Some of Tim's Stories (5 page)

“So how's it going?” Terry asked.

He looked different, but not as different as Mike had thought he would. Anyone would change in almost five years. Hair a little longer, messy. A tooth missing. New scar on his upper lip—just new to Mike though, you could see it had been there a while.

“Okay,” Mike said. They didn't have to talk through a glass wall on a phone, just sat at small table. He could have hugged Terry if he felt like it, but he didn't.

“Mom says you're a bartender now.”

“Yes.”

“Kind of like putting a fox in a hen house ain't it?”

They were the same age, but Mike could see Terry now looked older than he did. Was older than he was.

“You still hitting the booze pretty hard?”

“Sometimes,” Mike said. He was going to tonight, that was for sure. For a second he wished he had a bottle out in the truck.

“You can get it in here. You can get just about anything in here. Except a woman.”

Mike couldn't think of anything to say to that.

“Mom told me you and Amber broke up.”

“A long time ago. Not too long after…” Amber, the one girl Mike had who thought she chose the right one—but she had loved Terry, too, loved him the way a guy wanted his girl to love his brother.

The old Terry, anyway, the happy-go-lucky one, who had always been able to talk his way out of anything.

“Sorry to hear it. She was a real nice girl.”

“Yes,” Mike said.

They sat quiet for a minute.

Mike had been a loner all his life, but this was the one person he could always talk to. They had been raised as brothers, were closer than twins, this face was once as familiar as his own reflection in a mirror … Now the cousins sat silent.

“You're up for parole next year,” Mike said finally.

“Yeah,”

“You want to move back in with me?”

“Mom wants me to stay with her for a while. We'll see how long that lasts.”

No use thinking things would be the same as they used to be, Mike thought. But still…

“I might be able to get you a job,” Mike said. “We're havin' a hard time getting honest help in the bar.”

Terry looked at him and gave a short, ugly laugh, nothing like the laugh he had before.

“So they'd hire a felon?”

Mike hadn't thought about that. But still, Terry was very honest, in his own way. No thief.

But as he looked at this man, this stranger, he knew there was no telling what Terry was these days. Who he'd become. What he might do.

God, Mike thought.

They'd shared everything from the beginning—family, blood, and history. Their moms were sisters, their dads brothers, they had the same sets of grandparents. You'd be hard put to find a baby picture of one without the other. They'd shared a playpen, a dog, a first duck hunt. Learned to water ski the same day. Helped each other figure out how to smoke. Terry had gone after it so hard he made himself sick. “Slow down,” Mike had said. “We'll get it…”

Shared the mind-numbing grief the day their dads were killed in a car accident. First drunk. First joint. Swapped notes on the first sex. Had the same friends, both the good and the bad…

And they should be sharing this—but Mike was walking free.

“Thanks for looking after Mom,” Terry said.

“You know I'd do that.”

“Yeah. I knew you'd do that.”

Quiet again.

“Sorry I have not been good at writing,” Mike said awkwardly.

Terry's letters had scared him. Bitter funny, not funny like he used to be. Strange. Sometimes so weird Mike was sure he'd gone nuts.

“Don't worry. You were never big on words.”

That was true. Terry could talk rings around anyone,

Mike was shy—yet Mike had known Terry listened to him, needed him, to keep him grounded, steady, to supply the common sense. Then the one time that could have made a big difference, Mike shrugged and went along…

The guard said “Time,” and both stood up. Mike wondered if his cousin was as relieved as he was. Still, something he had wanted to say for almost five years was fighting to get out.

Mike looked down but said, “Man, I … I am so sorry. It was just a piece of goddamn luck. I should be in here with you…”

Still, Mike thought, it's not like I really got off scot-free.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and met Terry's eyes. The same ones he knew so well…

“There's not a day goes by,” Terry said, “that I don't thank God you are not in here with me.”

Out in the parking lot, Mike took a deep breath. He'd had a fear, all these years, that if he ever went into that place, he'd never get out. But here he was…

He'd been scared, too, that if he ever saw Terry in there, he'd start crying and not be able to stop. But he waited until he was in the truck for that.

Mike wasn't sure what woke him up. Cat fight, maybe. The thunder was beginning to roll away, and Mike could sleep through thunder anyway.

Then he heard another sound, a cry or a moan, and he slipped out of bed and down the hall to his parents' room.

Everything seemed wrong, disturbing—the bedside lamp on low, his mom kneeling on the side of the bed, her arms around his dad's shoulders, his dad sitting on the edge of the bed, in his boxers and T-shirt, his head in his hands.

Mike had never been in that room at night, couldn't make any sense of the scene. Then his mom saw him, wiped at her eyes with her wrist, and said, “It's okay, honey. Your dad was having a bad dream.”

The grown-ups didn't have bad dreams, everyone knew that. Mike was still confused.

Then his dad lifted his head and saw him, and Mike was more terrified than he'd ever been in all his nine years.

Not of his dad, Mike was never afraid of his father. But the fear, the despair, the helplessness he saw in those hollow dark eyes…

Mike's dad could fix plumbing, change the oil in a car, filet a fish, gut a duck. He wasn't afraid of the drunks stumbling in and out of the bar next to the hardware store. He knew what to do when a tornado was coming. He could hold a steady job whether it bored him or not, while Uncle TJ was always running off to try something new. The one time he got a ticket for speeding, Mike could tell he wasn't afraid of the policeman.

“Michael?” The voice was hoarse, almost not recognizable.

His father held out his arms, and Michael went into them, was immediately pulled in between his dad's legs, gripped tightly. His dad buried his face in Mike's neck, sniffing hard. Mike shifted, a little uneasy; he'd taken a half-assed bath after playing ball with Terry, helping mow the lawn before the storm. He didn't think he could smell too good.

But his dad breathed in like he was trying to smell the blood in his body, like it would smell like wildflowers instead of grass and dried sweat. He was listening to Mike's heart intently, as if it would drown the pounding of his own.

As if it was the sweetest sound, the sweetest music.

Mike stood, knowing he was needed. But the sense of dread overwhelmed him. What did the grown-ups have to fear?

He knew when he was grown up, his own fears would be gone—like not being able to find his room first day of school, that maybe driving a car would be beyond him, that he might not be good enough for big-league baseball after all.

Maybe there was so much more out there than Mike realized. When he put his arms around his dad's neck and clung, he wanted reassuring, although he realized that was his own job right now.

“Sorry, Son.” His dad slowly released him. “I know I must have scared you.”

Mike didn't want to nod, so he said nothing.

“You go back to bed now. I'm fine.”

Mike's dad twisted the chain on his neck, flipping the tags that hung from it.

“Go on, honey,” Mom said. She was rubbing Dad's shoulders now. Mike went back to bed and fell asleep immediately. Nothing was mentioned the next day.

When Mike was a grown-up, when he could fix plumbing and filet a fish, and the only thing that scared him about the drunks around the hardware store was that he might end up just like them, he realized that changing the oil in his truck was no safeguard against anything except a burned-up engine…

He knew what to do when a tornado was coming, but that knowledge was useless if there weren't any around…

And that wasn't the kind of stuff he wished he could ask his dad about now, anyway.

Mike would never be wise like his father. He quit a job that paid good money, just because he didn't get along with his boss. He cursed at the cops who kept giving him tickets, instead of not driving too fast.

But maybe he learned something in the ten years he had with his dad.

Because for a short while, he too had someone to cling to, when the bad dreams got heavy. Had someone whose skin smelled like wildflowers. Whose heartbeat drowned the pounding of his own.

And it was the sweetest sound, the sweetest music.

Aunt Julie was cleaning up the mess in the front room when Mike came back in with the beers.

In the kitchen, the women were taking advantage of her absence, their shushing whispers revealing the topic of the conversation as clear as shouts.

Except for Uncle Hiram and his fat-assed Jr., rooting and snorting around the leftovers, most of the men had left, preferring to take their speculations to the tavern.

Mike helped Aunt Julie stuff paper plates and cups into the garbage bag. The “Welcome Home Terry” banner was hanging by one tack, and Mike yanked it down and stuffed it in the bag, too.

It had been like watching kids poke a bear with a stick.

“He looks good, don't he?” Aunt Julie said.

“He looks tired.”

Mike had never seen Terry tired like this. Exhausted maybe, after a long day of water-skiing, a weekend of bar-hopping, but not … worn out. Faded.

“He'll be fine.” Aunt Julie patted Mike's shoulder. “They didn't break him, honey. Terry's still here. Don't you worry about him.”

There was a shocked titter from the kitchen, and Mike clenched his teeth.

Aunt Julie's face hardened for a moment. Then she said, “Family's good for two things. Bring you joy,” she gave him a quick hug, “or teach you patience.”

Patience. That was it. In all their twenty-nine years, Mike had never seen Terry patient before now.

Lazy, hell yeah. Terry could be damn lazy. He'd always let Aunt Julie wait on him hand and foot, and they both acted like he was doing her a favor. Mike couldn't count the times Terry had conned him into doing his chores, his homework.

But Terry never took bullshit from anyone.

Terry came in, dropping on the couch next to Mike, putting his boots up on the coffee table.

Mike handed him a beer. “I bet you could use this.”

“No shit.” Terry gulped half the beer down. “I didn't see all these people claiming to be related to me at the trial. And they sure weren't filling up the visitors' room on weekends.”

Mike mumbled, “Uh … I…”

“I didn't mean you, bro.”

“They're really pissin' me off. Half of 'em are acting like you're going to jump up and cut their throats.”

“Can't say the thought didn't occur to me.” Terry paused. “You know what they're all dyin' to ask me, don't you?”

Mike changed the subject. “I might be able to get you on at the bar.”

“Don't think the parole board would go for it. This'll shock you, but you do associate with known felons in that place.”

Mike laughed.

“Naw,” Terry went on. “I'm going to hook up with LeRoy, go back to framin' houses. He owes me one. One of our best customers in the old days.”

Darlene wandered into the room, a scrawny girl in her late teens sporting a big frizzy perm with the front curls ironed in place, the rest hanging down her back in a tangle. Mike remembered her as a little kid, finger either in her nose or in her mouth, sneaking around, trying to catch them drinking beer or smoking, so she could run tattling to the grown-ups.

Now she wagged her finger at Terry, shooing his feet off the coffee table. Terry removed his boots, straightened up a little. Darlene sat down on the table, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“I just want you to know, Cousin Terry, I was praying for you every day.”

“I appreciate that, Darlene.”

She glanced around. “You always were my favorite cousin.”

Terry looked toward Mike and said, “Try to live with it, bro.”

Darlene didn't seem to catch it. She was still leaning forward, an unhealthy excitement in her whisper.

“Can I ask you something? It won't go no further than me, I swear. When you were … in there…” she took a breath and went on, “did … did anyone ever
… do
you?”

The answering voice gave Mike chills: “Any
doin
' that got done, I did it.”

Darlene's eyes popped.

Terry relaxed, gave her a friendly smile. “Seems like you woulda grown us some boobies by now, Darlene. You low on woman juice or somethin'?”

Darlene screwed her face into a persimmon. “Aunt Julie!” she hollered. “Terry's makin' fun of my titties!”

Aunt Julie hollered back, “Terrance James MacIntosh, you behave!”

“Yes ma'am,” Terry called.

Darlene was still sniffling, staring at him accusingly.

“Tell you what, Darlene. I know something that could remedy that problem.”

“You do?”

“Yep. Got it from a reliable source. You go get you a wad of toilet paper and come back in here.”

He and Mike looked at each other as she left.

Darlene came back in with a thick fold.

“Now you take that and rub it right down there between them.”

Darlene pulled her T-shirt down a little, reaching to rub vigorously between her small breasts.

“That's right,” Terry said. “You just do that every morning and you'll see some big changes soon.”

After a minute she said, “I still don't see how this will help anything.”

“Worked for your butt, didn't it?”

A moment of silence, then Darlene's jaw dropped in horror. She fled the room, her wail of “Aunt Julie!” trailing after her.

Terry sighed contentedly, put his feet back up on the table. Mike hooked an elbow around his neck and pulled him over to kiss the top of his head.

They clinked their beers together.