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Authors: Dianne Dixon
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that’s what men who are loved the best seem to do, isn’t it? They abandon you and go away.”
Later, Robert realized that his mother had never forbidden him to go to Hawaii; she had simply prevented it by making it seem like an act of brutality.
And after all these years, he was still in this same kitchen, with his mother slipping her arm through his and saying: “You must never tell Tom, but you’ve always been my favorite.” Her hand was cool on his skin, familiar and slightly repellent. Robert wished he could get away from her, and stay away.
The only woman’s caress he had wanted was Caroline’s.
It was what he was wanting now as he sat in the hospital waiting room with this fidgety young nurse. He was in need of Caroline’s touch, her presence, her assurance that she didn’t in any way blame him—or his lack of fatherly involvement—for Justin’s accident.
Before the nurse could launch into her questions again, a burly doctor appeared in the waiting room doorway. “Mr. Fisher, your son’s been taken to X Ray,” he said.
Robert held on to the arm of the chair as he stood; his knees were shaking. “How badly is he hurt?”
“It’ll still be a while before we know.” The doctor was already headed back through the doorway. “I’ll come out again as soon as there’s any news.”
As the doctor left, the young nurse was searching through the forms on her clipboard, mumbling: “Oh, gosh. I didn’t bring the right one.” She jumped up and rushed off, narrowly avoiding a collision with a shabbily dressed man who had edged his way intothe waiting room. He was making a stealthy, efficient search of each trash can along the wall before moving toward the exit door. As the man walked past, Robert saw—at the bottom of his threadbare shirt pocket—the outline of a thin hand-rolled cigarette.
Again, Robert’s thoughts went to that Thanksgiving weekend, when a joint—and then his brother, and, finally, Caroline—had led him to heartache and to violence.
It was in the evening, after Thanksgiving dinner was over. A crisp autumn wind was scattering leaves onto the path between the house and the garden shed, and the air had the aroma of wood smoke and fireplaces in it.
Tom was saying: “Holy crap, Robert. Does Caroline know you store your stash in Dad’s old toolbox and keep it out here where Mom grew all her little seedlings? Damn. That is priceless!”
“Hey, it’s not just any stash.” Robert held up a plastic bag containing half a dozen joints. “What we have here, my brother, is Thai stick.” Robert removed a joint, then returned the bag to the battered toolbox. Tom leaned over and inspected the contents: a jumble of bulbless flashlights, corroded pliers, and hardened duct tape. “The old man and tools. What a joke,” Tom said.
Robert put the toolbox back on its shelf above the shed door, and he and Tom walked toward the house. As Tom took the joint from Robert, he lit it and said: “You’ve done a great job with the old palace, Rob.” They stood, passing the joint between them, studying the house: the place Tom had escaped and Robert had resurrected.
Eventually, Robert and Tom drifted around the side of the house and onto the front porch. They sank into a pair of wicker chairs, putting their feet up on the table that was between them. There was a slight movement at the other end of the porch, and Robert realized Caroline was there.
She was almost lost in shadow, lying in the wide wooden swing, her head pillowed against its arm and her legs tucked under a light blanket. She looked as if she’d slipped off to sleep.
It pleased Robert to see that Caroline was nearby; he gave himself over to the lazy haze of a sweet high. He was mellow and, for the moment, content to be with his brother. “How’s Hawaii?” he asked.
“Good,” Tom said. “The university pays me to read and talk about the same great books I would read for free. I’m adored by my female grad students. I get
Later, Robert realized that his mother had never forbidden him to go to Hawaii; she had simply prevented it by making it seem like an act of brutality.
And after all these years, he was still in this same kitchen, with his mother slipping her arm through his and saying: “You must never tell Tom, but you’ve always been my favorite.” Her hand was cool on his skin, familiar and slightly repellent. Robert wished he could get away from her, and stay away.
The only woman’s caress he had wanted was Caroline’s.
It was what he was wanting now as he sat in the hospital waiting room with this fidgety young nurse. He was in need of Caroline’s touch, her presence, her assurance that she didn’t in any way blame him—or his lack of fatherly involvement—for Justin’s accident.
Before the nurse could launch into her questions again, a burly doctor appeared in the waiting room doorway. “Mr. Fisher, your son’s been taken to X Ray,” he said.
Robert held on to the arm of the chair as he stood; his knees were shaking. “How badly is he hurt?”
“It’ll still be a while before we know.” The doctor was already headed back through the doorway. “I’ll come out again as soon as there’s any news.”
As the doctor left, the young nurse was searching through the forms on her clipboard, mumbling: “Oh, gosh. I didn’t bring the right one.” She jumped up and rushed off, narrowly avoiding a collision with a shabbily dressed man who had edged his way intothe waiting room. He was making a stealthy, efficient search of each trash can along the wall before moving toward the exit door. As the man walked past, Robert saw—at the bottom of his threadbare shirt pocket—the outline of a thin hand-rolled cigarette.
Again, Robert’s thoughts went to that Thanksgiving weekend, when a joint—and then his brother, and, finally, Caroline—had led him to heartache and to violence.
It was in the evening, after Thanksgiving dinner was over. A crisp autumn wind was scattering leaves onto the path between the house and the garden shed, and the air had the aroma of wood smoke and fireplaces in it.
Tom was saying: “Holy crap, Robert. Does Caroline know you store your stash in Dad’s old toolbox and keep it out here where Mom grew all her little seedlings? Damn. That is priceless!”
“Hey, it’s not just any stash.” Robert held up a plastic bag containing half a dozen joints. “What we have here, my brother, is Thai stick.” Robert removed a joint, then returned the bag to the battered toolbox. Tom leaned over and inspected the contents: a jumble of bulbless flashlights, corroded pliers, and hardened duct tape. “The old man and tools. What a joke,” Tom said.
Robert put the toolbox back on its shelf above the shed door, and he and Tom walked toward the house. As Tom took the joint from Robert, he lit it and said: “You’ve done a great job with the old palace, Rob.” They stood, passing the joint between them, studying the house: the place Tom had escaped and Robert had resurrected.
Eventually, Robert and Tom drifted around the side of the house and onto the front porch. They sank into a pair of wicker chairs, putting their feet up on the table that was between them. There was a slight movement at the other end of the porch, and Robert realized Caroline was there.
She was almost lost in shadow, lying in the wide wooden swing, her head pillowed against its arm and her legs tucked under a light blanket. She looked as if she’d slipped off to sleep.
It pleased Robert to see that Caroline was nearby; he gave himself over to the lazy haze of a sweet high. He was mellow and, for the moment, content to be with his brother. “How’s Hawaii?” he asked.
“Good,” Tom said. “The university pays me to read and talk about the same great books I would read for free. I’m adored by my female grad students. I get
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