Just One of Those Things, page 19
“It’s okay, Mom,” he made himself say.
“Your father—”
Of course Dad was the one who was dropping this on him at the last minute. From the first time Matt had won a baseball game, Dad had been waiting for him to fail. He set him up, over and over again.
But memorializing Jon wouldn’t be a failure. “It’s okay,” Matt said again. “I’m used to talking in front of crowds. At least this one’s friendly.”
His mother shook her head. “I’m making a mess out of this.” She finally met his eyes. “Your father doesn’t want you to speak.”
An icy cavern opened in his belly, one he thought he’d filled in years before. You’re the big brother. You have to be the responsible one. You have to keep Jon safe.
“He’ll do it himself, then,” Matt heard himself say. He sounded reasonable. Calm. Accepting.
“No, dear.” Something about her tone told him to brace himself. This was going to hurt, like a fastball drilling into his shoulder at a hundred miles an hour. “There’s someone else who’s going to present the plaque. A soldier who served with Jon, his best friend from the unit. A man named Tom Finnegan.”
Fuck that, Matt wanted to say. I’m Jon’s brother. I’ll present the goddamn plaque.
He didn’t say it though. Because his mother was already crying. Because it wouldn’t make anything better.
Instead, he took a deep breath. He exhaled slowly. He pulled himself in to that place he’d spent a career carving out, the precise spot where he could see a catcher’s signal, where he could shape a pitch to get past the sharpest batter in the league. It was a cold place. An emotionless place. But it let him say, “Don’t worry, Mom.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
“It’s your father. He’s just not himself—”
“He’s exactly himself, Mom. But I’m fine.”
Chief Carter loomed out of the darkness. “Are you ready, Susan? I think it’s time to start.”
“I’ll be there in a moment.”
The policeman nodded. But before he turned away he said to Matt. “I’m sorry for your loss, son. It’s a fine thing that you can be here tonight.”
Matt nodded, because the chief meant well. He started to turn back to his table of gaudy crap.
“Matt?” his mother said. “Will you come by for Christmas breakfast tomorrow?”
“I don’t think so, Mom.”
He saw her start to argue. She swallowed a question, or maybe a statement, another declaration that his father was grieving. She settled on, “Your father feels terrible about what he said to you. On Halloween.”
“No he doesn’t,” Matt said flatly, a little surprised that Dad had shared their conversation. “He meant every word.”
“You have to understand. He’d do anything to protect you boys.”
“He’d do anything to protect Jon.”
“Matty…”
He heard fresh tears in her voice. Shit. He didn’t want to make her cry. He never wanted to make her cry. He thought about the pink scarf he’d finished for her with Em’s help. The wrapped box was sitting on his kitchen table so he could bring it by in the morning, so he could watch her open it beside the Christmas tree with the felt-and-pipe-cleaner ornaments he and Jon had made in elementary school.
He sighed. “I’ll talk to him, Mom. But not tomorrow.”
She nodded and kissed his cheek. He watched her walk to the edge of the bonfire, to the towering pyramid that waited for a torch. She wore her warm winter coat, but her neck was bare. She looked cold. Alone, even though she was surrounded by friends, her husband at her side.
The ceremony itself was simple. Chief Carter stepped forward with a velvet covered box. Some guy, it must have been Tom Finnegan, took the box and pulled back the cloth. He stared at whatever was inside for a minute, and then he raised his hand in a sharp military salute. He held the pose for a count of ten, and then he held up the plaque for everyone to see.
It was too dark to read the words, especially from a distance. But that was okay because Dad stepped forward. He took the plaque from Finnegan’s hands and then he embraced the guy in an awkward, one-armed man-hug. Tears tightening his throat, Dad read the words: “In loving memory of Jonathan Lewis Dawson. Loyal soldier and beloved son.”
There was more. Something about Jon’s graduation class. About his being captain of the football team. Nothing about his being a brother.
Dad looked up from the memorial and said a few words about how grateful he was for the community to come together, about how proud he was that Jon had served his country. Coach Gunderson spoke too, his gravelly voice breaking when he told about how Jon scrambled for the end zone in the final game of his high school career, how he’d won the state championship with pure grit and courage.
The crowd was generous with its applause. After the plaque was returned to its velvet box, the firemen lit the bonfire. People began to storm the tables, talking to merchants, picking up coupons, putting tickets in fishbowls in hopes of winning a prize.
A few people turned to Matt, shaking his hand and expressing their condolences. He nodded gravely, monitoring each voice for the hidden message, for the sickening words that haunted his dreams: It should have been you. The oldest Dawson boy. You should have been over there.
But that was ridiculous. No one blamed him for Jon’s death. No one except his father.
When Matt finally got back to the American Discount table, he found Caden holding down the fort. The boy looked longingly at the far end of the park, at the food that was sending tantalizing messages on the breeze. Matt said, “Go ahead, Caden. You’re through for the night.”
“Oh no, Mr. Dawson. I’ll hand out buckets.”
“It’s a one-person job. And you put in plenty of extra hours getting everything ready.” He reached for his wallet and took out a crisp twenty-dollar bill. “Get yourself some doughnuts. Some cider too.”
“Thanks, Mr. Dawson!” Caden ran half a dozen steps before he turned back. “Merry Christmas!”
Matt waved a response before he sank into the chair behind his lonely table.
Two hours later, the cold had seeped into his bones, and he was ready to call it a night. The lure of free stuff had finally worked some magic; he’d managed to give away a couple of dozen pails. He’d have to choose a winner for the grand prize from the twenty or so tickets that swirled in the glass bowl.
“Hey, good-looking.”
He looked up to see Em, her face shadowed by the bonfire behind her. Because he didn’t want to be a prick, he waved a hand toward the SOS tables. Even from here, he could see their bowls were overflowing with tickets. People still gathered around many of the downtown merchants, and the night was filled with excited chatter. “This round goes to you.”
She laughed softly as she sat on his lap. “What did you say at the beginning of the night? You were going to show me something personal?”
He sighed. “Can I get a raincheck on that? I just want to go home.”
“I’ve always wanted to see the inside of Old Man Marshall’s place.” Her fingers walked up the front of his coat.
He closed his hand over hers. “Em, I’m a mess tonight.”
“I’m good at cleaning up messes.”
His rueful laugh sank like a stone in his belly. But she leaned in, close enough for him to whisper, “I hate him, Em.”
He felt every muscle in her body turn to stone before she asked, “Jon?”
He shook his head. He’d never hated Jon. Been exasperated by him, sure. Worried about him. Resented the way he got the easy love of every single person around him. But he’d never, ever hated his brother. He sighed before he said, “My father.”
She set her palm against his jaw. “You don’t mean that.”
He pulled away enough to say, “I do. Tonight, I really do. It’s no excuse that he’s in mourning. I don’t care if my mother loves him. He’s a cold-hearted son of a bitch who fucked up his own life, and I’m tired of him taking it out on me.”
She set her palm against his jaw. “That’s why you need someone to take care of you. Let’s go home.”
“I’m no good for anyone tonight.”
She put a finger against his lips. “You’re good for me. Come on. You’ll drive us home. You’ll climb into your bed and I’ll sleep in the guest room. And in the morning, if you want to, you can have Christmas breakfast with my family.”
He groaned. “Don’t tell me they eat that Indian potato shit for breakfast.”
“Of course not. Christmas morning calls for Thai food.” She put her hand over his heart. “Deal?”
He shook his head. “I don’t have any sheets for the guest room.”
She smiled. “I think we can figure something out.”
And she kissed him, with just enough heat, just enough promise that he was certain they could solve the problem. Together.
CHAPTER 17
Mom outdid herself with the Thai food. A giant pot of tom yum soup simmered on the stove.
“It smells like sweat socks,” Bran complained.
“It tastes like heaven,” Mom said. “I added mushrooms to the traditional recipe.”
“Even better.”
Emily turned to Matt. “Don’t listen to him. He’s never smelled a sweat sock in his life.”
“I have,” Matt said. But then he seemed to realize he was criticizing his hostess, because he added, “And that soup doesn’t smell anything like them, Mrs. Barton.”
Mom beamed. “Call me Maria.” She turned to Emily. “He’s a smart one.”
Emily burrowed close to Matt’s side, “Yeah, he is.”
She’d been as good as her word the night before. She’d taken a few minutes to talk to Sister Mary Margaret, confirming that the nuns would collect all the leftover pails from the American Discount table and make sure they got distributed to people who needed a little extra Christmas cheer. The coupons might come in handy for folks. And kids wouldn’t even think about the quality—or lack thereof—of the goods in the buckets.
After that, she’d walked beside Matt to his truck. She’d let him help her up to the high seat, even though she was perfectly capable of swinging in herself. She’d kept quiet as they’d driven out of town, letting herself enjoy the play of holiday lights on houses. She’d waited on the front porch as Matt unlocked the door, and she’d shaken her head when he offered her a drink.
Upstairs, she’d undressed him, slowly, tenderly, kissing his lips, his shoulders, his thighs. She’d walked him over to the unmade bed and folded back the linens. She’d tucked him in and smoothed the blanket across his chest, and she’d turned out the light on the nightstand. She’d undressed herself in the dark and slipped in on the other side of the bed, rolling onto her side and waiting for her body heat to warm the sheets.
He’d curled against her then. He’d folded his arm across her belly, brushing a kiss against the nape of her neck, and she’d matched her breathing to his until they both slipped away into sleep.
Sometime in the night, he’d awakened her to make slow, lingering love.
Now, though, Noah slid into the kitchen in his stocking feet. “Aunt Emily! Aunt Emily! Look what Santa brought me!” He brandished a lumpy jet-black dragon. “It’s a dragon!” he said unnecessarily. “Made out of a gourd!”
Matt gave Emily a questioning glance, but she merely leaned down to examine the masterpiece. “It looks like Santa’s elves must be learning a thing or two from Grandma. Does he have a name?”
“Daddy says he should be called Ancalagon. But I’m going to call him Blackie.”
“That sounds like a perfect name.”
Noah paused in his admiration of his new toy for long enough to look up at Matt. “Aunt Anne says you’re good at playing catch.”
Matt nodded gravely. “I’ve played a few games.”
“I bet I can throw harder than you can.”
“Maybe you can teach me, after breakfast.”
Noah ran screaming into the sunroom. “You’re wrong, Aunt Anne! He said I can teach him how to throw a ball!”
“Don’t worry,” Emily said. “He’ll probably forget in five minutes.”
Matt shrugged. “I can always use a refresher or two.”
“Emily, dear,” Mom called. “Can you help me in the dining room?”
She half-turned, reluctant to leave Matt to the wolves. “Go,” he said. “I can take care of myself.” As if to prove his point, he voluntarily went out to the sunroom. Noah’s chatter rose an octave as he started recounting how Blackie hatched out of an egg that was balanced on top of the highest mountain in the world.
“Reporting for duty,” Emily said.
Her mother was kneeling beside the hutch. “I need to find an extra finger bowl.”
Emily recognized the statement as an invitation to speak. “I’m sorry to surprise you with an extra person,” she said.
“You know I don’t care about that.” But her mother’s eyebrows were pulled together in a frown as she stood, clutching a fragile piece of porcelain. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. You know I made a promise to myself when your father walked out that door. I’ll never again hold my tongue when I have something important to say.”
Emily braced herself. “I’d expect nothing less.”
“I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing. I read The Herald. I see how much work you’ve put into Save Our Stores. Are you sure this is the right man for you to be dating right now?”
“We’re making it work.”
“It’s just that it seems terribly complicated.”
“It is.” But then Emily corrected herself. “And it isn’t. Neither one of us is forgetting who we are. What we’re doing. But we want to be together. We’re good for each other.”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
There it was: The old argument. Her mother had wanted her to go to college, just so she wouldn’t get hurt. Mom had wanted her to build a career, somewhere, anywhere, just so she would get hurt. Mom had wanted her to be stable and steady, to follow convention, to toe the line, all so she’d be safe and unharmed.
But Emily had made her own rules for years. She took her mother’s free hand. “I won’t get hurt Mom.”
Her mother obviously wasn’t convinced. But she just as clearly decided not to press the issue. Instead, she said, “He knows we’re eating Thai?”
“I told him.”
“And he’s okay with that? I didn’t dial back the spice.”
“He’s fine.”
“He can always have peanut butter with Noah.”
Emily smiled, thinking of their post-Thanksgiving breakfast. “He’ll be okay, Mom.” And then, because she knew what the fretting was really about, she said, “We both will be. But thank you for caring.”
With her mother reassured, Emily made her way to the sunroom. Noah was playing with his dragon, flying the beast around the room to collect jewels, which seemed to be all the ornaments from the lower three feet of the Christmas tree. Matt was sitting on the ottoman next to the Queen Anne chair in the corner, nodding seriously at something her grandmother was saying.
“It’s been the same all through history,” Grammy pronounced. “Women are the ones who have to take responsibility for birth control. If men were the ones who got pregnant, we’d have one hundred percent effective, utterly non-invasive contraceptives.”
“Good morning, Grammy,” Emily said. “Aren’t you starting the lecture a little early today?”
“It’s never too early to worry about health. Now what are you two using for protection?”
“Too personal, Grammy,” Emily said, only a bit concerned by the shade of crimson that painted Matt’s cheeks.
“Nonsense. I changed your diapers.”
“And I can never thank you enough for that. Matt? Can you help me get something from the linen closet?”
“I’m not a fool, you know,” her grandmother protested. “You’re not going to the linen closet. You’re going to talk about how meddlesome I’m being.”
“I love you Grammy.”
“And I love you too. That’s why I ask questions.”
She and Matt made their escape down the hall, ducking into her childhood bedroom. She burst out laughing as she closed the door. “If you could only see the expression on your face!”
“I didn’t know what to say to her!”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have warned you. But if I had, you wouldn’t come.”
He shook his head. “It takes more than one opinionated octogenarian to scare me off.”
She sucked in breath between her teeth. “I really wish you hadn’t said that.”
“Why?”
“You haven’t met my grandfather yet.”
“Let me guess. He’s going to ask me my favorite sexual position.”
“Worse. He’ll want to talk politics.”
“I think I can handle him.”
Nevertheless, Emily made sure that Charlie and Bran sat on either side of Grandpop at the table. Her grandfather never wore his hearing aids at family meals; he said the amplified sound of so much silverware scraping plates was painful. That meant only two people could be subjected to his typical tirade about how Lyndon Johnson was the last good man to serve as president.
Unfortunately, Emily’s strategy meant that Anne was available for discussion at their end of the table. “Those were some pretty impressive gift baskets, er, buckets you put together last night, Matt.”
“Anne—” Emily warned.
But Matt didn’t seem to care. “I learned a lot last night. I misestimated my audience. It won’t happen again.”
“You misestimated your enemy, too,” Anne said.
Emily started to protest, but Matt squeezed her knee under the table. “That too.” He turned to Emily. “Hey, enemy. Can you pass me the pad thai?”
She laughed and handed him the bowl of noodles.
Emily went back for a second helping of pad prik king herself. “Wow, Mom,” she said. “You’ve really outdone yourself here. The balance of flavors is amazing!”
