Bad Blood

by Ren Hamilton

  Joey had torn himself away from the sight abruptly and stormed out of the house. On the front steps, he stared at the ground, breathing heavily. Patrick thought this might go on forever, but finally Joey spoke. “Patrick, could you take care of this for me? I mean calling an exterminator and a cleaning service? I’d do it myself but I have the funeral shit to deal with.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Patrick said. “I’ll have his things packed up for you too.”

  “No!” Joey had shouted, making Patrick jump. “I want it all tossed. Clothes, furniture, everything. I want the carpets ripped up, and I want to be able to eat off the fucking bathroom floor.”

  With this said, he’d bolted for the car. He was halfway down the driveway when Patrick called after him. “Joey, wait a minute! Don’t you want to keep something that belonged to your father? A watch? A necktie? Anything?”

  Joey stopped and turned back, his face blank once more. “What for?” he said. “The man was a fucking pig.”

  Patrick had let it drop. He was beyond forcing Joey to express feelings that either weren’t there or were buried too deep to be summoned. But he still didn’t share Shep’s assessment that Joey was perfectly fine.

  Shep tugged on his sleeve, startling him out of his memory. “Come on, Obrien. It’s our turn.” Oh yes. The wake. He’d been off on a mental tangent, which reminded him that he was completely stoned on pot. And now he had to go look at the dead body. What fun.

  They knelt side by side in front of the coffin. Patrick tried to convince himself that he was viewing a wax imitation of Charles Duvaine, but his stomach knew it was a corpse. The marijuana was holding off the morning’s nausea, but the subdued threat of sickness was still evident. He forced himself to look at Joey’s father, and sadness welled inside of him. Charles had always been kind to him. He’d been a handsome man but it was apparent that he’d let himself go, even with the mortician’s makeup. Also, the hair was all wrong. Charles Duvaine never wore a side part. Apparently Joey hadn’t even given the funeral home a picture to work from.

  “Do you think they really sew the lips closed with thread?” Shep asked.

  “Shut up, Shepherd. You’re supposed to be praying.”

  “But I’m not religious.”

  “Well I am, so try to show some respect.”

  Shep scoffed. “Yeah, right. You’re religious. That’s why you’re at my house every Sunday morning eating donuts and watching Three Stooges reruns.”

  “You don’t have to go to church to be religious, Shep.”

  “Whatever. I know nothing about that shit. Hey, I bet his skin feels cold. I dare you to touch it.”

  Patrick’s stomach gurgled unpleasantly. “Damn it, you promised you wouldn’t do this.”

  Shep smiled slyly. “I think I saw his finger move. Did you see it?”

  “You bastard.” Patrick blessed himself and darted from the room. Shep had just destroyed what little control he’d had over his phobia, and he was about to be sick again. He stumbled down a crowded hallway toward the bathroom. He was vaguely aware of pushing a young woman out of the way as he dove through the bathroom door. He caught a glimpse of her startled blue eyes and a wisp of long dark hair against a navy dress.

  He knew the people in the hall could hear him getting sick, and wished he could crawl out of the tiny window above the toilet. Running cold water, he splashed his face, wincing at his reflection, his usual healthy flushed cheeks gone chalk white. His features were unmistakably Irish, from his fair skin to his crop of wavy reddish blond hair, eyes like blueberries, a prominent chin.

  A stunner he was not, but he was pleasant enough to look at, and with his muscular build, women usually found him attractive—if Joey wasn’t around. It seemed that next to Joey, he looked like an old shoe. Even Shep had better luck with women than Patrick did. Some women were attracted to chaos, and Shep was like a bottled cyclone. Patrick couldn’t compete with that either.

  Relieved to find the hallway empty, he headed straight for the front door. He’d paid his respects. Now he would wait on the front steps until Shep came out. They’d been through this routine before. It had been worse at Jeffrey’s funeral. Patrick had nearly fainted on the coffin, and Shep had to all but carry him outside.

  Seated on the steps, he took in a lungful of cool spring air. A musky perfume caressed the breeze, an artificial pleasure mingling with the earthy scent of new grass and lilacs. He turned to see a young woman with long chestnut hair moving toward him down the steps. She sat down beside him. “Hey, are you all right?”

  To his horror he realized it was the pretty brunette he’d pushed out of the way on his mission to the bathroom. He wanted the steps to open up and swallow him. “I’m much better, thank you. If you could just shoot me now, I’d appreciate it.”

  She laughed, revealing a dazzling smile. Her brown hair was parted in the middle and fell straight and sleek past her shoulders to her waist. Plump lips, a look that made plastic surgeons rich, but hers were clearly a gift from God. Blue eyes with little downward points at the corners, like she was a bit sleepy. She was adorable. And he’d shoved her into a wall.

  “I’m really sorry about pushing you back there,” he said. “I feel like an idiot.”

  She dismissed him with a wave. “Don’t worry about it. I hate these things too. I didn’t even go to the last two wakes. I was feeling guilty about it, so I forced myself to come to this one. It’s such a tragedy.” Her face grew solemn and she looked down at her knees. Her navy dress was short and silky, and he tried not to stare at her shapely legs.

  “Are you a relative?” he asked, eager to discover her identity.

  “No. I’m just a friend of the family.”

  “Me too,” he said. She smiled at him and he was mesmerized. A car horn blew, and she stood.

  “Oh, that’s my ride. I have to go. It was nice meeting you.”

  “Yeah, same here.” He was about to ask her name when she turned and ran toward the parking lot. He made a mental note to ask Joey about her. Would that be inappropriate? Asking Joey about women at his father’s funeral? He recalled Joey’s comment about wanting his father in the ground and his ass on a barstool. His inquiry about the girl would be mild by comparison.

  ****

  While Patrick took in the air outside, Shep still lingered by the coffin, waiting for his chance to get Joey alone. The opportunity came as the last group of mourners cleared away to go acknowledge the deceased. Shep moved in and slung an arm around Joey, turning the two of them away from the eyes of the crowd. “Hey zombie boy. We need to talk. Get it the fuck together, man.”

  Joey scowled at him. “What do you mean?”

  Shep gripped his elbow and leaned in close. “You need to start showing a little emotion there, genius. Obrien is getting freaked out.”

  Joey yanked his arm back. “Get out of my face. You reek of pot.”

  “Do you think this is a joke? What are you trying to do? Ruin everything we’ve worked for?”

  “Give me break, Shep. What am I supposed to do? Stand up here and cry? I don’t feel anything. You know that better than anyone.”

  “So fake it then! I know you can do that much. Obrien needs to think you’re beside yourself with grief. He won’t comply otherwise.”

  Joey raised his hands defensively. “Back off. I know what needs to be done, and I’ll do it.”

  There was a long silence, before Shep finally said, “See that you do.” He stepped gingerly back through the crowd of mourners, and went outside to find Patrick.

  Chapter Two

  It was the funeral party. That’s how Shep kept referring to it on the drive over. When Patrick suggested it might be more appropriate to call it a reception, Shep laughed at him, insisting if there was beer and food and people mingling, it was a party, regardless of the occasion.

  Joey’s Aunt Betsy had a spacious ranch style house with a decent yard, just minutes from the Lady of Grace cemetery. She had therefore earned the gruesome task
of hosting every post-wake gathering. Patrick had grown fond of Betsy over the years. She was Charles Duvaine’s youngest sister, just turned forty. Betsy was normally adorned with beaded jewelry and outrageous clothing. This day she wore a modest black suit, which would have given her a conservative air if not for the yellow-tipped crew cut and multiple hoops that ran up the side of her ear like a zipper. Her home was a hodgepodge of candles and mystical looking crystals. Joey said she claimed to be a psychic, but Patrick had never seen any evidence of this.

  Across the crowded kitchen, he caught sight of Joey, who remained magnetically handsome as he stuffed a seafood salad finger sandwich into his mouth. Shep had disappeared, and Patrick set off to find him and talk him into heading out to the nearest pub, where people wore colors other than black. Traveling from room to room, he scanned the crowd for his friend’s familiar mop of dirty blond curls, but he was nowhere in sight.

  Laughter erupted from somewhere outside. Patrick followed the sound, knowing instinctively that it would lead him to his friend. If anyone was the source of giggles at a funeral party, it was Shep. He found him in Betsy’s back yard with a couple of girls and an old man. They were drinking beer out of Shep’s enormous cooler and they all had cigars. “Obrien! Join us,” Shep said.

  The old man introduced himself as Joey’s granduncle on his mother’s side. Deep lines carved his face like one of those shrunken apple heads Patrick made as a kid. “Care for a cigar?” the man asked. Patrick fought not to sneer at his filmy yellow fingernails.

  “Oh, no thanks. I’ll take one of those beers though.”

  Shep handed him a beer from the cooler, then turned to the blonde at his left. “Do you want another one, Robin?”

  Joey’s cousin Robin stood next to Shep, pretty as ever. Robin and Shep had been dating on and off for six years, but Shep insisted the relationship was not serious. This baffled Patrick. But that was Shep’s business, a fact he reminded Patrick of whenever he dared comment on the subject.

  “Slow down, Shepherd! You’ve had four beers in a half hour.” Robin kicked the cooler shut with her fancy black shoe. Patrick flinched. Robin Duvaine made him uneasy, always had. She was a beauty who shared her cousin Joey’s extraordinary blue eyes, but unlike Joey’s black hair, Robin had honey-blonde locks brushing her shoulders. As fetching as she was, Patrick swore she could spit fire if she wanted to. Like Shep, deceptively cute with a volatile demeanor. That Shep had chosen a woman who was oddly similar to him was unsurprising given his considerable ego.

  “Robin, you know Obrien,” Shep said. “Don’t be rude, say hello.”

  Robin turned to Patrick. “Yes, I know Obrien. He doesn’t like me.”

  “That’s not true!” Patrick said, shocked that she’d pegged his thoughts. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you always look at me like I’m some sort of fungus with legs.”

  A hot flush stung his cheeks. He turned away and found himself looking into a pair of lovely almond shaped eyes. It was the brunette he’d met at the funeral home, the one he’d inadvertently pushed into a wall.

  “Oh, yeah. This is Kelinda,” Shep said, “Robin’s friend, just moved back from Colorado.”

  The girl stuck her hand out and Patrick shook it. “We’ve met,” was all he managed to say. His eyes didn’t want to leave her face. Afraid she’d think him creepy, he forced himself to drop her hand and turn his attention to Shep. “Are you about ready to get out of here?”

  “I’m way ahead of you buddy. These two lovely ladies have agreed to accompany us to the fine drinking establishment known as Monty’s Bar and Grill.”

  Patrick grinned. Monty’s was their favorite watering hole in Boston. He, Shep, and Joey did happy hours there at least twice a month. He glanced at Kelinda, pleased with this turn of events. It had been a long time since he’d been out with a beautiful woman. It had been a long time since he’d been out with any woman.

  They bid goodbye to the granduncle with the shrunken apple face, and went inside to find Joey. He was near the front door, holding onto his Aunt Carol, who was sobbing uncontrollably. Carol was Robin’s mother, a cute chubby woman with a curly crop of short blonde hair, and Patrick’s heart broke seeing her so distraught. At least someone in this family has feelings, he thought cynically.

  “Oh, jeez. My mother’s hysterical. Hang back a minute so Joey can get rid of her,” Robin said.

  Patrick frowned at her. When Joey had effectively gotten rid of his aunt, he walked over to them and slung an arm around Patrick’s wide shoulders. “How you doing, Obrien? Had enough, I see.”

  Patrick forced an awkward smile. It was no secret that he found these functions unbearable. “We’re going down to Monty’s. Do you want to meet us there?”

  Joey nodded. “Absolutely. Give me a half hour. I have to say goodbye to a few more people, and then I have to swing by the funeral home to give the guy a check. Hey, don’t you think I should get a discount this time? My family has given them a lot of business after all.”

  Patrick and Shep chuckled, accustomed to Joey’s dark humor. Kelinda looked appalled though, and that was a good thing. If Kelinda thought Joey was a cold-hearted freak, maybe she wouldn’t find him attractive. Every woman Patrick ever dated had been secretly in love with Joey. It wasn’t paranoia, it was a simple fact. Joey never said anything, but he knew. He went out of his way to avoid Patrick’s girlfriends, but his patronizing nobility was equally enraging.

  Shep and the girls went out ahead of him, but Joey’s other aunt caught Patrick’s arm before he could exit. “Hey, tough guy. Can’t you say goodbye to your hostess?”

  Patrick smiled and rubbed a hand over her yellow-tipped crew cut. “You should come to the bar with us, Betsy. They’d love you at Monty’s.”

  “You vex me, Patrick. Thanks anyway. I don’t think they could handle the hair.”

  “Oh you’d be surprised what they can handle at Monty’s.”

  Betsy’s smile slid away and she leaned in close. “Take care of my nephew for me, Patrick. Watch him, will you?”

  He was surprised to see tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. “Don’t worry about Joey, Betsy. I’ll take care of him.”

  She grasped his shoulders, eyeing him with urgency. “Watch him, Patrick. Watch him real close. Especially when he’s with…”

  Betsy stopped talking when Shep appeared in the doorway. “Obrien, are you coming or what?” Betsy shot Shep a scathing look, and Shep glared hatefully back at her. Patrick looked back and forth between them, confused.

  “Goodbye Patrick,” Betsy said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Remember what I said.”

  Outside, Shep threw Patrick the keys and hopped into the passenger side of his Jeep. Patrick didn’t question the driving arrangements. He’d had only one beer to Shep’s five. They headed downtown with the girls following behind in Robin’s red Mustang. “Hey, what was that dirty look you just got from Betsy?”

  Shep made a sour face. “She doesn’t like me. It goes way back to when Joey and I were in high school. She thinks I’m a bad influence. She needs to get over it, the bald bitch.”

  Patrick didn’t push the matter, but he thought Betsy was an absolute doll, so wondered what Shep could have done to draw her ire. Of course, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine someone disliking Shep. Patrick had ten years of history with him and still could only take him in small doses. He and Shep were good for about three hours, then they would start nipping at each other. It was rare the two of them spent time together without Joey there to serve as a buffer.

  While the three of them were close, too close some had implied, Patrick was inarguably the odd man out in this little triangle. Logically, it should have been him and Joey who were more alike. They were both short-haired corporate types with similar backgrounds. They even worked for the same investment company. Patrick got Joey the job, and then Joey had proceeded to be better at it, but that was another story. But for whatever reason, Joey and Shep were the soulmate
s of the group. They seemed to share a secret view of the world that Patrick would never quite understand.

  Shep reached behind him and pulled a duffle out of the back seat. He unzipped it and pulled out a tie dye tee shirt and a pair of jeans. Tearing off his suit jacket, he began to change.

  “You brought a change of clothes?”

  “Never hurts to be prepared.”

  Patrick laughed. “You packed an overnight bag because you knew you’d run into Robin today.”

  Shep pulled the tee shirt over his head, and smirked at Patrick as he wiggled into the sleeves. “You’re just mad you didn’t think to pack a slut bag, and now you might need one.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Miss Kelinda. She’s just your type, Obrien.”

  “Oh, is that right? And what exactly is my type?”

  Shep stretched back in his seat and pulled on his jeans. “You know. She’s got that fresh as a daisy, pure as the driven snow thing you like so much. She’s certainly not my type. She looks like a cartoon.”

  “Kelinda has natural beauty, she does not look like a cartoon!”

  Shep cackled. “She does! It’s the pouty lips and the dreamy blue eyes. She looks like a Disney chick. She should be out in the woods singing to squirrels or something.”

  “Well I think she’s gorgeous.”

  Shep finished dressing and patted Patrick on the shoulder. “Good. I’m glad you like her. Oh, and by the way, you’re welcome.”

  Patrick glanced over at him, frowning. “For what?”

  “For the set up, you idiot! I was thinking of you when I asked the girls to go to Monty’s with us. Weren’t you just bitching to me the other day that you hadn’t had a date in…oh, what was it? Six to eight months?”