by Penny Reid
The rest of the hour passed in companionable conversation except at one point when Jethro shocked the butter off our biscuits by pulling out his own knitting work in progress. He was knitting himself a hat and using a gorgeous merino wool/alpaca blend, a homespun he must’ve picked up from a small shop or artisan spinner. It was brown and while four-ply worsted. I had to restrain my hands from yarn fondling.
My siblings and I all stared at him. He ignored us, instead asking Marie a question about her work as a freelance writer, and the conversation moved on.
Billy’s comment earlier stuck with me, about how they’d all been doing fine before I showed up again. I knew we had some words unsaid between us. Of my brothers, he was the only one who appeared to be bitter about my leaving eight years ago. At some point, he and I were going to have to talk about it.
About two hours into the Skype call, the meet-up was wrapping up, so I stood to stretch and check in on Momma, leaving my brothers with my friends to say goodbye and feeling strangely fine about it. Although, when I reflected on it, it wasn’t strange for me to feel fine about it.
The fact that my brothers and my friends got along so well would have been unthinkable to me a few months ago. But now that I actually knew them—or, at least, was starting to know them—it struck me as completely natural.
My chosen family in Chicago and my biological family in Tennessee were the same kinds of people. In fact, if I reflected on it, I’d actually surrounded myself with replacement brothers in the form of women who knit.
Fiona was Billy—logical and level headed, but hiding a sensitive side. Marie was Jethro—shrewd yet big hearted. Janie was Cletus—sweet and often oblivious. Sandra was Roscoe—a rascal. Elizabeth and Kat were the twins, with Elizabeth bolder like Beau and Kat shyer like Duane.
The personalities weren’t a perfect fit, but they were pretty close. This thought made me smile since I felt a bit like the monkey in the middle in both groups.
When I opened the door to the den, I found Drew sitting in his wooden chair writing in his leather notebook, Joe putting away the chessboard, and Cletus straightening up the room.
Momma didn’t appear to be awake, but I approached the bed just to make sure. When I did, Drew glanced up and our gazes snagged. Unsure of proper etiquette, I gave him a brief smile and looked away before I could register a change in his expression. In the best of circumstances, I wouldn’t know how to act around Drew after our kiss to end all kisses.
As it was, my Drew-distress was dialed back a bit since I was concerned that Momma was still asleep.
“Is she up?” I asked the room.
Joe came to stand next to me. “No. She’s not. I saw your note about her not eating.”
I nodded and looked her over. She was paler than usual, but that was probably because she needed to eat something. I’d washed her hair earlier in the day during the short time she was awake and had given her a bath with Marissa’s help.
I turned to Joe. “Hey, would you mind sitting with her? Just for a half hour or so? We need to have a family meeting, and I don’t want her to be alone.”
“I can stay with her,” Drew offered.
I turned my attention to him, my eyes resting on his face for more than the split seconds I’d rationed thus far. I allowed myself to experience a little burst of something—happiness? Desire? Wistfulness? I didn’t know—when our gazes locked.
“No. You need to be there,” I said.
His brow pulled low and he opened his mouth to question me, but I cut him off by saying, “I need you to be there, Drew. Please.”
He watched me, his eyes inscrutable, but he nodded his unspoken assent. I studied him as he unfolded from the chair and tucked the notebook in one of the side pockets of his pants.
“Should I be there?” Cletus asked me this while balancing several dishes, two towels, a newspaper, and a toolbox.
“Yes, Cletus, you should be there.”
“Okay, I’ll be there.” He nodded once then left the room.
“That boy….” Joe sighed.
Drew walked around my momma’s bed and stood close to me; the backs of his fingers brushing against mine, causing a rush of heat up my arm and around my neck. I glanced from where our fingers touched up to his face and found him looking at me. There was a peacefulness, a stillness about him, and it sucked me in. The room fell away.
“Hey, Ash.” His tone was quiet, gentle.
“Hey, Drew.” I shifted a step closer. I couldn’t help it.
“Did you have a good time tonight with your friends?”
“Yes. Thank you again for making that possible.”
Drew’s expression flattened as he said, “You need to stop thanking me.”
“What if I don’t want to stop?”
The hard angles of his face softened, and I witnessed something I couldn’t identify flare in his eyes. But Joe’s next statement pulled Drew and me from our heated gaze-exchange.
“That boy beat me in chess seven times.”
Joe had taken a seat in my recliner, and he actually looked like he was pouting.
“Who, Cletus?” Drew asked, his tone disbelieving.
“Yep. Cletus. I’m part of a league organized by Mensa, and I’ve never been beaten seven times in a row before. He’s a genius, I figure.”
Drew and I glanced at each other. I imagine we wore similar expressions of wonder and confusion.
Cletus a genius. I couldn’t fathom it.
My family never ceased to stun the butter off my biscuits.
***
I didn’t like having to break the news to my brothers all at once. I’d thought about pulling them each aside and telling them separately, but then that felt wrong. Who would I tell first? What if I didn’t get a chance to explain?
No. It was much better that they all be together and all hear exactly the same thing. They were gathered in the family room when Drew and I emerged from the hall. Drew continued walking when I stopped at the threshold to the room; he crossed to the couch, seemingly keeping his distance.
I was grateful that he didn’t see any reason to advertise the fact that we’d kissed. But why would he? We’d kissed once. Well, technically, if you counted the jam session at the community center and that time in the hallway after the big, fireworks kiss, we’d kissed three times. And what did it really mean, anyway?
I might have been all mixed up about it, but he didn’t seem to be much affected. I honestly didn’t know what he felt about me or the kiss or what would come next, if anything did. He was so reserved at times and so intensely expressive at other times.
Besides, what I was about to say wasn’t going to be easy or simple. I didn’t need my six brothers questioning me about my relationship with Drew, especially since I had no answers about my relationship with Drew other than that I wanted to kiss him again, often, with feeling. I suspected he felt the same way—no, I knew he felt the same way—but beyond kissing I honestly had no idea.
“Is this about that dumbass Jack? I hate that guy.” Beau sneered and took a long pull from his beer before adding, “Always douching things up.”
Beau’s insult succeeded in pulling me out of my own head. Drew came into focus and I realized that I’d been standing there staring at him for about a half minute. His eyebrows were arched in confused expectation, and he was looking at me like I might have lost my marbles in the hallway.
I cleared my throat and looked at the floor, half convinced I might find my marbles on the carpet.
“Why’d he pull you over, Duane?” This question came from Billy.
“He’s an idiot. He said my tail light was out.”
“Is your tail light out?”
“Yes. But he’s still an idiot.”
“Ash, please tell me you’re not going to have sandwiches with him?” Beau gave me a look that clearly conveyed his disapproval of Jackson James.
My eyes flickered to Drew’s and I noted that his eyebrows had descended; he was watching me with a narr
owed glare.
I quickly looked away, ignoring Beau’s question, and addressed my brothers. “I didn’t call you all here to talk about Jackson. This is about Darrell Winston.”
The room went quiet; I could tell I’d surprised them. Again, my eyes darted to Drew’s. He was leaning against the arm of the couch, his arms crossed over his chest, a severe frown marring his features. This made him appear quite frightening and even more like a marauding Viking than usual.
Billy was the first to recover. “Has he contacted you? Have you seen him?”
“No. I’ll tell you what’s going on, but you all have to promise me that you’ll listen and not interrupt until I’m finished.”
A few grumbles sounded from various bearded sources, but in the end, they listened and didn’t interrupt. I told them about my conversation with Momma the night before, and I told them I’d already called our father and left a message.
When I finished, I was again greeted with silence until Roscoe stood from his seat and began pacing.
“I don’t like this,” he said. Of the seven of us, Roscoe knew Darrell as a tormentor and not so much as a father-tormentor. I understood his initial reaction because I shared it.
“What does she need to tell him?” Duane asked, his face scrunched in confusion. “What could Momma possibly say?” Then, using his most cheerful voice, he said, “Hello, Darrell, you’re an asshole. I hope you burn in hell.”
“Maybe she’ll murder him and save us the trouble.” Jethro mumbled this from where he sat on the couch, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on the floor.
Billy stirred from where he’d been leaning against the fireplace. “What I want to know is how does she plan to keep him from taking the house? Legally separated or not, they’re still married.”
“I think I can answer that,” Drew said, staring forward, his jaw set. “I think I can answer both questions.”
Drew’s eyes sliced to mine and held my gaze. I thought I detected a hint of regret and longing before he addressed my brothers.
“When your mom signed over her power of attorney and made me the executor of the will, she also signed over all your trust funds to my control. I bought this house, everything in it, and the land from her, for one thousand dollars.”
I’d always heard and used the term silence filled the room, but I don’t think I’d ever experienced the sensation of silence actually filling a room until that moment. The silence filled the room until I thought the walls might buckle under the pressure of it.
Billy’s mouth opened and closed, his mind obviously having difficulty grasping the situation. I imagined we all wore similar expressions.
Drew continued. “She also set up an S-corp with the two of us as co-owners. She transferred all her savings and investment accounts—the inheritance from your grandparents—into the company, then removed herself as a partner. The only account she’s kept in her name is the checking account with the local bank in town where her paycheck is deposited from the library.”
“Why…why would she do that?” Beau’s words were choked, confused.
“She said at the time that she was afraid your father would somehow clean her out in the divorce. She wanted to put everything in my name, transfer all the assets, until the divorce was over.”
“She must’ve known she was dying.” Cletus’ voice—steady and neutral—surprised me. Of my brothers, he seemed to be absorbing this news and seeing the situation with the most clarity. “If it was about the divorce, she would have asked one of us to help. She didn’t want us to know she was sick. She didn’t want us to be put in a bad position when she died.”
Again, silence filled the room. It was the silence associated with seven brains working hard to understand the motivations of a dying woman.
Drew’s eyes flickered to mine; he appeared to be bracing himself and his gaze was guarded like he expected me to be angry at this revelation.
But I wasn’t angry. At first, I was astonished. Then, as the puzzle pieces came together, I felt relieved.
Because if any one of us—my brothers or me—had been placed in Drew’s position, we would have been targeted by my father. He would have thrown everything in his arsenal of manipulation at us. I was not angry with Drew, but I certainly did not envy him. My father was not a good man.
I crossed to where he was still leaning against the arm of the couch. He stood as I approached, his arms falling to his sides, his expression cautious.
I stopped far enough from Drew to give him his space. “Have you met him before? Darrell?”
“Yes. Once.” His gaze was watchful, like he didn’t know what to expect from me, but he was bracing himself for the worst.
My eyes lowered to his chest and I watched it rise and fall several times before I spoke again. “I’m worried for you, Drew.”
“Don’t be.”
I lifted my eyes to his, held them. “He’ll make your life hell when he finds out.”
He returned my sentiment with a small and rueful smile. “He’ll try and he’ll fail.”
“Please let me know how I can help you.”
Drew gave me a subtle shake of his head, his eyes growing both hard and heated. “I told you before, I don’t need anything from you.”
I flinched, rocked back on my feet, but Drew caught my hand and held me in place.
Just then, though I couldn’t see him, I heard Billy’s voice say, “I agree. I don’t like being kept in the dark, but…man, Drew, you’re in for a huge shit storm when Darrell arrives. All hell is fixin’ to break loose. You got to let us know if we can help.”
“Someone get that man a beer or a whiskey,” Jethro said, and the room erupted in tension-breaking laughter.
“Or both!” Beau smacked Drew on the back and walked toward the kitchen, presumably to get the whiskey and beer.
The loud chatter of the Winston boys eclipsed the stunned rigidity. My brothers began discussing the full meaning behind all the planning my mother had done and Drew’s part in it.
Meanwhile, in the midst of their conversation yet completely separate from it, Drew and I regarded each other. He still clasped my hand, staying any potential retreat.
At length he said quietly, “I mean it, Ash. I know your life isn’t here. I know your place and your people are in Chicago.”
I nodded, pressing my lips together in an I-get-it smile, because I understood him perfectly on this point. But when I tugged against his hold, he didn’t release me.
“Drew.”
“Yes?”
“Let me go.”
He hesitated, his eyes moving over my face. “Not yet.”
I scrunched my nose at him, not trying to hide my irritation, and huffed, “I thought you didn’t need anything from me.”
“Yeah….” His hand tightened before he released me. I heard him mumble, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want something,” just as Beau approached and handed us both a whiskey.
CHAPTER 18
“i like my body when it is with your body.”
― e. e. cummings
I had to butcher the roosters.
Well, I didn’t have to butcher the roosters, but someone had to, and I’d promised my mother that I’d do it.
I’d butchered plenty of animals before, when I was growing up. We used to keep goats, rabbits, chickens, and ducks. We didn’t keep geese because they’re partial to biting. Plus, they’re nasty, ill-tempered bastards.
Three days had passed since I’d called Darrell Winston. We’d heard nothing from him, and everyone was on edge.
My time in Tennessee was growing short; the seasons were changing, and soon I would be back in my apartment, back to my job and my life. Even my brothers seemed to sense my impending departure.
Jethro asked for my address in the city. Roscoe and I consulted a calendar, trying to find a date in December when he could visit over the winter break. Cletus and the twins suggested a road trip to junk yards in Chicago, hopeful that they’d be able to discover a t
reasure trove of rusted classic cars that could be hauled back to Tennessee.
My mother was now sleeping most of the time, so visits from her friends at the library and the minister were usually brief, or we’d make an excuse. When she was awake, she was hazy and her speech was slow. I could feel her drifting away, disappearing. A growing part of me recognized that I had no control over the situation.
But another part, stubborn and willful, struggled against the slippery hours, wanting time to stand still.
So, instead of sitting inside all day and going crazy watching my momma breathe, I decided to let my brothers take a turn so I could butcher the roosters.
It was a solid plan. I had the cone all set up, and the knife; I was wearing my oldest jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt with a tank top underneath, and work boots. I had on the same old, black apron I used to wear for the occasion as well as the fitted leather gloves.
Nevertheless, when the time came for me to do the deed, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I had that damn rooster upside down in the cone, disoriented and still, but I just couldn’t do it.
I heaved a frustrated sigh, released the rooster, stood, and kicked a nearby bucket. Kicking the bucket felt really good, so I decided to punch a bundle of straw. That felt good too, so I kept doing it.
I don’t know how long I spent raging against the straw—maybe a minute, maybe twenty. When I finally stopped I was red faced; my loose braid had come undone, and my hair was wild around my shoulders. My legs, arms, and stomach were sore from the workout.
Breathing hard, I ripped off the gloves and placed my hands on my hips, glaring at the straw. It looked just the same.
“Feel better?”
My head whipped around, searching for the origin of the voice, and found Drew standing at the edge of the chicken yard, his thumbs in his belt loops, his dark green T-shirt tucked into his dark green uniform pants, his cowboy hat on, and a stern expression on his face.
He would have melted my butter if I’d been in any mood to be butter…or to melt.
Who am I kidding? My butter melted as soon as I saw his hat.
