The Shortest Way Home

by Juliette Fay

  “Everything okay?”

  “She’s on this new fertility drug. Makes her kind of . . . ­emotional.” He gave a humorless chuckle. “Sort of like a weepy grizzly on crack.”

  Sean nodded sympathetically. “Good times.”

  “Like you read about.”

  CHAPTER 39

  When Sean got home, all he wanted to do was down a handful of ibuprofen and pass out for about six hours. But Aunt Vivvy was wandering around the house in a semivague state, George stalking by her side on high alert, and Sean was afraid to close his eyes until the two of them settled down some. Also, he remembered that he’d never checked that e-mail from Kevin’s teacher, as he’d meant to do at Rebecca’s house. Just the briefest thought of exactly how he’d gotten distracted made his nether region start to perk up a little.

  He focused on locating Deirdre’s laptop and found it in her bedroom under some clothes. He powered up right there in her room, found the e-mail, and skimmed to where it said,

  Kevin’s a wonderful boy, a pleasure to have in class, but he does have his challenges. I’m concerned that middle school might be especially tough for him. Would it be possible for us to meet and discuss this? I feel strongly that it’s in Kevin’s best interest to get some supports in place under the circumstances.

  Best,

  Claire Lindquist

  He replied that he was free to meet her anytime and thanked her for her concern.

  There was another e-mail, this one from the middle school ­administration, notifying parents “and other guardians” that class schedules for the upcoming school year had been sent to the e-mail address specified. Copies were available in the main office.

  He had promised Kevin two things: to walk the dog and pick up the schedule. Since he’d so far failed miserably at the former, he was especially anxious to fulfill the latter. He could walk over to the middle school and take George with him, killing two guilt birds with one stone.

  A new e-mail dropped into his in-box. It was from Claire Lindquist, telling him that she would be prepping in her classroom all day tomorrow, and if that was convenient for him, he could come by. He wasn’t scheduled to work for Cormac, so he replied that he’d be there at ten.

  He got his aunt a cup of tea and some Fig Newtons, fanning them out on a china dessert plate the way she always did.

  “How did you know I like these?” she asked.

  Because you eat them every day. “Just a guess,” he said.

  She seemed calmer after that, and decided to go up to her room for a nap. George stood up to escort her. “Oh, no, you don’t, beast,” muttered Sean. “You’re with me.”

  George allowed herself to be clipped to the leash, but stood immovable as a statue in the foyer until Aunt Vivvy’s bedroom door clicked shut. If a canine could be said to feel conflicted, George was the poster dog. She clearly needed a walk, but she didn’t want to leave the house.

  A thought occurred to Sean as the two of them stepped down off the porch and out toward the street: he and George had the same problem. They both wanted desperately to get out into the world, and they both felt guilty about going.

  He stopped for a moment and looked down at the dog. She looked up at him, waiting for his lead. The ibuprofen had kicked in, and Sean’s back had downgraded from a high-pitched squeal to a dull roar. Carefully he squatted down and gave the dog’s neck a good rough scratch.

  “Listen,” he told her. “Viv’s the queen, and Kevin’s the prime minister. But you and me, we’re just rank and file. We’re on the same team, so let’s try to help each other out, okay?”

  George turned her muzzle into Sean’s hand and gave it a little lick.

  When they got to the middle school to pick up Kevin’s schedule, Sean looped George’s leash through the bike rack and went into the main office. The exterior of the building looked the same as it had thirty years ago, but inside, things were different. The glass trophy case was crowded with art and music awards, in addition to sports trophies. He glanced into the library across the hall and saw that a third of the room was now filled with computer terminals.

  In the main office, he told the secretary he was there for Kevin’s schedule.

  “Great, let me just get you to sign off on this form,” she said. “You’re his dad, right?”

  “His uncle.”

  “Oh.” This seemed to throw her off for a moment. “Um, his legal guardian?”

  Having dealt with bureaucrats in every hospital and clinic he’d worked in, Sean could smell a paperwork problem, and he did what he’d learned to do years ago: figure out the right answer and bend the truth to approximate it. “Yeah, I’m his guardian,” he said. Not legal, perhaps, but he was “guarding” Kevin a heck of a lot more than anyone else at the moment.

  He signed the form and left with the packet, leafing through it as he and George walked down the street. There was a notice on yellow paper that caught his eye: SUBSTITUTE NURSE NEEDED. Apparently the school nurse had recently been in a car accident and was on medical leave. A full recovery was expected, but she wouldn’t be able to return to work until October.

  School nurse, thought Sean. Could there be a job more boring than that? It basically amounted to being a human Band-Aid dispenser. And you’d spend your day sitting in a Petri dish of viruses and flu bugs. He’d take a gangrenous wound over that any day of the week.

  As he walked, his mind wandered to Rebecca and the satiny feel of her thighs against his, but then turned quickly to speculating about her plans for tonight. If she was just going out with a friend, why would she be so tight-lipped about it? Maybe it was something she was embarrassed about . . . like a support group of some kind . . . ­Unhealthily Controlled by My Parents Anonymous? Women on the Verge of a Good Career Move, But Not Quite?

  Or maybe it was a support group for women trying not to get into bad relationships with guys who would inevitably leave them. The thought hit him like an electric shock. If he really cared about her—and he did, he knew that without a doubt—he should nip this thing in the bud before she truly did need a support group.

  * * *

  He expressed this opinion to Cormac over beers and wings at The Pal.

  “Hold up—you finally broke it off with Chrissy?” said Cormac.

  “Okay, you don’t have to say it like I finally realized the world is round or something.”

  “Touchy!” snorted Cormac.

  “And what do you mean ‘break it off’? We only went out a couple of times. It wasn’t like we were together.”

  Cormac shrugged. “You brought her to meet your friends. That means something.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Hell if I know.” He laughed. “Jesus, where’s Barb when you need her? No, it’s like a thing. Like you wanted to . . . include her. In your life. Which, at the time, you kind of did.” Sean squinted skeptically. “Oh, please,” said Cormac. “Bullshit yourself if you want to, but don’t bullshit me. You were practically wagging your tail, hoping she’d take you home like one of her rescue dogs.”

  “So now I have to . . . what—say something? Like call her up and tell her it’s over?”

  “I think you probably should. You know, so she’s not waiting around. It sucks when something’s over and you don’t even know.” Cormac took a swig of his beer. “Kind of ironic, though—worrying about her feelings when she certainly never worried about Becky’s.” He nodded approvingly. “Becky Feingold. I always liked her.”

  Sean felt a primitive little zing of competition. It must have shown because Cormac said, “Chill out. I don’t mean liked her liked her. I just mean she was a good egg. A nice person.”

  “Yeah,” said Sean. “Too nice to be screwing around with me, and no chance of a future.”

  “Hey, you don’t know that. Maybe you’ll change your tune and stick aro
und. Or maybe she’d go with you.”

  “I didn’t think of that.”

  “I mean, I don’t know how likely it is. The conditions you’re talking about are pretty rough. But it’s not out of the question, is all I’m saying.”

  Not out of the question. She could make the choice to be with him. It turned the burner way down under his little pot of conflictedness.

  They ordered another round of beers, and Sean told Cormac about seeing Da.

  “No wonder you couldn’t tell a whoopie pie from a cannoli this morning,” said Cormac. “Hell of a day you had.”

  Sean chuckled. “Yeah, you think?”

  Cormac took a swig of beer. “I’m pretty sure this is what those daytime self-help shows call ‘a crossroads.’ ”

  “You don’t watch daytime self-help shows,” scoffed Sean.

  “No, but Barb does, and she tells me about it. In between crying at diaper commercials, yelling at me for smelling like old coffee grounds, and jumping me every time her temp goes up a tenth of a degree.” Cormac tipped his beer up and finished it. He raised it in the direction of the bartender, who put two more bottles up on the bar for the waitress to bring over.

  “Hormones are pretty powerful drugs,” said Sean. “She can’t help acting crazy.”

  “Which I remind myself on an hourly basis. But honestly, I’d kinda like my wife back.”

  “Are you okay with not having biological kids?”

  “I’m okay with anything. But she keeps saying that she loves me so much, she wants a baby with my gene pool. A little me.” He gazed distractedly out the window into the dark. “What the hell’s the comeback for that?”

  CHAPTER 40

  There were more beers than usual on their tab at the end of the night. Before they parted ways in the parking lot, Cormac pulled Sean into a back-slapping hug. “Keep the faith, brother.”

  “You, too, man,” said Sean. “She’s a good girl. Hang in there.”

  “She is.” There was a choky little sound to Cormac’s voice, and it caught at Sean.

  “You okay walking home?”

  “Totally fine. ’Sides, it’ll give me a chance to air out a little before I get there. Gotta blow the stink of old coffee grounds off me.” They both laughed, though it was not that funny, but knowing they had to part on a lighter note.

  Sean walked home thinking, It never ends. You meet the perfect girl, get married, settle down somewhere you both are happy . . . and shit still happens.

  When he arrived, he went into the kitchen for another round of ibuprofen, now doubly necessary for his back and to stave off the hangover that would surely result from the evening’s intake. The phone rang, and it felt like someone was blowing a party horn in his ear. He grabbed it up quickly to make the satanic thing stop.

  “Sean,” said a gravelly voice. “It’s your da.”

  Oh, for the love of God, thought Sean. Could I please get a break?

  “I’ve been thinking so much about all that you told me yesterday. I can’t make my mind stop turning it over and over.”

  Like father, like son, thought Sean. “I can’t really talk now,” he said. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

  “Sure. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

  “No, it’s just I’m unbelievably tired.” And a little drunk. And so not in the mood for another heart-to-heart.

  “I’m a bit of a night owl, so I guess I assumed you were, too. But listen,” he said. “Can I just plant a little idea with you and you can see how it sprouts overnight?”

  “Sure.”

  “I keep thinking about Hugh being gone, and Kevin with no da, and you going off to parts unknown. And I was thinking . . . I would really . . . I think it would be good for all of us—”

  “What, Da.”

  “I want you and Kevin to come to Ireland with me. I know Deirdre’s busy with her acting career, and she’s not ready to see me, but the two of you could go.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so—”

  “A short trip. I just want you to see it, Sean! I want to get to know you again, and spend time with my grandson. I’ve never even met

  him.”

  With more sleep and less beer under his belt, Sean might have chosen his words more carefully. Or better yet, not said them at all. But that was not the case.

  “And whose fault is that?” he said. “Look, you wanted to see me. You saw me. You wanted to open up the whole can of worms to make amends, as you call it. You opened it. Now you have to back off.”

  Sean could hear a little gasp on the other end, as if he’d punched his father in the stomach. He felt bad for that, until his father said, “Jesussufferingchrist, but you’re bitter! I would have thought that you of all people would understand.”

  “Me of all people? What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve been off on your own journey, too,” Da said. “You’re a prodigal, like me.”

  “Pardon me, Da, but ‘prodigal’ doesn’t mean someone who returns after being gone a long time. It means wasteful. I’ve never wasted anything in my life. I’ve never had anything to waste.”

  “I know what ‘prodigal’ means, son.”

  You brass-balled bastard! The words were about to come out, so Sean hung up.

  He went up to bed but he couldn’t sleep. Jesus, the nerve of the man. Go to Ireland with him? No way in hell. Fury slammed around in his beer-addled brain until exhaustion overtook him, and he fell into a restless sleep.

  * * *

  When Sean woke the next morning, he rubbed his eyes. They felt puffy and his tongue felt furry. He thought of Rebecca and experienced that vaguely bereft response to her absence again. He wished he were scheduled for a shift at the Confectionary. It would make the time pass more quickly until he saw her that night.

  He went down to the kitchen. Aunt Vivvy was fixing herself a soft-boiled egg. It occurred to him that cooking might not be the wisest activity for her. Even boiling water could have disastrous consequences for someone without a consistent hold on her senses.

  “Who is your late-night caller?” she asked him, as he rooted around in the cabinets for something that would settle his stomach.

  “Hmm?”

  “Who keeps calling here so late at night? It’s a bit presumptuous to think calling at that hour is acceptable.”

  “Da.”

  She was silent, lifting the egg from the pot with a slotted spoon and depositing it into an eggcup. As a boy, Sean had always thought they looked like miniature thrones for the soon-to-be-decapitated eggs. Humpty Dumpty meets Louis XVI. Aunt Vivvy took the enthroned egg to the kitchen table. “He calls then because he knows I won’t answer.”

  “Yup.”

  She murmured something under her breath as she elegantly hacked off the top of the egg with a spoon. It was the word coward, he realized, and a little part of him rose up to defend his father. But he allowed himself only the satisfaction of slamming down the knob on the toaster a little harder than necessary.

  Later, when he took George for a walk to his meeting with Ms. Lindquist, he left Aunt Vivvy sitting at her desk writing a letter. She seemed calm and lucid, and Sean hoped she would remain so in his absence.

  Claire Lindquist was on a step stool in her classroom, tacking bright orange letters to the top of a bulletin board. IF YOU HAVE A BOOK, YOU ALWAYS HAVE A FRIEND, they spelled out.

  “Hi,” he said.

  She turned and nearly toppled off the step stool, her glasses going slightly askew on her face. She caught herself and quickly adjusted the glasses, embarrassment coloring her cheeks in splotches.

  “I’m sorry,” said Sean. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

  “Oh, no, I’m fine. Just clumsy.” She adjusted her glasses again, though they seemed perfectly straight. After comment
ing on the heat and the waning days of summer, they sat down in small chairs at a low table to discuss Kevin.

  “First, I just want to say that, despite his challenges, he’s one of my all-time favorite students,” said Claire. Sean wondered how long “all-time” was—maybe five years, tops. “I know I’m not supposed to have favorites, but he’s such a special kid.”

  An unexpected wave of pride rippled through Sean, though of course he knew he’d had absolutely nothing to do with Kevin’s specialness. “Yeah.” He nodded. “He really is.”

  “And he’s doing so much better.”

  Better? Things had been worse than avoiding all situations that are loud and smell bad and make him the least bit anxious? Worse than having no friends?

  “Can you tell me about that? From what I’m seeing now, it seems like he has some sensory issues,” said Sean. “The last time I saw him was only briefly when he was five, right after my brother died.”

  “Certainly. I reviewed Kevin’s file and talked to his prior teachers. Your brother did a wonderful job of preparing him for kindergarten. They made visits to the school over the summer and met with Kevin’s teacher several times to get him used to the new environment.”

  Another example of how party animal Hugh had found his calling in being a dad. The thought of it made Sean’s chest tighten.

  Claire went on. “Of course, it was terribly hard for Kevin, losing his father, and the whole school community rallied around him. But you’ve probably picked up on the fact that being rallied around is not Kevin’s favorite thing.”

  “No, not so much.” Sean smiled at the thought.

  “Each of his teachers had to find ways to facilitate his learning without crowding him.” She looked away for a moment. “Some of us were a little more patient about it than others.”

  Sean’s heart sank. He didn’t even want to think about what that meant. “But you say he’s gotten better?”

  “Absolutely. Usually, as a child’s nervous system matures, they get better at managing sensory input. Think about it—little kids get overstimulated much more easily than teenagers. Kevin’s gradually learned to hold it together most of the time even without any intervention.”