by R. A. Evans
Has it really been 14 years? Brady rounded the car to let Gruff out to stretch his legs. The dog bounded through the open door, pressed his nose to the ground and started swinging his tail back and forth. He found “the spot” and relieved himself.
Brady pondered his next move. He had never walked through that door without at least one of his parents in tow. The years since his last visit felt like a lifetime ago. Really, it’s only been half a lifetime. He thought. His mother had lost her battle with breast cancer here in 2005, while watching the sun rise one last time over the lake, dad’s hand gently holding hers. Brady was miles away in Chicago chasing his dreams…and Karen.
His father had broken the news to him over the phone. “She’s gone,” was all he could muster. Brady thought he could hear the splash of a tear through the receiver. “Come home.”
So Brady had returned to Grand Rapids for his mother's funeral. Although his parents had retired to Bedlam Falls following his mother's diagnosis, they kept their roots in Grand Rapids. His brief and infrequent visits had always been to their home in the city. He had become a connoisseur at brushing aside both their subtle and not-so-subtle invitations to spend time with them at the lake.
Walking alongside his father to his mother’s graveside memorial, Brady had been struck by how, over the years, time had chipped away at the man's chiseled features. The elder Tanner's sky-blue eyes were downcast and clouded with grief. His slumped posture and wilted gait had punctuated the utter emptiness and loss that now entombed him. Feebly attempting to bridge the distance that had grown between them, Brady awkwardly placed a hand on his father's shoulder.
After the service concluded, the Tanner men had returned to an empty house. Rolling into the driveway, the sight of the For Sale sign in the front yard had fractured Brady’s reservoir of strength. His head slumped onto the steering wheel, tears finally spilling from his eyes. His father sat in the passenger seat, the distinctive scent of his aftershave providing a quiet comfort. A short while later, Brady felt the touch of his father's calloused hand gently settle on the back of his neck; a meaningful yet brief gesture that infused both of them with a renewed sense of hope. Without a word, Brady traced his father's footsteps up the paved walkway and into the house, a last chance to cling to the memories inside.
Although a smorgasbord of casseroles, deserts and other comfort foods crowded the refrigerator, courtesy of neighbors and friends, the elder Tanner and his son ate bologna sandwiches from TV trays while sitting in front of the television.
The Tigers were at home playing the third game of a four-game series with the Indians and losing horribly. Brady stretched out on the couch and watched Detroit come from four runs down in the ninth to beat the Indians in extra innings.
From where his father was sleeping in the worn out leather recliner, a rumble of snoring drowned out the sound of the play-by-play. The rocking chair his mother had always warmed, which flanked the fireplace and was within easy reach of her yarn basket, now sat idle. Brady caught himself several times stealing glances in its direction, sure that he could hear the clinking of her knitting needles.
The next day, Brady escaped from Grand Rapids, relatively intact emotionally, yet unsure of when, or if, he would return. He had glanced back only once as he made the long walk down the gate to board his flight. His father smiled weakly, nodded, and then turned and disappeared into the crowd. There was no tear filled goodbye or final embrace; merely a silent acknowledgment of the loss they both felt. Brady never expected that nearly three years to the day, he would be walking down that same gate into Grand Rapids’ Gerald R. Ford International Airport for yet another tearful goodbye, this time for his father. Fitting though, that both parents, had drawn their last breaths at the Up North House; the sound of the loons singing them to their final sleep.
And now, here he was, at the one place he had sworn he would never return. The key in his hand felt like an anchor. It contained the weight of years of regret. He jiggled it nervously inside his closed fist. “Okay, boy,” he called to Gruff. Then, muttering under his breath, “Only thing we have to fear…and all that nonsense.”
They made their way slowly down the path to the front porch. Gruff, oblivious to the anxiety growing inside his seemingly stalwart companion, followed behind distracted by the sights and sounds of nature, a city dog taking in his first dose of country life.
Wildflowers and grass grew between the planked floorboards, up over the wooden handrail and posts. Leaves and other debris collected in the corners and sinewy webs hung from the weathered timbers overhead. The boards beneath his feet groaned as Brady stood motionless at the door.
With a nervous hand, he scraped the key into the rusted lock and felt the click as the knob turned. The door opened into the den. Brady paused, breathing in the stale, musty air. It was mixed with a pine scent, evidence of a recent cleaning. Frank and Maddie Griggs, the closest thing his family had to neighbors on the lake, lived four miles away. Brady’s father and Frank had been friends since childhood, and Maddie and mom had been as close as sisters.
Since his father’s death, the Griggs's had kept in touch with Brady through an occasional card or phone call to let him know they were, as Frank put it, ‘keeping an eye on things.’ Brady had always pledged to visit the next weekend or the next month, but time flew by and the seasons changed.
The surprise in Frank’s voice was unmistakable when Brady phoned him to say, "If you see the lights on this weekend, don’t come in swinging your golf club, it’ll just be me." They shared a laugh, followed by an uncomfortable silence, before Frank promised to have things in order for when Brady arrived. Having made good on his pledge to return, Brady felt as if somehow, his mission had been accomplished. As if now, he could turn tail and drive back to Chicago as fast as his Jetta could go.
Then he noticed something. The blinds were drawn, providing just enough light to see a note taped to the wall by the switch. Brady reached for the note as he flipped on the light.
Brady,
Maddie ran a dust cloth around the place and I made sure the plumbing was kosher. Everything else seems to be in order. There’s a pie and some groceries in the fridge – just enough to welcome you back. We’ll be up north this weekend enjoying the view from the island - we'll call when we get back.
Frank
Brady smiled; Michiganders always go north to get away from it all, even those already living in the northern-most parts of the state.
The Griggs, year-rounder’s on nearby Bass Lake, were no exception. Mackinaw Island, located midway between the state’s Upper and Lower Peninsulas, had been their favorite vacation place for years.
Padding into the house, Gruff brushed past Brady, stirring him from his thoughts. Brady's gaze rose from the note. Opening that door had been like breaking the seal on a time capsule. Brady’s life had moved on, yet inside these all-too-familiar walls, it was 1995 all over again.
Brady scanned the den. Trophies and photos lined the shelves and walls, each capturing a moment in time, freezing it for display. His eyes retraced the years of his life, from diapers and toothless smiles to kindergarten graduation, Little League, family vacations and…braces. God, how I hated those braces, he mused. Brady had spent the better part of two years not smiling because of those damn braces, convinced that he looked like James Bond's steel-toothed, arch-nemesis Jaws. To this day he turned the channel in disgust any time a Bond movie came on TV.
A loud clatter, issued simultaneously with a sharp bark and low growl summoned Brady from his musings and sent him sprinting down the hall and through the kitchen to the source of the commotion.
The shadows gave way to light as the afternoon sun poured itself in through the massive windows overlooking the lake. Gruff with hackles raised and tail lowered, stood in the center of the room staring at the coffee table. Scrabble pieces were spread across its surface while others lay scattered on the floor.
“It’s okay, boy,” Brady said leaning down to soothe the dog with a scratch behind
its ears. “That tail of yours just swept ‘em right off the table.” Chuckling, he continued “We’d solve the world’s energy problems if we could harness the power of that wag.” Brady stretched out his hand and picked the pieces up from the floor and tossed them on the table.
Scrabble had been a Tanner family tradition. Instead of church on Sunday mornings, it had been dad’s chocolate-chip pancakes followed by a heated game of Scrabble. The game had remained a coffee table fixture both here, at the Up North House, as well as at their home in Grand Rapids. While Brady and his father had spent countless hours debating the rules surrounding the usage of slang and proper names, mom used her background as a nurse for an endless supply of medical terminology that proved insurmountable to the Tanner men. Brady could count on one hand the number of times either of them had beaten her at a game of Scrabble.
T
he memory lifted Brady’s spirits as his focus drifted to the board, a bit surprised that Dad hadn’t packed it away. Why would he keep it out after Mom was gone? Then, from among the tile pieces scattered across the tabletop, five squares stared up at Brady. Starting from the center square and traveling downward was a single, perfectly-placed word:
The blood drained from Brady’s face, as a strange yet familiar sensation crept over him. Gruff’s rumbling growl returned.
In an instant his mind leapt from one possibility to the next. The tiles in the middle of the board would be the least likely to get disturbed when bumped. Simple physics, right? Or maybe dad had started a game and never finished it, but with whom? No, Maddie probably set the pieces there when she was dusting, it would be like her clever way of welcoming me back.
“Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m a man of wealth and taste,” The Rolling Stones lyric erupted from out of nowhere, causing him to jump with a girlish squeal. The tension broken, Brady fished his i-Phone from his pocket. Sympathy for the Devil was the ring-tone he had assigned to his in-laws. He was far more impressed with the selection than Karen had been and promised to change it out for something less dramatic, but…
“Ooh, Ooh -- hope you guess my name,” the song continued. Only because you saved us from this B horror movie Gruff and I were trapped in do I answer this. He thought to the phone, as he reluctantly pressed the button to accept the call.
“Hello,” he answered, his voice containing more contempt than he intended to reveal.
“Brady, Thomas Greene, Karen’s father. I didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I?” His tenor clearly implied that he could care less if Brady was performing brain surgery. There was a message to be delivered and deliver it this moment he would.
“No, Tom,” Brady replied emphasizing the name. He imagined steam pouring from his father-in-law's ears. He was ‘Thomas’; he had told Brady the first time they had met, which had been shaking hands across a crowded Thanksgiving table packed with Karen’s relatives.
“Thomas Greene,” was the introduction. Both the words and the handshake were cold and brief. “Welcome to our table.”
“Thanks for inviting me, Tom,” Brady replied, a lopsided grin sealing his fate. Karen had warned him about her father. But like watching a movie despite its negative reviews, Brady had refused to believe all that Karen had warned about her father. Determined to sit through scene after awkward scene, Brady would undoubtedly learn the long and hard way.
“It’s Thomas, Mr. Tanner,” was the curt reply. Then in a sudden move the man straightened his posture nearly to the point of snapping his spine, and then he continued, “As my father and his father before him were named. Not Tom. A Tom is a cat of some sort I believe,” he had smirked darkly. Soft snickers from around the table trailed the remark. The home crowd, if you will, was a receptive one. Brady's face reddened as Karen’s father had looked down his long nose at him.
“Or a turkey,” Brady said, his tongue outpacing his brain. He averted his eyes and looked at the enormous bird gracing the center of the table, packed with stuffing. The silence that followed was deafening and seemed to last forever. From the far end of the table however, laughter broke, conquering the tension.
“Cheers, Brady. Come, sit here by me. Fill your plate and your glass. It’s Thanksgiving for heaven’s sake.”
Brady turned to see a lanky, suit-clad thirty-something-year-old standing and motioning with one hand toward an empty chair to his left. In the other, he held a glass of wine. Brady recognized Will immediately from the countless photo albums Karen kept. She spoke of him often, and kindly.
“Let Karen catch up down there with mom and dad,” he added. “I'm Will." He said, extending his hand, "Karen's brother. Welcome to our happy home.” With the last syllables he shot a brief, yet frosty glare at his father.
Brady's grip on the phone tightened as he tried to bring his anger under control before continuing. "What can I do for you, sir?"
“It’s regarding the Trust, Brady,” the contempt thick in his voice. “We must get this resolved. Did you receive the paperwork from my attorneys? They assured me that everything was hand delivered.”
Hand delivered my ass. Brady thought. If by hand delivered he was referring to the three suits with matching briefcases and attitudes that came to The Tribune last month to bully him into signing a set of documents that made War and Peace look like a children’s book, then yes, it had been hand delivered.
“Yes, yes, of course I received them,” he said, “right to my desk at work; all very convenient.” And right at deadline, Brady wanted to add, but didn’t. Why give him the satisfaction?
“Good. Good,” Greene continued and then added a long pause for dramatic effect. “Then may I ask what the problem is? I assure you it is all very straight forward, and generous I might add.”
The Trust that Mr. Greene had been part of Karen's inheritance from her grandparents. The stipulations divided the payments into three installments, the first to be made available to Karen on her twenty-fifth birthday. The second installment would be paid out when she reached thirty years of age, and the last, thirty-five.
Brady and Karen had been married shortly before Karen’s 24th birthday. Just over a year later they had celebrated her 25th birthday in their tiny apartment while watching Jeopardy and eating frozen pizza. Brady had even sprung for a bottle of wine. Her inheritance was never mentioned. Less than a week later Karen was dead and Brady was named as sole beneficiary in her will.
“No problem at all, Tom,” now Brady was emphasizing the name, poking at the angry grizzly bear with a very short stick. “I’m sure you can understand that a decision like this should be given time to... marinate." He smiled, feeling quite proud of his word choice. It was a self-important word, one that Thomas Greene would have chosen. “My attorney is currently looking into the matter and I plan to discuss it with him in the very near future. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”
A long silence ensued, and when he spoke, his words carried the weight of a man who was not used to being trifled with. “Tanner, let’s not mince words here. My daughter’s…curiosity with you aside, we both know the right thing to do here is to settle this Trust. Fifty thousand dollars is more than fair compensation for a single year of marriage, wouldn’t you agree?”
The nerve of this man discussing Brady’s marriage as if it had been little more than a business transaction infuriated him. Hell, Brady didn’t want the money. He’d love nothing more than to give it to Gilda’s Club, the cancer support organization his mother had joined after her breast cancer diagnosis. What a difference $5.3 million could make there. But the money was locked in probate, and would be for years, or so the attorneys had assured him. Years for Thomas Greene and his cronies to peer under every rock, to find anything and everything they could use against him and the people he cared about.
People like Greene disgusted Brady. The prick had money to waste on armies of attorneys and could afford to wage imaginary wars and fight petty battles. Brady’s attorney advised him to settle and move on. Not surprisingly, Brady was jus
t stubborn enough not to heed the advice.
“Sorry, Tom, I’m getting another call,” Brady lied. In his best Thomas Greene impression he added, “It’s my accountant. We’re discussing some very exciting investment opportunities. Strike while the iron is hot, right? What do you say we put a pin in this and reconnect in about a week? I’ll have my people get in touch with your people.” Brady hit END, silencing his former father in law in mind rant.
Brady wanted to scream, but instead lost his breath in laughter. In the span of five minutes he had gone from nearly wetting himself over an uncompleted game of Scrabble to basically telling the man who served on the Boards of Directors of some of the most prestigious Fortune 500 companies and cultural foundations to go fuck himself! Already he felt more alive than he had in ages.
D
espite the interruption of the heated phone call, Gruff was still staring intently at the coffee table. "Come on, boy,” Brady said, reaching over and sorting through the Scrabble tiles, “nothing to be afraid of.” Pleased with himself, Brady laid out six tiles on the board.
“Double word score that, TOM!” he announced triumphantly to the empty room. "Now Gruff, let’s go get some of Maddie’s pie.”
By 4:30 p.m. Brady could barely keep his eyes open. After the long drive from Chicago to Bedlam Falls and the rollercoaster of emotions of the afternoon, not to mention the devouring of half of Maddie’s famous apple pie, he wanted nothing more than to rest his eyes. Gruff shared the same thought and had already claimed a patch of floor in the den near the stone fireplace.
Brady retrieved his bags from the car and migrated upstairs to what used to be his old bedroom. Maddie must have anticipated his choice of sleeping arrangements and had his bed ready with fresh linens and blankets. Kicking off his boots, he plopped down on the twin bed and stretched out, arms resting behind his head and feet nearly dangling off the edge.
