prospective buyer.
No problem, Jack told her. Weâll have done all the visiting we can stand by then.
âDonât be that way,â sheâd beseeched him after a short silence, and he said he wouldnât.
They are supposed to meet here at noon. Sandy is bringing a bucket of chicken, potato salad, whatever, and the three siblings are going to have a good old-fashioned picnic, cooked by some 15-year-old fast-food dropout, here at the old home place Mike and Sandy canât wait to get rid of. Gina and Sandyâs husband were more than willing to let them limit the festivities to natural-born Stones only. Sandy said Brady was certainly welcome to join them, but everyone including Brady knew he wasnât.
The boards creak under Jackâs feet as he walks across the south leg of the U-shaped porch. It was everybodyâs favorite feature. The real-estate agent oohed and aahed over the way it surrounds the house on three sides, all but the west. There was always a cool place to sit or play when they were kids. The remnants of a hurricane three years ago took down the big maple in front, so this side doesnât offer the relief it once did. Still, itâs quite a porch. Jack misses it. The deck at their new home doesnât hold a candle to it. You need a porch, this far south, a screened-in porch. But decks are cheaper to build.
He reaches for the key heâs kept for most of his life, since they started locking the front door. Heâs finally coaxed it into the keyhole and is pushing open the door when he realizes the music has stopped.
Before he can call out, he hears a metallic shuck-shuck, and his one and only son jumps out of the first bedroom on the right. Jack is staring into the barrel of a deer rifle. Behind it, Bradyâs bald head and bright, fearful eyes shine out from the darkness.
âBrady!â is all Jack has time to scream, diving toward the kitchen door to his left as the darkness and quiet explode.
He lies there, halfway in, halfway out.
âDad?â he hears, through the ringing in his ears. âDad? Is that you?â
Jack assures him, as soon as he catches his breath, that it is indeed his father, and that he intends to do something foul and painful with the rifle as soon as he feels steady enough to stand.
Brady puts the gun down and rushes over to help him up.
âIâm sorry. Geez, Iâm sorry. I mean, I was sitting in the bedroom, listening to music when I heard that lock turn. Wow. I thought it was â¦â
âWho? Whoâd you think it was?â
Brady is silent for a few seconds. âI donât know. I just thought it was somebody didnât mean me any good.â
Jack is afraid there would be many suspects if Brady did turn up dead sometime, at the end of a dark Richmond street or off the side of some winding country lane, kneeling with his hands tied behind him, or even in his own bed, dried blood caked around his slick, shiny, ruined skull.
When Ellen was still living, after Jack and Gina moved to Speakeasy Glen, she would mention some of Bradyâs friends. They did not sound like people Jack Stone wanted anywhere near his mother or his son. But Brady still needed some time to get his bearings. They grow up slower these days, Jack knows. And Ellenâs was about the best place, they all agreed, for him to stay. He could at least nominally look after his grandmother (although Jack was pretty sure Ellen had taken care of Brady more than the other way around, almost to the end).
And at least somebody in the family, he thought, was willing to stay out here and keep her company. Ellen couldâve spent plenty of nights with Jack and Gina, even if Gina didnât exactly do back flips over that possibility. But when it started getting dark, the only place his mother ever wanted to be was home. The only comfort Jack gets now is in knowing that she didnât ever have to leave. Brady found her one morning, cold and
No problem, Jack told her. Weâll have done all the visiting we can stand by then.
âDonât be that way,â sheâd beseeched him after a short silence, and he said he wouldnât.
They are supposed to meet here at noon. Sandy is bringing a bucket of chicken, potato salad, whatever, and the three siblings are going to have a good old-fashioned picnic, cooked by some 15-year-old fast-food dropout, here at the old home place Mike and Sandy canât wait to get rid of. Gina and Sandyâs husband were more than willing to let them limit the festivities to natural-born Stones only. Sandy said Brady was certainly welcome to join them, but everyone including Brady knew he wasnât.
The boards creak under Jackâs feet as he walks across the south leg of the U-shaped porch. It was everybodyâs favorite feature. The real-estate agent oohed and aahed over the way it surrounds the house on three sides, all but the west. There was always a cool place to sit or play when they were kids. The remnants of a hurricane three years ago took down the big maple in front, so this side doesnât offer the relief it once did. Still, itâs quite a porch. Jack misses it. The deck at their new home doesnât hold a candle to it. You need a porch, this far south, a screened-in porch. But decks are cheaper to build.
He reaches for the key heâs kept for most of his life, since they started locking the front door. Heâs finally coaxed it into the keyhole and is pushing open the door when he realizes the music has stopped.
Before he can call out, he hears a metallic shuck-shuck, and his one and only son jumps out of the first bedroom on the right. Jack is staring into the barrel of a deer rifle. Behind it, Bradyâs bald head and bright, fearful eyes shine out from the darkness.
âBrady!â is all Jack has time to scream, diving toward the kitchen door to his left as the darkness and quiet explode.
He lies there, halfway in, halfway out.
âDad?â he hears, through the ringing in his ears. âDad? Is that you?â
Jack assures him, as soon as he catches his breath, that it is indeed his father, and that he intends to do something foul and painful with the rifle as soon as he feels steady enough to stand.
Brady puts the gun down and rushes over to help him up.
âIâm sorry. Geez, Iâm sorry. I mean, I was sitting in the bedroom, listening to music when I heard that lock turn. Wow. I thought it was â¦â
âWho? Whoâd you think it was?â
Brady is silent for a few seconds. âI donât know. I just thought it was somebody didnât mean me any good.â
Jack is afraid there would be many suspects if Brady did turn up dead sometime, at the end of a dark Richmond street or off the side of some winding country lane, kneeling with his hands tied behind him, or even in his own bed, dried blood caked around his slick, shiny, ruined skull.
When Ellen was still living, after Jack and Gina moved to Speakeasy Glen, she would mention some of Bradyâs friends. They did not sound like people Jack Stone wanted anywhere near his mother or his son. But Brady still needed some time to get his bearings. They grow up slower these days, Jack knows. And Ellenâs was about the best place, they all agreed, for him to stay. He could at least nominally look after his grandmother (although Jack was pretty sure Ellen had taken care of Brady more than the other way around, almost to the end).
And at least somebody in the family, he thought, was willing to stay out here and keep her company. Ellen couldâve spent plenty of nights with Jack and Gina, even if Gina didnât exactly do back flips over that possibility. But when it started getting dark, the only place his mother ever wanted to be was home. The only comfort Jack gets now is in knowing that she didnât ever have to leave. Brady found her one morning, cold and
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