Read Online A Shared Confidence by William Topek - Free Book Online Page A

full-of-himself snob or the truly antisocial derelict; character and courtesy were what mattered. Whether a fellow was heading off to college or returning from prison, if he knew his manners and Mom judged him a decent sort, he was welcome in the Caine household for a hot meal and, if such was his wont, a generous libation.
    It made for an interesting upbringing. The favors exchanged within such a group certainly augmented our standard of living, as much as the company itself enriched our lives. Conversations around the dinner table were as fascinating as they were unpredictable, the after-dinner entertainment even more so. I had as good a chance of hearing a first-rate Italian tenor sing opera next to the piano as I did of learning how to pick a lock (I can still see “Uncle” Teddy’s craggy face and smiling eyes, feel his gnarled, safecracker’s hand on my shoulder. “For fun and games, lad, and that’s all. I’ve seen firsthand where they send the sort who uses this skill to help himself to another man’s share, and upon me oath, ye want no part of it.”).
    Mom and Dad quarreled often, but never very seriously and never for very long. Apart from the inevitable clashes resulting from their different upbringings, Dad couldn’t resist baiting her sometimes, making some dry comment that he knew would get the old Irish up. I’d always thought this was kind of mean of him, and finally got up the nerve to ask him about it once. We were at a train depot. I was heading off for military service and Mom had refused to come along, knowing she’d make a fool of herself. Dad and I were making idle chit-chat as we waited for the conductor’s call.
    â€œOh that,” he drawled offhandedly, smiling into the distance. “There’s just something about your mother when she gets that fire in her belly, those dark eyes of hers coming alight the way they do. And to tell you a bit of a secret, old man, calming her down afterward is half the fun.” It was pretty bawdy, coming from my typically reserved English father, and we laughed together over it.
    I drove south along Main Street, slowing for the lights instead of racing them, in no particular hurry as I let the various memories unspool. My mind drifted back to a rainy autumn afternoon five and a half years ago.
    The Caines were living in Michigan that year. They’d taken a motor trip to California – Mom wanted to see the redwoods and San Francisco’s magnificent Golden Gate. During the drive back, they were hit by a truck driver who’d been on the road over eighteen hours and nodded off at the wheel. The truck crossed over into the oncoming lane of traffic and struck Dad’s car head on. He and mom were killed instantly. Dad was fifty-nine years old; mom was fifty-six.
    Nathan was contacted by a neighbor of theirs and telephoned me in Chicago. It wasn’t good news for either of us, but Nathan was devastated. He’d always been the conscientious one, writing to his mother at least once a week and coming out to visit with his wife and kids whenever he could. I made it out for visits far less often, a fact Nathan rarely missed an opportunity to point out. When he insisted that our parents be buried in Baltimore where he’d been living the past few years, I didn’t argue. I knew he wanted to feel they were still close and I knew Mom and Dad wouldn’t care. Always more concerned with life than with death, they’d never bothered to pick out burial plots.
    The funeral took place on a gray, drizzly afternoon. Nathan was there with his wife, son, and baby girl, along with a few of our parents’ friends who lived close enough to make the trip. The priest from Nathan’s church gave the eulogy, then stood at the graveside where he threw the dirt and said a prayer, leaving the newly-orphaned sons standing together awkwardly.
    â€œWhat do we do now?” Nathan asked as we walked back to