Playing With Fire (21 page)

Aleta paused, ancient memories flooding her thoughts.

“I remember when I told James about you being here. That was the first time I think I had ever seen fear in his face. It was like he didn't know what he should do, or where he should turn, and he didn't know how to ask anyone for help.”

Romeo sat listening, nodding his head slowly. He chewed nervously on his bottom lip, the letters pulled close to his chest.

“Your mama seemed to understand his fear more than anybody, and I think that's when she decided to let him go for good. She told him that you weren't his and that he should just stay with that band he was touring around with. I think there was a part of her that was hoping that he would come back and stay, and when he didn't, that probably hurt her the most. He wrote me not long after that and told me that he knew she was lying. He knew you were his child, but there was just something in him that couldn't let him stay in one place for any time. He kept saying that he didn't know how to be nobody's daddy. I think he worked real hard to convince himself of that.

“After that, Irene didn't want to hear anything about James. Nothing. She'd toss his letters in the trash and I'd pull 'em out. I'd try to read them to her, but she didn't want to hear any of it. It was strange because I knew how much she still loved him. She never stopped loving him. I think that maybe she needed to cut him out of her life completely, just so she could still love him. I think she was afraid that if she didn't, that she might start hating him.”

Romeo sat absorbed in his own thoughts, not sure whether or not he wanted to cry. There was still so much he didn't understand. “Aleta, why didn't he tell me he wrote me? When he and I last talked he made it sound like he had never ever tried to do right by me, but this”—Romeo said, lifting the stack of letters in front of him—“this proves he tried. Aunt Aleta, he was sending money to me, and to my mother. He was writing to us. He was trying. . . .” Exasperation raced across Romeo's brow as he tried to assimilate all the information just thrown at him.

Aleta smiled at him weakly. “Piano Man never knew anyone had saved all these letters. He must have thought that they'd been destroyed without ever being opened. I don't think he wanted to say anything bad against your mama, especially since he didn't have any proof of it.”

“What could she have been thinking?”

“She was thinking that she had a boy who needed her protection more than anything else in life. She honestly believed that Piano Man couldn't do right by you so it was better that he didn't do anything at all. She never meant to hurt you, Romeo, but sometimes when we're making choices, we do so with a narrow view of the consequences. I think Irene half expected that Piano Man was going to show up dead at some point, so there was no reason to set you up for the hurt. I also think there was a part of her that was so angry with Piano Man that she decided not to share you—it was her only way of getting back at him. Whatever it was, though, it's done and over. And like your daddy would say, we can't do anything about it.”

Romeo leaned forward on his elbows, wiping at his eyes with his fingertips. The letters spilled over his lap onto the floor. He stared at them briefly, before reaching down to pick them up, fingering them between his hands. Aleta reached over to take them from him, dropping them back into the wooden chest.

“There's a lot of memories inside here,” she said, closing the top. “Your mama and daddy's entire history is captured here in some way or another. I'd started saving this stuff for your mama believing that she'd change her mind about wanting it. Then I decided to keep it for Piano Man, hoping that he'd want to give it to you one day and tell you the truth. After he came back the last time I knew that it was meant for you to have.” She gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “Take it home with you. Do whatever you need to do with it. It all belongs to you.”

Romeo smiled up at her, a weak bending of his lips before nodding his consent. Standing, he wrapped his arms about Aleta's shoulders. “Thank you,” he whispered over the top of her head. “Thank you.”

Reaching toward the table, he lifted up the gold-framed photo and pressed it into Aleta's hands. “Do you want to keep this?”

Aleta stared at it momentarily, then handed it back to him. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I don't need it anymore.”

Romeo nodded his understanding. Securing the lock on the old chest, he lifted it up in his arms and headed for the door.

As Aleta twisted the knob and pushed open the screen door for him, she laughed warmly. “Romeo, I need you to do me a favor.”

“Anything. You know that.”

Aleta nodded. “I need to find me an owner for Amber House. I think it's time I retired.”

Romeo paused, resting the chest atop his upper legs, leaning his weight against the door frame. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. In fact, what I would most like to do is give Amber House to you.”

Romeo placed the chest onto the floor. “Why me?”

“Because you will see when you start going through all that stuff in that box that half of Amber House was owned by your daddy. He meant for you to have it one day, and I think now is as good a time as any.”

Romeo shook his head, further stunned. “I don't know what to say.”

“Don't say anything. We'll discuss it in detail as soon as you're ready. Okay?”

Romeo stared at Aleta in disbelief. “Okay, I guess.”

Aleta smiled broadly. “You are so much your daddy's boy it's scary. Now, get out of here. I've got to go get ready for work. Can't have the family business going under now.”

Romeo smiled back, kissing her cheek one last time. Then lifting the trunk back up into his arms, he headed for his car and home. Inside the doorway, Aleta stood watching him until he'd ridden out of sight, the faint glow of his taillights disappearing down the road. She stood there for a good while, inhaling the warming air as the gentlest of breezes blew through the trees, sweeping soft gusts around her body. As she turned to head back inside, she reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out her own blue letter. She reread the words one more time.

 

Romeo replaced the cap on the half-empty bottle of scotch, tucking the amber-colored container back into its hiding place by the side of his chair. Across the room, Taryn's voice called out to him from the answering machine, but he couldn't will one muscle to move his body to answer her call. The message she left would sit with all the others she'd left, he thought, ignored, soon to be forgotten.

He'd grown comfortable wallowing in the self-pity that had consumed him since his meeting with Aleta. After getting the large trunk home, he'd settled himself in his bedroom, then began reading. It had taken him just over eight hours to read twenty-plus years of letters and postcards written by Piano Man. To be exact, eight hours, twenty-three minutes, and almost twenty thousand dollars in tens and twenties, to comprehend history rewritten in the man's scraggly handwriting. In the span of an average man's workday, everything Romeo had known and believed in had been turned upside down and twisted inside out.

With the last letter, his rage had been refueled, bitter and nasty, and now Romeo sat stewing in the filth of it. He hated that his mother's anger had brought him to this point, and since he could not level his own rage at her dead body, he had turned on Taryn. He had trusted his mother. He had believed that she would never do anything to cause him harm, and now he had to accept that she had not been totally truthful with him. She had lied about Piano Man, as if his having the man for a father would have cost him more hurt than not having a father at all.

If his mother could do him wrong, then how could he put his faith in any other female? How could he trust the truth from Taryn and not have it come back to slap him in the face? And so he turned, thrusting the worst of himself at the one woman who stood in his path professing to love him. Heaving a heavy sigh, Romeo reached back to the floor for his bottle and the comfort of bitter fluid that had become the only companion he wanted.

 

 

Taryn didn't know him anymore, she thought as she hung up the telephone. And she fully understood that he didn't know himself either. There was something about the hurt that floundered within Romeo that had hardened his spirit, and after the drama had settled down, he had allowed his anger to keep him from acting right.

The last time they'd been together his touch had been less than loving. He had lain above her almost hostile, rage pounding against her thighs. When she had pushed him away, he'd rolled to the edge of the bed and had cried, tears falling onto the pillow like the cascading flood of a waterfall.

Taryn's eyes brimmed with moisture as she recalled the moment. Remembering how she'd reached out a hand to comfort him, only to have him ask her to leave, caused the rush of salty moisture to spill down over her cheeks. She had left, catching the first flight crossing the Atlantic, and now she wondered if leaving him had been the right thing to do.

There is something that happens to a woman when a man is evil in spirit and he snatches her words before they're even spoken, or her thoughts before they're completely formed, or her emotions before she's had opportunity to feel them. Something happens when he snatches her peace from her and dashes it all beneath the weight of his foot. It leaves her wounded, the essence of her spirit broken, and Taryn now wallowed in the aftermath of such hurt. Romeo had snatched her peace, grinding it under the weight of his foot like trash, and now its heaviness bore down on her as if the man himself had slammed her full force to the floor.

 

 

Romeo's body ached. Pain was beating a drum line behind his eyes and across his brow. It thumped deep inside his eardrums, peaking to a full crescendo toward the back of his skull. Romeo winced from the hurt of it as he rolled against the mattress, rolling until his body fell off the side of the bed onto the floor.

He landed with a jarring thump against the hard wood. Every muscle vibrated from the shock, each sinewy fiber quivering with hurt. He lay flat on his back, lost in a semidrunken stupor. He yearned for a few minutes of uninterrupted sleep, but the nightmares refused to leave him in peace.

He forced his eyes open, staring up toward the ceiling. His vision was clouded, his eyes opening and closing on their own accord. He suddenly thought about toothpicks and chuckled loudly at the thought of propping both his eyelids open with a pair of little wooden spikes.

His mouth was dry, his tongue feeling too large to fit comfortably in the arid cavity of the orifice. Even his lips felt swollen and awkward against his face. As he rolled his tongue slowly across his top lip and then his bottom, he imagined that only a shot of alcohol could relieve the chapped tightness, moisture in liquid medicine. Romeo grinned stupidly.

He reached a hand out, watching it as it moved slowly up to his eyes. He counted his fingers, finding twice as many on the one hand as he knew should have been there, and this made him laugh even harder. The sound was harsh and jarring but he was content with it, grateful that there was something for him to laugh at.

His physical ailments were nothing when he compared them to the demonic hurt that had crippled his heart. The profusion of sheer misery had a tight hold on his senses, the viselike grip tightening with each passing day.
Brokenhearted
didn't seem adequate enough to describe the hurt he was feeling.

Shifting up and onto his knees, Romeo rested his palms against the top of the ottoman and pushed himself straight and tall onto his feet. He stood like that for just a brief second before staggering forward. He caught himself from falling back down, then slowly maneuvered his way to the stairs and down into the kitchen.

Empty bottles littered the marble countertop and the breakfast table. Dirty dishes overflowed the sink, garbage spilling to the floor and scattered across the room. Romeo squinted, skewing his nose at the filth he'd allowed to accumulate. He heaved a deep sigh and shook his head from side to side.

Searching frantically through the pantry, he pulled an unopened bottle from an upper shelf, grinning widely as he held it up in front of him. The amber-colored fluid shimmered beneath the glow of light, seeming to call his name. Closing his eyes, he pulled the bottle to his chest, relishing the sensation of the cool glass resting next to his bare skin. He would feel better, he thought as he grabbed an empty glass from the counter. In a matter of minutes he wouldn't feel anything at all.

 

 

The doorbell rang incessantly, the loud chimes resounding through Romeo's mind. Hauling himself up off the floor, he pulled a large hand across his mouth, wiping at the film of saliva that had dried against his face. His long fingers rubbed at his eyes, wiping away the sleep that had held him prisoner just minutes before. Staggering down the steps toward the front foyer, he peered out the window to see who was leaning on his doorbell. Malcolm stood on the other side peeking back at him.

“What?” Romeo said, his voice heavy, the thick of his tongue filling the dry cavity of his mouth. “What do you want?”

Malcolm's hands fell onto his hips. “Looks like you could use a friend.”

Romeo flipped his hand toward the man. “I don't need nobody.”

“We all need somebody,” Malcolm responded, closing the door behind him. “I'd ask how you're feeling but I think I can guess.”

Romeo shrugged, heaving his shoulders up and down. “What time is it?”

“Just after twelve. You got any coffee in this house?”

“Don't need no coffee.”

“Yes, you do. And you need a bath too.” Malcom fanned a hand in front of his face.

“Why are you here?” Romeo asked, turning his back to the man as he stumbled over his own feet.

Malcolm grabbed at Romeo's elbow as the man staggered toward the kitchen. “We figured I was the only one who could handle you if you tried to throw me out.”

“Who's ‘we'?”

“Me, Taryn, Odetta, Aleta. Everybody's worried about you.”

“Why? My father's gone. Aren't I allowed to mourn?”

Malcolm shook his head. “Your father left you almost two months ago. But he's far from being dead, so it's time you stopped mourning and started picking the pieces up so you can move on.”

“Two months? What day is it?”

“It's Tuesday, the fifteenth.”

“What month?”

“October.”

Romeo gasped. “October?”

Malcolm nodded yes. “Don't remember much, do you?”

Romeo shrugged again.

The other man continued. “Booze'll do that to you. Steals the time away just like that. Man, you done gone through some alcohol. Done cussed me, cussed Taryn and everybody else who's been trying to check up on you.”

“What about the club?”

“Club's fine. Aleta's been helping me managing things, and together we've all kept it going. People are asking about you though.”

“I need a drink.”

“No. You need a shower, a good cup of coffee, and some food. Then you need to talk about it.”

“I don't want to talk.”

“Well, we're going to talk anyway. So, do you need me to help your ass get in the shower or can you handle it yourself?”

“Go to hell.”

“Been there. Didn't like it and ain't got no plans to go back any time soon.”

Romeo laughed, wrapping his hands around his head.

Malcolm smiled. “That's more like it.” He reached to rub his own palm against Romeo's shoulder. “Everything's going to be okay, Rome. I know you're tired of drinking, and you're tired of being angry. I figured you'd be ready to let it all go right about now. That's why I didn't come sooner. But I'm here now and we're going to make sure everything's going to be okay.”

Romeo looked at his friend, who stood smiling at him. He winced, then asked, “Did I really cuss Taryn?”

“And Odetta and Aleta too. You know you got an ass-whooping coming. They are all hot with you,” Malcolm replied.

Romeo headed toward the stairs. “Then I'm definitely going to need that drink.”

An hour later, Romeo made his way back downstairs. Back in his bedroom, Malcolm had stripped his bed of the dirty sheets and had picked up the wealth of money scattered around the room, laying the bills neatly against the mattress top. Romeo's open bottle of scotch had disappeared, and the man had even removed the flask he kept hidden in the dresser drawer. In the kitchen, the noise of the dishwasher filled the air, the dirty dishes retrieved from around the house tucked neatly inside. Malcolm was scrambling eggs. He looked up as Romeo dropped his body down against the stool in front of the marble counter.

“I picked up a little, but we need to get that service over here to give this house a good cleaning,” Malcolm said to him as he poured coffee into an empty cup.

“They stopped coming,” Romeo answered.

“You cussed the cleaning woman, too.”

Romeo shook his head as he sipped at the dark fluid. “I've made a mess of things, haven't I?”

Shaking salt and pepper into the eggs on top of the stove, Malcolm replied, “Yes, you have, but I don't think you've done anything that can't be undone. Set your mind to it and you can make it all right.”

“It hurts, Malcolm. My mama lied to me, my father's gone, probably dead, and now it just all hurts so much.”

Malcolm pushed eggs onto a plate and set it down in front of Romeo. “People make mistakes, Rome. I don't think your mama wanted to hurt you or that she purposely lied to you. She just made a mistake.”

Water misted Romeo's eyes as he tried to focus on the food Malcolm had set before him. Nausea floated at the edge of his stomach, bile swelling in the back of his throat. Romeo inhaled deeply, trying to still the quiver in his midsection. He pushed the plate away from him. He dropped his head into the palm of his hands, clutching at the growth of hair that badly needed to be cut.

“My poor Taryn. What in the world have I done to my baby?” he suddenly cried aloud.

“Now, that will probably be your hardest fix,” Malcolm said, pushing the plate of eggs back toward Romeo. “You messed up good there. It's probably going to take a lot of begging and groveling before you're able to repair that damage.”

Romeo sighed as he pulled a forkful of eggs to his mouth. “What did I do?”

Malcolm sat down on the stool beside him. “You don't remember?”

“The last thing I remember is throwing her out.”

“She came back, twice. The last time you were dead drunk. Threw a fit. Called her some pretty foul names, and then you punched a hole in the wall,” Malcolm said, pointing at the tear of paint and drywall in the hallway. “She thought you were going to hit her. It scared her bad. Real bad. She's never seen that side of you before. Matter of fact, none of us has.”

Romeo looked at him aghast. “I would never hit Taryn. Never,” he said emphatically.

“Probably not. But then alcohol will make a man do a lot of things he wouldn't ever think about doing if he was sober.”

The pools of water fell from Romeo's eyes to his cheeks. He brushed at the fall of moisture, turning his head away from Malcolm.

“Let me tell you a story, Rome. My wife and I divorced because I was an alcoholic. And I could be a pretty nasty drunk. I wasn't a good husband and she wasn't a great wife, but then we were so young I don't think either of us knew any better. She had her own addiction issues and she used to run around a lot. The more I drank, the more she used, the more she used, the more she ran. One day I found out she was messing with one of my best friends. I went crazy. Tried to kill him and her. Spent nine months in prison for assault and that sobered me up good. Haven't had a drink since. I think about it now and I know that if I'd been dry then, she and I probably could have made things work, or at least we would have been more willing to try. I've always blamed her because I figured if she hadn't been cheating, then I wouldn't have had any reason to drink. But I know if I hadn't been drinking, she wouldn't have felt like she needed to run around. I know now that I was as much at fault, if not more.