Read Online Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) by Sean Michael O'Dea - Free Book Online
Authors: Sean Michael O'Dea
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father.”
“He’s right where you left him, Mr. Wage,” Miss Marie said.
Wage headed up the main staircase and conjured up a childhood memory for every step. Miss Marie yelling at him for swearing, little brother repeating it, father disciplining him, mother soothing him, big brother outshining him, little brother emulating him, father drinking, mother yelling, father yelling, mother stroking his hair, big brother stealing his toys, mother soothing him, father womanizing, mother crying, father drinking some more, mother soothing him.
The memories faded as he entered the bedroom.
Inside the master bedroom, his father lay motionless, staring out the window. After his stroke five years ago, he lost the efficient use of most of his body, save for his left arm. Facial expressions became nearly impossible as well. Ironically, facial expressions were scarce even before his stroke. Despite all that, Wage knew his father relished the storm outside, a reflection of his own tumultuous mind now imprisoned in his barely-functioning body. Near his father’s nightstand was Wage’s last parting gift to him, an invention of his own design: a left-handed glove with strings tied to each finger. Each string connected to a different bell on the first floor. Each bell, in turn, signaled a different request. The lowest bell was bedpan, other bells were food and water, another was curtains to be drawn, and the highest bell signified his craving to be pushed about the grounds in his wheeled chair. The last one required Warren to carry his own father downstairs. Wage knew that in reality, the bells represented whiskey, bourbon, gin, brandy, and red wine, respectively.
His father turned his head and talked out one side of his mouth, “Been awhile, Wage,” he said. “What brings the prodigal son home this time? You haven’t blown through your trust already, now, have you?”
“I‘m just passing through on my way to New Orleans. Thought I might see you, Will, and Warren. Thought I might visit with mom,” Wage replied.
“You’d be visiting with headstone, boy,” his father said.
“Yes, probably carved from your own heart, I imagine.”
“Clever, boy. Maybe you should’ve been the politician,” his father replied.
“If I had a soul like yours, I’d probably be a damn good one.”
“Full of aggravating wit, too, like your mother. It never was just her looks you got,” his father said. “Believe me, boy. Talking to stone ain’t gonna bring her back. Try facing reality instead of running from it.”
“If facing them meant becoming like you, I think I’ll pass,” Wage said.
“You wouldn’t last a day in my condition, boy. And try not to be so nonchalant about it. Don’t act as if I wasn’t there. I saw it happen, Wage! I was smoking a cigar, strolling through garden when I saw her climb out the window onto the spire with little Wyatt. I saw her, Wage! And where were you? Huh!? Exchanging vows with your little girlfriend and that swamp witch?”
Wage stayed silent. Even in his immobilized state, the great Major William Henri Pascal, survivor of Little Big Horn, descendant of the noblesse de robe, successful business magnate, and patriarch still commanded a room.
“Lost your tongue finally?” his white-haired father said.
“Not quite. I am just without the will to use it at the moment,” Wage replied.
“This family has moved on, Wage. Why haven’t you? Doctors said there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it. Blamed it on postpartum hysteria. And what did you do? You ran away! You still wanna run? Keep running! But believe, boy, it won’t help.”
“You’re right. I am still running, and perhaps I should continue,” Wage said.
There was a long, uncomfortable pause. “Well,” his father said, “spend time with Warren before you leave. The boy looks up to you. He’s even followin’ in your footsteps—wants to be a
“He’s right where you left him, Mr. Wage,” Miss Marie said.
Wage headed up the main staircase and conjured up a childhood memory for every step. Miss Marie yelling at him for swearing, little brother repeating it, father disciplining him, mother soothing him, big brother outshining him, little brother emulating him, father drinking, mother yelling, father yelling, mother stroking his hair, big brother stealing his toys, mother soothing him, father womanizing, mother crying, father drinking some more, mother soothing him.
The memories faded as he entered the bedroom.
Inside the master bedroom, his father lay motionless, staring out the window. After his stroke five years ago, he lost the efficient use of most of his body, save for his left arm. Facial expressions became nearly impossible as well. Ironically, facial expressions were scarce even before his stroke. Despite all that, Wage knew his father relished the storm outside, a reflection of his own tumultuous mind now imprisoned in his barely-functioning body. Near his father’s nightstand was Wage’s last parting gift to him, an invention of his own design: a left-handed glove with strings tied to each finger. Each string connected to a different bell on the first floor. Each bell, in turn, signaled a different request. The lowest bell was bedpan, other bells were food and water, another was curtains to be drawn, and the highest bell signified his craving to be pushed about the grounds in his wheeled chair. The last one required Warren to carry his own father downstairs. Wage knew that in reality, the bells represented whiskey, bourbon, gin, brandy, and red wine, respectively.
His father turned his head and talked out one side of his mouth, “Been awhile, Wage,” he said. “What brings the prodigal son home this time? You haven’t blown through your trust already, now, have you?”
“I‘m just passing through on my way to New Orleans. Thought I might see you, Will, and Warren. Thought I might visit with mom,” Wage replied.
“You’d be visiting with headstone, boy,” his father said.
“Yes, probably carved from your own heart, I imagine.”
“Clever, boy. Maybe you should’ve been the politician,” his father replied.
“If I had a soul like yours, I’d probably be a damn good one.”
“Full of aggravating wit, too, like your mother. It never was just her looks you got,” his father said. “Believe me, boy. Talking to stone ain’t gonna bring her back. Try facing reality instead of running from it.”
“If facing them meant becoming like you, I think I’ll pass,” Wage said.
“You wouldn’t last a day in my condition, boy. And try not to be so nonchalant about it. Don’t act as if I wasn’t there. I saw it happen, Wage! I was smoking a cigar, strolling through garden when I saw her climb out the window onto the spire with little Wyatt. I saw her, Wage! And where were you? Huh!? Exchanging vows with your little girlfriend and that swamp witch?”
Wage stayed silent. Even in his immobilized state, the great Major William Henri Pascal, survivor of Little Big Horn, descendant of the noblesse de robe, successful business magnate, and patriarch still commanded a room.
“Lost your tongue finally?” his white-haired father said.
“Not quite. I am just without the will to use it at the moment,” Wage replied.
“This family has moved on, Wage. Why haven’t you? Doctors said there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it. Blamed it on postpartum hysteria. And what did you do? You ran away! You still wanna run? Keep running! But believe, boy, it won’t help.”
“You’re right. I am still running, and perhaps I should continue,” Wage said.
There was a long, uncomfortable pause. “Well,” his father said, “spend time with Warren before you leave. The boy looks up to you. He’s even followin’ in your footsteps—wants to be a
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