Unwelcome (31 page)

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Authors: Michael Griffo

BOOK: Unwelcome
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I know, he's alluded to that a few times, but I'm not just another guy,
Michael thought,
I'm supposed to be his soul mate, I'm supposed to spend eternity with him. What if those other guys were supposed to do the same thing, though? Maybe lying and keeping secrets is Ronan's way of protecting himself more than it is to protect me?
Michael sighed. Coming to church was supposed to instill a sense of peace, not conjure up more questions than answers.
“Look, I know my brother can be stubborn and pompous, but I have never known him to love another person as much as he loves you,” Ciaran said. “That should be reason enough to convince you that you're right where you belong, Michael.”
Finally, an answer. “Sounds like something my mother would say.”
“I don't know about that, but, dude, I'm starving,” Ciaran said. “I know you don't eat, but want to come to St. Martha's with me?”
His head cocked to the side. Michael asked, “Did you just call me dude?”
“Too American?”
“Just not your style,” Michael replied, smiling.
“Ah, well,” Ciaran said, grabbing his coat and bag then pausing in the aisle. “You coming?”
Michael remained seated. “Thanks, but I can't. I need to go home.”
An hour later, Michael felt he was on the verge of finding some peace because despite his time away, Weeping Water looked exactly the same.
chapter 18
The graveyard appeared to be alive. Michael looked around and saw tall, lush elm trees, their leaves large, deep green, the cool breeze that floated in between the drooping, twisted branches causing the leaves to flap up and down, making them look as if they were greeting Michael, welcoming him home.
Short spider bushes populated the sides of several dirt paths, some of their spindly leaves so long and overgrown they scraped against Michael's leg as he walked by. He leaned over to breathe in the scent of dogwood, tugged on the branches of larkspur, disrupting a few butterflies from their perch, and smiled as they encircled him several times before fluttering away. He heard a rustling and saw that the butterflies were off to follow some friends. A stream of six or seven birds emerged from within the belly of a particularly leafy tree, a ray of orange and black flying up and into the blue morning sky until birds and butterflies united into one cluster and disappeared out of view. Ironically, much of Weeping Water was barren and dry, but here in the place where death reigned, the landscape was alive and fertile.
It's even more beautiful than I remembered,
Michael thought. That's because he chose to forget how desolate it really looked and was glorifying the past, remembering it not for what it was, but for what he had hoped it would be. When he turned the corner of the path, however, he was reminded of what he really did leave behind.
GRACE ANN HOWARD
,
AT PEACE
. Michael knew that the words carved into the gray speckled stone told the truth. After years of anxiety, worry, fear that his father would return to reclaim his son, his mother was resting peacefully. At least the harrowing vision Imogene showed him brought him that knowledge. He knew that his mother's body, her bones, still lay under the ground here on earth, but her spirit and her soul were definitely in heaven.
Next to her grave was her parents' tombstone. On the bottom, the name
CONSTANCE JENNINGS HOWARD
was etched into the stone, followed by the dates of her birth and death. On top was carved
THOMAS MICHAEL HOWARD
, with only the date of his birth under his name. Nothing else. No epitaph, no confirmation that his grandmother was at peace or had been beloved or was remembered. Sadly, Michael thought it was fitting because his grandmother really had no identity other than being connected to her husband.
It seemed so long ago that he saw his grandparents, heard his grandfather's grumpy voice, sat within his grandmother's silence. He didn't always miss them; their company wasn't always comforting. But they did share their home with him and his mother, that was something, wasn't it? Maybe they acted aloof and distant because they always knew Michael wanted to get as far away from them as possible. Like Ronan, maybe they were just protecting themselves.
So tell me, do you guys miss me too? Come on, Constance, Thomas, fess up.
Michael laughed. It was weird thinking of his grandparents as real people with real names. It was weirder still watching his grandfather walk toward him, head down, carrying a bouquet of daisies.
Before he was seen, Michael ran behind a marble sepulcher that stood opposite the graves and was almost as large as the toolshed his grandfather had back home. On the roof was a stone carving of a gargoyle, ghastly-looking, its halfopened eyes watching for intruders, its mouth barely concealing thick, square teeth, and the arches of its wings rising high over its head, giving the creature a powerfully compact look. Even though he knew his mother and grandmother weren't really housed in the graves across the path, he couldn't help thinking what a terrible neighbor this was for them to be saddled with. Surprisingly, his grandfather felt the same way.
“I told you to stop staring at my girls, you goddamned eyesore.”
You tell 'em Grandpa. The voice was as harsh and grouchy as always, but knowing that he wasn't on the receiving end of his grandfather's tirade made Michael think the tone sounded more comical than mean.
He waited a minute and then quietly walked around the edge of the mausoleum until he saw his grandfather kneeling between the two graves. As he hunched over and the thin material of his jacket stretched across his back, Michael could see the man's bones protruding, pressing against the cloth, and when he reached forward to brush away some rocks and twigs that had fallen on the graves, Michael saw that the bone in his wrist was more pronounced than ever before. Even from behind, he could tell that his grandfather had lost weight.
The old man placed the flowers gently between the headstones, the white and yellow daisies a burst of color amid the gray rocks, and then sat back, his thin body resting on his haunches. He was still for a moment, his hands clasped in his lap as if he didn't know what else to do. Or perhaps this is what he always did. Michael couldn't tell. But then he made the sign of the cross and when he bowed his head, Michael did the same. He didn't pray along with his grandfather, he simply wanted to give him some privacy.
Finished with his prayer, his grandfather looked at one headstone and then the other. “Hello, girls, did you miss me?”
Never had Michael heard his grandfather speak so softly, so reverentially. There was sadness in his voice, and Michael had to fight the urge to come out of hiding and throw his arms around him to ease his pain.
“Well, I'll tell ya girls something, I miss you,” he said. “I miss you more than I can bear.” A rabbit scrambled through the thrush in the distance, and Michael's grandfather abruptly turned in the direction of the noise. Flattening himself against the sepulcher to avoid being seen, Michael was amazed at how delightful the smooth marble felt. Should a house of death really feel so wonderful? Should it really be this inviting? Maybe it was built this way to augment the feelings of misery that consumed the air around it. If so, it was fortunate that it was so close to his family's gravesites because, as Michael's grandfather continued to talk, it was obvious he was teeming with hopelessness.
“I just don't know how much longer I can go on without ya both,” his grandfather said, his voice even thinner than before. “I got nothing, I got no more reason to live now that I don't got you two.”
You have me, Grandpa,
Michael thought.
I've come home.
It didn't matter that the first time around wasn't sensational. It didn't matter that it was much less than that. At the moment Michael wasn't remembering how the past really was; all he was thinking about was that he wanted his family back, whatever tattered fragments of it were left. Michael took a step forward, still careful not to make any noise, which unfortunately meant he was able to hear what his grandfather said next when the gruffness returned to his voice. “The only good thing that's come from all of this is it got me rid of that grandson of mine.”
No, that can't be what he said.
Michael leaned in a bit closer. He must have misheard his grandfather, that had to be it. He's changed, he's different, he's bringing flowers to a cemetery, for God's sake. The grandfather Michael grew up with would never do something so thoughtful. And this man here would never say something so cruel. Unfortunately, the two men were one and the same.
Pointing to his daughter's headstone, Michael's grandfather rattled on, his voice now as strong and loud as ever. “Sorry, Gracie, but that sissy punk of yours was never any good and you know it.” Michael heard the hateful words and even though his mind refused to believe them, his body reacted as if it had just been assaulted. He leaned back against the wall to steady himself, no longer experiencing delight at how it felt. He wished he could be like Phaedra, dematerialize and vanish within the marble so he could block out his grandfather's voice, his vile words. But he only had himself to blame; he had wanted to come home, so he had to hear what home had to say. “If I had to lose the two of you to get that useless grandson out of my life for good, then so be it!”
I knew my grandfather didn't love me like my mother did, but I didn't think he hated me.
Then, unexpectedly, Michael found himself starting to laugh. He clasped his hand to his mouth so he wouldn't be heard. How absurd this all was! First he had to watch his father kill his mother because he wanted him back in his life, and now he had to listen to his grandfather express absolutely no remorse for the deaths of his mother and grandmother simply because it meant Michael was out of his life forever. He wasn't a son, he wasn't a grandson. He was a pawn, a plaything, something that could be thrown out with the trash when it was no longer wanted.
When he heard his grandfather curse, he was pulled away from his thoughts. When he saw that he had fallen and was struggling to get up, he stopped laughing. The old man pressed his bony hand into the ground, and Michael watched as it shook, watched the tremor grow and slowly consume his whole arm. Leaning on the headstone for support, his grandfather pushed himself up only to lurch forward, his foot stomping hard on the daisies.
“Goddammit!” the old man hollered. His shout became a watery cough, and still using the headstone as a crutch, he spit onto someone else's grave.
Michael felt his chest tighten, watching his grandfather falter, because he knew there was nothing he could do to help. Finally the old man was able to stand, but it took a few more moments for his body to become completely upright. Once he caught his breath, he grumbled, “You see girls, I still need ya.” Then mumbling mostly to himself he added, “It's no good on my own.”
Watching his grandfather hobble down the path toward his beloved Bronco, Michael realized with regret that he pitied the man, and you shouldn't pity your grandfather, you should respect him, aspire to be like him. But he was broken, physically and emotionally, because that's what he chose. He chose to fill himself up with hate, he chose to ignore his wife and daughter until it was too late, and he chose to disown his grandson.
“You're just like my father,” Michael whispered. “Pathetic.”
Long after the Bronco was out of sight, Michael kept staring in the direction where he last saw his grandfather, feeling strange because he didn't feel angry. But how could he be angry with a man who had nothing? It would just be a waste of time, no matter what Michael said or did, the man wasn't going to change. “Good-bye, Grandpa,” Michael said out loud. “Guess there really isn't anything left here for me after all.”
“Then why don't you come back home.”
Spinning around, Michael saw Ronan standing before him, the sun glowing behind him, creating a haze around his face, and Michael thought it might be just another vision, a mirage. But no, Ronan was really there, his presence not the result of magic but friendship.
“Ciaran told me you were going home,” Ronan explained. “And I knew what that meant.”
Michael took a step closer so he could see Ronan more clearly, without the sun gleaming in his eyes. “Looks like I owe Ciaran a thank-you,” he said. “And you an apology.”
Sheepishly, Ronan looked away. “No, I'm the one who should apologize.”
Michael touched Ronan's chin and turned his face until their eyes met once again. “My hometown, so that means I get to go first.”
Ronan nodded his agreement and followed Michael's lead as he slid down the side of the mausoleum to sit on the ground. “I'm sorry I took off like that and, you know, for the things I said,” Michael began. “There's nothing left for me here. I was a jerk to think there would be.”
“You're hardly a jerk, Michael,” Ronan said.
“What would you call me, then? Stupid? A fool?” Michael asked.
“I'd call you bloody amazing,” Ronan said proudly.
Incredulous, Michael turned his attention to a worm he spotted burrowing into the dirt. “Is that some sort of vampire joke?”
Laughing, Ronan grabbed Michael's hand and was thrilled that he didn't pull away. “I heard the things your grandfather said. I heard the hate in his voice,” Ronan admitted. “If you were some dumb git, you would've lashed out, gotten into a huge row with him. You were the victim, but you didn't act like one, you acted like the adult.”
Rubbing Ronan's forearms, Michael shrugged his shoulders. “Guess I didn't have any energy left after beating up my father.”
Even though Michael's fingers felt so good tracing the veins in Ronan's arms, he still felt uncomfortable. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you about that.”
Michael didn't think his blue eyes ever looked more sincere. “I know why you did; I get it. You wanted to protect me.”
“Funny thing is, you don't need my protection,” Ronan whispered. “Which doesn't mean I won't always have your back.”
Facing his boyfriend, Michael wrapped his hand around Ronan's neck, ran his fingers through his hair. “Tell you what, you can be Harold and I'll be Kumar.”
“What?”
“The buddy movie,” Michael explained. “The one me and Saoirse were watching.”
“Oh, that one,” Ronan said, rolling his eyes. “You were laughing so hard you couldn't even hear what they were saying.”
Shaking his head, Michael realized there was a lot Ronan still needed to learn. “That, Mr. Fuddy Duddy, is how you watch Harold and Kumar. Maybe if you're lucky, one night me and the kid'll teach you.”

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