The Pagan Stone (18 page)

“Sorry. I thought if Gage was here, I could . . .”

“Yes, he is. Come in. He’s back in the kitchen. Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll—”

“He won’t be staying.” Gage’s voice was brutally neutral when he stepped in. “You need to go.”

“If I could have just a minute.”

“I’m busy, and you’re not welcome here.”

“I asked Mr. Turner in.” Cybil’s words dropped like stones into the deep well of silence. “So I’ll apologize to both of you. And I’m going to leave you alone to deal with each other. Excuse me.”

Gage didn’t so much as glance at her as she walked back toward the kitchen. “You need to go,” he repeated.

“I just got some things to say.”

“That’s not my problem. I don’t want to hear them. I’m living here for now, and as long as I am, you don’t come around here.”

Bill’s jaw tightened; his mouth firmed. “I put this off since you came back to town. I can’t put it off anymore. You give me five minutes, for Chrissake. Five minutes, and I won’t bother you no more. I know you only come around the bowling center when I’m off. You hear me out, I’ll make myself scarce anytime you want to come in, see Cal. I won’t come around you, you got my word.”

“Because your word always meant so much?”

Color came and went in Bill’s face. “It’s all I got. Five minutes, and you’re rid of me.”

“I’ve been rid of you.” But Gage shrugged. “Take your five.”

“Okay then.” Bill cleared his throat. “I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sober five years, six months, and twelve days. I let drink take over my life. I used it as an excuse to hurt you. I should’ve looked after you. I should’ve taken care of you. You didn’t have nobody—anybody else, and I made it so you had nobody.” His throat moved as he swallowed hard. “I used my hands and my fists and my belt on you, and I’da kept using them if you hadn’t gotten big enough to stop me. I made you promises, and I broke them. Over and over again. I wasn’t no kind of father to you. I wasn’t no kind of man.”

His voice wavered, and he looked away. While Gage said nothing, Bill took several audible breaths, then looked back into his son’s face. “I can’t go back and change that. I could tell you I’m sorry from now until the day I die, and it won’t make up for it. I’m not going to promise you I won’t drink again, but I’m not going to drink today. When I wake up tomorrow, I’m not going to drink. That’s what I’m going to do, every day. And every day I’m sober, I know what I did to you, how I shamed myself as a man, and as a father. How your ma must’ve looked down and cried. I let her down. I let you down. I’ll be sorry for that the rest of my life.”

Bill took another breath. “I guess that’s what I had to say. ’Cept, you made yourself into something. You did that on your own.”

“Why?” If this would be the last time they faced each other, Gage wanted the answer to the single question that had haunted him most of his life. “Why did you turn on me that way? Drinking was the excuse. That’s a true thing. So why?”

“I couldn’t take the belt to God.” Emotion gleamed in Bill’s eyes, and though his voice wavered, he continued on. “I couldn’t beat God with my fists. But there you were. Had to blame someone, had to punish someone.” Bill looked down at his hands. “I wasn’t anything special. I could fix things, and I didn’t mind hard work, but I wasn’t anything special. Then she looked at me. Your ma, she made me a better man. She loved me. I’d wake up every morning, go to bed every night amazed that she was there, and she loved me. She . . . I got a couple minutes left of my five, right?”

“Finish it then.”

“You oughta know . . . She was—we were—so happy when she got pregnant with you. You probably don’t remember how it was . . . before. But we were happy. Cathy . . . Your ma had some problems with the pregnancy, and then it happened so fast, you coming. We didn’t even get to the hospital. You come out of her heading up the pike in the ambulance.”

Bill glanced away again, but this time—whether Gage wanted to see it or not—it was grief vivid in those faded blue eyes. “And there were some problems, and the doctor, he said there shouldn’t be any more kids. That was okay, that was fine with me. We had you, and, Jesus, you looked just like her. I know you don’t remember, but I loved you both more’n anything in the world.”

“No,” Gage said when Bill stopped. “I don’t remember.”

“I guess you wouldn’t. After a while, she wanted another. She wanted another baby so bad. She’d say: Look, Bill, look at our Gage. Look what we made. Isn’t he beautiful? He needs a brother or sister. And well, we started another, and she was careful. She took such good care of herself, did everything the doctor said, and no complaint. But it went wrong. They came and got me from work, and . . .”

He pulled out a bandanna, mopped at tears without any sign of shame. “I lost her, and the little girl we’d tried to make. Jim and Frannie, Jo and Brian, they helped all they could. More than most would. I started drinking, just a little here and there to get through, to get by. But it wasn’t enough, so I drank more, and more yet.”

His eyes dry again, he shoved the cloth back in his pocket. “I started thinking how it was my fault she died. I should’ve gone and gotten myself fixed, and not told her, that’s all. She’d be alive if I had. Then that hurt too much, so I’d drink some more. Till I started thinking how she’d be alive if we hadn’t had you. Hadn’t had you, whatever messed her up inside wouldn’t be, and she’d still be there when I woke in the morning. Blaming you didn’t hurt so much, so I talked myself into seeing that as God’s truth instead of a damned lie. Everything was your fault. Lost my job because I was drunk, but I turned that around so I lost my job because I had to look after you on my own. Anything went wrong, it was because of you, then I could drink some more, whale on you, and I wouldn’t have to face the truth.

“There was nobody to blame, Gage.” He let out a long sigh. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault. Things just went wrong, and she died. And when she died, I stopped being a man. I stopped being your daddy. What was left of me, your ma, she’d never have looked at twice. So that’s the why. That’s the long way around the why. I’m not asking you to forgive me. I’m not asking you to forget. I’m just asking for you to believe that I know what I did, and I’m sorry for it.”

“I believe you know what you did, and you’re sorry for it. You’re well over your five minutes.”

With a nod, Bill cast his eyes down, turned to open the door. “I won’t get in your way,” he said with his back to Gage. “You want to come in and see Cal, or have a beer at the grill, I won’t get in your way.”

When Bill closed the door behind him, Gage stood where he was. How was he supposed to feel? Was all that supposed to make a difference? All the sorry in the world didn’t erase one minute of the years he’d lived in fear, of the years he’d lived in bitter anger. It did nothing to negate the shame or the sorrow.

So the old man got it off his chest, Gage thought as he strode back to the kitchen. That was fine. That was the end between them.

He saw Cybil through the window as she sat on Cal’s back deck drinking her tea. He shoved open the door.

“Why the hell did you let him in? Is that your superior breeding?”

“I suppose. I’ve already apologized for it.”

“It’s the day for goddamn apologies.” The anger he hadn’t let himself feel for his father—the old man wasn’t entitled to it—sparked now. And flared. “You’re sitting out here thinking I should forgive and forget. Poor old guy’s sober now, and just trying to mend fences with his only son, the one he used to kick the shit out of regularly. But that was the booze, and the booze was the answer to grief and guilt. Besides, alcoholism’s a disease, and he caught it like cancer. Now he’s in remission, he’s in his one fucking day at a time, so all’s fucking forgiven. I should break out the poles and see if he wants to go down to the fishing hole and drown some worms. Did your father ever punch you in the face before he blew his brains out?”

He heard her breath hitch in, release. But her voice was rock steady when she spoke. “No, he did not.”

“Did he ever take a belt to your back until it bled?”

“No, he did not.”

“That being the case, I’d say you lack the experience to sit out here thinking I should shrug all that off and have myself a real
Oprah
moment with the old man.”

“You’d be right, absolutely. But here’s another thing. You’re putting thoughts in my head that aren’t there, and words in my mouth I have no intention of saying. And I don’t appreciate it. I imagine that talking with your father just now has left you feeling both raw and prickly, so I’ll give you some room. In fact, I’ll give you plenty of room and leave you alone to have your tantrum in private.”

She made it all the way to the door before she whirled back. “No, I will not. I’ll be damned if I will. Do you want to know what I think? Are you at all interested in hearing my own opinion rather than the one you’ve projected on me?”

He waved a hand, a gesture so brittle with sarcasm, it all but cracked the air. “Go right ahead.”

“I think you’re under no obligation whatsoever to forgive anything, to forget anything. You’re not required to push away the years of abuse because the abuser now chooses to be sober and in his sobriety regrets his actions. And while it may be small and unforgiving of
me
, I think people who do so at the snap of a damn finger are either liars or are in need of serious therapy. I assume you heard him out, so in my personal opinion, any debt you might owe for your existence is now paid in full. It may be fashionable to hold the opinion that terrible actions are indeed terrible, but that the person inflicting them isn’t responsible due to alcohol, drugs, DNA, or goddamn PMS. He damn well
was
responsible, and if you decide to loathe him for the rest of your life, I wouldn’t blame you for it. How’s that?”

“Unexpected,” Gage said after a moment.

“I believe the strong have an obligation to protect the weak. It’s why they’re the strong. I believe a parent has an obligation to protect the child. It’s why they’re the parent. As for my father—”

“I’m sorry.” A day for apologies, he thought again. And this one might qualify as the most sincere of his lifetime. “Cybil, I’m very sorry I threw that at you.”

“Regardless, he never raised a hand to me. If he were able to stand where you are right now and apologize to me for killing himself, I don’t know if I’d forgive him. He ripped my life in two with that single, selfish, self-pitying act, so I think it would take more than an apology. Which would be useless since he’d still be dead. Your father’s alive, and he’s taken a step toward making amends. Good for him. But for my money, you can’t forgive without trust, and he hasn’t earned that from you. He may never, and that’s not on you. His actions, his consequences. End of story.”

She’d said it all, he thought. She might have said it all in the heat of temper and resentment. But everything she’d said was a comfort. “Can I start over?”

“With what?”

“I’d like to thank you for stepping out and letting me deal with that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And to thank you for not leaving.”

“No problem.”

“And last, to thank you for the kick in the ass.”

She huffed out a breath, almost smiled. “That part was my pleasure.”

“I bet.”

He stepped to her, held out a hand. “Come upstairs.”

She looked down at his hand, up into his eyes. “All right,” she said, and put her hand in his.

Ten

“YOU SURPRISE ME.”

Cybil tipped her head, gave him that long, slanted stare as they walked through the house. “I hate to be predictable. What’s the current surprise?”

“I figured, especially after the mood-breaker, you’d say no thanks.”

“That would be shortsighted and self-defeating. I like sex. I’m fairly sure I’m going to like sex with you.” She gave a quick, careless shrug, while that half-smile stayed in place. “Why shouldn’t I have something I like?”

“I can’t think of a single reason.”

“Neither can I. So.” At the top of the stairs she pushed him back against the wall, crushed her mouth against his. And the easy, the expected glide of arousal inside him banked hard, then shot straight through him.

She bit lightly on his bottom lip once, then spoke against them—each word a separate stroke. “Let’s both have something we like.”

She stepped back, gestured toward a bedroom doorway. “That one’s yours, isn’t it?” With one last glance over her shoulder, one that literally caused the breath to back up in his lungs, she strolled to it, and through.

This, Gage thought as he pushed off the wall, was going to be pretty damn interesting.

She was bent over the bed, straightening his disordered sheets when he came in. “I wasn’t planning on using that again before tonight.”

She flicked a look back at him, eyes wicked. “Isn’t it nice when plans change? I’m a bed-maker myself. I like everything all . . . smooth when I slide in at night. Or . . .” She gave the sheets a last pat, turned. “Whenever.”

“I don’t mind a few tangles.” He moved to her, gripped her hips to lift her onto her toes.

“That’s good, because there’s bound to be more than a few when we’re finished with it, and I won’t be making the bed for you.” Sinuously, she hooked her arms around his neck, met his mouth in a long, slow burn of a kiss.

In one lazy glide, his hands slid up, under her shirt, over her sides with a teasing brush of thumbs over her breasts. Her shirt slithered up with the movement as he drew her arms over her head.

“Nice move,” she said when her shirt dropped away.

“I’ve got more.”

“Me, too.” Smiling, she flipped open the button of his jeans, eased the zipper down barely an inch. Watching him, she grazed her nails over his belly, up to his chest. “Nice definition, for a cardplayer,” she added as she pulled his shirt up and off.

She was a killer, he thought. “Thanks.”