could pay for that in-home nurse without batting an eye, but you won’t.”
“Lola, that’s not fair,” my father said.
“Oh, please. He’s got more money than God.”
“You’re exaggerating. Besides, I won’t take Ed’s money,” my father said. “I told him as much.”
“So it’s about pride,” she said.
“Yours or mine?” my father asked. “Marcus’s offer is generous and—”
“And what?” she demanded.
My father hesitated.
“And what?” she asked again.
“And it’s fair.” That was me speaking.
My mot
her looked at me, her expression a mix of hurt and surprise. Then she turned back to Ed and my father.
“I see how you two arranged this. I’ll have that woman’s son in my house, or else I’m the bad wife, right? That you would do this to me, now of all times.” She shook her head and looked down at her hands. “Why is this happening now?” Her voice began to quaver.
“Because I got sick,” my father said, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder.
My mother looked up with sudden vigor. “How did that boy even know you were sick?”
“We’ve been in touch,” my father said.
Her mouth dropped open, but she seemed to have forgotten how to speak.
“Not often,” he added. “It’s not hard to reach me. We’ve been in this house for a long time.”
“What is it with you damn Gardner men?” my mother muttered, as much to herself as to anyone. She rose to her feet and left the room.
“Actually, that went better than I expected,” Ed said.
I found her later, a dark shape on the patio. “That solution you recommended really worked,” I heard her say.
I racked my brain. What solution had I recommended? Did she think I’d come up with the idea to bring in Marcus? I could barely see her, but I picked out the glow of an ember. I hadn’t seen her smoke since before Blake was born.
She exhaled. “The loopers. I sprayed it on my broccoli and they’re all gone. Where did you find that?”
“Maybe I just knew it,” I said.
She laughed, a harsh sort of hiccup. “Right.”
“It was from that Web site Ellen Maselin likes,” I admitted. I didn’t confess that I had become a regular reader, too. Where else would I have learned about grape cultivation in Georgia?
“Can you imagine having that boy in this house? And responsible for your father?”
“He’s twenty-six now,” I said.
“I thought he was in prison.”
I didn’t answer. I knew that Ed had detailed Marcus’s nursing qualifications to her.
“What do you think he’s like?” she asked.
I froze. I was torn between sharing my impressions and the knowledge that admitting our dinner at Hunter’s—admitting that I could describe him with some accuracy—would get me into trouble.
The Return of Jonah Gray Page 15