You Only Get So Much

You Only Get So Much

By Dan Kolbet

Also by Dan Kolbet

Off The Grid

Don't Wait For Me

You Only Get So Much

Copyright © 2014 by Dan Kolbet

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval
systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is
by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

For Jill.

You Only Get So Much

When Billy Redmond
returns to his hometown to attend his brother's funeral, he's hoping for a
quick trip. No reason to stay for more than a few hours. He's been in self-imposed
exile from his family after a tragedy 12 years ago. It's better this way. He
can't harm people he never sees.

Billy soon finds that
his family isn't better off without him, in fact he's the only one who can help
them. Billy is forced to fight through his tormented past to make a better
future for those he loves.

For Billy, it's more
than a second chance, it's his last chance to get it right.

Chapter 1

Spokane, Washington

I lean against the front
bumper of my 1974 Ford pickup in the small parking lot of the funeral home,
ignoring the mud and bugs collected on the bumper and how they might soil my
only pair of suit pants. Three days earlier I hadn't remembered I actually
still had suit pants. I'd assumed that the suffocating corporate uniform of my
past had not followed me in my isolation, but in the back of the cedar-lined
closet of my drafty lake cabin I had found a charcoal gray Hilfiger suit with a
herringbone weave. The box it was kept in had been packed by someone else. Thus
had I not gone looking for it; it may have been left undiscovered for years to
come. I don't have much cause to wear such things.

I tug on the
uncomfortable pants and feel them wiggle and slip down. My frame has leaned out
considerably since I last had to wear the suit, ironically at another funeral
more than 12 years prior. Today I'm also wearing a new black belt that I
purchased two days ago at a small hardware store in White Fish, Montana, the
closest city to my current home in the mountains. I'd gotten the usual stares
from the townspeople as I walked through town in my jeans and boots, my long
brown beard hanging over my flannel shirt. I blended in, sure, but they knew
me. Billy Redmond, the author. The guy who used to be a big deal. The guy who
certainly wasn't anymore.

Montana had its fair
share of hermits even before my time there. Best known, of course was Unabomber
Ted Kaczynski, who, beyond being a murderous bastard, gave Montana
isolationists like me a bad name. It's not like we had a club or secret
handshake or anything. We didn't chat on the phone. That would defeat the
purpose. I just wanted to be alone and for the last 12 years I'd managed that
feat without much trouble. When "that Billy guy" came to town, people
stayed away. Maybe it was out of fear. People in the woods of Montana were
bound to be packing heat or concealing an oversized hunting knife, right? No
question about that. So it was smart to keep your distance from me or people
who looked like me, they thought. But I'm harmless. I just want to be alone.

Or maybe these people
stayed away because I wasn't all that interesting anyhow. I was no one special,
at least not anymore. There was a time when I was on top of the world. Private
jets. Meetings in Hollywood. Long lunches with important people. Magazine
covers. Well, one magazine cover. A movie deal for my novel. I was "the
man" for a short time.

Until I wasn't. And I
certainly wasn't anymore.

I did find it troubling
over the years when strangers, looking for a handout, would ignore the "No
Trespassing" signs, the locked gate, and hike in more than a mile just to
knock on my door. The cabin wasn't exactly hidden—in that sense I wasn't
Kaczynski. I built the place so I could write alone. Write something. Anything
good, but apparently lightning really doesn't strike twice because I don't have
anything to show for it. At least nothing that you'll ever see.

I'd be polite to the
intruders who would knock on my door, but I wouldn't cut them a check. I didn't
have anything for them. It was gone—all of it. The payday for
Isolated Highway
—my
first and only novel—and the failed movie deal was no more. But they
still thought I had it squirreled away somewhere. I once had enough cash for
two lifetimes, but today I barely had enough for one. My nest egg was
non-existent. I'd even started searching for a job, but not very hard. What was
I qualified for anyway?

When the intruders would
come, it wasn't the reminder of my failures that bothered me. I didn't need help
in that department. It was the intrusion that I disliked, the human interaction
that I desperately wanted to avoid.
 
Why can't I just be left alone?

So, today leaning
against the dirty bumper of my old rusty pickup truck at the funeral home
parking lot in my hometown of Spokane, Washington, I'm fighting off the painful
urge to climb back into the cab and drive straight back to my little cabin in
the mountains, two states away, never to be seen again. Unless somebody knocks
on my door. Assuming I'd answer it.

No one expects me to be
at this funeral anyway. My family hadn't called me. They'd given up trying to
reach me years ago. And I was glad for that because you can't hurt people who
can't find you. Or at least I once thought this was true, but you'll have to
stick with me a bit longer to learn more about that.

*
* *

Bass and Dodge Funeral
Home has a white and tan exterior. If you didn't see the cheesy sign in the
parking lot, it's a fair assumption that the place is a church. The
stained-glass windows are overkill. But I was probably the only one looking at
the windows. The building sat immediately outside the gates of Fairwood
Cemetery, a convenient location if there ever was one. I imagined the
conversation between loved ones trying to bury their dead grandpa or uncle.
Let's make sure
we don't have to drive too far between the service and the grave
, they'd
say. God forbid they might have to spend a few extra minutes remembering
someone's life. It made me sick.

To the north of the
building is a huge dirt parking lot. Not for the hordes of mourners that were
expected to flood the funeral home, but for the local football stadium that
looms in the distance. I can visualize the cars streaming in and out of the
parking lot on Friday nights. The lights from the stadium blazing into the
front windows of nearby homes. The teens with their painted chests, sipping
from flasks in their parents' borrowed cars before cheering on their classmates
and barfing up the booze on the aluminum benches. They wouldn't be looking at
the windows of the funeral home either. They wouldn't be wondering who lay
stiff inside a bargain-priced coffin. They wouldn't weep for the dead.
 

Was I any better? Would
I weep? I should. After all, it's my brother and sister-in-law laying side-by-side
in matching cherry-wood caskets inside the funeral home. But I hadn't seen them
or even heard from them in 12 years. There were no Facebook status updates to
keep me abreast of their comings and goings. No Christmas cards or emails to
keep me informed of what the late Trevor and Jennifer Redmond or their two very
much alive daughters were up to these days. This was my doing of course, not
theirs. They would have just as soon had weekly dinners or whatever normal
people do with family. Do people even have dinner with family anymore? Or is
that out of style? These things are a bit lost on me.

Three days ago when my
emergency cell phone rang—yes, even hermits can have cell phones—I
didn't expect news of my little brother's death. I'd left the number at the
retirement home where my parents were living. Only the home's director had the
number. I had left it with the man just in case there was some emergency news I
might need. But in truth the only call I expected was one telling me that one
of my parents had died. My parents didn't want to see me anyway. And this was
one way I could ensure that I was at least available at the end. But my brother
Trevor dying wasn't the end I expected.

Trevor and Jennifer
Redmond had been staying in Fort Lauderdale waiting to board a Caribbean cruise
to celebrate their 18th wedding anniversary. They'd wandered into the wrong
neighborhood and were mugged. What exactly ensued wasn't entirely clear, but
their bodies were found in an alley. Stabbed. Wallet, purse and jewelry gone. A
surprising and sad end to two beautiful people. There was too much of that
going around. Things like that don't just happen on TV or in books. It happens
in real life too, but you don't notice it until it hits you—or someone
you care about.

The retirement home's
director apologized for the call, but felt someone needed to tell me that my
brother was gone and that a funeral was planned in Spokane in a few days. I
barely spoke a word, in part because I had a bit of trouble finding my voice
after months of inactivity, but also because I was devastated by the news.

More family dying. It
was happening again. Just like 12 years ago. It's not the same as the day I
learned my wife and daughter died. That was, well, different.

My little brother Trevor
was the pride and joy of the Redmond family. No one doubted it. He was the top
of his class at Santa Clara. Went to med school at the University of
Washington, and became a highly sought-after plastic surgeon who volunteered
his vacation time in third-world countries helping kids with cleft palates and
other ailments. He was a Neighborhood Watch captain. Drove a Volvo station
wagon. He baked. He was a goddamned American hero.
 

Jennifer wasn't far
behind his greatness. Undergrad and law degree from Gonzaga University. Former
Lilac Princess and Miss Spokane. President of the PTO. She left her law
practice behind to raise their daughters at home. Little Gracie was now 6
and Kendall was 16 or was it 17? I can't recall. This
power couple of goodness left a wide wake behind them and two kids.

This sad tale would seem
to make the case for me to lift my ass off the bumper of the truck and walk
inside the funeral home to pay my respects. But that isn't the case. They'd all
see me. See what I'd become in my 41 years on this earth and wonder why Trevor
was gone, but Billy was still kicking around.
Why was he spared when "the good
one" was dead?
they would ask. This was a tragedy that I had no
connection to. I didn't need the grief I was sure to get, because I'd been
through it before. I'd lost the goodness in my life too, but I couldn't think
about them now. My wife and daughter. It's been so long—12
years—but the memory is still as new and raw as the day I lost them. When
everything changed and I had to go away.

I tried to shake the
memory loose in my brain. I was sweaty and frayed. The tie around my neck
seemed to tighten like a noose. I yank it off and unbutton my top shirt button,
finally able to breathe again. I didn't use to be this way. Anxious. Frozen in
place by my fears. But I recognize they exist. That's got to mean something.

The noxious feeling
passes, but here I remain on the truck's bumper, holding my crumpled necktie,
afraid of what I might find inside the funeral home. Who I might see or who
might see me. Family and old friends. What they will think and say behind my
back. I was a coward, but at least I can admit it. I am a coward in a dated
suit and crumpled necktie.

My attention shifts to a
couple emerging from behind the funeral home. A young girl, maybe in her late
teens and a boy of a similar age. She leans against the side of the building as
he presses his body and mouth toward hers. She has a very pale face and dark
eye makeup. Is Goth the right word? The young lovers seem unaware of the
bearded guy in the parking lot watching them. Lost in their own youthful kisses
and lust. I watch, if only because it was one more thing to postpone my long
walk into the funeral home. A walk I don't want to take in the first place.

Only when the boy lets
the girl come up for air do I see the resemblance. My teenage niece, Kendall
Redmond, sure looks like her mom Jennifer.

*
* *

"Hey, buddy!"
the boy yells, suddenly stomping across the lot toward me. "What are you
looking at?"

The boy holds Kendall's
hand, pulling her along with him, the adolescent fury reddening his face. How
dare someone watch him going at it with his girlfriend in broad daylight in a
parking lot?

The boy marches right up
to me and stands inches from my chest. Kendall stands behind him, seemingly
disinterested in the confrontation. Her hair is dyed black, with only the faint
blonde roots giving her away. She is tall with long legs covered in black
fishnet stockings, knee-high boots and a short black leather skirt. Her face is
painted pale white, while her eyes are encircled with black. Her mom was a
gorgeous woman. And sure, she looks like her mom, if her mom worshipped the
devil and was a streetwalker.

The boy is now in my
face. Maybe this bravado is the boy's way of protecting her. Maybe he is like
every other person on the planet who doesn't know how to deal with death and
mourning.
 
Maybe he is hurting. Or
maybe he's just an asshole.

"You got a problem
pal?" the boy asks.

I stand my ground. What
do I have to fear from this kid? At 6 feet, three inches tall, I actually tower
over the boy. His head doesn't even reach as high as my beard.
 

The boy starts to roll
up his sleeves. He looks like a bull dancing before charging the matador and
his red cloth.

"Hey,
lumberjack—are you eyeing my girlfriend? Is that your deal, perv?"
he asks.

With that, Kendall meets
my eyes for the first time. She looks away, and then quickly back again. She
was around 6 years old when I left. Does she remember her uncle?
 
She probably remembers me as the guy
who brought her gifts on birthdays and Christmas, the guy who let her steer my
convertible Mustang when her parents weren't watching. She doesn't seem like
the same person, but then again, neither do I.

"Ethan, back off
him," she says. "That's my long-lost Uncle Billy."

The way she said it made
me feel like I am two feet tall.

"Kendall," is
all I say, feeling quite long-lost.

"What are you doing
here?" she asks.

I clear my throat,
again. I'm not used to speaking.

"The funeral,"
I manage to get out.

"No shit. Why are
you outside?" she asks.

"Why are
you
outside?" I reply. Knowing full well how annoying it is to answer a
question with a question.

"I don't know
anyone in there," she says. "They don't know me either."