Crossroads

by Irene Hannon

  “Because they look worse than I do.”

  She stared at him, then slowly walked back to the table and sank into her chair. She knew he’d been going to the gym for the past few weeks, knew that he’d filled out and was developing muscles. But she hadn’t realized he was so capable of taking care of himself.

  “Joe’s been helping me with my workouts. And he showed me some tricks,” Bruce added, confirming her conclusion.

  There was a touch of pride in his voice, and Tess couldn’t blame him. She didn’t condone fighting, but she was relieved to know he could defend himself if necessary. And the ability to deal with a situation like today’s was obviously a boost to his self-esteem. Besides, he’d done nothing wrong. He hadn’t started the fight. He’d just taken care of himself when things started getting rough.

  “I think you handled this in exactly the right way, Bruce,” she said slowly. “I’m proud of you. I’m just sorry they said those things to you about me.”

  He shifted uncomfortably, and when he spoke he sounded suddenly like a little boy, uncertain and afraid and desperately in need of reassurance. “They aren’t true, are they, Mom?” he asked in a small voice.

  She stared at him. “Of course not!”

  He flushed and looked away. “Sorry. I didn’t think so, but…well, you and Mr. Jackson seem pretty…close. Even the guys noticed.”

  Tess took a deep breath and then reached out to hold his bruised hand, forcing him to look at her again. She needed to be honest, and to say this just the right way, so she chose her words carefully. “We are, Bruce. We’re very close. In fact, we’ve fallen in love. Mitch is a very special man, and I feel blessed that he’s part of our life. But just because we’re in love doesn’t mean we’re sleeping together. That would go against everything I believe, everything our faith teaches. Sleeping together, making love, only means something when it’s done in the context of a long-term commitment. Of marriage. Knowing that your partner will be with you for always, through the good times and the bad times, is what gives love-making its deepest meaning. Mitch feels the same way.”

  “So are you going to marry him, then?”

  She took a deep breath and once again struggled to find the right words. “First of all, he hasn’t asked me to yet. And second, a lot depends on you. You are my first and most important commitment,” she said fervently, her gaze locked on his. “I would never do anything that wasn’t in your best interest. I happen to think that having Mitch in your life is in your best interest, and I hope you will feel the same way in time. Because I have room in my life—and my heart—for both of you. Loving Mitch takes nothing away from the special relationship that we have. Do you understand that?”

  There was silence for a moment, and then he slowly nodded. “Yeah.”

  He sounded sincere, and relief surged through Tess. “So tell me how you feel about Mitch.”

  Bruce shrugged. “He’s okay, I guess. He’s not as bad as I thought at first.”

  Tess considered extolling Mitch’s virtues, pointing out all the wonderful things he’d done for Bruce and for her. The evidence was pretty compelling. But she refrained. Bruce needed to come to those conclusions himself. And he would, she was sure, given time.

  Mitch was willing to wait, so that wasn’t a problem.

  The problem was her. Because after years of being alone, she was suddenly tired of waiting.

  “Tess? Jenny Stevenson.”

  Tess frowned at the phone. Why in the world would Peter’s sister be calling her?

  “Tess? Are you there?”

  “Yes. Hello, Jenny. Sorry. I was just surprised.”

  “I’m sure you were. We haven’t talked in years. And I wouldn’t have bothered you now, except I thought you might want to know, for Bruce’s sake.” The woman’s voice broke on the last word, and Tess heard her take a deep breath as she struggled to regain her composure. “Peter had a massive heart attack yesterday. He died this morning.”

  Tess stared at the phone. Peter dead at age forty-two? Of a heart attack? He’d never been sick a day in his life!

  “Tess?”

  “Yes. I—I’m here. I’m just so…shocked.”

  “We all feel the same way. The funeral will be in Washington on Saturday, and I thought maybe Bruce might like to come.”

  “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll…I’ll talk with him about it.”

  “Let me give you the information. Do you have a piece of paper handy?”

  She reached for a notepad. “Yes. Go ahead.”

  As Tess jotted down the details, her mind was reeling. Even after she’d expressed her polite condolences and said goodbye, she was still too stunned to fully absorb the news. She sat there unmoving as the minutes ticked by, thinking about the man who had been her husband, and about the sham of their marriage. About his selfishness and unfaithfulness. About the way he’d hurt his only son. His legacy to both of them had been only pain and tattered self-esteem.

  Tess supposed she should feel some hint of sadness at his death. Some remorse.

  But, God forgive her, all she felt was relief. Because now he could never hurt them again.

  “Hey, Mom, I’m home!”

  Tess’s heart began to pound and she carefully set the paring knife on the counter. She didn’t know how Bruce was going to react to the news about Peter. He’d talked so little about his father through the years, guarded his feelings so closely, that she had no idea how he felt about him now. For that reason, she had decided to leave the decision to him about whether to attend the funeral. If he needed to go, for closure, she would see that he got there. But she would also fully support him if he decided to stay in St. Louis.

  She turned as he came into the kitchen and threw his books onto the table, noting with relief that the black and blue of his eye had faded dramatically in the week since the fight.

  “What’s for dinner?” he asked.

  “Stir-fry. How was school?”

  “Okay.”

  “And the play?”

  “Scenery’s almost done. But I’ll probably have to stay late again tomorrow to help finish up.” He reached over and snatched a piece of raw carrot from the pile of crisp vegetables. “I’m gonna check my e-mail before dinner. Uncle Ray’s supposed to send me some stuff about putting up fences before I go out there Saturday.”

  He started to turn away, but Tess reached out a hand to restrain him. “Bruce, before you go I need to talk with you for a minute.”

  At the serious tone of her voice he turned back to her with a worried look. “What’s wrong?”

  “Let’s sit down for a minute, okay?”

  “You aren’t sick again, are you?”

  He followed her to the table but stood hovering over her anxiously, his face tense.

  “No, honey, I’m fine. Come on, sit down.”

  “Is something wrong with Uncle Ray?” A note of panic crept into his voice.

  “As far as I know, he’s fine, too. It’s your…your dad, Bruce.”

  Bruce frowned and slowly sat down. “What about him?” he asked cautiously.

  “He had a heart attack yesterday. He died this morning.”

  Bruce’s face grew a shade paler, and his eyes shuttered. Tess couldn’t even begin to gauge his reaction. But his hand was ice-cold when she reached for it. She waited for several moments, but when he made no comment, she continued.

  “Peter’s sister, your aunt Jenny, called about half an hour ago. She gave me all the information on the funeral. It’s going to be on Saturday, in Washington. You can go if you’d like to, Bruce.”

  He frowned. “Do I have to?”

  “No. It’s completely up to you. I just want you to know that you can go if that’s what you want to do.”

  “You aren’t going, are you?”

  “Not to the funeral. But I’ll go to Washington with you and make sure you get to the service if you decide to go.”

  Bruce stared down at the table. “Do you think I should go, Mom?”
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  Tess leaned closer and put her arm around his shoulders. “You don’t owe your father anything, Bruce,” she said quietly. “Don’t go because you think you’re supposed to. Only go if you want to. And either way is fine with me.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Can I think about it tonight?”

  “Of course.”

  Bruce sighed. “He wasn’t much of a father.”

  Tess felt her throat constrict. That was the closest Bruce had ever come to revealing his feelings about the man who had been a father in name only. “No, honey. He wasn’t. It just wasn’t a role he was cut out to play.”

  “Yeah.” He leaned over and gave her a quick bear hug. “But you’re a great mom.” When he drew back, his eyes were suspiciously moist, and he swiped at them with the back of his hand as he stood. “I think I’ll check my e-mail now.”

  Before Tess could respond, he grabbed his books and headed for his room. She watched him disappear down the hall, too choked up to speak. Peter might not have been much of a father. But he had certainly fathered a wonderful son.

  “Well now, I think it’s about time for lunch.” Uncle Ray mopped his brow and squinted at his watch, shading it from the sun. “Putting up fences sure can build up an appetite. You boys hungry yet?”

  “I could use some food,” Mitch replied. “How about you, Bruce?”

  “Yeah. I guess so,” the teenager concurred. “Do you need some help, Uncle Ray?”

  “Nope. Got all the sandwich fixings in the refrigerator. Only take me a few minutes to whip everything up. I’ll ring the bell when it’s ready.”

  For a moment they watched the older man make his way back toward the house, and then Bruce reached for the posthole digger and went back to work.

  Mitch did the same, keeping a surreptitious eye on the teenager. Bruce had been unusually subdued this morning—which wasn’t surprising, considering his father was being buried even as they worked. The funeral was clearly on his mind, though he hadn’t mentioned it. Tess had warned Mitch about Bruce’s reticence. Other than telling her he’d decided not to go to the funeral, he hadn’t spoken about the subject. He was making a valiant effort to ignore the whole thing, pretend it didn’t matter. But Mitch could sense the tension in the boy. His movements were stiff, and there was an unnatural tautness to his face. Mitch had tried to raise the subject of the funeral during the drive to the farm, only to have his efforts rebuffed. But the boy was clearly hurting, so Mitch decided to make another attempt using a different approach.

  “I wonder if Uncle Ray will miss having the farm,” he said, keeping his tone conversational. “He hasn’t said much about it.”

  At first Mitch thought Bruce was going to ignore the comment. But after a few moments he spoke. “He has to me.”

  “Is that right? So what do you think?”

  Bruce kept digging. “I don’t think he’ll miss the work. And he kept some land, so he can still have a garden. I think he’s happy. At least, he seems like he is whenever we talk about it.”

  “You two seem to talk a lot.”

  “Yeah. We e-mail almost every day. He’s a great guy. It must be neat to have an uncle like that.”

  “It is. He’s been almost like a father to me since my own dad died ten years ago,” Mitch said evenly, keeping his tone casual.

  There was silence for a few moments, and again Mitch thought Bruce was going to shut down. But the boy surprised him. “Did you have a good dad?”

  “Yes. He worked too hard. And he wasn’t around as much as I would have liked. But he loved me. And he let me know it. In the end, that’s all that matters.”

  “You were lucky.” Bruce thrust the posthole digger into the ground and clamped it shut on the dark earth.

  “Yes, I was.”

  Bruce withdrew the dirt and deposited it in a pile beside the hole, kicking a few wayward clumps back into place. “I guess Mom told you a lot about my dad.”

  “Some.”

  Bruce looked at him skeptically. “More than that, I bet.”

  “Enough,” Mitch amended. “He didn’t sound like the best dad—or husband.”

  “He wasn’t,” Bruce said tersely, his voice edged with anger. He thrust the digger into the ground again. “He hurt Mom real bad.”

  “I figured that. What about you?”

  Bruce shrugged as he withdrew another digger of dirt. “He never wanted me around. That’s pretty hard for a little kid.”

  Or a teenager, Mitch thought silently. “Even adults have a hard time dealing with rejection,” he replied quietly.

  “Yeah. I guess so.” Bruce paused and wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

  “How about some lemonade?” Mitch suggested.

  “Sure.”

  Mitch filled two paper cups from the cooler Uncle Ray had provided, then nodded toward a large rock a few yards away in the shade. “What do you say we take a break?”

  “We’ll be stopping for lunch in a few minutes.”

  Mitch smiled. “I don’t think Uncle Ray will fire us if we cut out a few minutes early.”

  Mitch headed for the rock and settled down. Bruce followed more slowly and perched on the edge, his body tense, his eyes fixed on the distant field. It was quiet at the farm, the stillness broken only by the faint hum of a tractor and the birds twittering in the trees. There was silence between them for a minute or two, but finally Bruce sighed.

  “I wish my dad had been more like Uncle Ray,” he said, his tone subdued but intense. “I only met him a couple of months ago, but already I know I’d miss him real bad if…if anything happened to him. I never felt that way about my dad. He was never very nice to me. Or to Mom. It’s real hard to…to love somebody like that, you know? Even though you’re supposed to.”

  Mitch took a sip of his lemonade. Lord, let me say the right thing, he prayed silently, forming his words carefully. “You don’t have to love him just because he was your biological dad, Bruce. That kind of love isn’t something that’s owed. It’s something that’s earned. And from what I know about your dad, he didn’t earn your love. Or your mom’s. And you know something? That was his loss. Because he could have had the love of two very special people if he’d just made an effort.”

  Bruce turned to look at him, and Mitch met his gaze directly. After a moment Bruce blinked and turned away. “He didn’t think I was special,” he said in a small voice. “He never wanted me.”

  “Then he was a fool. I would give anything to…to have a son like you.” Mitch’s own voice broke, and he suddenly found it difficult to swallow past the lump in his throat.

  Bruce turned back to him, remembering the photo that Uncle Ray had so carefully placed in his dresser drawer, recalling the scene he’d witnessed—and the confession he’d overheard—the night of Mitch’s nightmare. “That picture in Uncle Ray’s room…the day you came in to call us for lunch. That boy was your son, wasn’t he?” Bruce said slowly.

  Mitch nodded.

  “I’m sorry he died. He looked like a nice kid.”

  Mitch sucked in a deep breath, struggling to control his own emotions. “He was.”

  “You still miss him, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “The same way Uncle Ray misses his son.”

  Again Mitch nodded.

  “I know that they both died when they were pretty young, but they were kind of lucky in a way,” Bruce said, his eyes suddenly old beyond his years.

  Mitch frowned. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “They had fathers who cared. And who loved them. And who still think about them a long time after they’re gone. If something had happened to me, my dad would never have even given it a second thought. He would have forgotten all about me by the next day.”

  Mitch’s heart contracted, and he once more silently cursed the man who had come very close to ruining a young boy’s life. But he couldn’t deny what was obviously a true statement. So he didn’t even try. “Maybe you should follow his lead, then.”

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nbsp; Bruce sent him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

  “Now that he’s gone, forget about him. Recognize him for what he was—and what he wasn’t—and move on with your life. You don’t need your dad to validate your worth, Bruce. You never did. You’re a smart, caring, talented young man. And if your dad failed to recognize how special you are, that’s his fault, not yours.”

  Bruce’s face grew slightly pink at Mitch’s compliment, and he looked away. “It’s not easy to forget,” he said quietly.

  A flash of pain flared in Mitch’s eyes. “No, it’s not. That’s why it’s important to have people around who love us and believe in us and stand by us when we have doubts.”

  “Like Mom.”

  “And your friends, too. Like Uncle Ray. And me.”

  Bruce looked at him, and for a moment their gazes connected and held. The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively, and he took a deep breath. “I haven’t been very friendly to you.”

  “Principals are used to that.”

  “I thought you were picking on me when I first came to the school.”

  “How about now?”

  Bruce met his gaze steadily. “I guess I was wrong.”

  The clanging of the dinner bell suddenly broke the stillness, and after a moment Mitch forced his lips into a smile. “Sounds like Uncle Ray’s ready for us.”

  “Yeah. He’s worse than Mom when you’re late for a meal.”

  This time Mitch’s grin was genuine. “Then we’d better hurry.”

  They stood, and Bruce shoved his hands into his pockets. But when he held back, Mitch turned to him questioningly.

  “I don’t think I ever said thanks for everything you’ve done for Mom and me,” the boy said quietly.

  Mitch put his hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “You just did. And it was my pleasure.”

  He slung his arm around Bruce’s shoulders, and as they made their way to the house, Mitch felt more at peace than he had in a very long while. Because for the first time he and Bruce had finally found some common ground. And in the process they’d forged a new bond.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I take it the news was good.”