Wait: The Brazen Bulls Beginning

by Susan Fanetti

“He’s older, Unca. He’s twenty-eight. And … and he was in Vietnam.”

  Uncle Dave went very still. “Oh, Mo.”

  “I like him. I think I like him very much. Tonight was grand craic, and he was good to me.”

  “All this time, you’ve hardly turned your eyes toward any boy for long, and this is the one you fix on? So much older, and with this war in his heart.”

  “He was good to me,” she said again.

  Her uncle didn’t seem to hear. “No matter how hard we try to guide you straight, you just don’t want the sure path. Oh, you go along fine most of the time, but when a crossroads comes, you always pick the hard way, against the grain. Even with what happened to your da and ma.”

  It was statements like this, oblique and yet packed full of implication, that made Mo think her parents had been murdered, that if they even had died in a crash at all, it had been intentional. She turned and tried to look him in the eye, but he kept his attention on their hands. “You mean their car wreck? What does that have to do with anything?”

  He didn’t answer; Mo had learned long ago that he never would. Instead, he said, “Do you love me, a stór?”

  “Of course I do, Unca. You’ve been da to me for near half my life, and you’ve never made me feel like anything less than your daughter.” They had, in fact, adopted her. Officially, they were her parents, though she’d never called them anything but aunt and uncle, and they had never tried to make her—or even asked it of her. But they had treated her as one of their own, always.

  “And you are nothing less. You are our girl, Mo. Will you do me a favor, then?”

  Though she was afraid to agree without knowing first, she nodded. “Aye.”

  “Bring him for dinner. Let us take his measure. Then hear what we have to say.” He grinned sadly. “You’ll take your own path regardless, Lord knows, but promise you’ll hear our say.”

  “We’ve only had the one date. It’s a wee bit early for family to be involved.”

  “Is it? To me, it’s just in time.” He leaned toward her and bumped her shoulder with his thick arm. “For me, love. Do it for me.”

  She couldn’t say no. And she didn’t want to say yes. So she rested her head on his shoulder and nodded yet again.

  ~oOo~

  Six days later, on the following Friday evening, Brian Delaney rang the doorbell, and Mo, who’d been pacing the living room, hurried to answer before Maggie or Robby could. She ignored the creak of Uncle Dave’s recliner or his looming shadow as he stood and followed.

  They had not seen each other since the night at the drive-in, but Brian had called her every single day, always near the same time—around seven-thirty, when her family, and also his, were settled in front of the television, and they could have a moment’s peace.

  He’d been much more willing to have dinner with her family for their second bloody date than she’d expected. And now he stood on the porch in pressed khakis and a crisp cotton shirt, clean-shaven and with a fresh haircut.

  Mo was a little disappointed, frankly. Though she wasn’t sorry his not-very-good beard had gone the way of all things, she’d liked his shaggy hair. Now, he was perfectly presentable, with a perfectly average haircut.

  And bloody hell, he was holding a bouquet of daisies.

  Her scary motorcycle man had gone and got himself Cleaver-ized.

  “Hi.” She stepped back to let him in and reached out for the flowers as he came into the house. “Thank you.”

  He pulled them out of reach as he bent to kiss her cheek. “Hey. They’re not for you. They’re for your aunt.”

  Mo laughed. The boy’s dating skills had come straight out of 1958. Which, come to think, was absolutely perfect for disarming her conservative family.

  “Brian, this is my uncle, David Quinn.”

  Brian held out his hand. “Mr. Quinn. Good to meet you, sir.” His shoulders were square, his voice clear and brusque, and his shake firm, and Mo clearly saw the soldier he’d been.

  Mo could see her uncle struggling with the shock of reality meeting whatever expectations he had, and thought Brian was very likely coming out on the better end of that struggle. Well done.

  After a wee wrangle with his thoughts, her uncle managed a fairly cordial smile and shook hands. “And you, Brian. And this here’s Mo’s aunt, and our wee ones, Maggie and Robby.”

  Brian greeted the ‘wee ones’—ages fifteen and ten respectively—with a nod and turned on a high-wattage smile for Aunt Bridie. “Mrs. Quinn. Thank you for the invitation. I hope you like daisies. They’re from my sister’s garden.”

  “Well I love ‘em, don’t I? Ta, Brian. I’ll just put these in water. Dinner’s on in ten. Maggie, come help.”

  Maggie’s face showed teen outrage. “But Ma!”

  “Come, lass!” Aunt Bridie called, and Maggie went off with a huff.

  Robby left as well, not old enough, or female enough, to care about Mo’s love life or what it meant for him.

  “Would you like a wee drink before dinner, son?” Uncle Dave asked, managing to acknowledge that Brian was a grown man and place him beneath himself in the space of those few words.

  Brian glanced Mo’s ways before he answered, and she loved him a little for that check-in. When she smiled, he turned to her uncle and said, “I’ll join you, if you’re having one.”

  “Always like a kiss of Irish before a good meal,” he said and opened a liquor cabinet that, in fact, rarely got used.

  Mo stood back and watched this play of male dominance until her uncle handed Brian a glass and looked her way. “Go on now, love. Your aunt could use some help, and Brian and I, we’ve things to chat about.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Brian hadn’t really expected much of his military experience to be useful in the civilian world, but one thing being an enlisted man in the United States Army had taught him was how to show respect to one’s superiors.

  Of course, he’d known that already, being raised as he was, in the heartland, by good people. But the military had taught him how to really sell it, even when you thought the ‘superior’ was an asshole or an idiot who couldn’t have found his own ass with a map and a compass.

  Mo’s uncle didn’t seem like either asshole or idiot, but this situation had him feeling awkward and unsure of himself, and the military training, so deeply etched it had become muscle memory, helped him find his footing.

  Mo’s softly ironic smirk had him wondering if he’d done something dumb, however. Maybe the flowers had been too much. Well, he’d wanted to make a good impression.

  This girl—she was something. Brian could see something real here. Something he’d never had before. Something he needed.

  His bad dreams had eased somewhat since he’d met Mo. And he hadn’t felt the need to find a fight since, either. Maybe that was too much to set on her young shoulders, but Brian needed it. Every time his head got loud and dark, he conjured a memory of Mo—any memory, of her smile, her laugh, the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin, the smell of her hair—and he found peace.

  So yes, he very much wanted to make a good impression on her family, and he knew damn well he was down on points from the get-go. Even if Mo hadn’t told them anything about him, when they saw him, they’d know he was older than her. And if she had told them what she knew … well. What would they think of a Vietnam vet dating their sweet young girl?

  The television was on in this room, showing the evening news. A story about ‘Nam. The volume was down, but Brian’s attention caught, and he couldn’t pull away.

  This was why he avoided news broadcasts. They were too close, too real, and he couldn’t help but land in the mud right there with them, full of memory, pummeled by his own senses.

  “Brian.” Mr. Quinn said, his voice surprisingly kind. When Brian managed to turn his head, Quinn handed him a glass with a short pour of Jameson. “Mo tells us you served over there.” His accent wasn’t as thick as his niece’s, but he was quite clearly from the same place. And her a
unt, too.

  So she had told them. “Yes, sir. Two tours.”

  Quinn sighed. “The reports try to give us a sense, but I don’t think we here can imagine what that’s like.”

  “No, sir, you can’t.”

  “Can I ask what you did over there?”

  “Sir?”

  There was one question, with many ways of asking, a civilian should never, ever ask a war vet. Ever. Under any circumstances. That question was if he’d killed, how many he’d killed, what it was like to kill. Brian didn’t know if Quinn was asking it now, but if he was, Brian wouldn’t answer. Normally, he answered with his fist. But because this was Mo’s family, he would keep his mouth shut and his hands still.

  “You were Army, yeah?”

  Brian let loose a breath; he wasn’t asking about killing. “Yes, sir. 173rd Airborne.”

  “Airborne? You mean a pilot?”

  This man had never served or even read very deeply about the American military. “No, sir. Paratrooper.”

  Bushy black eyebrows lifted high. “Bloody hell.”

  “We only jumped in once, last summer.” He’d done vastly more jumps, of course, but ‘jumping in’ meant jumping into active combat. That, he’d done only once. A memory kicked to life, and Brian blinked it away before it took hold. “Mostly, we were on the ground, like any infantry soldier.”

  “In the thick of it, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He tossed all the whiskey in his glass down and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Quinn, but I don’t like to talk about the war.”

  Quinn nodded. “Aye, forgive me.” He drank from his own glass and then stared at what was left. “You know, Brian, our Mo seems older than she truly is.”

  “She’s nineteen. I know.”

  “And you’re older than your years as well, I warrant. Seen things such as oughtn’t be seen at any age. Done such things as well.”

  Brian didn’t answer.

  After a beat, Quinn nodded again. “Ach, well, Mo’s a girl knows her own mind. She’s a fighter, she is, and crackin’ smart, but she’s a dear, too, with a wee tender heart. I’ll not take it well to see her hurt, body or soul.”

  “I wouldn’t take it well, either, Mr. Quinn. She’s safe with me. I’ll keep her safe.”

  “Well, then, we’re in accord.” Quinn patted his shoulder, but Brian saw the wary readiness in his look and wondered what torments he had in mind should Mo get hurt.

  He was a druggist, which hardly seemed the profession of a man comfortable with violence, but he was considerably larger than Brian in every way. Well over six feet, broad and burly. His handshake had cracked Brian’s knuckles, and Brian prided himself on his own strong shake.

  Mo slipped into the room then, leaning in at the entry. So goddamn beautiful, wearing a churchy-sweet blue dress that made her eyes as bright as stars.

  She smiled at him, and he grinned back, all his doubts forgotten.

  She was worth it.

  ~oOo~

  “I’m sorry about all that.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about.” Brian caught Mo’s hand and laced his fingers with hers. They were, in her aunt’s words, ‘goin’ for a wee dander’ after supper, which turned out to mean ‘taking a walk.’ They strolled alone down the lane of this tidy, middle-class neighborhood, which was about one step up from Faye and Lenny’s tidy, slightly-lower-class neighborhood, with ranch-style houses and two-car attached garages instead of bungalows and detached one-car sheds.

  It was their first time alone since the drive-in. Brian had worked all week to master the pull to Shayton and not show up unannounced at the drugstore, like a lost puppy. Calling her nightly had helped.

  He really was behaving like a teenager, but he couldn’t help it. This was a good, pure thing in his grimy, dark life, and he needed it. Her.

  “My family is …” she drifted off.

  “Wonderful,” he finished for her. “They love you, and each other. It’s what family should be, however it’s made up.” It had been a good dinner. Her family was lively and funny, and they’d included him smoothly. It hadn’t been an interrogation with food, but a family meal with a welcome guest.

  “Is your family like that?” she asked as they turned the corner. There was a little park just ahead, a well-lit green space rimmed with benches, and a few playground sets, swings and the like, in the center. The kind of thing that a neighborhood full of young families might get together and agree to build.

  They’d made it to that park before Brian could form a good answer. The park lights threw long gold beams over the center and made the edges twice as dark.

  “It’s my sister and her husband, and their two little boys, and they love each other and show it every day. They love me, too, and I know it. There’s a lot of light, like your family. But … I’m not like that. I darken every doorway I walk through.”

  They’d been walking toward a bench, but Mo stopped dead and clutched his hand. “You tell a lie.”

  “No, Irish. I tell the truth.”

  “What I mean is, you’re wrong. You were lovely tonight. I think Aunt Bridie’s considerin’ throwin’ my uncle over for ya. Uncle Dave was impressed as well—and he’d spent the week composing a lecture about your wrongness, I’ve no doubt.” She stepped close and set her free hand on his chest. “You’ve brightened my doorway.”

  There was nothing he could think to say, so he pulled her close and kissed her.

  She hummed a little moan and curled her arms around his neck. Brian had meant to be gentle, but he grunted in pleased surprise when her tongue pressed against his lips. He opened up, drew her as close to him as he could get her, and made their kiss as deep as he could manage. He wanted to feel the warmth of her belly again, but she wore this prim little dress, and he’d have to expose her here in public to get to more than her forearms and face.

  Public, they were in public, standing at the edge of little park, with houses facing all around.

  Reluctantly, he backed off, setting her away more firmly when she resisted his effort. When her eyes opened and focused, he looked pointedly around. “We’re giving the neighbors a show.”

  A sharp huff expressed her disdain for any audience they might have, but she didn’t resist his restraint anymore. She didn’t let him go, either. And he couldn’t seem to let her go. They stood at the edge of this park, in the wash of tall lights, and simply held each other, sharing a gaze that dived deep.

  “I think this is something special,” she whispered eventually.

  Brian smiled. Mo did know her own mind, if she was confident enough to state something like that so early. He didn’t know many girls who would. Most waited for guys to make every first move.

  Still, she didn’t know him. With her, he’d been calm, even happy, but they hadn’t spent much time together. Sooner or later, he’d slip and show her who he really was.

  “I think so, too,” he answered. “But I’m glad we’re waiting. You should know me better before you make that call.”

  He didn’t like the frown that fluttered across her brow, looking for a perch, so he kissed her again.

  ~oOo~

  A few weeks later, on a warm Saturday in May, Brian crouched on the gravel driveway outside his sister’s house and asked his oldest nephew, Paul, “I need the one with the blue handle. Can you find the blue one?”

  It was just about a perfect spring day—bright sun, blue sky, a soft breeze promising summer on the way. That breeze made Faye’s laundry billow gently on the lines and wafted the crisp scent of her washing soap into the air.

  Brian was in a good mood.

  With his little face squinched up in an expression that meant all business, Paul crouched like his uncle and studied the tools Brian had spread out on newspapers.

  He was changing out the seat on his chopper, replacing the old bobber seat with a two-up. He wanted to ride with his girl, and stop borrowing a car, or taking Mo’s, every time they went out. His masculinity was getting a little dented.
<
br />   It was time to buy a car of his own, but for some reason he got tense at the mere thought.

  After some serious consideration, Paul pointed to a screwdriver. “This one?”

  “Yep, that’s the blue one. Good man. You want to bring it to me?”

  As Paul handed him the tool, Faye came around from the back of the house with a full basket of wet laundry on her hip. “Hey, Brian? Got a minute?”

  “For you, I can make a minute. You need help?”

  “When you get a chance. That line came down again. I think the screw thingamajig is rusted out or stripped.”

  “You got it.” He handed the screwdriver back to Paul. “Can you put that back just where it was, kiddo?”

  Paul very carefully put it back, exactly as it had been. “Can I help more?”

  “You bet. You’re a good helper. But we need different tools for your mama’s job, so let’s go back to the garage and see what we can find.

  ~oOo~

  Lenny, a foreman at the oilfield, was working an extra shift, so Brian was the man of the house for the day. It was times like this, taking on his sister’s ‘honey-do list,’ when he understood how much he still felt like Faye and Lenny’s ward. Twenty-eight years old and still living with his big sister.

  But the thought of moving out, being alone all night with his dreams and memories, scared the daylight out of him.

  Talk about dented masculinity. He shoved those thoughts to the edges with all the others that lurked in the dark.

  Faye hung wash while Brian and Paul repaired the outside line of the four-line setup Lenny had built her. The eyebolt was stripped, so the repair required a new hole as well as a new bolt, and she peered suspiciously around a newly hung sheet, checking on her son as Brian drilled the hole.

  He laughed. “I’m bein’ careful, sis. I’ll keep him safe.” Paul stood at his side, holding the power cord, but well away from any point of contact.