Katie’s school recognized her as one of the top artists in her class. While she invested predictable teenaged energy into deflecting praise and protested anything as humiliating as a party for her and her friends at her grandmother’s house, John could tell at the gallery exhibit that she was shyly excited to be recognized for her talents.
Since the exhibit recognized the full range of her work, it went back a few years. The arc of her creative skills but also the swing in her persona were clearly charted, with mixed-media projects of simple beauty and whimsy gradually giving way to grim black-and-white photo studies and stark, disquieting charcoal landscapes.
Back at her grandmother’s house, food sat uneaten as Katie’s mopey crowd generally failed to attend. Friends from earlier years—freshly scrubbed and a bit dweeby—filtered through the house, grazing on snacks and making polite conversation with Katie’s proud grandmother. They smiled nervously as Rose’s disordered thinking tumbled out in tangles. After answering over and over again how they knew Katie and where they went to school, they graciously slipped away.
The handful of goths who stopped by gathered sullenly in the living room, sitting in the shadows and watching a 1982 episode of Match Game on the Game Show Network. They surrounded Mike, who had been ordered to the family gathering by his mother. Other than sleeping in the old family house at night, Mike stayed away since he found out about Larry. He barely said a word at the party.
“Hey,” one kid mumbled to Mike when the game show went to a commercial. “Katie says you used to be somebody. In a band.”
Mike stared back mutely.
“You still know how to score dope?”
Mike glowered and went for the sliding door into the backyard. John was on him before he lit his cigarette.
“Where have you been?” John asked.
“Around.”
“You’re supposed to be here.”
Mike wouldn’t meet his eye. John knew the signs.
“You’re high,” he said darkly.
“Whatever.”
“We need to tell her!” John hissed. “You’re supposed to help me.”
Mike looked past him to their mother, standing in her backyard and chatting amiably with a longtime neighbor.
“This is gonna fuck her up,” Mike said moodily but with concern. “If we tell her, this is gonna seriously fuck her up.”
“We have to tell her. You agreed.”
Mike took a long drag on his cigarette. “I brought up Don Huff the other day. She had no idea who the guy was,” he laughed bitterly. “Asshole walked away with most of her money, made it so she’s stuck living in this shitty old house, and she has no memory of ever knowing him. She doesn’t even get to hate him anymore because as far as she knows they never met. How fucked up is that?”
“She remembers Dad,” John protested.
“Who knows what’s left of him in that head of hers? He could be all gone in there, until—boom!—there he fucking is again. Thanks to us.
“‘Larry’s back, Mom, deal with it.’ You really want to lay that on her?”
They watched from across the yard as Robin sidled up to Rose and rested her hand on her back. She helped the neighbor understand what Rose tried to say.
“Dean Durning means it,” John said to Mike. “I can’t buy any more time with him.”
“Dean Durning,” Mike sneered. “I oughta go kick his ass.”
“Yeah, that’ll be good. An assault charge is all you need to keep you out of jail.”
Mike sagged impotently.
“He’s going to pull the plug,” John said impatiently. “We may not even know about it until it’s done. If we’re wrong about giving her the chance to see him one last time, I don’t want that hanging over my head for the rest of my life.”
Mike drew on his cigarette icily. “You wanted my help figuring this out, I say we don’t tell her. I think that’s the thing to do, seeing where she’s at.
“If we’re wrong,” he said with a shrug, “you get used to things hangin’ over your head.”
* * *
Later, Rose found her sons in lawn chairs on the back patio as the sun went down and Robin cleaned up in the kitchen. Their mother was in her nightgown as she sat down in the twilight.
“I’m tired,” she yawned contentedly.
“You should go to bed,” John said.
Rose looked across the yard. Some strands of a thought vexed her. “Wasn’t that something, what she said? The whole thing?”
John had no idea what she was talking about but invested himself in wherever she wanted to go with it. “It was!” he said in agreement. “I couldn’t believe it.”
“Shouldn’t someone know the way?”
“I think so. I told her I’d ask.”
“Someone really should,” Rose said. “Will you let me know? I really want to know. It’s not right.” It troubled her, whatever it was.
“I will. But I told her it would take two weeks. So just don’t let it bother you until then. Okay?”
That seemed to bring Rose some peace.
Mike watched. He always got exasperated and cranky trying to talk to his mother, but he saw how John just rolled with whatever she talked about. It didn’t seem to matter what you said back so long as you listened and returned words back to her.
“You should know,” she said to Mike, who took a moment to realize he was drawn in. “For all the times it did it to you. Right?”
“I think so,” Mike said awkwardly, sensing how it worked. “I think you figured it out.”
“With the birds!” she smiled.
Mike clucked indignantly. “It’s a joke without the birds,” he said, like you’d have to be an asshole to not want it with the birds.
“See! We know,” she grinned before giving into a fuzzy yawn. “I’m tired.”
“You should go to bed,” John said.
“I think I will,” she said sleepily as she stood and then stooped down to kiss John’s cheek. “Goodnight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
“Okay.”
She kissed Mike. “Don’t be out too late.”
“I’m in for the night,” he said. “I’ll be here.”
“I like that,” she said. “And then, three more! Can you believe it?”
“Three is really something,” Mike agreed.
“Three!” Rose marveled as she turned to amble barefoot across the lawn. “I’ll tell Robin.”
She stepped unsteadily into the house and John and Mike watched through the kitchen window as she spoke to Robin with fervor. Robin nodded earnestly as she dried a coffee cup.
Mike’s cigarette ash dotted the dimming light as both men sighed and said nothing.