The Return of Jonah Gray (15 page)

“Fine. You can choose. It's either the home-care nurse or the radiation therapy. Not both, and don't say that you'll pay out-of-pocket, not with Dad not working, not if you want to stay in this house after—” I realized I had said enough. I felt like a heel.

My mother looked at my father, who looked at the floor.

“So it's true,” she said, when he didn't look up. “But the help,” she murmured. “Jacob, why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't think it would come back,” he said. “And when it did, you seemed so worried.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she snapped. “So what does that mean, that the two of us are stuck in this house for the next, however long? Is that the way you envision it?”

“I haven't envisioned—” my father began, then stopped.

“I'll come on weekends,” I said. “I can help. And Blake is here. I'm sure Kurt will pitch in when he can.”

“It's not the same. These are trained nurses. We're not equipped to do what they do.” She turned to my father. “How could you let this happen? Didn't we have a deal?” She shook her head and left the room, the champagne unopened on the counter.

My father looked at me. “That's why I didn't tell her,” he said. “You really think it's better now?”

“What about using some of the money in her trust?”

“No.”

“Don't you think she would want you to?” I asked.

“It's off the table, Sasha. Your mother stuck it out with me. I'm not going to leave her in the poorhouse.”

“Cutting back and making a few compromises isn't asking her to—”

“I was to provide a life without compromise,” he said. “That was the deal.”

“Come on, how realistic is that?”

My father just looked at me. “What would you know?”

 

I spent the rest of the day keeping my opinions to myself, skimming leaves from the pool and wishing that my mother had given me my keys back before she'd roared off in my father's car. In the afternoon, when my father was asleep and the house was quiet, I found my way back to Gray's Garden.

He had written back. In the discussion area, I noticed a new thread about loopers.

He went on at some length about the pests that prey on plants in the cabbage family, then he suggested ladybugs and a bacterial spray. The answer itself didn't mean much to me, though I printed it out for my mother. But he had remembered me—or, he had remembered Jeffrine, which would have to do for the moment.

I KNOW THEY SAY THAT ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART
grow fonder. But sometimes, absence can also reveal the waning of once fond feelings. Time passes and it's a surprise to realize that you haven't missed him, or her, or the place or the job that once felt like a match. Believe it or not, I used to look forward to going to work. Every audit felt like a new challenge, tested me, pushed my understanding of the tax code to new levels. I never knew who I would meet, what life I'd be investigating or what I would learn from it.

As I stepped back into my cubicle on Wednesday afternoon, the fourth floor
sounded
the same as ever. The ringing of phones, the flutter of paperwork, the hum of voices trying to maintain a modicum of privacy in a cubicle. But the rush and promise of those sounds were lost on me. I no longer worried about my mounting pile of unanalyzed audits. I didn't care enough to worry. I looked around my cubicle and felt nothing but an itch to get out of there.

I was clearing off my desk, readying to visit Fred Collins, when my phone rang. I considered letting voice mail pick up, but I realized that the call might contain news of my father. I grabbed the receiver.

“Yes,” I said.

“Finally you pick up the phone. I've been calling for the last three days. I want to talk to you about Jonah Gray,” a man said.

I closed my eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

“I want to tell you something. I had this cycad, see, and it was dying. Dying! You know how much a cycad'll run you?”

“I don't,” I admitted.

“A pretty penny, is how much. Tens of thousands, can be how much. I get so worried and I don't know who to turn to, and a lady at the nursery says, have you talked to Jonah Gray? And I says, who the heck is Jonah Gray? So she gives me his number and I phone him up, oh, I was in a state. I phoned him up on a Friday night. Poor guy, he works all week, and still he takes my call, listens to what's going on, says he'll come by. He lives two hours away if a minute. But he makes the drive so's he can look at the cycad up close.”

“That's awfully generous,” I agreed.

“That's what I'm getting at,” he said. I waited for him to continue, but he didn't.

“So what happened?” I finally asked.

“Oh, it was dying.”

“Couldn't he do anything about it? Couldn't he save it? I thought he worked magic with plants.”

“Well, he does. Sometimes. But every plant's got a lifetime, just like a person. Some are long, some are short. But there's only so much you can do to extend it. He knew that. Other people, they kept telling me to fight it. Add this. Add that. Jonah talked to me about how old the plant was—and how California probably wasn't even a state when it was young. That'll give you perspective, huh? And it made me think, ‘I gotta let it go.' I just thought you ought to hear that.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You probably think us plant folks are loony-tunes, carrying on about greenery like this,” he said.

“No, I don't,” I told him. “I'm not sure that it matters what you care about. Maybe it's the caring itself that matters.”

 

When he heard about my father's relapse, Fred Collins was very understanding. He assured me that he would distribute all the pending files on my table to other auditors around the department. “You concentrate on other things.”

“They're going to hate me,” I said. “All that extra work.” As I said it, I realized that I was trying to make myself sound concerned.

“It's the least we can do for a lifer like yourself.”

“Except one,” I said. “There's one case that I passed to Susan, but I'd kind of like it back.”

“Are you sure?” Fred asked. “This isn't going to be easy. Don't feel you've got to do it on my account.”

“Just the one,” I said, writing down Jonah's Social Security number. “I'd like to finish it.”

“Suit yourself. I'll let her know.”

The elevator couldn't come fast enough. I didn't want to run into anyone else I knew, didn't want to be forced into small talk or see any of the auditors who were now going to have to shoulder my workload. Then the doors opened.

“You're back!” Jeff Hill said. He smiled broadly, as if he were thrilled to see me.

“I was just heading out,” I said.

“So you're not back.”

“Not quite.” I stepped into the elevator. He made no move to get out. “Going down?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “How was your vacation?”

“I wasn't on vacation.”

“Oh,” Jeff said. “Well, you missed an exciting few days in the archive department,” he said.

“Really?”

“I guess that wasn't a very good joke,” he said. “I meant it as a joke.”

“Oh, right.” The doors opened onto the lobby and we both stepped out.

“I suppose I shouldn't keep you,” he said. “Though the idea is tempting.”

“I need to get going.”

“I've been meaning to ask whether you'd want to grab dinner some night next week. You'll be back next week, won't you?”

“I should be.”

“Got any evenings free?”

“I imagine I do,” I said. I had lost all sense of what my life looked like. All I knew was that I wanted to be out of the building, and saying yes seemed like the quickest route.

“Well, great. How's next Thursday? Shall we aim for next Thursday?”

“Next Thursday should be fine.”

“I've been driving by this one restaurant for a while now, but I've never been in. It's called Hunter's. I hear it's good.”

“Hunter's,” I said. It was the same restaurant where I was due to meet Uncle Ed and Marcus that very evening.

“Have you been there before?”

“No,” I said.

“Do you know it? Is it clean? Would you rather go somewhere else?”

“No. It's fine. Thursday. Hunter's. It all sounds just fine,” I said.

 

When the doorbell rang an hour later, it was Martina. She gave me a big hug made awkward by the large cardboard box she was holding.

“Sweetie, I'm so sorry. How are you holding up?”

I shrugged. “I'm okay. Shouldn't you be at work?”

She pushed the box into my hands. “I brought you something.”

“I can see that. What is it?”

“To keep your energy up,” she said.

I opened the box and saw that it was filled with individually wrapped servings of beef jerky. “You brought me meat? This is your new account?”

“It's a new concept in jerky. I made sure you got all five flavors.”

“I appreciate the gesture.”

Martina sniffed the air. “What's that smell?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Smell?”

“Bad fish, maybe?”

I nodded. “It's a long story. It's not so bad in the bedroom. You want to come and help me decide what to wear?”

She shrugged. “What impression are you going for? What's Marcus like anyway?” she asked, following me toward my closet.

“He's got to be twenty-five, twenty-six now. I should know when his birthday is,” I said.

“But what's he like? Is he anything like Kurt?”

“I don't know. I've always imagined him as one of those guys who's kind of mad underneath, even when he's smiling. He's not going to tell you, but you'll feel it.”

“Really?”

“Of course, I haven't actually seen him since he was eleven.”

“Eleven? Then how can you—”

“He's got every right to resent us,” I pointed out.

“But if he wants to have dinner—”

“Uncle Ed is the one who was pushing dinner. For all I know, he strong-armed Marcus into it.”

“But is he smart? Is he funny?”

I shrugged. “He's never really applied himself, as far as I know. I don't know if that's because he's lazy or irresponsible or just one of those guys who thinks the world owes him a favor.”

“At least you're looking on the bright side.”

“Well, why has he shown up now?” I asked. “Why move all the way to California? What does he want?”

“You're worried about your father. That's why you're being like this.”

“Maybe.”

Martina smiled.

“What?” I asked.

“So many questions. Didn't I say that you were like that reporter? Whatever happened to him?”

“I stopped thinking about him because he's married. You know that.”

“Really. You stopped thinking about him.” I could tell she didn't believe me.

“He thinks my name is Jeffrine,” I admitted.

Martina frowned. “Is he an idiot?”

I shook my head. “If there's an idiot in this situation, it's got to be me.”

LOOKING THROUGH THE FRONT WINDOW, I COULD SEE
them sitting at the bar. It was easy to make out Uncle Ed's broad back and his familiar tweed sport coat. But I stared at the young man beside him. I knew it had to be Marcus, though I couldn't see his face and wasn't sure I would have recognized him anyway. I could see that he looked leggy and narrower than Ed, more wiry. He wore a leather jacket and jeans. He had dark hair. But that was all I could make out.

I'm related to him, I thought, staring at his back. What would that turn out to mean?

I took a deep breath, walked to the restaurant's main door and stepped inside.

Like Jeff Hill, I'd driven by Hunter's plenty of times but never eaten there. It was a woodsy place with a lot of game on the menu. It was supposed to be good, but I'd never felt any impulse to go inside, perhaps on account of a childhood attachment to Bambi. Hunter's was split in half with the dining room to the left as you entered, and the bar, where Ed and Marcus waited, to the right.

“Welcome to Hunter's! May I help you?” the hostess chirped as soon as I entered.

“I'm meeting people. They're waiting for me in the bar.”

She pointed to my right. I suppose there was no way she could have known that I already knew the way. That was the conundrum of her job. Was she helping people, or was she simply cluttering their lives with redundant information and greetings immediately forgotten? Then again, I wondered, how was my work any different? One could argue that the hostess's effect was, at least, minimal and benign.

 

“Sasha, you remember Marcus,” Ed said.

Marcus turned around.

“It's you,” I said, recognizing the young man I'd seen talking with Uncle Ed after my father's surgery. “You were at the hospital when we first heard about Dad.”

“Hello, Sasha,” Marcus said. “I'm glad you could make it this time.” He didn't sound like he was seething. In fact, he sounded like my father. The same cadence exactly.

“I'm sorry I missed you last week,” I said. “Work has been a little unusual of late.”

I found myself studying the different parts of his face—eyes, nose, ears—trying to distinguish which attributes came from our shared father and which must have come through his mother.

I thought that we had the same lips, my father's deep cleft below the nose. The same straight-arrow hair, though his was wildly spiked while mine hung limp. But his eyes had to be hers. While I had my father's blues, Marcus's eyes were a dark, deep brown with long lashes, the sort only men seem blessed with. He had a nose that took a slight turn halfway down, the sort of flaw that added to his appeal, as if before the break he might have been too pretty. His unkempt hair and two-day beard only made him more striking.

“I think I remember you,” Marcus said. The coffee-colored gaze seemed neither friendly nor cold. Just curious. “Nice to meet you again, either way.”

“I hope so,” I told him.

The hostess came in to announce that our table was ready.

“I see you found your party,” she said.

That seemed obvious, but I wanted Marcus to think that I was nice. “Sure did,” I answered, as perkily as I could.

She brought us to our table. I watched her smile linger on this man who was both a stranger and my half brother.

When Marcus took off his leather jacket, I saw that his arms were lined with tattoos. They began just above his wrists and extended at least as far as the start of his short sleeves. I picked out a flower, a frog, an ornate Celtic knot before I felt him catch me looking. He didn't attempt to cover himself up, but I focused on maintaining eye contact all the same. Even then, a little tattoo on his neck, just at the cusp of his collar, proved a challenge not to look at. Maybe that was the point.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” our waitress asked. Her eyes were also on Marcus.

I ordered a beer. Uncle Ed raised the scotch and soda he had brought in from the bar.

“Just a club soda,” Marcus said.

“You want lime with that?” the waitress asked.

Marcus shook his head.

“Lemon? Anything?” She seemed reluctant to leave.

“No, thanks. Just club soda. Just plain.”

“I was surprised when Ed told me what you've been up to,” I said to him. “I mean, that you were nearby. When did you leave Georgia? You know what I just learned? That Georgia was the first colony to cultivate grapes. And yet, does anyone drink Georgia wine? Is there even a wine industry down there?”

Marcus frowned. “I'm from Florida.”

“But weren't you in Georgia at some point?”

“Only for six months,” he said. “Never by choice.”

I nodded. I wished I could remember the details of his stay in jail. “So how do you like Sacramento?” I asked, changing gears.

He shrugged. “It's fine. Quiet. Friendlier folks on average than Floridians. At least, the Floridians I ran with.”

His comment reminded me of my mother's excuse to Kurt and me, that California kids were nicer than Virginia kids. It struck me that she had invented that pretext because of the young man to my right.

“That reminds me,” Ed said. “I have to tell you guys this story about my trip to Mexico last month. I was on the beach and—”

Marcus cut in. “Is this that guy with the prosthetic leg?”

“Did I already—oh, of course, I told you. Yeah, that crazy leg.” Ed laughed.

“What?” I asked.

“No, if I've already told it,” Ed said.

“That was crazy strange,” Marcus said.

“I still can't get over it,” Ed said. “Every time I see a pair of red sneakers.” He shook his head, grinning broadly.

“I don't think you've told me,” I said.

“I'll tell you later. It's a long story. Remind me.”

I felt as if I were still standing outside the restaurant. Sure, it was nice how easily Marcus and Ed got along, but I found myself wondering whose family I was visiting. I studied my menu. I took a swig of beer and waited for the waitress to take our order. I looked around the restaurant and watched the hostess eye Marcus as she seated a party of five. When Marcus excused himself to wash his hands, maybe five minutes later, I turned to Uncle Ed.

“You've certainly buddied up to him.”

“What are you talking about?” Ed asked.

“It seems like your loyalty would be with your sister, with Mom. Especially now.”

“Loyalty?”

“Loyalty.”

“And what, precisely, did Marcus ever do to your mother?”

I hesitated. “Well, fine, so it wasn't Marcus, it was—”

“Exactly. It wasn't Marcus. The answer to that question is ‘nothing.' But because of bad luck, he doesn't get a father? He doesn't deserve to know his relatives? It was your father's own actions that started this, remember. That boy's just the result of them.”

I sat with that for a moment. It felt true.

“Listen, Sasha,” Ed went on. “You don't ask for much. You've never needed a lot of tending. I respect that. Marcus is the same way. So he screwed up for a few years. He's headed straight now. That's what matters to me and what should matter to the rest of you.”

“What about his mother? He's got that whole side of his family.”

“He's got a half sister eight years younger who's back in Florida with her dad. Eloise Johnston died about three years ago.”

Marcus returned to the table then. “Are you two talking about me?” he asked with a smile.

I looked down at my napkin and shrugged. Ed took a sip of his scotch.

“That was supposed to be a joke,” Marcus said. He turned to look at me. “You have no idea what to make of this, do you? I can tell that you don't think much of me.”

In that sentence, the drawl was gone and his enunciation was as crisp as a news anchor's. I couldn't pretend that I hadn't heard him or needed him to repeat the question. I knew I could have taken Marcus's statement literally—did I think of him much? It was true, I didn't. Or at least, I hadn't before the anniversary party. But that wasn't what he meant.

“What do you mean?”

His eyebrows rose in mock surprise. He knew I'd understood.

I had to say something. “I don't know you well enough to—”

“Nah,” Marcus said, leaning back in his chair and waving off the uncertain beginnings of my answer. “You're wondering who I am and why the hell I'm here. You're trying to figure out what I want. Whether I hate you. Whether I'm just planning to fuck things up. Isn't that right?” He didn't sound angry, just matter-of-fact.

“Something like that,” I agreed.

“At least you own up to it. Can't say the same for the rest of your immediates. Blake's cool though,” he said.

“You met Blake?”

Marcus looked at Ed, as if unsure how to answer.

“Your father and I took Blake and Marcus to a baseball game. This past spring,” Ed said.

“So Blake knows about—”

“It was just a baseball game,” Ed said. “It wasn't a therapy session.”

“He's got a great head on his shoulders,” Marcus said. “So much to say.”

“He's a good kid,” I agreed.

“He's not a kid,” Marcus said. “Sure he's only fifteen, but he knows what's going on. I think about all the shit I was into at that age.”

I was embarrassed. I knew Blake wasn't a kid. And I didn't want to follow my parents' example by treating him like one.

“Sasha,” Ed said. “There's a reason I insisted on this dinner.”

“Other than us meeting each other?” I asked.

“I think I mentioned that Marcus recently completed his degree,” Ed said.

“Oh, right. Congratulations.”

“In nursing,” Ed said. “He's an RN.”

I must have looked surprised.

“What of it?” Marcus asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “That's great. When I saw you in the hospital, you weren't wearing a uniform.”

“I don't work there,” he said.

“And that would explain why.”

“He's an excellent nurse,” Ed said.

“You don't need to pile it on,” Marcus told him. “All she's going to want to know is whether I'm qualified.”

“Qualified for what?” I asked.

“When your father was first diagnosed, last year, I told Marcus,” Ed said. “It seemed a fitting time to reconnect.”

“I took some specialized classes,” Marcus said. “To get my qualifications up.”

“Qualifications?” I asked. I looked from Marcus to Ed and back again.

“Marcus has offered to help,” Ed said.

“Jacob,” Marcus said. “The home nursing.”

I suddenly got it. “You can do that?”

“That's what I'm saying,” Marcus said.

“Marcus has offered to provide the sort of in-home, round-the-clock care Jacob's going to need. Your father and I have discussed everything. The insurance. Their financial situation. It's the exact same care. It's a gift, Sasha,” Ed said.

“You haven't mentioned this to my mother yet, have you?”

“Frankly, I wanted to gauge your reaction first,” Ed said.

“Where would you live?” I asked Marcus. “You can't commute from Sacramento.” Even Stockton was closer.

“It's in-home care,” he said. “I'd expect to stay in their home.”

“Yeah, right. My mother—”

“Will realize that this is the best way to keep Jacob comfortable. Don't you think we can help her realize that?” Ed asked.

“You mean me.”

“I'll do my part,” Ed said. “I think you and Kurt can both appreciate how much Marcus's help would ease the burden.”

“Dad isn't a burden,” I said, feeling indignant all of a sudden.

“And Marcus has offered to help keep it that way,” Ed said.

“Why?” I asked.

Ed looked at me strangely. “What do you mean, why?”

But Marcus nodded. “She means, why would I offer.”

“Right. Why would you want to move in with people who never invited you in before?”

“Now, Sasha,” Ed began, “I don't think that's quite accurate.”

“No? When did we invite him into the house? When did we ever? It's crazy that he'd want to come now. Isn't it? Tell me why it's not crazy. You don't see me offering to move into some stranger's house to help out around tax time.”

“It's not the same,” Ed said.

I hated that he sounded so serene, when I felt anything but. The suggestion—that Marcus move into the Banner Hill house—was ludicrous. Anyone who understood my mother's feelings about Marcus would have thought the same. And yet, the suggestion had a certain reasonableness and logic to it.