Shy (29 page)

T
HE
four of us were sitting around the kitchen table a few days later. Summer was at its peak, and the days were so hot that at noon you could griddle pancakes on the hood of Joe’s pickup truck. Nights were even hotter. On this particular Sunday evening, the kitchen was sweltering, even with all the doors and windows flung open. Joe’s old fan was propped up on the kitchen counter, screaming out a one-note tune and blowing the heat around, cooling nothing.

Pedro was lying on his side on a dishtowel in the middle of the kitchen table like a holiday centerpiece. His fat little tummy was pumping up and down as he panted his way through the heat and humidity. He rarely left Joe’s side these days. I couldn’t help wondering sometimes if maybe Pedro knew something about Joe that we didn’t. Like how much time Joe had left. Or how much time Joe
didn’t
have left. Does Old Man Death have a quantifiable smell? Could Pedro sense that ancient creature in black robes hovering at Joe’s side, biding his time maybe, enjoying the wait, savoring Joe’s suffering, taking it as his due, before finally stepping out of the shadows to snatch Joe off to oblivion?

Or maybe Pedro’s motives were a whole lot simpler than that. Maybe Pedro simply
liked
Joe. I couldn’t discount that possibility either.

Joe had called a family meeting. It was the first time we had seen him out of his bedroom in a week, and I could tell it was taking every ounce of what strength he had left to remain upright on the kitchen chair, even
with
a bunch of pillows poked in around him to hold him up. The man was so shriveled up now, and the never-ending pain was so indelibly etched on his corneas, that I wondered just what it was that kept him going. Was it maybe love that kept the wheels of his life turning? Love for his sons. Love for his farm. What exactly was it that kept Joe’s poor heart beating? I knew, deep in my own heart, that I was not as strong as this simple Indiana farmer. If I had to suffer like Joe had suffered, I would have laid down the weary, miserable load long before this and considered myself lucky to be rid of it.

Frank and I had said nothing to Stanley about that day in the washhouse, but Stanley knew we knew. You could see in his eyes that he was hoping one of us would mention it so he could jump down our throats and tell us to mind our own business, but we refused to give him the satisfaction. I also think Stanley entertained a certain perverse satisfaction in knowing he had seduced what had once belonged to Frank alone. Perhaps it was just another example of Stanley’s greed. He couldn’t bear to think Frank might have had something that he himself had never tasted. Which was probably why he had tried to seduce me. Greed. He would have bedded me even if he didn’t want me, just to show he could.

We hadn’t seen Jeff Moody since that day. He was probably hiding out on his own farm, mortified, and hopefully running into town now and then to have some blood work done. Medically speaking, I wouldn’t trust Stanley’s ass any farther than I could throw it. I certainly wouldn’t feel comfortable sticking any of my own body parts into it that weren’t first properly sheathed in eight or nine layers of polyurethane, then thoroughly sprayed with disinfectant and dipped in Raid and possibly roasted over an open flame afterward.

Needless to say, Stanley was still being a pain. Lazy, sneaky, and no help whatsoever. Frank and I bore the brunt of the farm work, and if we complained, it was only to each other. Complaining to Stanley would have pleased him no end, so we weren’t about to do that. Besides, not
expecting
any help goes a long way in keeping you happy when you don’t
get
any help. You can’t miss what you know you’ll never have, and Stanley was a master at never offering anybody anything but grief. He seemed to thrive on it.

True to his character, Joe got right to the point. He looked around the table at each of us in turn. Pedro was snoring softly, lying there sound asleep on the dish towel between us, his gentle noises barely audible above the cacophonous thrumming of the old electric fan. Joe seemed to be keeping his voice down so he wouldn’t wake Pedro. Even with Death tapping him on the shoulder, Joe could find consideration for a napping Chihuahua. The immensity of kindness in that act staggered me.

Already, Joe was fighting back a cough, gently touching his tender throat with a trembling hand, massaging it, coaxing it to silence. “My time is running out, boys. We need to clear a few things up. I don’t want any surprises or disappointments after I’m gone.”

“Pop—” Frank said.

Joe gently cut him off. “Let me say what I have to say first. Then you can do all the talking you want.”

Frank’s hand reached out to me under the table. I took it, twining my fingers through his, and together we waited. Silent and respectful.

Stanley was tilted back on the two hind legs of his kitchen chair, chewing a kitchen match. He was eyeing his father coldly, at least when Joe wasn’t watching. It was as if Stanley was bored and resentful of the fact that Joe had pulled him away from the
real
drama of
Days of Our Lives
for this horseshit. Not for the first time, I wondered how a guy as handsome as Stanley could turn out to be so damn mean. Was he missing a chromosome or something? Was there a kink in his DNA chain that made him act the way he did? Did nature stick a rusty link in there? Once again I found myself wondering what it was that had made Jerry fall in love with this creep. Not that I much cared anymore now that I had Frank. And if you looked at it obliquely, if Jerry hadn’t dumped me for this Neanderthal, Frank and I would have never come together. Funny how things work out. One day you have a broken heart, and the next day you’re so damned happy you can’t see straight. Life’s a trip and that’s a fact. New surprises at every turn.

With a start, I realized that Joe’s eyes were not centered on his sons anymore. They were aimed directly at me. It seemed like a good time to stop thinking about myself and start paying attention, so I did.

“Tom,” Joe said, “you’re a third party in all this, so I’m going to say what I have to say to you. That way I won’t feel guilty when certain people that I love find out things they may not want to hear. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, gripping Frank’s hand a little tighter, pleased when he gave me a reassuring squeeze back. “I guess so.”

I saw Stanley tense up when Joe spoke those words. Maybe Stanley knew what was coming, or maybe he just suspected. Either way, he didn’t look happy.

Joe trained his eyes on me. Those eyes were teary and red and weary beyond all imagining. They were deep-set in a face so strained with the suffering the man had endured the last few months that it made your heart ache to look at them. But those eyes still had a flame of purpose burning bright somewhere deep down in their troubled green depths. And they still looked out at the world with determination. It was pretty obvious that Joe had no intention of letting a little thing like his own suffering derail his intentions as far as the execution of his estate was concerned.

“I’ve done a lot of soul-searching about my two boys, Tom. And being a farmer, I’ve had to rely on the conventional wisdom about what you get out of life. The conventional wisdom is ‘you reap what you sow’. Pretty profound, huh?”

“No, sir,” I said.

Joe smiled. “You’re right, Tom. It ain’t profound at all. It’s a simple truth. You reap what you sow. Any farmer in the world will tell you the same. If you plant corn, you get corn. If you plant wheat, you get wheat. If you don’t plant anything, you get weeds. Or nothing.”

Joe took a moment to wipe his lips with a broad red handkerchief he plucked from his pocket. I thought he was going to start coughing, but he didn’t. I think he thought so too. He looked immensely grateful when he didn’t.

“Well, now, Tom, I know my boys are sitting here chomping at the bit to find out what my will says. I’m afraid they’re going to have to wait a little longer. I didn’t gather everybody here to tell them what they’re getting. I gathered them here to tell them what I
want.
”

“This is nuts,” Stanley stated. “So there’s a will, huh? So what’s the big mystery? Just tell us what it says, or better yet just show it to us and end the suspense. We’re adults. We can take it.”

“No,” Joe said. “I won’t watch you boys fight while I’m laying in that bed in there dying a slow, miserable death. You can fight all you want after I’m dead and gone, and I don’t doubt you will. But it’ll all be a waste of time if you do. The will is airtight. Even if I did draw it up myself.”

Stanley’s voice was the only cold thing in that sweltering kitchen. His words sliced through the air like knives made of ice. “I guess you left me out of it then, is that what you’re trying to say, Pop? This farm is worth a fortune, you know. You could sell it right now for a pretty penny.”

“I didn’t leave anybody out,” Joe said. “The will includes both of you. Maybe not equally, but it includes both of you.”

Frank shot a glance at me, then looked back at his father. I knew what Frank was thinking as well as Frank did. Joe told us the farm was going to him. Now he was telling us something different. I couldn’t imagine why. It wasn’t like Joe to sneak around and play one side against the other like this. Had his pain addled his mind? Was he confused? Did he even know what the hell he was talking about?

Stanley certainly seemed to think so. “I won’t be left out of my share, Pop. Half this farm is mine. I’ll drag Frank through every court in the country before I let him walk off with everything. He’s always been your favorite. You’ve always loved him more.” He rolled his eyes. “Christ, I sound like Tommy Smothers.”

“If I love him more,” Joe said, ignoring the jest, “then I would have left you nothing. You’re taken care of. I’m not so sure you deserve it, but you are taken care of. Does that satisfy you?”

“Taken care of
how
?” Stanley insisted. One would have thought he was arguing with a car salesman over the price of a new car, not dealing with a dying father about the dispensation of his estate. Stanley really was a cold son of a bitch. One look into his pitiless eyes as he sat there coolly appraising Joe was enough to prove it. Even his father’s misery meant nothing to him. Stanley cared only about himself.

“Where is this will?” Stanley asked. “We’ll need to know where it is anyway, so you might as well tell us now.”

“You mean you’ll need to know where it is when I’m dead.”

“Yes,” Stanley flatly stated. “When you’re dead.”

Joe took a click of time to contemplate the heartless way Stanley had spoken those words. Then he seemed to let it go. Maybe he expected nothing more from his eldest son than what he was getting. If it hurt him, he didn’t let it show. “It’s well-guarded, believe me. You’d be hard-pressed to find a better guard than the one watching over that will,” Joe said with a mysterious smile. “That’s all you need to know. And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t go looking for it. You’ll find out what it says when the time is right, and not a minute before.”

Even Frank looked faintly confused by that statement. “Pop, when the time is right, you’ll already be gone. You won’t be able to lead us to it.”

“That’s what you think,” Joe said. “I’ve got ways. Even beyond the grave, I’ve got ways.”

Stanley gave a derisive snort. “Well, I hope there’s more than one copy of the damn thing floating around just in case.”

“Nope,” Joe said. “There’s just one copy. One copy’s all I needed to make my intentions known.”

“Oh really,” Stanley said, glancing first at Frank, then quickly at me. “One copy, huh?” It didn’t take a genius to figure out what he was thinking. If he wasn’t happy with the will he would destroy it and then half of everything would go to him, no matter what the damn thing said. It would be his word against ours.

“Oh really,” he said again. This time he said it to himself, not to us. I wondered if he knew he had actually spoken the words out loud.

Joe’s eyes had started to water up, but he wasn’t crying. He was trying not to cough. He held the red handkerchief to his lips, just in case, but he never looked away from Stanley’s face.

Silence reigned around the kitchen table while I wondered what the hell Joe had meant when he said the will was being guarded. Guarded by whom?

Frank tried to intercede in the growing animosity between Stanley and his father. “Pop, if you didn’t call us together to tell us about the will, then what was it you
did
want to tell us?”

But suddenly Joe was no longer listening. Or, at least, he was no longer listening to
us
.
He had the look of a man who has suddenly heard a voice inside his head, heard a voice speaking of things that he knew all along were true, but had never really allowed himself to believe before this moment.

He seemed to have learned, beyond all doubt, what it was he had come to this table to find out. One or both of his sons had made it clear to him at last.

As we sat there in a circle in that god-awful hot kitchen on that god-awful hot summer afternoon, I saw Joe gather his strength and push the voice in his head away. He had learned what he came here to learn, and now he would do what he had to do.

“I want to see the farm,” he announced, turning his eyes to me. “Tom, I want to see the farm. Right now.” And to Frank, he said, “You can roll me down to the pond in that old wheelchair of your mother’s. I want to look the place over. I want to remember it the way it is.”

Frank gave his dad a patient smile. “Pop, there’s plenty of time for you to—”

“Now,” Joe said. “I want to see the farm now. If you and Stanley don’t want to come, then Tom won’t mind taking me, will you Tom? You wouldn’t deny an old man his final wish, would you?”

Stanley laughed at that. “Final wish, my ass. You’ll probably outlive us all. Besides, I have to go into town. You boys can roll around the farm as much as you want. I’ve got things to do.”

“Take the phone book with you,” Joe said. “If you’re scoping out lawyers, it’ll make things a lot simpler to have all their addresses at hand. Save on the running around.”