Comin' Home to You

by Dustin Mcwilliams

  Besides, those questions weren’t the reason his grandson was here. Owen’s house was used as a getaway for the boy, so that he didn’t have to think about the troubling thoughts and his home life. Even though Owen still had a fairly sharp pain in his side, he was determined to fight through it to play with his grandson. “Alright, ready to play some catch?”

  His smile brightened the room. “Yeah! Finally! You know you are the only one I can really throw hard to. All the kids in my class are scared. They kinda suck.”

  Owen gently smiled. He thought about instructing Austin to be humble, but that would be false to how he really felt. He adored that his son was brash and cocky. But he could back it up. Just like his grandfather at his age, Austin was bigger, faster, and stronger than the other children. He also threw exceptionally hard for a boy of nine. Most of his talents were inborn, but what pleased Owen the most was that Austin worked hard to improve on his already blossoming skills. But even if the boy had no baseball talent whatsoever, Owen would not think any differently about his time with him. He always wanted a son, but a grandson was equally as endearing.

  The two stepped outside onto the grass. Owen had mowed a couple days previous and very few smells enraptured Owen's nostrils like the smell of a cut lawn. There was not a cloud in the perfect blue sky, and while the weather was uncomfortably warm, no other complaint could be made. This was May weather at its greatest, and Owen couldn't be more pleased. He preferred hot weather over colder temperatures, and he even admired the trickles of sweat that had already formed on his back. His father always said that sweat on your back meant you had done something with your day. His father was an asshole, but every word that came from his mouth was succinct, lacking any bullshit and worthy of respect. Not a day goes by where he wished he could ask his father for guidance. He passed away from a heart attack a few days before Patricia learned she was pregnant. Right when he needed his father the most, he was gone. He would nervously and loudly gulp when he thought about his father looking down from above. Owen's life was a failure, and he knew his father would say the same thing.

  After Austin sprinted thirty feet away, he made a gesture with his glove that he was ready. Rearing back and taking a step forward, he threw the baseball with all of his might, grunting in the process. Owen watched the ball into his glove, mildly chuckling at his grandson’s ferocity. Examining the ball in his throwing hand, he felt an indescribable pleasure as he felt the seams on his callused fingertips. He wasn't sure what it was about the sport that gave him so much contentment. But every time he attended a game live and heard the roar of the crowd, the crack of the bat or the organ blaring Take Me Out to the Ballgame over the PA system, or even doing something simple like feeling the leather of a never used baseball, it brought out pure happiness in him.

  Perhaps it brought him back to his childhood, before having kids and the constant drama, where all he dreamed of was baseball. Now, he was passing on his love for the game to his grandson. For the past four years, he taught Austin how to grip the ball properly, how to swing level and how to judge fly balls. He had taught Ali too, though with a softball, while also having to deal with her apathetic and derisive attitude. Nevertheless, she was greatly talented and heavily lauded from an early age, but after becoming pregnant, any interest in furthering her career waned. She didn’t even care enough to play catch with her son. Clint didn’t give a shit about him, but he was not athletic anyway. It fell to the grandfather to teach him about America's sport. He was honored to hold such a renowned responsibility.

  As the two threw the ball back and forth, a sweeping drowsiness took hold of Owen’s body. At first, he thought it was the heat getting to him, but he had worked many long days in temperatures hotter than this and never came close to passing out. Perhaps it was another effect of his cirrhosis. He vaguely remembered something about an altered sleeping pattern when he glanced over the pamphlet. He considered doing some more research online to make sure.

  After needing to jump to catch a ball, Owen was almost zapped of energy. He hated to break the bad news when his grandson was clearly enjoying himself, but his desire to lay down was too much to surmount. “Austin, I'm a little tired, bud.”

  “Already? Didn't you just wake up?”

  “Yeah. I guess I am getting old.” Owen couldn't think of a better excuse.

  Austin furrowed his brow in confusion. “You're not that old.”

  Owen removed his glove, wiping his free and sweaty hand off on his shirt. He was disappointed in himself. This disease had negated his ability to have extended active time with Austin. But this was the life that he created. He only had himself to blame.

  “I bet you have a stomach virus, Grandpa. Remember? I had one a couple of weeks ago, and all I did was sleep and throw up.”

  Owen lightly chuckled. “Oh, I remember. I had to clean up all of those vomit stains inside the toilet that you made.”

  “Ugh, it was gross. It tasted like nachos and green beans.”

  “What’s wrong with nachos?”

  “Nothing, I guess. It just tastes bad coming up.”

  Scratching at his neck hard enough to leave four red lines from his fingernails, Owen forced a happier tone. “Hm. Well, if I am sick, I know who to blame it on.” Owen playfully pointed at Austin. “You, you stinky boy.”

  Austin responded to the playful jab. “Nuh uh! I’m not…am I? I forgot to take a shower last night.”

  “If you want, go ahead and take a shower and get yourself something to eat so you aren’t bored.”

  Following Austin inside as the boy sprinted toward the TV, Owen threw his glove on the dining table. He had forgotten about the empty beer cans on the table as the glove knocked a couple of them onto the floor. Austin was startled by the loud clanging sound, but quickly recovered and turned on the television. Thirsty once again, Owen finished two full glasses of water, gasping for air after completing the second one. Noticing his wallet sitting on the kitchen counter next to him, he was reminded of his doctor's visit from yesterday and what the doctor informed him to do. Glancing over the embossed business card that the doctor gave him, many questions entered his head. Will I really have to quit drinking? He gazed at the beer cans in the floor. One of them wasn’t fully empty, dripping onto the linoleum. Great, another thing to clean up. What the hell do I do? Regardless, he couldn't give up. Not when the young man in the living room needed him the most.

  Reading every little detail of the card, it came to his attention that the surgeon was a woman. Her full name was Tamara Sen, M.D. He scratched at his face for a second, oddly wondering what the woman looked like. Even at the cusp of death, he still wanted a female's presence, and a hot one operating on him might give him a bit more confidence. But his mind took a left turn, realizing that a woman’s appearance has no effect on their aptitude of their job. His brain took another detour when he started thinking about sex with the mysterious surgeon. When his thinking started racing, he had no control.

  The bottom line was that he had to live long enough for the possibility of a surgery to even occur. Despite it being Saturday, he grabbed his phone and gave Dr. Sen's office a call. As the phone rang, he looked into the living room to see his grandson absorbed into cartoons with a bright smile pasted on his face. Just that sight alone was enough to justify this phone call.

  He couldn't leave this boy alone. To do that, he must do his absolute best to remain alive. Opening the fridge, he gazed upon many ready to drink beers.

  This is going to be hard…

  Chapter 3

  A knock on the door interrupted his calm and quiet Saturday night. Just before the startling sound from his front entrance, he had been watching a stand-up comedy special on his high definition television. While it wasn't particularly funny, it was just amusing enough to continue viewing. There were plans to grab a beer at a bar with a close friend a little later, but at the moment, he was relatively content. In one hand was an old fashioned glass filled halfway with vodka. A lit cigarette
rested between his fingertips in the other hand, balanced over a blue ceramic ashtray.

  The night was still young, only a minute after 9 p.m. Yet, he never received visitors, at least not without his approval. A rule he had made was that he be directly notified if anyone was coming to his home. He was a careful man, and for just reasons. He even required a few of his cousins and friends to set up trailers around the perimeter of his three acres to be well-guarded and to intimidate anyone wishing to visit without going through the proper channels. Apparently, even that didn't guarantee security.

  His profession, if one could call it that, had no sense of legality. He oversaw any drug and firearm deals made between the areas of the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex and Shreveport, and most of the area north and south of that. He also ensured that any trafficking on Interstate 20 was clean and smooth. The life as a powerful supervisor was pretty easy. He reminded himself every day that he earned this life of relative ease and comfort. Of course, he earned his position because of his intimidating demeanor, strong appearance, hard work and the will to do anything to further the goals of the Roaring 20's criminal outfit. But there was one honest truth of why he lived in comfort and barely had to do anything.

  No one fucked with Scar Grayson.

  When the time came to display strength for the gang, he showed it with ruthlessness and effectiveness. Due to his overall dependency and qualities of a great leader, he climbed the ranks of the Roaring 20's hastily. According to his calculations, he placed himself about fifth or sixth on the totem pole of ranking members. Attributing to his rise was his overcautious demeanor. He never carried more money than he needed, his home was modest, his vehicle wasn't flashy and he never did anything that drew attention to himself. He kept himself out of the day-to-day affairs of his trade, and only involved himself when something was wrong or needed his direct attention. He showed his value and understanding when he would correct any mistakes his underlings had made. Though, he presumed what endeared him to the higher-ups was his willingness to get his hands dirty. He had a body count, but all he remembered was that the amount of dead by his hands were more than the fingers on those hands. Ambitious to the core, Scar had every intention of continuing his climb up the ladder and hopefully wearing the crown of the gang one day. Being the top dog has always been Scar's aim, no matter the profession.

  Placing his cigarette carefully on his bland black ashtray, he grabbed his .38 Special from the stained wooden coffee table. His daddy always told him that a loaded and ready firearm was the pinnacle of safety, and no matter where he was, he should always be equipped. With the drink still firmly grasped in his left hand, he lightly walked to the front door. Instead of attempting to see who it was through the peephole, he stood to the side and patiently waited. He was taught at a young age by his older brother to never stand in front of a door, just in case someone holding a powerful shotgun lay in wait. It was unlikely that an assassin was on the other side of the door, but he made a fair share of enemies on his way to the top. Without his father and older brother's guidance, as well as the arrival of a new member of the family years back to give him newfound motivation, he doubted he would even be in such a prestigious position in the criminal organization. Dolefully staring at his revolver, he silently wished those two members of his family were alive to see where he was today. Nothing was ever handed to him. He reached out and took it the only way he knew how: The Grayson way.

  As he briefly reminisced about the past, another knock sounded, though this one was quieter, to the point of being barely audible if he weren't so close to the door. Scar perceived the knock as insecure and shy. There was very likely a female on the other side of that door. He knew this because every female that came to his place usually knocked with that same lack of intensity. His house was a normal three bedroom and two bathroom plan, but the aura the house put off from the man that lived there seethed intimidation. Even if that were the case, he still practiced caution. Someone had taken a shot at him at his place of residence a few years back. That would-be assassin now slept at the bottom of Lake Tawakoni.

  Despite coming out of the assassination attempt unscathed, it gave him justification to be suspicious. His skepticism was increased when he never received information on who was visiting, not from his phone or from his dimwitted cousins. Though, the cousins surrounding him weren't the brightest of the Grayson gene pool. Still, they were paid to keep an eye out, and when they didn't do their job, there would be some sort of punishment. It was the way of the world in his eyes. You are rewarded for your good work, and you are punished for doing badly. Thinking of the proper discipline could wait. Right now, there was someone at the door, and he was tired of waiting.

  Without a speck of fear in his body, he spoke loudly. “Who is it?”

  A shaky voice replied. “It's Jenny May.”

  Jenny May, Jenny May, he thought to himself. The name itself sounded familiar, though no face immediately came to his mind. Her voice was very youthful, as if she never hit puberty. The more he repeated the name in his head, the more familiar it sounded. He started listing the women he had been with recently, and it didn't take long to remember who she was. She was Tasha's friend, a girl of whom he had a few tumbles in the sack lately. He hoped to have another tumble with her tonight, but the appearance of this new girl soured that prospect. Only Tasha could have told this girl where he lived. He could never trust a woman, and he was reinforced of that fact.

  “What do you want, Jenny May?” asked Scar.

  “You're Scar, right? I'm Tasha's friend. I don't think we ever met though. I-”

  “I asked you what do you want, girl?”

  “Um...well, I was hoping I could buy some speed off ya. Is that ok?”

  A disdainful look came over Scar's face. This stupid bitch is seriously asking me for meth? Do I look like a fucking dealer? Few things pissed him off more than someone believing he was a dealer of drugs. While he did get his start selling at the age of 20, he had worked his way up considerably since then, to his current standing as a boss. While there was no official title of his job skills other than a lieutenant, he could confidently say he had administrative power. He felt absolutely insulted when he was called something as demeaning as a simple street level dealer. He compared it to some yokel on the street going up to the McDonald’s corporate building and asking the vice president to cook him a Big Mac. Oh, how he desired to open the door and smash the butt of the pistol into her nose. He didn't work his ass off to be treated like a measly minion. Not only did Tasha tell her where he lived, but made it out like he was some greasy low-class drug dealer? He wanted to strangle that bitch. But he squashed such feelings. Hitting women wasn't his style. The same couldn't be said for other members of his family.

  He opened the door slowly, and sure enough, the girl he slightly remembered was standing there. She was a petite girl, about 5'2 and maybe 100 pounds. She had short brown hair, with long bangs resting over her right eye. Her face was having a light outbreak of acne. While standing there, she picked at a zit nervously.

  Scar leered over the girl, trying to look as intimidating as possible. “I don't sell drugs, girl.”

  “But Tasha said that I could get some off of you.”

  “Tasha don't know what the fuck she’s talking about.”

  “But she said that you give her some when she is over here.”

  “Well, Tasha's got a big mouth.”

  “So...can you maybe give me some?”

  His eyes narrowed. The girl's insistence was irritating him. “I ain't just gonna give you some.”

  “Oh, I have money, if you want that. If not, I can do other things.”

  Jenny May's bluntness astounded Scar. Though, he wasn't about to deny what she was implying. “Alright, whatever. Get in here.”

  The skinny girl scurried in like a small mouse. In a way, her appearance mirrored that of a rodent. Her small nose probably attributed to it. Although the weather was warm, she was wearing a long sweatshirt that b
ared one shoulder, where a black bra strap was visible. The sweatshirt was so long that he wasn't sure if she was wearing any type of bottoms. Her freshly shaved legs somehow shimmered in the dim light of his house. The outfit was capped off with a pair of pink flip-flops. She was too skinny for Scar's taste, but he could do something with it, if he so desired.

  Scar wasn't exactly dressed for visitors, though he never cared what wardrobe he had on, as long as he was functional. He wore a tight black tank top that accentuated his pectoral muscles. He was also sporting a pair of maroon athletic shorts with the Texas A&M logo sewn on the lower left side. His shoulder length dirty blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and his face had the stubble look that he thought made him look both attractive and feared.

  He scratched at that stubble while looking over Jenny May. “So, how much money you got?”

  “Um, I got...fifty, no...sixty bucks.”

  “And how much do you want?”

  Jenny May was extremely nervous. She gulped so loud it practically echoed. “Half, please.”

  “Half a gram? Alright, let me see what I got.”

  Going into his bedroom and flipping on the light switch, he stopped for a moment, trying to recall where he hid the narcotic. He noticed that two of three light bulbs were out on his ceiling fan, and it made his bedroom all the more dim and depressing. His bed was king-sized, though the comforter and sheets were both plain black. No one had ever truly shared the bed with him. Sure, he recycled through women like newspaper, but he had never had one dependable and strong woman to come home to. Smirking in the depths of his brain, he didn’t want that anyway.

  The walls were bare, with no decorations throughout the room, besides a picture of his smiling nephew on his wooden dresser. He kept things minimal. Gaudy and flashy wasn't his style. Scar was a practical man, and he saw no reason to garnish a room that had no purpose other than sleeping and fucking.