Ultimatum

by K. M. Walton

  He tilts his head. “What?”

  I quietly snort. This may be the first time in our lives that I’ve said those words in that order to my brother: I agree with you, Vance. “I said I agree with you. Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop are assholes. There’s no way they’d care about Dad. They don’t deserve to be told.”

  Vance’s brows shoot up, and he looks from side to side. “Me? You agree with me?” He turns and peeks out the window. “Is it snowing outside?” He smiles and then scrunches his nose. “They are assholes, aren’t they?”

  This feels right, us both calling our grandparents a-holes, and that is strangely perfect.

  Vance

  Two years ago

  “Where’s your dad?” Growler asked and handed me the glass bowl.

  I shrugged, took a hit, and lay back down. Concerts at the Mann Center for the Performing Arts meant bringing blankets, staring at the nighttime sky, and of course, smoking weed. I hadn’t seen my dad and his buddy Tom since we parted ways at the entrance. My dad knew we both needed our space to party.

  “Pressure Drop” started from the stage. “Sweeeet,” I said. That was my favorite Toots song. I wanted to dance. Screw vegging out. I hopped up and jumped around as much as I could. It was sandwich city out there on the lawn, and blankets were everywhere. But a reggae crowd was usually pretty chill.

  The song ended and the band left the stage. Jimmy Cliff was next, my dad’s favorite. It would’ve been cool for us to hear him together. I kind of wished I knew where Dad was. I looked around, but, yeah, too many people.

  “Vance!” someone shouted from behind.

  I turned and saw a sea of bodies.

  “Over here! Vance!” It was a girl, and her voice was a little closer.

  I looked to my right to see Jacque Beaufort jumping up and down, waving her arms. I waved back. “Dude, Beaufort’s over there having a cow,” I said to Growler.

  He remained sprawled out on the blanket. His arm shot up and he waved. “Cool. That’s cool.” He was as high as a kite.

  She and three of her friends made their way to us. “Hey. How great were Toots and the Maytals? Right?” Jacque said.

  Damn, her eyes were friggin’ blue. But she wasn’t my type. Her hair was too dark. I was pretty sure she was half black or something. I liked blonds.

  Jacque checked out who was on our blanket. “Just you two?”

  “Lucas is here with his girlfriend. We never found each other though.”

  She nodded. “Your dad’s gotta be here.”

  Because of the Blue Mountain, everyone in town knew my dad was into reggae. Weekends he’d bring in no-name reggae or ska bands from Philly or New York, and he’d pack the place. West Chester, Pennsylvania, wasn’t exactly tropical, but anyone who came into the Blue Mountain Lounge sure got a taste of Jamaica. I smirked. “Yeah, he’s here somewhere.”

  “Cool,” she said. “My parents are here too. My mom’s from Montpelier, near Montego Bay. She knows Jimmy Cliff’s cousin.”

  So Jacque was half black. I knew it. I blurted out, “Does she know any Marleys?”

  Her blond friend giggled. She stood in a shadow so I couldn’t see her face, but she had a hot body.

  They all looked at Jacque and she grinned. “Everyone from Jamaica knows a Marley.”

  “So you’ve been there?” I asked and immediately felt like an idiot. Of course she’d been there. She just said her mother was Jamaican.

  Her eyes lit up. “Oh yeah, at least twice a year. You?”

  “My dad said he’s gonna take us there after I graduate.”

  “Cool.” She rocked on her heels. I could tell she wanted to say something else. Shit, I hoped she didn’t come on to me. I was too high to think of a subtle brush-off.

  Jacque looked away. “Little Irving here too?”

  “Oscar? Are you shitting me? He’s probably home jacking off to some Beethoven song.”

  The blond stepped forward, moonlight hitting her face, and she yanked on Jacque’s arm. “You didn’t introduce me.”

  Whoa, wow, she’s absolutely beautiful. Brown eyes and a great smile.

  Jacque smacked her own forehead. “Right, sorry. Vance, this is my friend Christina. She goes to Archbishop Wood. Our moms have been friends since college.”

  Christina held out her hand and I stood frozen, staring at her face. She playfully touched my shoulders and shook me. “Where did you just go?”

  I tossed my head back and laughed. “I’m pretty baked up. Nice to meet you.” This time I offered my hand and she took it. Her grasp was warm and firm, and I wanted to pull her into my arms and just make out.

  But I didn’t because that would’ve been completely uncool.

  Christina leaned in and whispered, “Easy, killer, I have a boyfriend.”

  Of course she had a boyfriend. Was I imagining her flirting? How high am I?

  My face felt hot. Thank God for nighttime. I whispered my response, “Relax, Chrissy. You’re not my type.” Even though that was a bullshit lie, it felt good to zing her back.

  She pulled away and smirked. “Let’s go, Jacque. I have to use the bathroom.”

  “Later, dudes.” Jacque nudged Growler’s foot as a good-bye.

  He shouted long after they were gone, “You guys have any snacks on you? I’m wicked hungry.” He was in his own world down there.

  I’d have given anything for a container of nachos or Christina’s number.

  Oscar

  I listen as Vance calls Joey and Bill. His voice cracks with each brief conversation, and both times he shoots a look over his shoulder to see if I’m listening. I pretend I’m not, but I am.

  “They’re both on their way,” he says. Vance plops down hard into the leather reclining chair and slams it back, his legs snapping up with the footrest. He punches the armrest a few times and looks out the window. There’s nothing to see except a streetlight and a tree. It’s pitch-dark outside.

  “What about Aunt Renee? I mean, I know she’s not going to fly all the way from Singapore or anything, but she does know Dad,” I say. “I’ll—”

  Vance cuts me off. “Sure. I guess. But I’m done calling people. If you want to call people, go ahead.”

  If he’d let me finish, I was about to offer that I’d call her. I didn’t want to stress out Vance any more so I let it go. As I turn on my phone, it dawns on me that I don’t know her phone number. The one aunt I have, and I don’t have any way to contact her. A frustrated sigh slips out.

  Vance turns his head. “What?”

  “Do you have her phone number?” I know this is a ridiculous question. Vance having Aunt Renee’s phone number would mean that he has called or will call Aunt Renee, and that simply isn’t true.

  “Why would I have—?”

  I cut him off. “Where’s Dad’s cell? He’s gotta have it.”

  “We don’t know his password, remember?”

  Vance is right. We already tried everything we could think of, and our cell provider won’t give us the code until our father is dead. (Isn’t that nice?)

  “I wonder if Mom has the number in her old address book,” I mutter to myself.

  “Aunt Renee didn’t move to Singapore until after Mom’s accident. Her current number wouldn’t be in there. Remember?” Vance’s tone drips with annoyance. He should be sitting in a puddle.

  “All right, Vance. I got it.”

  I guess we’re not calling Aunt Renee then.

  I take a seat in our sitting area and put my feet up on the coffee table. “Stephen left his sunglasses here.” I hold them up for my brother to see.

  He doesn’t lift his head or open his eyes. “Mmm-hmm.”

  I fold them up and place them on top of the dresser. When I resume my position on the sofa, it hits me: I don’t have anyone I want to call about my father’s looming death. There a
re people I talk to in my classes—people who are nice to me and to whom I return the niceness—but I’m a loner. It’s not something I worry about; it’s just me. Being by myself brings me peace. I’m not a people person.

  After Growler pulled away and stopped including me, I spent a lot of time alone, and I liked it. It felt good for me to have my own space.

  Besides, no one’s into what I’m into, so I’ve found it useless to try to include people in my world. I know this sounds like I’m a complete weirdo, but I’m not. Like I said, I’m just me, and I’m fine with that.

  Why am I caring that I don’t want to call anyone? What would having someone here actually do for me? I’d have to make small talk and worry about what they’re thinking—two things I’m not capable of right now. I can barely concentrate on one thing for more than a few minutes. Having people from school visit would be nothing but a hassle.

  I look at Stephen’s sunglasses. I stare long and hard at them.

  Stephen is practically part of our family. He and Vance became really close after Mom’s funeral. He slept at our house more than he slept at his own in the months after she died. Vance rode me less when Stephen was over. That’s probably why I like the guy so much.

  But he’s Vance’s friend, not mine. And believe me, my brother never lets me forget it. He treats Growler like a brother. When he gets a glass of ice water, he makes one for Growler without being asked. They have lacrosse tosses in our backyard, sometimes for hours. They sit shoulder to shoulder and laugh at Vines. They stay up late watching old episodes of SpongeBob, laughing and saying lines along with the characters. There’s conversation. There’s understanding. There’s trust and fun and happiness.

  There’s everything I should have with Vance.

  Vance

  Two years ago

  Growler and I got escorted out of the Mann. The guard said he had to lock the gate. We’d searched for my dad and Tom for over an hour. Tom had met us there so he was probably long gone.

  “Do you think my dad got a ride home with Tom?” I asked Growler.

  He huffed. “Shit, I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Wait, if he did, that would suck. My dad has the keys, dude.” My high had worn off, and I was close to flipping out.

  “Should I call my mom?” Growler asked.

  “No! Shit. She’ll freak.” His mom almost didn’t let him come, and the only reason she gave in was because a parent would be with us.

  The parking lot was dotted with a handful of cars; the crowds were long gone. My dad’s SUV was still there. I was hoping he’d be sitting in the car waiting for us, but the car was dark.

  “Call him again,” Growler suggested.

  I tapped in Dad’s name, and my phone rang until his voice mail came on. I didn’t leave a message that time. “Voice mail.”

  “Do you think we should call the police?”

  “The police? Holy crap, Growler, what the hell do you think happened?”

  He winced. “I don’t know, but it’s after midnight and we can’t find them. He hasn’t answered his phone all night. What if he can’t answer? You know?”

  My head spun. My father was fine. He wasn’t in trouble. There was no way. He was fine. “Shut the fuck up, Growler. Okay? Just shut the fuck up.”

  He did.

  Over the next twenty minutes I called Dad’s phone ten times, all with the same frustrating result. When the workers and guards started coming out to their cars, I suggested that we hide in the woods next to the lot. I didn’t want anyone asking questions.

  From behind a huge tree, Growler and I watched the last employee leave. The lights inside the Mann dimmed and faded to black. Luckily, the parking lot remained bright.

  “I need to get home, man,” Growler said. “My mom has already texted me twice. I told her we stopped to get food and it’s taking forever. I can’t hold her off much longer.”

  I held up a finger to make him stop talking, and I called home. Oscar was there. He would answer. Maybe Dad was home. Oscar picked up after five rings. “Hello?”

  “It’s Vance. Listen. Is Dad home?”

  “What?”

  “Go check if Dad’s in his bed!” I barked.

  I heard his bed creak as he sat up. He huffed in my ear as he made his way to Dad’s room. “Not here.”

  “Shit,” I mumbled to myself. “I can’t find Dad. Check your phone. Did he call you tonight?”

  “Wait, Dad is missing?”

  “Asshole, yes, I just told you that. Did he call or not?”

  Oscar exhaled loudly. “I was just sound asleep, Vance. Don’t get mad at me.”

  I screamed, “Did Dad call or not?”

  “No.” And then he hung up on me.

  I pulled my phone away and glared at it.

  “What did he say?” Growler shouted.

  “Nothing! He hung up on me.”

  Growler shook his head. “Well, you called him an asshole. So…”

  My phone lit up and rang. It was a call from home. Maybe Dad just got dropped off by his buddy, and he left his keys for us somewhere. “Dad?”

  “No. Now shut up and listen to me. Dad is probably passed out somewhere on the property. You two have to go look for him,” Oscar said.

  “You shut up and listen to me. Growler and I already searched the whole effing place. Twice. Got any other brilliant ideas?”

  We breathed into each other’s ears.

  He whispered, “I’m scared, Vance.”

  What? He’s scared? How frigging annoying could he be? Why should I comfort him? I was stuck out there; he was home. “Shut up! You’re so selfish. This isn’t about you. I’m the one here! Why can’t you help me for once? Why do you always get to be the baby?”

  And then I hung up on him.

  Oscar

  “Hey, guys,” Joey says. Bill stands next to him. They both look about as uncomfortable as any two men could look. Neither of them makes a move to come in. They are frozen in the doorway.

  When Vance doesn’t greet them, I pop up off the couch and usher them in. I’m about to tell my brother how rude he is, but he’s sound asleep in the recliner.

  Bill and Joey exchange a nervous look. Bill whispers, “Should we come back later?”

  Joey has his eyes fixed on my father, clear shock registering all over his face. He shakes his head. “No, Bill, there won’t be a later.” He smacks Bill’s arm.

  “Aw, hell,” Bill says.

  The three of us stare at my father’s face for quite a while. No one speaks. We all just gaze upon the face of death before us.

  Joey clears his throat. “My grandpop had that same face. Damn, I remember it.”

  Bill bites his nails, a habit he’s had since the day I met him. “They’re sure he isn’t going to wake up? I mean, he’s a real strong guy. I saw him level a drunk guy who was pushing his wife around at the lounge just last year. Dropped him in one punch.”

  I don’t want him to wake up.

  I wince at my thought. It’s the worst thought a son could have about his father. My hands tighten into fists. The reasons and memories behind my feelings are many and painful. Watching Dad sink deeper and deeper into alcoholism after Mom’s death wasn’t easy.

  Vance yawns and says hello. Everyone is drained. Everyone is lost.

  I ask if they’d like some privacy to say good-bye. Both men’s eyes go glassy with pain. They nod, and Vance and I walk to the Common Room in silence. The Common Room is actually a large living-room-type room with overstuffed sofas, two recliners, a huge dining room table and chairs, built-in bookshelves made of dark wood and filled with hundreds of books, fresh flowers on every table, massive framed photographs of various beaches, and a shiny black piano. I’ve never sat in the room, only passed it on my way out.

  We each take a sofa and sit. In silence.

&nb
sp; Marnie appears with her gentle smile and big blue eyes. “Either of you play the piano?”

  Vance shakes his head, and I’m about to do the same when he says, “He used to.”

  “Ooooh, honey, play something. Everyone loves it when we have a player on the floor. We all swear it brings peace to the patients.”

  I shift in my seat and give Vance the death stare before speaking. “I haven’t played since fourth grade. I’m sorry.”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “Oh, come on. I’ll bet if you sat down and tried, it’d all come back to you. We don’t care if you play “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” We just like it when this thing gets used.” She pats the top of the piano. “Go on, give it a go. Trust me, no one will notice if you hit the wrong keys.” A grin spreads across her face.

  Vance is lost in his phone so he doesn’t give a damn one way or the other. I purse my lips and rack my brain for a song I could play.

  “There’s a bunch of piano books in the bench,” she says.

  She’s being so nice to me. I stand up and walk over. Marnie’s got the bench open, and she’s rustling through the books. “People donated these. All those too.” She points to the shelves lining the wall behind me.

  My stomach flips when I spot a familiar cover on one of the piano books. It’s the Bela Bartok book my old piano teacher, Mrs. Gramble, used during my last year of lessons. Not the book, but a book exactly like it. I pick it up and thumb through the pages. “It’s even Volume Two,” I say to myself.

  “You know it?” Marnie’s eyebrows raise in anticipation.

  “Yes, but I don’t think I remember how to play anything. Practicing wasn’t exactly my thing.”

  Mrs. Gramble introduced me to classical music in first grade, and it was unintentional. It happened in the hall outside her studio office. My mother would drop me off, and I’d sit out there clutching my Hal Leonard Easiest Piano Course book and listen to the music coming from a small CD player underneath one of the chairs.

  The first time, I found the music kind of scary. I’d never heard anything like it. But the second time, it seeped into my little six-year-old soul. I ended up moving to the seat directly over the CD player. I remember wanting to get closer to the sound. When, months into our lessons, Mrs. Gramble found me lying on the floor with my head underneath her chair and my ear pressed up against the speaker, she was startled at first, but then she knew. She knew I’d fallen in love with the music.