The Return of Jonah Gray (22 page)

“I like to think that I help people.”

“Really?” He choked a little on his drink.

“In the broad scheme of things. My job is about fairness. I pay. You pay—well, I assume you do.”

“I pay,” Marcus said. “You think I don't pay my taxes?”

“I didn't say that.”

“I mean, it was only for, like, two years that I didn't. Now I pay.”

“I want us to get along,” I said to him, suddenly, without thinking.

Marcus looked surprised. He stared at the television set and said nothing for a while. Then he turned to me with the slightest smile. “We do get along,” he said.

“What about you and Mom? Or you and Kurt?”

“Wanting something doesn't mean getting to have it. That might be news in this neighborhood, but it's something I learned pretty early.”

“You wanted to be here. You got that.”

“I'm glad I can help,” he said. “But this wasn't what I wanted. Believe me.”

I HAD TOLD MARCUS THE TRUTH—I HADN'T EXACTLY
planned on dating Jeff Hill. But it happened. Jeff had such an active mind. Maybe he wasn't the most easygoing guy around, but he was attentive. He never forgot when we were supposed to meet. He'd notice if I was having a hard day—maybe my posture told him, or the tone of my voice—and he would make a point to stop by with a soda or a bouquet of flowers. He'd notice if I came to work late or seemed tired or overwhelmed by some new hiccup in my father's health. And upon noticing, he would always offer assistance. Not that there was much he could do, really. My father's decline was steady.

What's more, Jeff was always up for seeing a movie, any movie, even one he'd never heard of. I found that I didn't mind that he insisted on bringing his own food and was particular about where in the theater we sat.

And so, after we'd been dating for three weeks, and after he'd suggested it—more than a few times, actually—it seemed appropriate to introduce him to my parents.

He arrived at Banner Hill right on time, with flowers for my mother, a handshake for my father and a respectful peck on the cheek for me.

“Where's Blake?” he asked. “I've heard so much about the little guy.”

“There's a football game tonight,” my mother said.

“You never told me he played,” Jeff admonished me.

“He doesn't. Marching band,” I told him. “You remember.”

“That's right. Drums?”

“Drum major,” my father corrected.

Marcus came back from a run as the four of us were sipping a round of cocktails in the living room.

“And this is Marcus,” I said. “Marcus, I've told you about Jeff. Now here he is in the flesh.”

“Oh sure,” Marcus said. “Nice meeting you.”

“So this is the famous Marcus,” Jeff said. I could see him looking at the colors and swirls that ran down Marcus's bare arms.

“I don't know about famous,” Marcus said.

“Are you joining us for dinner?” I asked.

I saw Marcus glance quickly at my mother. “I don't know,” he said.

“Of course you are,” my father said.

“Of course he is,” my mother agreed, if less enthusiastically.

Marcus and my mother seemed to have reached an uneasy détente in the previous couple of weeks. Maybe they'd just grown accustomed to each other, but whatever the reason, I'd noticed that my mother no longer left the room when Marcus entered. At least, not immediately.

“What are you drinking, Marcus?” Jeff asked, heading for my parents' bar.

“Some water would be great. Thanks.”

“Nothing a little more powerful? It's Friday. You've got the weekend ahead of you.”

“Just water,” Marcus repeated. “I work weekends.”

I made my way over to Jeff and whispered in his ear. “I don't think Marcus drinks,” I told him.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Jeff turned around. “You don't drink?” he asked.

“Not alcohol, no,” Marcus said.

Jeff handed him a glass of water. “I'm surprised. By the looks of you, I would have thought—well, can I ask why not?”

“You can,” Marcus said. “But it's not something I talk much about.”

“Fair enough.”

“Okay then,” my mother announced, standing to shepherd us into the dining room. “Who's ready to eat?”

Halfway through dinner, it became clear that my father was poking at his meal, without eating it.

“The chops don't do it for you?” my mother asked.

“I'm not hungry,” my father said. “Y'all keep on eating. Go ahead. Eat.”

“You're not feeling nauseated, are you?” Marcus asked.

Jeff looked alarmed and perceptibly pushed his chair back from the table, as if he were imagining my father vomiting across it.

“I'm just not hungry,” my father said. “Lola dear, it all looks great.”

“You can't even see it,” my mother said.

“Dad stopped seeing in color around the time he started with the seizures,” I told Jeff. “Now everything's gray to him. Isn't that right, Dad?”

“I can smell the colors,” my father said.

“Speaking of colors,” Jeff said to Marcus. I could tell that he wanted to move the discussion off food and nausea. “I couldn't help but notice your tattoos. That's quite a collection.”

Marcus looked at his arms and nodded. “Are you a fan of the art form?”

“Do they actually call it an art form?” Jeff asked. “I mean, here in the States?”

“Some people do,” Marcus said. He looked as if he was wondering where Jeff was headed. I was wondering the same thing.

“I could never get one. I don't like needles,” Jeff said. “You're not worried about the needles?”

“I'm a nurse,” Marcus said. “I'm not scared of needles.”

“Not the prick. The cleanliness.”

Marcus frowned. “I'm not shooting up, if that's what you're getting at.”

“Oh, no, that's not—” Jeff began.

“So Jeff, I understand that you work in the file room,” my father cut in.

“The archives, actually,” Jeff said. He sounded relieved to discuss work.

“Archives,” my father repeated. “Aren't archives mostly collections of old files?”

“There are some files in there, yes.”

“Like I said, the file room.”

“It's a bit more than that, actually,” Jeff murmured.

“Dad,” I said. “Please.”

“Who wants dessert?” my mother asked.

“Jeff and I will clear,” I offered, standing and motioning for Jeff to follow me to the kitchen. “What was that about?” I asked him, once we were out of earshot.

“What?”

“Why were you digging at Marcus?”

“I wasn't. I was just interested.”

“It came off a little like digging.”

“Just look at him and look at the rest of your family. It's like that game, which one of these things is not like the other.”

“He's my brother, Jeff. It doesn't matter what he looks like.”

“Well, half brother. Besides, you're the one who told me that your mother and Kurt don't even want him here.”

“He's taking good care of my father. That's all you need to remember.”

“I didn't mean to make you mad. I never want to make you mad.”

“Why don't you give Jeff a tour of the house?” my mother suggested after dessert.

“I'd enjoy that,” Jeff said.

“There's not much to see, really,” I said as I led him down the hallway. “You saw the dining room, the kitchen, the living room where we had drinks. That's the den. That's my father's study. Bathroom.” I pointed to the door of my old bedroom, which was cracked open. “That's where I used to sleep,” I said.

“So this is where it all began,” Jeff said. He opened the door a little wider. Then he frowned. “What's with the motorcycle boots?”

“Marcus is staying in here now,” I said.

“The decor doesn't look anything like you,” Jeff said. “Except maybe that stuffed bear.”

“My mother redecorated when I went off to college.”

“Are you serious?” He looked appalled. “My mother would never dare touch my room.”

“Clearly, my mother doesn't see it as taboo. But it doesn't matter. I've got my own house now.”

“But it's the principle, baby,” Jeff said. “You must have been so hurt.”

“No. Not really. This is Kurt's room, over here. This is where I sleep when I stay over.”

“I notice that your mother didn't redecorate in here.”

“Kurt has always been a little possessive about his room.”

“So you sleep in your brother's bed?”

“It's not like we haven't washed the sheets.” I said.

“But where does Kurt sleep?”

“He hasn't visited much since Marcus moved in. He calls, but I don't think Lori wants him staying overnight anywhere.”

“Not even at his parents' house?”

“I thought I mentioned…there was that issue recently…my brother had a fling with a waitress at my parents' anniversary party.”

“That's unforgivable,” Jeff said.

“I guess that's up to Lori.”

“Not really. Infidelity is a breach. Of trust. Of their vows.”

“Don't get me wrong, I think he's a heel, too. But I figure it's not my place to say what they can and can't work out. If Lori feels that the boys will be better served by her staying…”

“Well, I think it's unforgivable,” Jeff said.

“You said that.” I decided not to remind him that the embodiment of my father's infidelity was camped out in my old bedroom. He was disturbed enough by the tattoos.

After Jeff's earnest thank-yous to my parents, I walked him out to his car.

“Thanks for coming,” I said.

“Thanks for inviting me.”

“Are you going—”

“Shh. Do you hear that?”

I listened. “The singing?”

“Someone is definitely singing.”

“I think that's our neighbor.”

At that moment, Ian Maselin rounded the corner with Buddy.
“Oh, I love my Rosie child,”
he was singing.
“You got the way to make me happy.”

“Neil Diamond tonight,” I said. “Usually he sings Tom Jones.”

“
Cracklin' Rose, you're a store-bought woman
—oh, Sasha. I didn't see you there,” Ian said, cutting off. He brought Buddy to the edge of the driveway.

“Hi, Mr. Maselin,” I said.

“Who's your friend?” he asked.

“This is Jeff,” I said. “Jeff, this is Ian Maselin. And Buddy.”

“You can really carry a tune,” Jeff said.

“Well, Mr. Diamond makes it easy. That song requires almost no range.”

Ian Maselin had been a semiprofessional piano player in his youth, and at his annual holiday party was known to demand that his guests take part in sing-alongs while he pounded the keys. In earlier years, I'd been roped in, as had Kurt and my mother.

“So, Jeff,” Ian said. “Are you Sasha's special someone?”

“Mr. Maselin, really, I—”

“I like to think I am, sir,” Jeff said.

“And you came to meet the parents. Good for you. That mother of hers is really something. Did you see the garden?”

“I guess I didn't get the full tour, no,” Jeff said.

“Lola's got quite a green thumb. My wife is always saying.”

“Jeff was just leaving,” I said.

“Say no more,” Mr. Maselin said. “Unless you're passing out good-night kisses. No? Well, come on, Buddy. Let's get a move on.” Ian and Buddy wandered off. Not too long after they had disappeared from sight, the singing started up again.

“I'll take a good-night kiss,” Jeff said. He leaned in, and I wanted to be there. But my mind was a mess. I was dating Jeff, so I was supposed to want to kiss him. But I was also irked with him, with his clumsy reaction to Marcus, with the way he had clearly judged my family lacking in some essential way. I was the only one allowed to judge my family.

At the same time, I wondered where I was going to find the energy to put it all in perspective. I didn't think I had it in me. And most of all, I was tired and just wanted to forget all about the evening. I just wanted to be dating Jeff—well, I was moderately sure I wanted that—and that meant kissing him long enough to let the rest of my life drift away. My father's illness, my mother's sour attitude, my older brother's resentments. I took a breath and met Jeff's lips with my own. I concentrated on kissing him back. But I couldn't shut out Ian Maselin's baritone voice as he made his way down the street.

“Cracklin' Rosie, make me a smile. Girl if it lasts for an hour, that's all right. We got all night. To set the world right. Find us a dream that don't ask no question, yeah.”