The Marked Son (Keepers of Life) (3 page)

Unanswered Questions

“And this can be your room, Dylan.”

Grandma opens an old paneled door and ushers me into a tidy bedroom situated at the back of the house near the kitchen. Mom’s upstairs, collapsed on her old bed, her eyes swollen and red as she relives the pain of being dumped. Again. I’d go anywhere to get away from her right now. A pile of rags scattered in the attic above the garage would’ve worked.

The walls of the room glow a soft green in the strangely filtered northwest sunlight. Green’s not my favorite color—it makes me nervous. In fact, this whole place makes me nervous. We can’t stay here.

I toss my duffel on the bed and watch it spring up and down.

Seriously. We can’t.

Grandma purses her lips. “The bed’s a little old, but still comfortable. And the room has lots of natural light,” she says, pointing to the open window. A slight breeze ruffles the curtains while Grandma gives the room a critical once over. “It’s the only room without a girly theme. I’d put you next to your mother upstairs, but we never bothered changing the girls’ rooms.”

I freeze. “Mom has sisters?”

A frown tightens her face, and her hands slip down the sides of her pants. It’s her nervous habit I’m beginning to notice. “Two. Did she never tell you?”

“Mom’s not the sentimental type. There’s always been a detour around memory lane.”

“I see.”

Grandma doesn’t, and frankly, neither do I. I plop onto the bed and get swallowed two inches deep into a feather mattress. I struggle to sit up, and when I manage to find my balance, I glance back at her. “It’s…um…nice.”

I shake my head, surprised I even bothered to reassure her. It’s got to be the look on her face. The obvious attempt to please me. The woman deserves some kindness. Mom certainly won’t be dispensing any.

“It’s always been for guests, though we don’t get many here. You have your own bathroom right there.” She points to a door on the far wall.

We stay that way for a moment, both staring at the bathroom door, until she turns toward me. “She really never mentioned us? Any of us?”

“Don’t feel bad. She barely remembers me half the time.”

Grandma gasps. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

She says that, but I can tell she doesn’t believe it. I can tell she knows Mom hasn’t changed. Her gaze slides around the room until it lands back on me. I can read the indecision that’s torturing her, so I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t know who knocked her up. She never said.”

When I was younger, I made the mistake of asking Mom about him, wanting to tell my friends I had a dad, too. She blew up, slapped me around, and smashed things to bits. When the violence was over, she went into a deep funk. The lesson was painful and potent. Don’t ask. Ever.

Grandma’s cheeks redden. “Oh no. I wasn’t—”

“It’s okay. I’m not the sentimental type, either.” Mom cured me of that.

Gentle understanding softens her face. “Few in life really are.”

Why do I get the feeling Grandma is one of those few?

She makes her way out of the room and pauses when she reaches the door. “Your mother didn’t say. How long are you here for?”

No surprise Mom hasn’t dropped that bomb yet. I pull my duffel onto my lap, a protective gesture. “I’m not sure.”

Even Grandma will be able to see through that lie. If she doesn’t, she’ll definitely know something’s up when I register for high school.

She nods, and nibbles at her lower lip. “Well, then. I guess I’ll leave you to unpack. Come on out when you’re done. Dinner won’t be long.”

As the door closes, she eyes me with those strange, pale eyes of hers. I shiver. How weird to be creeped out by your own grandmother.

I’d lay bets on Mom stalling the inevitable “talk” for a whole week, locked in the time capsule of her childhood bedroom, wailing about Jared, and ignoring me and everyone else.

I’m not waiting for her to get all the drama out before I start my new life.

I quickly fill the first two drawers of the old, knotty wood dresser, with its crystal knobs and chipped mirror, before making a quick exploration of my space. The wood smells like lemons, the bathroom like vanilla, and the bed sheets like flowers. I’ve never smelled so many different scents in one place before. Mom never dusts, uses cheap laundry soap, and tosses me a book of matches, telling me not to set myself on fire while I get rid of the stench. Nothing says “home” like sulfur and burnt sticks. I’m beginning to see how different Mom is from Grandma.

Maybe it’s a generational thing? But when I think about it, Grandma isn’t
that
old. Mid-fifties, tops. She has old-lady taste, though. I run a finger along the bristle of an antique hairbrush sitting on the dresser. Beside it are a silver-handled mirror and a tintype photograph of a man and a woman wearing Wild West-type clothing, standing in front of this house. Neither is smiling.

Something hard smacks the window, and I jump. Looking out, I don’t see anything. Only tiny, flittering bugs. Still…I glance around the room and shiver. I feel like I’m being watched.

Okay, time to leave.

When I step into the hall and close the bedroom door, the smell of roasting meat makes my mouth water. Mom’s a vegetarian—no way will she be eating. She’s been fasting for a few days, anyway. In her mind, it adds to the drama of the moment. Too bad, because eating meat in front of her while she tries to win me over to the “animals have feelings, too” philosophy is the only time she looks at me.

As I make my way down the hall, I hear a deep, unfamiliar voice. “Are we supposed to be okay with this?”

I soften my steps, moving slowly, and listen.

“Of course we are,” Grandma says. “She’s our daughter.”

A chair scrapes the floor, and the man grunts as he sits. “It’s been seventeen years. Are you telling me she couldn’t find a phone?” There’s a moment of silence before I hear fingers snap. His voice drops to a hush, highlighting its rough, sandpaper quality. “Who was that boy, the one with the stringy hair…Chris something or another?”

“Mandling?”

“That’s it. Chris Mandling. It’s got to be him. I never liked that boy.”

“No,” Grandma hisses back. “They shipped him off to military school almost a year before Addison left.”

“Lucy Jones’ boy?”

“Be serious. He had buck teeth and a lisp.”

“He got braces and a speech therapist. He’s fine now.”

The sounds of Grandma pulling the dinner together grow louder, and I stop before reaching the threshold to the kitchen. Mom would have a fit if she heard this.

“Think shallow teenage girl,” Grandma says.

“Raymond Tiller.”

Grandma sighs her frustration. “He’s black.”

“He was around,” he whispers in his defense.

Plates and flatware clatter when she sets them on the table. “I know, but Dylan is as white as they come.”

“Mark Taylor, then. He’s the whitest boy I know.”

“With red hair and freckles. I don’t know…”

“You used to like red hair.”

“I still do, but we’re talking about Addison.”

“I know, I know, but I’m doin’ this off the top of my head. Most of those boys left the second she did.”

There’s a moment of silence. Within that time, I realize Mom must’ve been the high school slut if they can come up with this many possibilities, plus other guys whose names they can’t remember. Why am I not surprised?

“Hey!” the man says louder than he should, and then quickly lowers his voice again. “How about Kenny Jacks or his friend, Donny Raynor?”

Grandma lets out a thoughtful
hmm
. “Kenny was a handsome boy, if I recall.”

“And always throwing rocks at her window. I nearly shot him that one night, remember?” Excitement ripples through his voice.

“I do.”

Kenny Jacks.
I thrust my hands in my jean pockets and jiggle my fingers within. I could be Dylan Jacks instead of Dylan Kennedy.

I stand there, trying the name out and hating it, when Grandma comes around the corner and bumps into me. “Dylan!” she yelps, her hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry. I was coming to get you.”

“I’m here.”

Guilt rings her eyes. “Yes. So I see. Well…”

She takes my hand and pulls me into the kitchen. “Look who I nearly knocked over,” she says to the weather-beaten man sitting at the table. “Dylan, this is your grandfather.”

He’s a solid guy with only a few gray hairs. Where’s the jolly smile? The arthritic hands? There’s no doubt this guy has tough skin and even tougher muscles. He could lay me out with one well-placed slap. Our eyes meet. I nod. He nods back, and his intense stare tells me he’s comparing.

When Grandma sidles closer, balancing three glasses filled with ice, he mutters, “Now that I think about it, the last one isn’t it.”

I grab the seat across the table from him and sit. Showing disinterest, I fill my plate and say, “Then how about that Donny guy?”

Grandma and Grandpa’s eyes lock before Grandma sits. She spreads her napkin in her lap, flattening it over and over again with her palms. “You heard?”

“Yeah. Sounds like Mom got around.”

Pain slices through Grandma’s eyes before she covers it up. “She was…a challenge.”

By what I just heard, that’s the understatement of the year. “Did you ever think about using a chastity belt?”

“I thought of hog-tying her in the attic,” Grandpa says, “but I was told that’s illegal.”

Grandma gives him a
be quiet
glare.
What?
he mouths.

She turns to me. “Dylan, you weren’t meant to hear what we said. I’m sorry. We should have—”

“Mom’s mom. I learned that a long time ago. I can’t name you all the
uncles
she’s introduced to me. I’ve got a very warped sense of family now, and more than my share of abandonment issues.”

Grandma sighs, and Grandpa places his hand over hers. I don’t know why I said anything. It was cruel.

“Well,” Grandma whispers, “let’s eat.”

Before I can react, they each grab my hand. When I’m about to pull away, they bow their heads, and Grandpa prays. I don’t know what to do. I glance from one to the other, and quickly look away when they say “amen.” My hands are freed, and I feel the need to wipe them clean. No one, not even Mom, touches me without my permission.

“So, Dylan,” Grandpa’s voice booms, “you like sheep?”

I nearly choke on my pot roast. I’ve heard all the jokes about sheep herders and ewes. I toss him a horrified look. “No. I like girls.”

Obviously he’s heard the jokes, too, because he lets loose a big laugh. “That’s a huge weight off my mind.”

“George,” Grandma says in a firm voice. She doesn’t look at me, but directs her words my way. “What your grandpa means is that he would like you to go out with him and the sheep.”

The devil in me flares to life. “Really, Grandma. I only go out with girls.”

Grandpa coughs on his milk, and I find it hard not to laugh, too.

“Honestly,” Grandma snaps. “The both of you should be ashamed of yourselves.”

I force down my disrespectful nature, and Grandpa clears his throat. “Tell you what, Dylan, tomorrow you can come out with me and see what it’s like to run a sheep ranch.”

“Sounds…fun.” I ask Grandma flatly, “Do I have a choice?”

“No. I need to talk to your mother. Besides, it’s a perfect time for you and your grandfather to get to know each other better.”

“You’re talking male bonding, aren’t you?” I shake my head. “Is there beer involved?”

The pair slant worried glances at each other.

Oops. I sit back and give them the smile that always gets me out of trouble. Always. “I’m kidding.”

Grandpa stares bullets at me. “Sounds like there’s a bit of a wicked streak in you, Dylan.”