“He forced me to—”
“No one forced you to do anything. You don’t know how difficult it was for him to say what needed to be said. Now, should he have done things better? For one thing, he should’ve waited for me to be there. You both needed a referee. But what’s done is done. Or, you know what he’d say?” His mother smiled into her coffee mug. “He’d say, ‘You can’t repeat the past.’”
Luke’s temper ratcheted down. His questions hadn’t been answered yet; it wasn’t a good idea to get into a fight.
“I don’t care what you think.” Jackie looked at him again. “You put him through hell the past year, but he forgave you. You need to pull your head out of your ass and forgive your dad and yourself. For the fight, for the misunderstandings, and for his death. I know you have it in your head that it’s your fault. As nonsensical as it is, you think he was to blame for that argument, but you’re responsible for his death.”
When he said nothing in response, she seemed satisfied. “I know how your brain works, Luke. You think you’re deep. I won’t say what you really are, but it’s not deep. Not so deep that your mother can’t see through you.”
Luke wasn’t hurt by the statement. This was her way, and she was actually holding back. Ordinarily, she wasn’t one to spare people’s feelings and would’ve just said he was being a dick. Maybe that was yet another level of his distress about the fight with his father. The harshness had never come from Jay. Of either parent, the most likely to tell him to leave would’ve been Jackie.
“We don’t all get stupider as we age. I know you more than you think. You imagine you’re a misunderstood black sheep, but I like black sheep, and you’re my favorite.”
“Your favorite child?”
“No. My favorite black sheep. I love my children the same. Or I try to. When you’re good, I love you equally. I won’t lie and say you all don’t piss me off in various ways because you do.”
“Yeah, Beau pisses you off. Being perfect pisses you off?”
“It does. But she’s not perfect. Both your sister and Ginger do plenty of things I don’t agree with. When the three of you are obnoxious, I hate you all as equally as I love you. I have no rankings. And your dad didn’t either.” Astonishment must’ve crossed Luke’s face, and she laughed. “Honestly, how wrapped up in yourself are you? I know you’ve felt you were displaced. That Dad favored Ginger over you.”
“Then why didn’t you do anything?” he snapped. Would putting her on the spot catch her off guard? It was true. She could’ve stepped in at any time. Any fucking time. But she had an answer for everything.
“First, it wasn’t my place.” Jackie rose and walked to the counter for the coffee pot. “Next, it wasn’t true. And most importantly, you need to find your own value. We all have to do that, Luke. It doesn’t matter how important or unimportant someone else thinks you are. And who am I to stand in the way of you learning a life lesson? Even if it seems to take you longer than everyone else. You’ll get it eventually.”
Luke felt his mother insinuated that he had a mental handicap, but again, brutal criticism wasn’t atypical.
“However, since you haven’t learned it yet, and we’re burying your father in twelve hours, I’ll indulge you by saying this.” She sat, and her cruel implications disappeared. “Whatever you believe, you were not unimportant to him. He never thought of Ginger as more of his son than you. Believe me when I tell you, Luke, Dad was incredibly proud of you.”
He wasn’t sure at first how to respond. He averted his eyes from Jackie’s as tears cascaded down her cheeks. Instead, he stared at the table and tried to remember why he’d come downstairs in the first place. It hadn’t been to have a heartfelt conversation.
“Why wouldn’t I believe you?” Luke said. “The things you say could scar a child.”
“Sometimes you need to be told when you belong on an emotional short bus, sweetheart. When you get off the bus, I’ll stop scarring you.”
“I’m glad you don’t lie to me, Mom. You don’t treat me like a boy. You tell me things.”
“Go ahead. This sounds promising.” Jackie placed her mug on the table. “I knew you didn’t venture down here to keep me company.”
Luke felt his cheeks grow hot. How did she do it? How did she know it all? He tried to rid his face of the visible embarrassment and slipped Jay’s ring from his finger.
“I was wondering—why does Dad’s class ring have February 18th 2007 engraved inside it? Didn’t he graduate in 2005?”
“That he did, Sherlock. I believe the 2007 date is when he got the ring.”
“And he didn’t have another one, before?”
“No. Your grandmother couldn’t afford it when he was in high school. Why the sudden concern?” Her lips pressed flat.
“I was thinking it seems funny to have a date of purchase engraved on it. There’s no other significance to the date?”
“That’s what he told me, and I have no reason to doubt it’s true.”
“But why would he have the date he bought it engraved? Isn’t that weird?”
“It wasn’t weird to him.” Jackie shrugged. “Maybe it had significance in that it was something he always wanted to have. He purchased it on his own. Like a status symbol.”
“Didn’t he have other status symbols by then? A first car? A first apartment?” He had no idea when Jay had gotten his first car, or when he’d left Meecie’s house.
“How do you know he didn’t carve his move-in date into the floorboards of that first apartment?” His mother winked. “He had many peculiarities. Always kept things exciting.” Her smile diminished. “Now I’ll be the boring, old widow who drinks a ton of coffee.”
Luke considered retrieving the yearbook, folding it open, and demanding she answer how Jay was wearing a ring in a photograph taken two years before he had it. What could she possibly say?
But her sorrow stopped him. She folded her arms on the table and buried her face in them. He couldn’t hear her crying, but he knew she was. He wasn’t going to get more information from his mother.
“You won’t be the boring, old widow for long.” Luke touched her arm. “Soon, you’ll be the boring, old grandma. You’ll be so busy scarring Beau’s baby, you won’t have time to be sad.”
Jackie’s face was red when she raised it, but she chuckled and placed her hand over his.
“You’re a good boy, Luke.”
When he realized she knew no more than he did, he crafted a plan. He needed time to think through how he’d proceed with Tom DuBelle.
It occurred to him that he could mention the name to Jackie, to see if she knew him. However, her current state gave him pause. As did remembering Tom’s scan of the viewing room before leaving “while he still could.” Luke didn’t know the identity of the threatening person, or why they were a danger. It could be anyone, including Jackie.
He said nothing of Tom and let out a lengthy yawn.
“Poor baby.” She patted his hand. “You won’t be any good to us tomorrow, wasted or exhausted. Get some rest; you don’t need to stay with me.”
Luke stood and pushed his shoulders back, yawning again.
“I’ll go because I’m terrified of what you’ll do to me if I drop the casket.”
“You should be. I’ll throw you in the hole with him.”
“Good to know the admonishments for forgiveness aren’t given by a hypocrite.” He turned to leave the kitchen.
“Luke.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“I know I can be harsh sometimes.” Jackie swallowed. “But since your father is gone, I’ll try to be softer, like he was. If you need a little smoke blown up your ass sometimes, I’ll get out a blanket and build a fire.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Luke smiled. “Sometimes people need to know when they belong on the emotional short bus.”
“Whatever your mode of transportation, I do love you. You’re my son.”
“I love you too, Mom,” he rattled off.
“Don’t leave this room without kissing me good night.”
Luke spun on his heels and returned to her chair where he gave the obligatory kiss on the cheek.
“Anything else?” He crossed his arms.
“I knew you weren’t asleep.” Jackie gave a sly grin. “Why did you think there was an extra cup on the table? You sing beautifully, sweetheart. But that’s not enough. You have no hope making it in New York if you can’t act well enough to fool your own mother.” She smiled again, outwardly pleased at having eroded his sense of security. “Yes, I know that too, and not from Beau. We knew you were struggling.”
“How?” He wasn’t sure whether to feel relief that he didn’t have to admit failure, or humiliation that it’d been apparent.
“Your own idiotic silence. However angry you were at Dad, you would’ve been crowing at him if you were doing well, not ignoring him. You outsmarted yourself. Like you did upstairs. Think about that next time you do anything, Luke. Whether you’re trying to pull one over on me or going for an audition—you’re not as smart as you think you are, and your audience isn’t as stupid as you think they are.” Jackie brought the cup to her lips.
“Are you calling me stupid?”
“Let’s just say you’re more stupid than you give yourself credit for.”
“That’s cute. You should print it on a mug,” Luke grumbled.
“Print this on the other side: ‘You are your own biggest problem,’” she said to his back.
So much for softer. For building a fire and pulling out a fucking blanket, he thought as he walked down the hall.
Chapter Seven
Despite being terminally ill, having flown two thousand miles to attend his best friend’s funeral, and being intent on committing suicide when he returned, Tom DuBelle felt pretty fantastic.
Pretty fan-fucking-tastic.
He attributed the rejuvenation to his new meds. The prescribed concoction to enable his travel was fabulous. There was nothing like Oxy and cancer drugs with THC. The cancer remained, and he was still dying, but the perception of it and the image of himself as a brittle, weak man loosened its stranglehold. He’d forgotten several times that he was sick, and when he remembered, it didn’t trouble him.
THC pushed his appreciation for life full throttle. He hadn’t been high in thirty years, and now he remembered why it was amazing.
Tom had been at the restaurant since six o’clock but awake for several hours. Not from nerves; he was low-key as ever. He’d woken up starving, similar to yesterday. He also had a bizarre request that had been nagging at him.
“Can I sit outside this morning?” he asked and gave his most charming smile to the waitress.
“The patio is closed.”
“But you could open it for one crazy customer, couldn’t you?”
“It’s barely over forty degrees.”
“I like the cold. I could do with some cold.”
“The patio is closed, sir.”
Tom leaned his elbow on the counter, the winning grin on his face. It exhilarated him to have this confidence back. To not feel like a wretched, diseased piece of shit. He could barely believe he’d had the courage to say more than two words to Luke yesterday. Then to ask him out to breakfast? And now he was badgering a waitress with the casual ease that’d been disappearing from him for months.
“The patio is closed, sir,” she repeated, but he could tell from the curves at the corners of her mouth that his case wasn’t lost.
“What if I told you I was dying? Would that change your mind?”
“If you told me you were dying, I wouldn’t believe you. You don’t look like you’re dying. You don’t act it.”
What a marvelous compliment.
“I’m on these extraordinary meds. But I really am dying, I assure you.”
“Of what?”
“The big C.” Tom watched her amusement fade, and he almost regretted being a pest. “No, don’t worry. There’s nothing you can do, so why worry? And I mean about the cancer. I still want to have breakfast outside. You can worry about that.”
“What type?” From her expression it was clear that she knew someone else who had it too. Or had had it. Everyone did. This common ground bode well for his request.
“Pancreatic. And I’m sorry for your loss. It’s a shit-ass way to go.” He covered his mouth with his hand and smirked. “I apologize. I’m just feeling really good this morning.”
“It’s okay.”
The waitress pulled a set of keys from her apron and grabbed a spray bottle and towel from a shelf on her way to the patio doors. Since the sun was only beginning to creep over the horizon, she flipped on a bay of lights to illuminate the patio.
“It is a shit-ass way to go, but I’m glad you’re feeling good this morning, sir.” She held the door and waited.
The blast of cold air did nothing to erase his resolve. Tom walked to the stacked chairs alongside the wall and pulled one down, carrying it to the first table. After he sat, the waitress wiped the dusty surface.
“Thank you for indulging me, sweetheart.” He took a deep breath; the fresh air was incredible. “I’ll leave you a nice tip.”
“Will you be alone this morning?”
“No. But I might move inside when my friend arrives. He’s young and won’t appreciate how great it is to bask in the cold.” Tom smiled. The waitress shivered and uncapped her pen. “What you brought yesterday would be perfect. All of it. And coffee.”
“Do you want that cold too?”
“Not necessary, but thank you.”
Tom closed his eyes as she hurried inside the building. He tipped his head back, and the chilly air seeped through his jacket and into his bones. He was completely comfortable. It might’ve been seventy degrees.
Maybe you shouldn’t kill yourself tomorrow, Tom. If it could be like this a few days, a few weeks, that wouldn’t be bad. Living instead of just existing. You can still do it when the meds stop working.
The sun ascended and won over the exterior lights. He scanned the crusty brown field that stretched behind the patio.
This place is ugly in winter. Most places are. No, I’m going to do it when I get home. Why wait? I want to die when I’m feeling this spectacular. Well, not exactly. I’ll eat first; I’m fucking starving.
Food had been a necessary evil the past several months. It wasn’t just the nausea that’d destroyed eating for him. The radiation, the meds, and the pain made everything taste like particle board. He subsisted on the bare minimum. It was fuel only. Alkaline fuel. The doctor had been harping that he needed to eat, that cachexia would make his condition worse.
You should’ve given me the weed a long time ago, motherfucker.
Tom dove through the presented spread. When everything he’d eaten for the past few months tasted like bland garbage, this actual trash was more than tolerable.
I’d sell my soul for a steak. I swear to God. He pushed his empty plates aside, glad that Luke wasn’t early. He didn’t want the boy to think he had an eating disorder. But he did want the steak. Terribly.
He tilted his head back and closed his eyes again.
That season Leo and I spent in Spain. I was able to tolerate him because of all the performances, and it was so beautiful. The performance in the Auditoria de Tenerife: gorgeous. But the best food was when I played the León Auditorium. That place in Castilla y León where I got that entrecôte. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. I would sell my soul for that right now. Sign it right the fuck over.
The idea crossed Tom’s mind that he didn’t have any pressing appointments. Nothing awaited him at home except death.
Fuck it.
He could fly to Spain that afternoon. He could go wherever he liked, do whatever he wanted.
But your passport has expired, Tom. And you’ll be dead before you can get it renewed.
Perhaps he could charter a private plane. Did he need a passport then? Could he stow away?
Maybe they’d make an exceptio
n for a dying man who only wants one more steak.
But the government wouldn’t be as obliging as his waitress. It’d take more than a smile and the cancer card to open international borders. He sighed.
Moral of the story: Always keep your passport valid in case you get pancreatic cancer and suddenly want to fly to Castilla y León for an entrecôte. God, the closer I get to death, the wiser I am. Look out Confucius, Tom DuBelle is creating pearls of wisdom that will knock you on your fat fucking ass.
“Maybe you can talk some sense into your friend, and get him to come inside.”
Tom opened one eye as the waitress held the door for Luke. The boy stared at him, using his left hand to rub his right arm from the cold. He looked like he would’ve been patting both arms if he didn’t have a book tucked under his right, the cover hidden beneath his jacket.
“It’s gotten warmer.” Tom made no sign of getting up.
“Maybe two whole degrees,” said the waitress as she removed his plates.
“And we mustn’t be ungrateful for small blessings.” He watched Luke take a chair from the wall stack.
The boy placed the chair on the opposite side of the table and sat. He plunged his hands into his jacket pockets and gave his order to the waitress from between chattering teeth.
Luke ducked his chin into the jacket’s high collar. “It’s freezing, Tom. Fucking freezing. Don’t you want to go inside?”
“Not really. I may not be this cold again until I’m dead.”
“Most people would prefer it that way.”
“I’m not most people.”
Tom had doubted Beau would come, so he hadn’t been too disappointed that Luke arrived alone. He hoped the boy had remembered the sonogram picture though. Maybe he had it in the book under his jacket. But since it was just the two of them, Tom wasn’t inclined to relocate, despite Luke shivering like a mad man.
Sometimes it’s good to be uncomfortable. You have the rest of your life ahead of you, and I don’t feel I should have to accommodate anyone. Not even you.
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