Sitting on our couch that evening, feet propped on the coffee table, my father didn’t have the courtesy to get up or the thoughtfulness to offer sentiments about how long it’d been and how he’d missed me and that he hoped my shop was faring well after the Elliston shooting.
“ ’Bout time you dragged yourself in. I been waitin’ here since the beginning of Star Search.”
“You watch those old reruns?”
“And I been thinkin’ of your brother every minute it’s been on.”
“Yeah. He’s gonna be a star.”
“Got that right. Just a matter of time.”
“Is Johnny here?” Hoping for a buffer.
“Stepped out. He’ll be back with some sorta ethnic food—Thai, Vietnamese, or what have you. Told him to pick us up a case of beer so we can celebrate.”
“What’re we celebrating?”
“His gig tomorrow.”
My dad lives in the suburbs of Bowling Green, Kentucky. Since my move to Nashville, he’s visited twice, and on both occasions he failed to set foot into Black’s. However, now that the favored son was performing, it’d be different. Good to know where things stood.
“Well, Dad, I’m gonna go change.”
“Do whatchu gotta. Don’t worry about your old man.”
“Okay. Just, uh … make yourself at home.”
He folded his arms behind his head and sank another inch lower on the cushions. “Already taken care of.”
“I can see that.”
On my way down the hall, I inched open the studio door and sighed with relief when I spotted Dad’s stuff sack. He’d be in here, as agreed.
“Yeah. The spare floor space will suit you just fine,” I whispered.
They carried on deep into the night, Dad and Johnny Ray.
Dad had said he needed to talk with me—something about my mother—so I pried him for answers. As usual, he was more interested in talking about himself.
After two beers I bowed out of the conversation. From experience I know the third beer is where discretion begins to dissolve. I just wasn’t ready for the easy banter that passes between Johnny Ray and Kenny Black. I don’t hold it against my brother. It’s just a melancholy thing that twines around my chest and throat and leaves me incapable of decent conversation.
Except that being out of sight but within earshot is almost always worse.
I threw aside my covers and stomped along the floorboards.
“Does anyone in this house, anyone at all”—I pierced each man with a glare—“give a rat’s tail that I have to be up at five o’clock?”
“Sorry, kid.” My brother’s face was a picture of contrition. “We’ll keep it down.”
“You go back to bed, Aramis, and show some respect for your old man. We’ll behave ourselves. Ain’t that right?” My father bumped Johnny’s knee with his own. “Just sittin’ here with a few long-necked friends. No harm in that.”
“This, Johnny—this is what I warned you about.”
Johnny Ray wobbled forward. “Here on out we’re quiet as church mice. Promise. Scout’s honor and hope to die.”
“You swear?”
“Swear?” Dad’s voice had gone raspy. “Johnny, did the boy say ‘swear’?”
Before my brother could respond, Dad burst out with laughter and slurred through a stream of epithets and curse words that nearly exhausted my own hefty list. Johnny acted horrified, before collapsing over his knees in a fit of giggles. My father, offering up the pièce de résistance, slapped his left hand down over his right elbow and lifted a single-fingered salute to the only man in the room who had dared to interrupt the party.
I’d like to say I was the better man.
I wasn’t.
Dad and Johnny watched my tantrum, amused as I swept their bottles from the table in a spray of beer and foam. Shiny caps spun through the air. One bottle hit the wall, shattering. I kept the focus of my wrath on things inanimate and nonhuman—rising above the standards set by my father.
Or so I told myself.
Their giggles turned into wonder and then indignation.
“Hey, boy, what’s your problem?”
Johnny put out an arm. “Lemme talk to him, Dad.”
My father started to rise, then fell back. “He ain’t changed a bit. Same whiny little runt!” His eyes were bleary, but deep at their core an old fire burned.
I was shaking. Ready to establish a new pecking order.
Before I could give his drunken carcass a beating, I swiped my keys and headed out the door.
Tranquilized by the sound of tires on wet pavement and the warmth coming through the Honda’s vents, I drove. And drove.
My soul called out for a listening ear, for assistance.
When dawn peeled back the first strips of Thursday morning, revealing pink-tinged grays and ruffled clouds of orange, I sensed a shift inside. More than anything I suppose it was a weariness. A surrender.
Same whiny little runt?
There was a truth here I’d have to face. I couldn’t run forever.
The needle on the Honda’s gauge was nearing E, so I headed down Eighth Avenue to a favorite economy gas station. While the tank filled, I ate a chocolate cream-filled doughnut and guzzled a Purity orange juice.
From there, I followed Eighth until it became Franklin Pike. I knew now where I was headed. A few minutes later I turned onto Tyne Boulevard. The road here dips and curves, hugging the hills between beautiful homes set far back among the trees. It was only the fifth time I’d been here, only the second time uninvited.
But I knew Sammie wouldn’t mind.
Pillars of mortar and brick, topped by lead-paned lanterns, stand on both sides of the driveway. Set into the stonework, a mailbox bears the name Rosewood in simple black letters. Samantha’s parents passed away a few years ago, and she lives here with Miss Eloise, keeping her grandmother company in her final days.
There is no gate. The property is off the main thoroughfares, and Samantha claims the horses’ movements in the stable and the bark of her trusty golden retriever are security enough.
Her claims were substantiated by throaty howls as I edged up the drive, but I knew the dog to be old and harmless.
“Hi, Digger.” I stepped out and let him sniff my hand. His tail started wagging, and he lifted a paw. “There you go,” I said. “Good manners, just like your mama.”
“Aramis.”
I looked up, flashed a sheepish smile. “Am I too early for breakfast?”
From the wraparound porch, Sammie returned the smile. “I suppose not. I’ve been up for bit, reading to Miss Eloise. She couldn’t sleep. What about the shop?”
“I have twenty minutes. Maybe twenty-five before I need to head over there.”
“We’ll work with the time available.”
“I needed to see you.”
“Good to see you too.”
“No. I mean … Never mind.” I climbed wide steps to the porch.
“Hmm. Tell me, Aramis, do you think a cheese omelet, grits, and hickory-smoked bacon will suffice?”
“Sounds great,” I said. “But what about my coffee?”
Sammie laughed. “You’ll have to see to it yourself.”