The Ultimatum

by Nancy Moser

  “In here.”

  He went into the front room. Annie and Avi were eating popcorn, watching a movie. Avi scooted closer to her mom, making room for him on the couch. “Come on, Daddy. Sit. Were watching Lion King. Even you like that one.”

  Yup. Even he liked that one.

  He took a seat, grabbing onto normal.

  It didn't take Jered long to master the art of dishwashing. Though Jinko hadn't specified what was meant by kitchen work, Jered had hoped it involved being a waiter or helping the cook or something. He'd gotten all cleaned up and dressed in the new clothes he bought with the money Jinko had given him just to wash dishes?

  Whatever. A few days working a crud job would at least get him some money. Too bad he was already a hundred in the hole. He had thought about skipping out, but the idea of Jinko being mad at him… It wasn't that Jinko was a threatening type of guy, but the man had an air about him that hinted one didn't mess with Jinko Daly. Didn't cross him. Not more than once, anyway.

  Jered's stomach growled. He hadn't eaten anything since morning, and the constant smell of beef and beans and cheese teased his stomach to the point of pain. Jinko had said he could have a break. Now would be good.

  Jered turned to Vasylko the cook. Vasylko had some Russian last name Jered couldrft remember, nor pronounce without seeing it written down. He was a recent immigrant. Where he'd learned to make Mexican food was probably a story in itself.

  “How do I go about getting something to eat?” Jered asked. “I'm starved.”

  “What you want? Taco? Encheelada? Brito?”

  Jered liked his accent. “Yes.”

  Vasylko raised a spatula. “Ha! The boy hungry. Watch out!”

  Bonnie, one of the waitresses, winked at him. She was about thirty and reminded him of his friend Merry Cavanaugh back home. “He's a growing boy, Vasy. Heap him up a big plate.”

  Vasylko did just that, and Jered hoped he could eat every bite as insurance against a later hunger. “Where do I sit?”

  Bonnie pointed to the main room. “Usually you can slip into a back table or eat at the bar, but not tonight. Never on Amateur Night.”

  “What's that?”

  Bonnie pointed to a plate she'd just picked up. “Vasy, darlin, they didn't want any rice, just beans.”

  “Mne tak zhal.” He scooped the rice into a huge pot and replaced it with a large scoop of refried beans. “Musical fruit. Ha ha.”

  Jered stepped closer. “Amateur Night?”

  “Every Saturday. Any musician who wants to play for the audience gets a chance. One song. First come, first play.”

  Jered's heart did a double flip. “Anyone?”

  Bonnie flashed him a look. “Oh, no. Don't tell me. You're a musi-cian.

  “I try to be. I want to be.”

  She lifted a huge tray of food. “Then go stand in the back, eat your dinner, and take a listen. Some of them aren't bad.”

  Vasylko shuddered and made some Russian sound.

  Bonnie smiled. “And some are horrible.”

  The opening notes of “Jailhouse Rock” started. An Elvis-wannabe sang. He was only half bad.

  Jered took his plate into the main room. Bad or not, it didn't matter. They were playing music. They were getting a chance.

  And so would he. Finally, so would he.

  Four

  You will seek me and find me

  when you seek me with all your heart.

  JEREMIAH 29:13

  JERED SPRAYED THE TRAY OF DISHES and shoved them into the dishwasher. Last Saturday while working the dishes, he'd listened intently to every musician during Amateur Night, alternating between thinking they were good or imagining himself doing better.

  Five days thinking about it but doing nothing. His dad had always accused him of being all talk and no action. Was he right?

  Every time Jered tried to think of what he'd sing and how he'd sing it, reality jerked him back. Though he'd talked about composing and being a musician for years, he'd never had guts enough to perform for anyone. Except for an occasional song sung to his buddies Darrell and Moog—usually while they were all drunk—he'd never dealt with an audience. Never had to worry if they'd clap or boo.

  And Saturday night had proven… Jered felt bad when the boos drowned out the singing. Not that the singers didn't deserve it—some shocked Jered with their gumption. Didn't they know how bad they were? The fact they stood up, thinking they were good when they weren't, scared him to death. Would it be the same for him? Did he have any talent? Or was his dad right?

  Vasylko sang some Russian song from the stove. Now, he had a voice. It reminded Jered of the Russian voices singing in one of his favorite movies, The Hunt for Red October. Rich and mellow. If someone with a voice like Vasylko didn't sing on Amateur Night, who was Jered to think he should take a shot?

  Maybe he should be satisfied with what he had.

  Or not.

  The dishwashing job wasn't as bad as the construction one he'd had, but it was still grunt work. Jered was beginning to feel like a poster boy for a Stay in School campaign, an example of the see-what-happens? consequences. It was a mindless job, and when he wasn't thinking about Amateur Night he thought of his friends back in Steadfast. Where were Darrell and Moog hanging out since he'd left with his truck? Was Moog playing football? Was the team winning? Go Spartans!

  He was missing his senior year in high school, his chance to be at the top of the heap, big man on campus. He wasn't there.

  He was here. Washing dishes.

  Go home.

  He scrubbed a pot as if the act would make the idea go away. Because he couldn't go home. There was nothing for him in Steadfast.

  And there's something for you here?

  He scrubbed harder.

  Forget school. The only reason he'd go home would be to see how his dad was doing. After causing his heart attack by arguing with him last summer, Jered had called a few times, but as soon as his dad answered, he'd hung up. Just the fact his dad did answer proved he was okay, didn't it?

  Back in Steadfast, Jered would hang out and down a few beers. But he could do that anywhere. His music was the difference. At home he'd worked hard on his music, always in private, during times when his dad was gone—which were plenty. Theoretically, since leaving home he had the freedom to work on his music anytime.

  Not that he did.

  He really needed his guitar. Since coming to Eldora, he'd thought a lot about sneaking back home to get it. He would pick a Saturday night when his dad was busy at the restaurant, slip in under the cover of dark, and get lots of stuff. Who needed money for clothes? He had a room full of clothes, just waiting for him.

  Unless his dad had packed it all away…

  He concentrated on the dirty pot and fought the intense urge to heave it across the room. But then he'd be fired, and he needed this job for reasons beyond money, and even beyond the lure of Amateur Night.

  The job was proof things were looking up. Thanks to Jinko Daly.

  After Jinko had hired him, he'd offered Jered the use of his garage to sleep in. He had a camping cot out there—and a lot more. The garage wasn't used to house a vehicle but to store stuff. Lots of stuff. Some old. Some new. A stack of new DVD players (still in their boxes) sat in the corner. Jered didn't ask why.

  Best of all, the garage had a toilet in the corner and a shop sink. Gross-looking things, but they worked. And really best of all, Jinko had allowed him the use of the shower in the house—if he didn't make a mess. Where the garage was a pit, the house was spotless. Jered's dad had been a clean freak, but Jinko was worse—or better, depending on your view. It's like there were two sides to the guy.

  So Jered rearranged things in the garage to make himself a home. He cleared a space for sleeping and another for composing. Now that he had room to play, he really wanted his guitar. He'd even found a cracked mirror and set it on some shelves, reminding him of his dresser and mirror back home. To top off the room, he wedged a photo in the corner of th
e mirror, a picture of him and his dad taken in better times. To look at it was to feel homesick, but not to look at it made him feel worse. Home sweet home.

  He rinsed the dirty pot, his mind merging the present with other times when he'd helped his dad at Bon Vivant. He'd given his dad such a hard time about helping. If only he'd been—

  A slap hit him on the back. “How things going, kid?”

  “I want to play at Amateur Night.” Where did that come from?

  Jinko laughed. “Bonnie mentioned you were a musician-wannabe. Why didn't you tell me sooner?”

  Jered shrugged.

  “You've got to be aggressive if you're going to make it in the business. You can't sit back and wait for someone to give you an engraved invite.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you performed much?”

  “A bit.”

  “Which means none.”

  Jered shrugged again. Why did Jinko always see through him?

  “I'll expect you Satur—”

  “I need my guitar.”

  “So?”

  He started scrubbing another pan. “It's at home.”

  Jinko leaned against the counter, and Jered felt his eyes. “Ah. And where is home?”

  “Steadfast.”

  Jinko snickered. “You didn't run very far, did you?”

  “I was in Kansas City awhile.”

  “Then why did you come here?”

  Jered started to shrug but stopped himself. He needed to be more assertive. Definite. “I didn't like the drug stuff I found there. And the town was too big.”

  “I hate to burst your balloon, kid, but there are drugs going on here in Eldora, too, and in Steadfast.”

  “I know. But it's not the same.”

  “You're right. It's not.”

  Jered stopped washing. “You from here?”

  Jinko looked away. “Pretty much.” He adjusted the cuffs of his black shirt over a gold chain at his wrist. “So when do we get your guitar?”

  We? “Uh…I'm not sure. It would mean…”

  “Going home. Technically sneaking home, correct?”

  “Well, yeah. I wouldn't want my dad to see me. Or other people in town.”

  “Then we'll go at night. And I'll drive. They won't recognize my car.”

  This was not what Jered had in mind.

  “When's your dad gone?”

  “He owns a restaurant, too, so evenings—”

  Jinko's eyes flashed. “Which one?”

  “Bon Vivant. It's a fancy—”

  “I know it. I've been there. I've probably seen your dad. Fancy dresser with lots of hair?”

  Jered smiled. “That's him.”

  Jinko nodded and stroked his goatee. “What do you know?” He slapped the counter. “Let's do it tonight. Nine, give or take. Your dad should be working then, right?”

  “He's always working.”

  “Quit complaining, kid, quit complaining.”

  Annie approached the customer seated in the corner. He'd been reading the menu over and over—which was odd. Usually people chose their food quickly, the thought of meat loaf or fried chicken feeding an emotional as well as physical need. “Afternoon, sir. I haven't seen you in here before.”

  “Just passing through.”

  “Then welcome.” She readied her order pad. “You having a hard time making a choice?”

  The customer sighed deeply. He closed the menu and handed it to her, pushing his chair back. “I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave. I'll pay something for the water…”

  “What's the problem?” She'd never had this happen before.

  He put his hands on his thighs, his face sheepish. “This is going to sound silly—after all, I expected this to be a home-cooking type diner—but my doctor said to watch my cholesterol and fat and—”

  Ah. “How about I get Donald to broil you up a chicken breast and put it on a bed of pasta with a little red sauce? We'll rustle up some steamed green beans and carrots to go with it.”

  His eyes brightened. “And bread. I could have one piece of bread.”

  “How's a hard roll sound? Strawberry preserves instead of butter.”

  He sat up to the table. “I'll take it.”

  “Coffee? Decaf?”

  He smiled. “You're good. Very good.”

  She winked at him. “Only on Thursdays.”

  A half hour later, the chicken-breast customer walked behind Annie as she was refilling iced tea for another table. He whispered, “Thank you, dear lady.”

  She did a double take. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

  “I left something for you.”

  A tip. Probably a good tip. “Thanks. Have a great day. Come see us again.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  The bell on the door announced his exit.

  A few minutes later, Annie went to clear his table. There, on top of a ten-dollar tip, was a clean napkin. On it was written a message: You are His light to the world. Shine brightly. Read 1 Corinthians 13:4-8. God bless you.

  Dottie looked over her shoulder. “What you got there? A love note?”

  “Nah, just a nice tip.”

  Annie slipped the note into her pocket.

  Cal came in from work and kissed Annie on the cheek. “Evening, Annie-girl. Have I got a surprise for you.”

  “Oooh.” She loved surprises. “Just a second.” She pricked the last potato and put them in the microwave, pushed the buttons, and turned around.

  Cal whipped out a check, holding it with two hands. Annie had to move close to read it. “Its for $1583. From Heartland Insurance.”

  Cal grinned. “I know.”

  “Didn't they already pay you on that truck claim?” Oscar from the hotel had gone through a stop sign and rammed into Cal.

  “Fifteen hundred and eighty-three dollars.”

  “Why did they pay you twice?”

  He rolled his eyes. “They don't realize they've paid me twice.”

  “It's a mistake.”

  “In our favor.”

  “But you can't keep it.”

  He yanked the check away. “I sure can.”

  It was a true statement. “You shouldn't keep it.”

  “Since when?”

  She had no answer. Her thoughts zoomed back to another time.

  Another mistake in their favor. She hadn't said a thing then. In fact, they'd gone out to dinner to celebrate. Why was this different? There was only one answer.

  Jesus.

  Cal folded the check in half and put it in his pocket. “I'm going to take a shower.”

  “Cal…”

  He stopped at the kitchen door. “Why'd you have to ruin it, Annie? Why?”

  Oh, dear. How could she ever please both the men in her life?

  Bailey sat at the kitchen table and stared at the navy sweater in the gift box. Today was Jered's eighteenth birthday. How odd to have presents but no one to give them to.

  Jeredy where are you?

  Bailey pulled his other present close and leafed through the pages of the guitar book. Notes and staffs and fingering charts. They could have been written in Sanskrit for all Bailey could make of them. He enjoyed music but had never learned to read it, and certainly had never learned to play an instrument. Was that why he found it so hard to support his son's dream of a music career?

  The fact Jered never finished anything he started is the reason. The fact he never played, never practiced…

  He suddenly thought back to their argument last summer, the one that had sent him to the hospital for an angioplasty. It was the last time he'd seen his son. He remembered Jered's words: “I don't sing in front of you because you don't want to hear me sing. ”

  That wasn't true. Not exactly. He hadn't wanted to encourage an impossible dream. He wanted to protect his son from hurt.

  Jered's words shot back at him. “But I am hurt! Im hurting now.”

  The look in his son's eyes had torn into Bailey's soul. But that was only the beginning of the end. />
  “I want you to love me.” Jered's words had been plaintive. A cry.

  “Ido—”

  And his final words full of hate. “Dorit lie to me!”

  Bailey shuddered. He'd collapsed to the floor, Jered had run out, and Sim had shown up and saved him.

  If only I could see Jered again. Td make him know that I do love him. I do.

  Bailey closed the guitar book. Why hadn't he bought such a gift before?

  Because Jered didn't care about my dream. He didn't care about Bon Vivant.

  Bailey knew the thought was petty. Tit for tat was probably frowned upon in the father-son handbook.

  Easier said than done.

  He looked at the card. Happy birthday, son. May all your dreams come true. At least it was an attempt to say the right thing. Bailey pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and signed it. He wanted to write I love yoUy but the words would not come out. Come home, Jered? Why was it so hard? In a desperate spurt, he simply wrote, Dad.

  He set the card on the guitar book, and the book on the box containing the sweater. A birthday pile for Jered.

  Only Jered wasn't here.

  Jered kept changing songs as they drove. To have a six-CD player in a car… His truck only had a radio, and a poor one at that.

  “You must be a fiend with a remote control,” Jinko said. “Land on something, okay? I feel like I'm playing Name That Tune.”

  Jered finally chose Bruce Springsteen. He settled into leather seats that cupped his back. He was tempted to mess with the seat adjustment buttons but didn't. He'd never been in a Mercedes before. “I love the smell of a new car. My dad gets a new BMW every five years.”

  “Which explains your taste in rusted-out clunker pickups?”

  “He made me pay for it. It's all I could afford.”

  “Don't let what you can afford stop you, kid.”

  Jered looked at him. “What's that mean?”

  “We're close to town. You want to duck down as I drive through?”

  Jered had never thought of going that far. “Do you think its necessary?”

  “Hey, its your hometown, kid. I'm just your wheels.”

  Jered scooted down in his seat until his sight line skimmed the bottom of the windows. He was glad they were tinted. The city sign came into view: Steadfast. How weird to be on this side of the sign. A visitor. An intruder. How odd to see the holes in the sign that he, Moog, and Darrell had made with their BB guns. And yet it was also comforting. Evidence of his existence. Jered was here. Once.