by Dan Kolbet
"Why did you come home, William?" Mom asks.
"For the funeral, you know that."
"Do I? I haven't seen you in more than a decade. Have you forgotten how to use the telephone? Because if you have, I would be happy to show you how it works. It's quite simple really."
"I needed to pay my respects."
"You came out of hiding for that?" she says.
"I wasn't hiding."
"You're blowing smoke, William. I'm too old for that. You hide away for over 20 years—"
"Twelve years."
"Doesn't matter. You hide away and leave your family to worry about you," she says. "You could have been dead in a ditch somewhere for all I knew. I just need to know why."
Why indeed. Because I didn't want anyone to see me. Because I cared about my family and couldn't hurt them anymore. Because I was ashamed and scared. I've had plenty of time to work out the reasons. I know why.
But I couldn't say that.
"I just needed time away," I say. Which was possibly the worst, chicken-shit answer of all time.
"Sometimes I need to get away too," she says. "But you still know where to find me and I've mastered dialing the telephone too."
Mom always had a way to put you down and elevate her status at the same time. She would have made a good priest.
"I'm glad to see you," she says. It's the first kind words she's said to me for as long as I can remember. It's a surprise and it feels nice.
Then she drops the bomb, "Because you're getting Trevor's kids."
Chapter 6
I misheard what she said. I must have. It was the strangeness of seeing my father in a dream state—half lucid. It was talking to Mom and feeling like I was an elementary school kid again. Can I have a dollar for the ice cream truck? That's the conversation I was having. She couldn't have said that I—the guy who has successfully stayed away from everyone he loves—was supposed to get anyone's kids. Let alone the children of my brother—the action-figure-worthy doctor. No, I misheard what she said. I must have.
"The will is going to state that April be awarded custody of the kids," Mom says. "I know this because Trevor told me years ago. But obviously this was before she got caught up in the drug world so heavily and whatever else she's into now."
April couldn't take care of the kids. April couldn't take care of herself. I'm not the one for the job, but she's not either. April's always been unreliable, even before she got addicted. Why Trevor would even think to give them to April is beyond me. I know he was closer to her than I was, but still. How do people make these decisions?
"You have to take them, William," Mom says. She lifts a folder off the side table and hands it to me. "There's no way that a judge is going to let April have those children. Not with her arrest history. Not with the drugs and not if someone capable contests it."
I open the folder. It was some sort of insurance document. I skim it.
"I did some research," she says. "One of the residents here at the GreyHawk used to be an attorney and he walked me through it. The judge is supposed to honor the wishes of the deceased, but if the family intervenes and provides a willing guardian to take the place of the original named guardian, then he has to consider it."
"Why can't they go with you?" I ask.
Mom's face goes flat and she looks around the room blankly as if to emphasize where we are sitting. A snot-stained room for old people.
"This isn't a home for kids, William. You know that."
"I can't do this," I say. "You can't ask me to do this."
"I'm not asking. If your sister gets these kids, they are going to end up just like her. She's not my prize pig; I know that. I can't let her destroy what Trevor and Jennifer built with those kids—Kendall's screwed up enough already. They can't come with me and if you talk yourself out of manning-up, then they are going to go into foster care. You know what happens to kids in foster care."
I do. They get shuffled around from home to home by people who are willing to take in another kid and get a state stipend to keep a bed open for them. Bad things happen to those kids—not all of them, no. But enough. Too many. They leave the system with a label. A foster kid means an unwanted kid. Damaged. These kids weren't unwanted, even if I didn't want them. Even if I couldn't want them.
"I can't raise kids," I say.
"Oh my Lord," she says. "Don't be such a spoiled brat. We all do things we don't want to do for family. For someone other than ourselves."
Did Mom realize that Gracie is nearly the same age that Aspen was when she died? She's the spitting image of my Aspen too. And Kendall is just a year or so younger than Aspen would be, if she were still here today. No. I can't take these kids. How could I be trusted after what happened? I'm not a good guy. I fucked it all up. It's my fault Aspen and Jane died. Am I the only one who sees that?
Mom rubs her temples, then pats me on the knee.
"Did you think I liked all of the kids April had staying at our house when she was in high school?" Mom asked. "How many were there? Three? Four girls? Messed up little women. But, guess what? We were the normal ones, William. The Redmonds were the standard. Those girls had it rough at home. Bad parents. Violence. Abuse. At least that's what April told me. So I took them in. I know you didn't notice."
I'm not sure what Mom is getting at. I did notice the girls, more than she knew. It started the summer April was going into high school. Several friends, at different times, needed someplace to stay. The reasons were as varied as the girls, but they ended up staying in April's room. Hell, Dad even put another bed in there. April was only two years younger than me. Far enough apart that we didn't see eye to eye, but close enough that her friends wouldn't hesitate to come knocking on my door. It made for some interesting summer nights and a few first-time experiences that I feel ashamed even thinking about in the presence of my mother.
"I never wanted those little sluts in my house," she says. "But I thought I was helping them out of a bad spot. Doing my part for someone else. We were the normal ones. We had to help. We do things, William. And you need to do this or it's all going to blow up in our faces."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"That paper in your hand—the one you pretended to read—is a life insurance statement. Your brother and Jennifer left everything to the kids. The policies themselves are going to pay out something like $500,000. This doesn't include the house and whatever investments they had."
"You act like this is a bad thing," I say. "The kids are set now."
"No, they're not," she says. "They can't access the money until they turn 18. Some kind of trust. Forward thinking by Trevor. A bit. The money isn't to be touched until then, unless the kids have an immediate need for financial support. If April is going to be named their guardian, she will have access to that money. It will kill her. She'll sniff it up her nose or shoot it into her arm. It will kill her and leave the kids in the same—no—in a worse place than they are now."
I say nothing and she continues.
"If you don't do this, you will be killing your sister and ruining your nieces' lives," she insists. "There's nothing else to say."
But that wasn't true. There was a lot to say, I just couldn't say the words out loud. This can't be happening. She wasn't wrong. I wish she was.
I put my head in my hands as Mom walks out, leaving me alone with Dad. My mind swirls and lands on home. My cabin in Montana is always quiet. Just the birds chirping during the day and the bugs clicking away at night. I try to go there in my head by picturing the deck. I like to sit on the deck and light a fire in the clay fireplace in the evenings. I sit on the deck and watch the lake below. I like the solitude. Nobody around but me. Sometimes I can see boats in the water. Lovers out on a ride. Or old men, who know when the fish bite. I could see other cabins too, when the trees were bare. Or smoke from other fires. But the people are so far away that I can't hear them and they can't hear me, which is for the best.
The snapping and crackling of my fire is the on
ly sound on my deck and it has done nothing to drown out my screams and tears every night for the past 12 years.
Chapter 7
Two weeks later, my cabin in Montana
"I fucking hate you!"
This was not the first time I'd heard this statement, but it was the first time in the past two days that Kendall said it without storming out of the cabin. Progress, as it were. I take no offense. If her boyfriend, Ethan, had tagged along on our little jaunt to Montana, I suspect that she wouldn't have been so openly hostile toward me; but then again she was a teenage girl and what the hell did I know about what would make her happy? Clearly being in Montana wasn't doing it for her.
The judge awarded me temporary custody of the girls over April, who wasn't in attendance to object. The decision was basically made for him, considering that April had been arrested the night before the hearing and at the time was sleeping off a bender in the Spokane County Jail. Mom had prepared a speech to give the judge about why I should be given custody of the girls. She was visibly upset that she couldn't give her sermon. She mumbled something as we left the courtroom about mailing the judge a copy.
My original idea of this custody thing being temporary was thrown out the window when April skipped town after her release, unwilling or unable to get into a rehab program that suited her specific needs. The kids, for all intents and purposes were now my responsibility alone. My burden? I guess that's the right term, but man, that makes me sound like a dick. This was not my plan, but it's my path.
Since I needed to stay at the Cedar House to sort through Trevor's affairs and figure out what I was going to do with the girls, once school started again, I had to close up the cabin and get some personal belongings. The one change of clothes I had brought with me after the funeral was getting rather ripe. I wasn't about to leave Kendall alone in the house—I didn't know her that well, but I was a kid once too. You didn't unlearn how to be a deviant. Not that she was a deviant, but I suspected her boyfriend was or at least that's what I keep telling myself as to why I forced her to come with Gracie and me to stay at the cabin for a while.
"When are we going to town?" Kendall asked. "I need . . . girl stuff."
"Define girl stuff," I say, as I seal up a cardboard box of books on the little kitchen table.
"Stuff for my vagina. God!" She shouts this at me from across the room. It came out more like Gaawd! with an extra eye roll and a hair flip.
"We'll leave when Gracie wakes up from her nap. So it'll be at least 20 more minutes. Can your vagina wait that long?"
No reply. She just walks out to the deck and plopped into my favorite chair by the fireplace.
The cabin is a traditional A-frame, custom designed by a local company. It has two bedrooms and a combined kitchen and living room space. It's not much, but it is still probably more than I need anyway.
A massive deck adorns the south side of the cabin, giving breathtaking views of White Fish Lake and the surrounding mountains. I've never shared the place with anyone else. I've always been here alone, until now.
Kendall has taken up residence on the deck for the past two days, leaving me inside the cabin with Gracie. Apparently the axiom of kids being resilient is truer for little kids. Gracie warmed up to me pretty quickly after the court hearing. It helped that Grandma Redmond told Gracie that I was "pretty OK" and would be around more.
"You look like Daddy," Gracie said. At which point I lost any sense of being a man, who was stoic and reserved, and proceeded to cry like a little boy right in front of her. I did in fact look like Trevor. He was only one year my junior. The recognition from Gracie was a little more than I could handle.
"Thank you," I choked out. Not exactly sure what I meant by that. Thank you for recognizing your dead father in his loser brother's face. Yes, thanks for that.
"Oh, man up, daisy," Mom said. "These kids need someone to lean on, not some wilting flower."
Mom, always the source of joy and light.
Flower or not, Gracie and I got along famously. She was particularly fond of puzzles, although she needed assistance to get the pieces where she wanted them. I found myself setting her up to place the pieces in the puzzle. Nonchalantly sliding the pieces near where they went and waiting for her to recognize where it should be secured. This puzzle work started back in Spokane, but continued at the cabin.
She was a remarkable 6-year-old kid. She dressed herself each morning. No fuss. She ate what was provided to her—bland mac and cheese, oatmeal or cereal. It didn't matter, she was content. Happy. I can't recall how exactly this compares to Aspen at this age. I can only imagine she was more difficult, but I wasn't the one dealing with or parenting her. That was my fault, not hers.
Gracie told me she needed a nap after lunch. She seemed to be keenly aware of her childhood needs. The shared loft that Kendall and Gracie were using was too noisy for her, so she was currently napping in my bedroom.
We didn't actually need much from town to warrant a trip, but I thought the distraction of going into town would be a positive one for Kendall who was growing increasingly stir-crazy with each passing day. And obviously I we couldn't keep her lady parts waiting. So, when Gracie wakes up, we are headed to town for a few hours.
* * *
I lied. OK, it wasn't a big lie, but when I said I was an isolationist, I'm sure it conjured up the image of a guy who never once talked to another person. That's not entirely true. While, yes I've shied away from public interaction, I'm only human. One of the most basic human needs is to eat. Considering I can't cook anything that doesn't boil in a pot or sizzle on a grill, I'm lucky to be alive. My lifesavers—cooks and waitresses—work at Lucky's Showtime Bar in downtown White Fish. They feed me.
So when I decided to take the girls to town to shop for Kendall's . . . things, a stop into Lucky's was practically a requirement. When we arrived, Kendall nearly ran back to the car.
"That's where we're eating?" she asks.
"Yes. It's actually quite good," I say, while admiring the dusty swinging doors out front that would better be found in an old western movie. The decor is cattle-raising, prairie western. The floorboards are worn. The vinyl covered chairs are cracked with age and stained with the spills of thousands of careless patrons.
"I want mac and cheese," Gracie says.
"You always want mac and cheese," Kendall replies as we sit down.
"You never eat anything," Gracie contends. "We can share."
Gracie's youthful observation was spot on. Kendall rarely ate anything. She did a good job of pushing her food around her plate, but little of it actually made it past her black lipstick and into her mouth. I'd yet to bring this up to Kendall because I didn't view it as any of my business . . . yet. If she was hungry, she'd eat. Who was I to question that?
We find a table in the back and, true to form, we were provided menus within seconds of sitting down by Patricia, the head waitress and general town know-it-all.
"Your girlfriends are a bit young, Mr. Redmond," she observes with a smile.
I introduce the girls as my nieces and explain we're only in town for a few more days.
"That's too bad," she said. "It'd be nice to have a few new faces around here. Especially ones who eat in my restaurant."
She takes our orders and disappears from sight. I then get Gracie started on a maze on the back of the kids menu and Kendall wanders off to look at all the old farming implements and skiing relics hung around the place. It's clear she has no interest in sitting at the table with us.
I am so focused on Gracie's maze that I don't notice when Patricia first appears next to Kendall on the far side of the restaurant. I don't know how long they've been chatting, but I see Kendall actually smile. Only when I see the direction of the smile do I realize the reason. She is eyeing the teenage dishwasher in the back. I guess she isn't so upset about missing old what's-his-name—oh yeah, Ethan—in Spokane.
After just a few short minutes, the kitchen's short order cook dings a bell signaling our
food was ready. Patricia retrieves it while Kendall returns to the table. She turns to look at the boy again, but he's already moved out of sight. Seeing the look on her face, that first glimpse of someone new, was nice. Even if I was secretly plotting against the dishwasher-kid; because no kid who does that job should go anywhere near my niece. Young love. Or lust, as it were.
I start in on my cheeseburger and Gracie practically inhales her mac and cheese. Kendall slowly and deliberately munches on a basket of French fries.
"Where's all your writing?" Kendall asks.
"What do you mean?" I say.
"That lady told me you usually come in here and write. So, where's all the writing?"
"It's not that simple."
"Amuse me." She actually said that.
"Sometimes when a writer needs to write something that's difficult or different from what they usually write, they change the scenery around them. I like to come here because it's noisier than the cabin. The more things happening the better. It helps me concentrate."
"Great story, but you didn't answer the question," she reiterates. "Where's all the writing? She said you were in here all the time writing in notebooks."
"You mean, where is the stuff I wrote?"
She nods.
"It's here and there," I evade. "Not ready for public consumption."
"You're afraid to show me?" she asks.
"It's not done."
"I'm 17 years old. You're afraid of my opinion?"
I'm afraid of anyone's opinion. But I couldn't let her know that.
"Of course not," I deny, hoping to successfully put an end to the inquisition.
