Ramsay rubbed his jaw and nodded back, and put his hat back on. He took out a card and laid it on the table behind the living room couch conspicuously, and Martin mouthed “thank you” before the sheriff left.
Keith’s football trophies were in a box in the basement, along with some of his other things. They had been since he graduated high school and joined the army. It had been Janey’s idea to put them away, and she’d suggested it because Martin had been spending too much time in Keith’s room.
That wasn’t very long ago. Not in the scheme of things. Janey wasn’t that old — she was Martin’s father’s oldest sister, and not yet sixty. How could this be coming on so fast?
Janey looked over his shoulder and smiled at Martin. “Is Keith with you?”
Martin’s chest ached, and he shook his head. “No, Auntie, he’s — he’s not.”
She watched him for a second, her smile frozen and before it faded. She turned back to the stove, but didn’t flip the pancakes or pour new ones. Instead, she turned the stove off.
When she turned around again, she looked scared, and sad.
She was back.
Martin had to close his eyes and swallow twice to relax his throat before he stood up, and went to her.
“I’m sorry,” Janey breathed, her eyes moist. “I — I forgot. I’m sorry . . .”
He let her lean on him, holding her tight. She started to cry into his shoulder.
“It’s okay, Auntie,” Martin whispered. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
15
Taggart had a rough week. But he’d had worse.
He did his exercises religiously. That was easy enough. He’d missed the regular activity he always had in the corps. Pushups and sit ups were both difficult now that he was missing nearly ten pounds off one side, but once he’d finished with the work Martin had given him, he managed to give both of those a try with mixed success.
Grunt seemed intent on being on or within inches of Taggart at all times. The little monster followed him relentlessly and preferred Taggart’s pant leg or shoe to any of the chew toys Taggart had picked up on a tense outing to the pet store.
He also didn’t care for dry food, so Taggart switched him to the wet, canned stuff — but that was going to get expensive fast. He spent some time looking up how to make his own dog food — if you wanted anything to be cost effective, you just had to do it yourself, he figured.
Housebreaking the puppy was a job all to itself. Like any puppy, Grunt seemed to shit four or five times a day. At first, Taggart just grumbled about it and cleaned up the mess. Grunt never seemed to want to do it outside when Taggart took him out, and the whole concept of pee-pads mostly just seemed to amuse the little retriever. He preferred chewing them into bits to actually pissing on them.
But, by Friday morning, after Taggart started tossing the puppy chunks of cooked chicken after he managed to crap outside a couple of times, Grunt seemed to catch on. He went to the door and whined, and started to cop a squat until Taggart hauled himself off his chair and across the room to open the door.
Out Grunt went, into the yard beyond the stairs, and did his business there.
Taggart laughed, and nearly busted his ass as he sat down on the stoop to call the little guy over when he finished, and ruffle his fur. “Good boy! Good job, soldier! Look what you did.” Grunt clambered up onto Taggart’s thigh — with a little help — and balanced on his back paw to get his front paws up on Taggart’s chest.
He let the puppy pepper his chin and cheeks with licks and a stray, needle sharp nip on the jaw.
“Just about time to go see Uncle Marty,” Taggart muttered. “You wanna come with me? I don’t see as there’s another choice. How’s that? Wanna go on a ride?”
“Ride” was a word Grunt had started to pick up, and he froze briefly before his tail started wagging and he gave a few barks. Taggart caught him before he toppled off and lowered him carefully to the ground. “Okay. Inside. Let’s get you geared up.”
“Inside” hadn’t quite stuck yet, but Grunt followed Taggart in, and did his customary trick of falling onto his side and squirming away at the prospect of wearing his harness. The benefit of a dog with a missing leg, though, was that Grunt couldn’t get far or put up much of a fight. In a minute, he had his harness on and Taggart stood slowly to grab his cane and lead the puppy out of the house and to the car.
“Uncle Marty” turned out not to be at work.
Taggart waited in the PT room with Grunt until the door opened. When it did, he smiled, and snapped his fingers until Grunt looked up from the hem of Taggart’s pant leg.
But it was Scott that came in. “Mister Coulson,” the therapist said, nodding once. “Good to see you.”
“Sure,” Taggart said. He waited, but Scott closed the door behind him.
“I understand Martin gave you the introductory exercise set,” Scott said, looking over his clipboard. He looked up. “How’s that going for you? Any trouble doing them at home?”
“No,” Taggart said.
Scott eyed the puppy, who had gone back to chewing Taggart’s jeans. “Who’s this little guy?”
“I got papers for him,” Taggart said. “He’s a . . . like a support dog. Hey, I figured I was working with Martin today. Was there a change of plans?”
Scott bobbed his head. “Yeah, looks like.”
Taggart’s jaw clenched. He rubbed his left thigh. His fake leg suddenly ached. “He get fed up with me?”
Scott looked up, frowning. “Huh?”
“I just figure if he decided he didn’t want to work with me, you know, the least you guys could do is tell me,” Taggart said. “I’m not gonna flip out or anything. I know you’re not supposed to tell me shit like that, but, you know, we were making progress.”
Scott raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “He’s just not here today, that’s all. He took the day off. Some kind of personal thing.”
“You’ve had,”he looked at the clipboard again, “two sessions with him?”
Something about Scott’s tone rankled. “Don’t fucking take a tone with me,” he growled. “I just wanna know if —” Taggart closed his mouth.
Scott’s expression had gone flat. It was a thing plenty of people around this place did, and Taggart knew what it meant. Probably it was some training they got. When one of the crazy ones loses their temper, you just shut down and wait for it to pass, right? Cause they can’t help it, can they?
Well, Taggart could. He ground his teeth, and looked away from the PT. His heart pounded, but he counted backwards in his head, like Doctor Kate had told him to. It didn’t help, but it distracted him. And maybe that’s all it was supposed to do.
Grunt tugged at his pant sleeve. Taggart looked down at the growling puppy, and some of his sudden anger just sort of evaporated.
After a second he cleared his throat. “It’s no big deal. I apologize.”
Scott shrugged. “Okay. So, the clock’s running — you want to get some work done today?”
Taggart nodded and they did the work. It was more painful than it had been with Martin, more . . . clinical, somehow. About halfway through, Taggart had to admit to himself a difficult fact. One that made him a little uneasy, and maybe even nauseous.
He missed Martin.
He’d spent the week looking forward to seeing him again.
Well, it was a good thing he had therapy after this, then, wasn’t it?
16
Martin was allowed seven “sick days” a year. In the aftermath of Janey’s robbery episode, he took all of them. At first it was just to make sure she really was okay, but after that it was to arrange for a few people in town to drop in and check on her. Then, there was figuring out some way to make sure that if Janey needed something, she was able to call someone local.
That Wednesday, Janey had another episode. She became convinced that Martin was, for some reason, intercepting calls from Keith and preventing her from taking them. It only lasted half an hour before her attention
became focused on cleaning the bathroom, but it made Martin realize that leaving Janey alone was starting to become less and less realistic.
On Thursday, he told her he was going out to get groceries, which he did. But while he was out, he called a few assisted living homes and, with a lump in his throat, a couple of nursing homes. None of the places he called were anywhere near what he could afford, even if he put in every last penny left from Keith’s survivor benefits payment. Most of that had already been eaten up paying the bills at Janey’s house.
On Friday, he went to see Janey’s lawyer, who was one of three in Willow’s End. Clint Tildon was a little older than Janey. He had handled everything for her from old credit cards she’d settled a few years back to the purchase of her house almost thirty years before, and her husband’s will when he passed the same year that Janey took Martin and Keith in.
The news that Clint gave him was difficult to hear.
“Unfortunately,” the silver haired lawyer said when Martin visited his office, “as Janey never properly adopted you boys, you’re not officially her children.”
“Okay,” Martin said, “but she doesn’t have kids. Isn’t there, like, a common law clause or something?”
Clint shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Now if she were to sign over power of attorney voluntarily, I could file the paperwork for you and discuss her living will, or arrange to sell the house.”
Janey knew that her dementia was getting worse, but that didn’t mean she’d let Martin take something like that on. He tucked that idea in his back pocket for later, in case there was no other option. “How bad does it have to get, Clint? I mean, this time she just got a little confused, but what if she hurts herself?”
Clint spread his hands. “In that case, she can be admitted, but it won’t change the fact that you can’t be granted power of attorney. She could be remanded to the state, and they’d handle her finances and such —”
“Absolutely not,” Martin said. He closed his eyes and rubbed his neck with both hands. What had he gotten last night, three hours of sleep? “There has to be some option. I’ll take anything, just . . . what are all the possibilities?”
Clint sighed, and threaded his fingers together as he took on a sympathetic look, his grey eyes examining his hands. “Have you talked to your father?”
Martin’s stomach dropped. “No, I haven’t. He wouldn’t be any help. Last I heard, he was still . . . you know. I wouldn’t trust him with Janey’s finances.”
“It is possible,” Clint said slowly, “that if you can demonstrate that Hal is unfit to accept power of attorney for your aunt, it will leave you the only living family member. But it would mean you’d have to make an effort to reach out to him, and maybe even get him in a courtroom.”
“Jesus,” Martin breathed. He chewed his lip, and folded his arms over his chest. It was sunny outside. He resisted the urge to let his thoughts drift. Wasting Clint’s time would be rude, whether the man was really all that busy or not.
He nodded. “Alright. I’ll — I’ll get back to you. I should talk with Janey.”
“Does she know you’re looking around on her behalf?” Clint asked.
Martin shook his head. “You know Janey. It would break her heart to think she was any kind of burden. I’d worry about what she would do.”
“I’ll keep our conversation to myself,” Clint assured him gently. “But I do recommend that you come to some decision soon. The sooner the better.”
Martin rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and stood from the chair. “I will,” he said. “I’ll let you know what we decide.”
They said their goodbyes, and Martin took the long way back to Janey’s house.
On Saturday, Martin took a walk and called his father. He didn’t want to risk upsetting Janey.
The phone rang seven times, and Martin nearly changed his mind, but on the final ring Hal answered. “Hello?”
“Hi, Dad,” Martin said, weakly. He steadied his voice. “It’s Martin.”
There was a pause. “Martin?”
Martin sighed. “Your son, Dad.”
“I know,” Hal complained. “I was just . . . I just woke up, is all.”
It was three o’clock in the afternoon. “Sorry I woke you,” Martin said. “I need to talk to you about Janey.”
There was another, longer pause. Something gurgled in the background. Probably a bong. Martin supposed that was better than some of the alternatives. A moment later, his father spoke again. “How long’s it been since we talked?”
This was not the conversation he wanted to have. “It was after Keith’s funeral, Dad.”
“Huh. So about a year?”
Martin bit his cheek to keep from speaking too harshly or without thinking. He tried to muster patience. “No, Dad. Two years, next month.”
Hal grunted acknowledgement. “I miss him. How you holding up?”
Again, Martin had to hold his temper. “Dad, I need to talk to you about Janey. Can we just skip the catching up and stuff?”
“Don’t talk to me in that tone,” Hal said. “I’m your father. You have to respect me even if you don’t like me.”
“I don’t” Martin bit the words off. “I’m sorry, Dad. Listen, Aunt Janey isn’t doing well. I might have to figure out something for her, like home care, or assisted living or something. But I can’t do that without power of attorney.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Martin?” Hal asked, more focused, thankfully. Maybe the suggestion he was going to lose his sister, too, sharpened his mind and cut through some of the drug induced haziness. “What’s wrong with her?”
“She was diagnosed with dementia, Dad,” Martin said. “We talked about this. Look, all I need is for you to sign some papers so I can deal with it. I can bring them to you.” He’d have liked to have mailed them, but there was no guarantee Hal would send them back, or for that matter even remember to check his mail.
“What papers?” Hal asked. His tone was a little too interested for Martin’s taste.
Still, it wasn’t like Martin could hide what they were for. “You’re Janey’s next of kin,” Martin said. “So, by default, if she needs someone to take over her estate and care, it goes to you. I know that’s a lot for you to deal with so I just need you to sign some papers saying you abdicate your —”
“You think I’d let my own sister just rot in some home somewhere?” Hal cut in. “Jesus, Martin, after all that woman’s done for you, you’re just gonna dump her off somewhere?”
“It’s not like that,” Martin said. “I want to arrange in-home care if I can.”
“Why the hell can’t you do it?” Hal asked. “Didn’t you go to nursing school, or whatever?”
“Physical therapy,” Martin ground out through clenched teeth. “I went to school for physical therapy, Dad.”
“What’s the difference?” Hal asked.
If he’d been able to afford a new phone, Martin would have thrown his across town. As it was, he relaxed his grip on it and rubbed the mounting tension out of his forehead. Some of it, anyway. “It doesn’t matter. Look, can I come by and have you sign these papers, or not?”
“I can come down to you guys,” Hal said casually. “I got nothing going on.”
A bolt of panic hit Martin in the gut. “That’s not necessary.”
“It is,” Hal said. “She’s my sister and you’re my son. I’ll come down. Maybe like Wednesday, how’s that? You got anything going on?”
Martin could come out after work. It would be a grueling couple of days, and late. But how much damage could Hal do being here for just a few hours before Martin made it to town? Well, possibly a lot, but at least they’d get the chance to sign papers. If Hal agreed to it.
“Yeah,” Martin sighed. “Wednesday is fine. Just — can you try and be, you know . . .”
“What?” Hal asked angrily. “Can I try and be what?”
“Try not to be high,” Martin said. “Okay? This is serious, and I nee
d you to be — responsible, for once.”
Hal was quiet.
“I have to go,” Martin said. “I’ll be back in town Wednesday night.” The chances that his father would make it to Willow’s End during the day were slim at best anyway.
“Dad?” Martin asked, when there was no answer. “Dad.”
Martin sighed, and hung up.
He went to the bookstore to check in with Kathy, the old retired lady who ran the register and read books and not much else, and focused his attention on sorting books for an hour or so.
When he was done, he went back to the house, closed the door to his room, and cried into his pillow until he couldn’t anymore.
17
Taggart waited in the PT room on Monday, trying not to feel anxious. Grunt laid on the ground at his feet, gnawing on a rubber toy contentedly, and only occasionally looking up at him before going back to his quest to tear the sturdy toy apart.
It was an early appointment. Usually he met with Doctor Kate and did PT after, but it wasn’t like he had any real control over his schedule here. He wished he’d pushed to have his appointment with her first, though.
His leg ached. Not the usual phantom pain of the missing part—his quads were tight, and his hamstrings, the last few days of exercises working the muscles to exhaustion. He rubbed his thigh absently as he waited, and watched the clock.
At ten am on the dot, the door opened.
Martin came through it.
Taggart relaxed — and realized just then how tense he’d been. “Hey, slacker.”
Martin gave a half hearted ‘hmph’ of acknowledgement, and noticed Grunt. He smiled and squatted, holding a hand out. “Hey, little guy!”
Grunt hung his tongue out, panting, and struggled up to half walk, half hop to where Martin waited and accept some scratches behind his ear and along his back. Taggart smiled without meaning to, and wiped the expression off his face when Martin looked up.
Grudge (Virtue & Vice Book 5) Page 8
