Tin Men (The Clay Lion Series Book 2)

by Amalie Jahn

  Books by Amalie Jahn

  The Clay Lion Series

  The Clay Lion

  Tin Men

  A Straw Man

  The Sevens Prophecy Series

  Among the Shrouded

  Gather the Sentient

  Let Them Burn Cake!

  (A Storied Cookbook)

  Amalie Jahn

  TIN MEN

  A NOVEL

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  Copyright © 2014 by Amalie Jahn

  License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any informational storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This e-book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle Edition

  A BERMLORD E-book

  First Edition, July 2014

  Typeset in Garamond

  Cover art by Amalie Jahn

  To Drew-

  The person who taught me what sacrifice, perseverance,

  and true love are all about.

  Thank you for being my real-life Charlie,

  without all the loathsome sensitivity.

  C HAPTER ONE

  It was raining, but only barely. It was an in-between kind of rain. The type that can’t decide if it wants to be a soft mist or a full-on drizzle. I held the umbrella above our heads as Brooke methodically marched in place to keep her heels from sinking into the soft earth. My mother stood beside me, sharing her umbrella with Melody. Hundreds of mourners surrounded us, including Brooke’s parents and my extended family, but as far as I was concerned, we were the only four people on earth.

  The minister was still speaking. I stopped listening to whatever he was saying about my father, his life, and the many outstanding contributions he left behind. His words meant nothing to me.

  Brooke reached for my hand which I eagerly took. Her fingers were cold, as they always were, even in the middle of July. Her presence strengthened me as I watched my mother and sister blotting their eyes with shredded tissues. It was emotionally exhausting to see them in pain, and I was at a loss for how best to console them. Brooke had lost her only brother just before we met and had somehow managed to carry on despite the strong bond they shared. I squeezed her hand, and she peered up at me from behind her hair. I knew she was wondering why I was the only one who hadn’t cried about my father’s death.

  The truth was, I had no tears to shed for the man who had been my father but never my dad. I knew she wanted me to mourn his loss, but the reality was, not much in my day to day life would change now that he was gone. A trust fund would sustain me financially, and since my father had never supported me emotionally, my life would continue on in much the same manner as it always had.

  As the service ended, we were encouraged to approach the mahogany casket to say our final goodbyes. I followed behind my weeping mother, who placed her hand upon the glossy surface. As she stepped away, Brooke gave me a gentle nudge and I took a step closer. I read the inscription on the side of the box – “Phillip Henry Johnson: Husband, Father, Public Servant.” I closed my eyes and willed myself to feel something that resembled grief. Instead, I felt only indifference. I stepped aside to make way for the throng of constituents who dabbed bloodshot eyes and shook their heads in quiet disbelief.

  As we made our way toward the waiting town car, Brooke broke the silence that had been looming over us for most of the day. “I’m worried about you,” she said, her concern visible in the lines crinkling her forehead.

  I smiled at her. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. Life goes on, right?”

  “It does,” she frowned, “but usually not right away.”

  The rain stopped and I lowered the umbrella, shaking the water droplets onto the ground. I followed Brooke into the car, sliding across the back seat beside her.

  “It’s okay to be sad, you know?” she said, laying her head on my shoulder.

  I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Although Brooke and I had been inseparable since the day we met, there were still parts of my life she didn’t understand. Her family was close. Loving. Supportive. Hers was the type of family Norman Rockwell had painted. Even her brother’s death hadn’t shaken their faith or love for one another.

  My family was not that kind of family.

  My father had been a politician and a politician above all else. During campaigns and elections, my father paraded us around, his perfect nuclear family for the world to praise and admire. What the voters weren't aware of was in 20 years, he had never seen me swim the final leg of a medley relay. They didn't see the empty seat at the kitchen table during mealtimes. And they certainly didn't realize he never showed affection unless cameras were rolling to capture the moment. The Phil Johnson the world knew was not the Phil Johnson that Melody and I had for a father. And so, instead of sadness, I felt only regret that my father had squandered his time with us.

  “I can’t go to the reception. I can’t pretend for all those people. I know my mom wants me to be there, but I just don’t think I have it in me.”

  She nodded supportively. “I know it’s been hard. Is there something else you want to do? Somewhere you want to go?”

  I brushed a lock of hair from across her face. I didn’t say it, but I was already where I wanted to be. Anywhere with her, the most grounded, solid woman I knew, was right where I belonged.

  “Let’s just go to my house,” I said. “Watch a movie. Order a pizza. Forget that I’m supposed to be the heartbroken Senator’s son.”

  She took my hand. “You got it.”

  C HAPTER TWO

  “I’ve been looking for you for half an hour,” Brooke said, with only a hint of exasperation in her voice as she peeked through the doorway into my father’s study. She walked across the room and sat behind me on the floor, wrapping her arms around my waist. “Your mom and Melody just got here. I ordered pizzas and they’re on the way. I even got your favorite, ham and pineapple.”

  When I didn’t immediately respond, she maneuvered beside me, raising an eyebrow in my direction. “Don’t tell me you’re not hungry. You’re always hungry.”

  “It’s not that,” I replied at last, coming out of a daze, “it’s all this.”

  Somehow I became absorbed in my father’s belongings, which were spread across the ornamental rug in the center of the room. When I passed by the door to the office, a door that was never open and frequently locked, something made me hesitate and try the knob. To my surprise, it opened. I rushed inside, peering over my shoulder, as if my father had the power to return from the grave to admonish me, as he’d done my entire life.

  Once inside, I wandered around for several moments, looking for something to prove once and for all that my father had loved me. A photograph of us together. A cherished coloring page from my youth. Something. Anything.

  What I found instead was the box of gear the police department returned to my mother after completing the autopsy.

  “These are the ropes he was wearing when he fell,” I said, holding up a section of my father’s climbing gear.

  Brooke held the rope
in her hand as if it was a venomous snake.

  “I was never allowed in here, you know. Before. When he was alive. So I thought maybe, if I spent some time with his things, it would make me feel something.”

  “And?” she asked, tossing the rope on the floor and picking up a loose carabiner.

  “And, no. It’s just stuff.” I paused, considering whether to go on. “But there is something strange I noticed.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This rigging,” I said, holding up a twisted lump, “has fallen apart. And what’s still together is all wrong. My father would have never tied it this way. It’s not safe.”

  “Maybe it got messed up by the police during the cleanup after the accident,” she suggested.

  I had already considered that explanation, and concluded the disastrous ropes weren’t the product of a sloppy investigation. And yet, it was unlike my perfectionist father to tie his anchor in such a dangerous way.

  “Do you see this rope here?” I said, holding out the length in question. “This is an anchor. It’s designed to hook onto the belay, which keeps you from falling in case you slip while you’re climbing. But this anchor is tied all wrong, and it appears to have been done this way on purpose. My father always kept his fittings tied from one climb to the next. He never undid them. But I’ve never seen him tie an anchor this way.” I inspected the ropes and realized the magnitude of the mistake. “See how the carabiners are hooked to three sides of the anchor making a sort of triangle shape?”

  “Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”

  “What’s wrong with that is the way this is tied, if one of these corners fails, they all fail. The whole anchor falls apart. That’s probably what happened to the one that’s pulled apart.”

  Brooke was silent for several moments before speaking. “What are you thinking, Charlie?”

  I shook my head. I was reeling. Had my father suffered a momentary lapse in judgment when tying his anchor? Had he simply made a mistake? A mistake that led to a 100-foot fall and his own death?

  “I don’t know what to think,” I sighed, picking myself up off the floor. “I guess I’ll just pack this stuff back up and then we can have some pizza.”

  Brooke wandered around the study while I tucked the ropes and climbing gear back into the box. I was glad she was there. My Brooke. The woman who stole my heart and soul in one fell swoop. I never believed in love at first sight until I saw her across the quad, tossing a football with my friends in the fall of my sophomore year. Before I met her, I’d been afraid to love. Afraid to allow anyone behind my carefully constructed wall. A wall I created because I was afraid of being cast aside. But I felt, in that moment, she was someone I could take a chance on letting into my life.

  As I watched her from across the room, nosing through my father’s desk, I felt at ease for the first time in days.

  “You ready?” I asked as I snapped the lid onto the box.

  “Yeah, I guess. But Charlie?” She hesitated, glancing up at me with the look of a four-year-old who was caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Who’s this?” she asked finally, holding out a piece of paper in her hand.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s an old photo. It was here,” she said, “in your father’s desk drawer.”

  She crossed the room and handed me the picture.

  The woman in the photograph was beautiful. A graceful wisp of a woman, staring into the distance instead of looking into the camera. It was obvious she had been unaware she was being photographed, and that whoever took the picture had done so from afar. The woman was someone I didn’t know. And yet, I saw her face every day of my life.

  “She looks a lot like you, Charlie,” Brooke whispered.

  It was true. She had my eyes. My nose. My pronounced cheekbones. Or rather, I had hers.

  I attempted to steady myself on the corner of the desk, but my legs could not support my weight. Like an accordion, I crumpled to the floor, and in an instant, Brooke was there, in my lap, holding my head in her arms. As I struggled to breathe, she ran her fingers through my hair and whispered into my ear.

  “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” she repeated until her soothing became something of a mantra.

  The truth was I always knew this woman existed. Somewhere, in the deepest recesses of my mind, I always knew that my mom hadn’t given birth to me. She and I looked nothing alike, especially as compared to Melody, who could have passed for her sister. But there was more to it than just appearance. Through the years, there had been many heated conversations between my parents which shifted into silent standoffs as soon as I entered the room. I overheard them discussing monetary transactions and a woman who I “didn’t need to know about.” When I asked questions, they told me to mind my own business. When I snooped, I found only locked doors and empty files. My parents kept a secret from me my entire life. And it was finally time to find out the truth.

  C HAPTER THREE

  “I don’t know if now is the best time to have this conversation with your mom, Charlie,” Brooke said when I finally composed myself and was heading for the door.

  “She’s had my entire life to discuss this with me!” I spat, unable to control the anger bubbling up inside of me. “But she always sided with my father. She never told me the truth.” I turned to face Brooke as I stood in the doorway. “She’s going to tell me the truth today.”

  I headed down the hall and she rushed to my side. “She’s reeling, Charlie! His death may not be affecting you, but it’s affecting her.” She grabbed my hand and held her ground at the top of the staircase. “Don’t do this to her. She’s your mom. Have some compassion.”

  I looked into her eyes. I swore when I looked into them there were times I could see her soul. It was an old soul. A soul that knew more than someone her age should know. And I knew she was right about my mom. She was always right when it came to knowing the right thing to say and the reasonable thing to do. But in that moment, I didn’t care about doing the right thing. I only cared about the truth.

  “Come with me. Tell me what to say so I don’t hurt her feelings. But please, Brooke, please, don’t tell me not to ask her for the truth.”

  She considered me for several seconds, and I could see her reassessing her position. Still gripping my hand, she turned on her heel and led me down the stairs. We found my mom and Melody sitting at the kitchen island eating pepperoni pizza off paper plates.

  When I saw her, my resolve wavered. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that she had not given birth to me. I knew I was adopted. But I also knew she was the woman who had seen me through the chicken pox and two broken arms. The one who packed my lunches for 13 years and folded all my laundry. She’d been to every swim meet and soccer game. She had never treated me as anything other than her son. I knew what I was about to say was going to hurt her. And yet, I knew I couldn’t let another day go by without knowing why they never told me the truth.

  “Charlie, what is it?” she asked, when I didn’t join her at the counter. “Don’t you want something to eat? We have…”

  “Ham and pineapple,” I interrupted. “I know. Thank you.”

  I sat down beside her and took a slice of pizza from the box, but laid it on a plate without taking a bite. I looked at Brooke, who was standing across the counter from me, waiting. I inhaled deeply through my nose and released the air slowly through my teeth.

  “Mom,” I began, “now that it’s just us. Just me and you and Melody, there’s something I need to ask you.”

  I heard the sound of her breath catch in her throat. She let the slice of pizza slide from her hand onto the counter. She didn’t look at me. I don’t think she could have even if she wanted to. She didn’t speak.

  She knew.

  “Mom…” I started again, fumbling for words. I looked to Brooke, begging her with my eyes for assistance.

  “Mrs. Johnson,” she said, “Charlie believes his father kept something important from him while he was alive. And well, n
ow that he’s no longer here, he would like to know the truth from you, if you’d like to share it with him. But if now’s not a good time…”

  I touched my mom’s shoulder, afraid she would withdraw, but she didn’t. Instead, she turned to face me, tears in her eyes and a crooked smile on her face. She shook her head.

  “For over twenty years I’ve kept your father’s secret. I never understood why it was so important to keep the truth from you, but he never wanted to give the public any reason to question him. I don’t know how anyone could view what he did in a negative light, but he never wanted anyone to know, just the same. I guess now that he’s gone, it doesn’t make much of a difference either way. He was a good man,” she said, patting my hand. “Maybe hearing the truth will help you see that.”

  “What truth, Mom?” I asked, uncertain if I was ready to hear the words I knew were coming.

  Without answering, she crossed to the far side of the kitchen, where she selected a bottle of red wine from the rack. After pouring herself a sizable glass, she made her way into the family room where she settled herself on the oversized sectional and waited patiently for us to join her. After several anxious moments, she finally spoke.

  “Phil and I had been dating for just about a year. He had recently proposed, and things were going so well between us that I couldn’t imagine life being any more perfect. He was running for county commissioner, a position he was sure would lead to bigger and better things in the future, and he was ahead in all the polls. He was sure he had the nomination locked up and was on cloud nine. I don’t remember ever seeing him more excited than he was during that election. Then one evening, he called me out of the blue and said he needed to speak with me right away. I wasn’t expecting to see him that night because he was attending some sort of charity event, but he was adamant about a face-to-face conversation.