Cider house fools, p.3
Cider House Fools, page 3
“Too late babe. We landed. We’re here. We have to disembark.” He stands, unfolding and stretching. His eyes are slightly puffy, his forehead creased. He’s worried about me. I swore once that I’d never make him worry for me again. Now I’ve gone and broke my promise. He reaches into the overhead compartment and grabs a bag. I have no idea how he stuffed his large frame into a coach seat, but he managed it for me. He sidesteps into the aisle and turns, reaching for me.
Like a traitor, my stiff body stands and gives him my hand. I shuffle down the narrow aisle, not caring if any of my belongs get left on the plane. Cold air buffets me through the boarding bridge. Blue carpet and cream walls met me when I step into the airport. The exact same color scheme as the last time I was here. It’s oddly comforting and disconcerting at the same time. “It hasn’t changed,” I murmur, turning to seek out Franklin.
He stops behind me, dropping his bag. He unfolds my coat from his arm. Automatically I lift my arms, letting him slide my jacket over them. He walks in front of me, straightening my coat. He looks around the lobby, unimpressed. “Enjoy it. It may be the only thing that hasn’t changed. You ready?”
I shouldn’t allow this. I shouldn’t rely on him to care for me like I’m incapacitated and incapable of caring for myself. He’s already spent more time doing just that than most spouses do in a lifetime.
I shrug. He takes my shoulders and pulls me in, kissing my forehead before wrapping me up in his arms. “This is going to suck donkey balls.”
“Yeah,” I croak, swallowing hard. I sniff hard and push myself off his chest. “Where are we staying and how are we getting there?”
“You’re staying at Gran’s, and I’m driving you there.” My head whips around at the sound of my mother’s voice. I’m unable to stop myself from launching into her arms.
“Mom,” I sob into her jacket. She strokes my hair. “Mom, I don’t want to see them. Please? Can you call them and tell them not to show up to the farm?” Something inside of me recoils at the depth of my selfishness. The last fragment of the person I was supposed to be trying to elude the mess I’ve become. The tattered remains of the girl who was so close to having everything she could taste it. I don’t ask her how she is or about my stepfather. I don’t ask her anything about Gran. The first thing that I blurt out is about them. I’m shivering, but it isn’t from the cold. It’s fear. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, hoping she hears what I’m trying and failing to say.
She sighs, releasing me. “Honey, let’s just get you home. All of this will hold. We can talk more tomorrow.” Without meaning to, I match the depth of her sigh. Her response isn’t exactly clemency, but it will have to do.
She’s taking me home. She’s really going to take me to Gran’s.
“I need a drink,” I whine. Belligerence bubbles up through my exhaustion. “Franklin wouldn’t let me drink on the plane.” My mom wraps an arm around my waist and leads towards the exit.
“Of course he didn’t, Bennett,” my mother says automatically. “Have you eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours?” She steers me down the gently sloping ramp. The airport is practically deserted at this time of night.
“Have you ever known me to miss a meal?” I snap irritably. She absolutely correct. I’ve slept more in the last day than I have in years. But I sure as hell don’t feel refreshed. I should be grateful that I have people in my life who love me enough to care for me, but my mother’s particular brand of fussing makes me feel chastised like a child. My annoyance flares. I straighten. “I’m a grown ass adult. If I want a drink, I’ll fucking have one. If I don’t want a meal, I won’t fucking eat.”
“Bennett! In the middle of the airport. Is that necessary?” She exhales, her face smoothing as she turns and begins walking. The exit sign glows red. “If you promise to eat, I’ll tell John you can drink.”
“John? John Murphy? Does he still own Plowed?” I look at my watch. “Shoot. It’s not going to be open by the time we get there. It’s Monday.”
“Oh ye of little faith. Trust in your mother and she shall provide,” my mother quips.
Fifty-two minutes on snow packed roads. The city fades quickly into dark country back roads. Franklin sits beside me, rubbing my arm. I meld into him, my back nestled against his side. Everyone in the car is silent, lost in their own train of thought. The gentle thump of the windshield wipers lulls the wings of panic fluttering inside of me.
The reprieve is welcome. Franklin’s head is turned, his chin resting lightly atop my head as he watches the Norman Rockwell landscape roll by under the velvet night sky. His calm, steady presence is a numbing salve, soothing my raw edges and muting the sharp buzz of anxiety that’s taken up residence under my skin.
Sometimes I wonder if he can sense the unspoken things that press against my vocal cords. If he can tell when I slip up and allow myself to fall back in love with him. Most of the time, if anyone asked me, it would be easy for me to laugh and speak about the silly crush I’d had on him all of those years ago. But it’s the times like this, when I’m frayed beyond salvaging, and he’s the only thing holding me together that I worry I might slip up. Does he notice when I clench my hands together and stuff them in my pockets, because I’m afraid the next time I touch him it will be an unwelcome caress? Do his instincts warn him when forget and allow myself to slide into the fantasy of best friends to lovers?
That’s not an issue right now. I’m too busy cowering from the ghosts of my past. They’re growing stronger with every crunchy mile eaten up by brand new snow tires on my mother’s sedan.
I don’t deserve Franklin. No one does. Bella certainly didn’t, and neither does Thom. Concern for my best friend holds the shades at bay.. I drop my head back, staring at his chin and reach up to bop his nose. “Hey,” I whisper softly. “You’re pretty intent on the view.”
He shrugs, jostling me. Craning my neck around to sneak a peek in the rearview mirror, I see my mother’s eyes are on the road, studiously avoiding the backseat. “It reminds me of home.” The yearning in his voice surprises me.
I sit up and turn, wanting to see every inch of his face. “Frankie, if it’s time to move on, you can tell me. I would never ask you to stay if you aren’t happy. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
His eyes skate across mine, back and forth, searching my face. I realize with a chill that he may be taking what I said as more than my original intention. “Franklin, I didn’t mean—”
“Hush now. This is a conversation for a different time. I know what you mean, Bennie. Don’t worry about it right now.” His gaze returns to the window, the shadows inside of the car turning his eyes as enigmatic as the night. His expression is as unfathomable as my grief. I settle back into his side, content to trust him at his word. My eyes drift shut as the weight of a world without the light of Gran settles over me like a shroud.
I’m prodded awake by the gentle sway of my mother’s vehicle slowing and turning off the highway onto snow packed gravel. The crunch of the tires sound like the crunch of Plowed’s famous fried chicken. It’s an odd association, until I realize that is exactly what I’m smelling. My traitorous stomach rumbles loud enough to be heard over the low volume of the Pentatonix my mother has playing. The car glides to a stop. The parking lot is mostly empty. My mother’s door swings open. The harsh overhead light pops on and burns my dry eyes.
Franklin nudges me. “It’s time. Buck up Bennie. This will be the easiest thing you do here.” I look at him, begging him to save me, my chin quivering pitifully. I don’t care how good Plowed’s fried chicken is. I’m not ready to go in. “I got you. I’ve got you.” He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You don’t have to do this alone because we do these things together. Now drag your tired, hurting ass out of this car and lean. Lean on me.”
“Stop making me cry in public places,” I gasp, doing my damnedest to hold back another flood of tears.
“Stop scaring me then. Give me a peep of that indefatigable spirit I know is still in there,” he challenges. He waits, patiently, as solid as bedrock my heart is encase in, as I dig for something to get me through my first public appearance in this town in ten years. There is no judgement, no impatience, just a quiet faith that if he waits long enough I’ll do what he knows I’m capable of. His steadfastness bolsters me, giving me what I need to open the door and slide out of the car. He flows after me, all six foot and four inches of his towering linebacker physique landing behind me. We inhale together. The scent of home floods into my soul.
Franklin grabs my arm, pulling me to his side. “Fuuuuuck me is that fried chicken? Is that homemade, fuck your secret eleven herbs and spices, crispy, crunchy, tender bird? I think I just came in my food pants.”
My eyes water from the biting cold as a snort bursts out of my nose, followed by a hysterical giggle. “It sure is. I shouldn’t take you in here. It feels like I’m about to be replaced.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, stepping around me quickly to pull open the door to the bar for my mother.
“John Murphy makes fried chicken so good the local bards sing ballads to it,” I sigh. My stomach rumbles again, boldly announcing my state secrets. I may want to curl up and die of grief, but my skin sack and its contents wants to live via fried chicken inhalation.
“Bennett! John has a heat bill to pay! Get your ass in here and close that door.” My mother shouts from inside the doorway.
Franklin takes my hand. “Ready? I have your back.” I toss him a grateful smile. He’s going to tell me it’s my choice. That he supports me, and I don’t have to go in if I don’t want to. “I’ll pick you up and carry you if your feet don’t work Bennett.” Bending and twisting, he leans into my face and leers as he threatens me. His lips turn up into his patented, evil best friend grin, the one that he saves just for me. He may be here to support me, but he won’t take any of my shit. I have no recourse. Franklin is the only person on the planet who knows exactly what my limits are.
I flash him a dirty look I don’t really mean and step over the threshold of Plowed. The doorway shimmers with heat and stepping in the bar feels like entering a portal. The same sick feeling I got when I bought my car settles over me, as if by crossing I’ve signed away a potential future I can never get back. As if the bar is the unofficial entrance to the town, and I’ve signed a binding contract with enchanted ink. I’m entering, of my own free will, the place that made me, for better or worse, who I am. I’m going back to the past, while stepping into a new future. For a second, I’m disoriented, dizzy, unable to catch my breath as I stare over the precipice.
Franklin tugs, pulling me forward. My foot lifts, by body leaning as it follows the one constant in my life.
And just like that, I’m home.
Chapter three
Friday, November 25
Whittaker
Irritated, I snatch the sheet of instructions tacked up in the feed room and crumple it up. Joe Barton Jr. left me it for me. Jesus, that kid is few bricks short of full load. I’m the one who trained him for this job. The idiot should know I don’t need a fucking list to feed. I have dinner with Gran almost once a week. He sees my truck parked in her driveway. I’d know if anything was wrong with her menagerie.
Better to be safe than sorry though. I uncrumple the sheet and glance down the incomplete set of feed and care instructions, my eyes stopping on the MERRY CHRISTMAS penciled in large block letters at the bottom of the page.
JB Jr. may not be an agricultural genius, but he’s a far sight kinder than I am. My conscious tells me for the umpteenth time that I’m asshole as I sigh deeply. My conscious should know I’m well aware of that fact. I make a mental note to thank the boy for his instructions. He’s trying, and just having him around to take over some of the grunt work for Gran has been a God send.
I attach a hay spear to the tractor and fire her up, deciding to feed Gran’s cattle first. She insisted on giving JB his Christmas break off with his family, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her no. I could have split up the chores here with Balthasar, hell, I bet Smith would have found the time to pitch in if I told him Gran needed him. But that would have required communication, and I’m not fit to speak anyone this time of year.
Once I’ve got the old diesel tractor purring, and a thousand-pound bale up on the fork, I roll the barn door open, noting with satisfaction that there isn’t a hint of a metal-on-metal squeal. (I doubt JB has bothered to grease them once in the two years he’s worked here.) Cold air smacks me in the face as the snow crusted to the metal doors loosens and swirls in protest. It’s stopped falling, and the sky is clear. The stars wink and twinkle, mocking me. Their position has changed, while I stay stubbornly fixed to mine.
I put Figgy, Rosie, and Thunder in their stalls. I bring in the goats, turn on the heat lamp for the chickens, and grain them all. I check all the water buckets and de-icers. By the time I’m done, the decision to knock on the door is made. I shouldn’t spend the extra time when there is work to be done, but I need something warm before I head home and do the evening chores at my own place.
I grin in anticipation, knowing I won’t say no if Gran offers me a nip of something stronger in my coffee. It’s been close to a week since I’ve been to visit. I’ve been thinking about offering to drive her to town. She might like having someone to do some Christmas shopping with…like she used to do with Bennett. The thought pushes to the forefront of my mind, rudely ignoring all of my boundaries regarding the girl in question.
It isn’t her shopping in town that I see when the memory surfaces. It definitely isn’t long blond braids hanging out of a knit cap. Bright pink cheeks and glittering eyes, crinkled at the corners in joy as the perfect snowflake lands on the tip of her pink tongue. I could easily pull up the sight of her screeching with laughter as she refuses to surrender to my superior mound of snowballs. I could linger on the look of innocent pleasure skating across her face as first taste of the cocoa you can only get from the tree farm slides across her tongue. No, the memory that flashes unbidden across my mind is the one of her straddled across my lap, in my truck, her skin gleaming with sweat, her eyes boring into mine as she promises me my place in her life.
The silence is deafening, enough to pull me out of the past. I bang on the door again. “Gran, open up! Everyone has been fed but your favorite ass!” I step back from the door. The house is dark. Foreboding cramps my stomach. The bead of sweat running down my spine turns icy. Something isn’t right. I bang on the door harder. “Gran! I’m coming in. Get decent, woman.”
I rattle the door handle, pausing as it swings open. Of course she leaves her home unlocked. Gran trusts everyone. I stumble inside. The kitchen is dark. The TV must be off. It’s way too early for her to be in bed. Maybe she isn’t feeling well.
“Joppy?” Where is her dog? All of that banging I did on the door should have had the chestnut-colored pooch already at the back door, barking and wagging her big ass so hard in anticipation of pets and scratches she’ll knock over the coat rack. “Joppy?” I call. A thin whine reaches my ears. I run through the kitchen, my boots pounding on the hardwood.
Her basket of yarn is knocked over. A ceramic mug is on the floor, shattered into pieces. The mystery of the few drops of blood on the floor is solved as Joppy limps over to me, her whines and cry’s breaking me. My eye’s fill with tears as I kneel, stroking the grieving pup while I pick up the cool, gnarled fingers of the woman who loved me more than my own mother. Her head is back and to the side, resting on her shoulder, her eyes shut. There’s a gentle smile on her face. It’s the same one she wore most of her days, and it isn’t hard to imagine it’s the shape her lips would relax into as she passed.
“You sure picked a hell of a time, old girl,” I whisper. “I should have guessed you would follow through. You’ve only ever lied to me the one time. I should have known the chances were good you were telling the truth this time too.” I bow my head over her hand, needing a moment to let my new reality set in.
She’d been talking about going home to her beloved husband.
Her peaceful face doesn’t change. But that’s Gran. Unshakeable faith and devotion to family. A hard working, Christian woman who loved her neighbors and community. Gran never judged and never complained. Her favorite piece of advice when we were kids was telling us to walk a mile in a stranger’s shoes.
It strikes me that the grief I feel is new. It’s crippling, compared to what I felt when I lost my parents. When they died all I felt was the numbing responsibility of having no choice in achieving my father’s dreams for the farm. I was busy finding money for a funeral and wondering why I couldn’t make myself feel more for the people who brought me into this world. I was never more than an indentured farm hand for my parents. I all felt was relief and the guilt that comes with it. Although I was still obligated to the land, the land had never hurt me like they did. They land would never abuse me. My breath comes in sharp gasps as I finally understand what it feels like to be orphaned. Every skinned knee, broken arm, and whipping my body has survived was nursed by this woman. She not only fed me, clothed me, and healed me, she loved me. She was there for me in all of the ways a kid needs a mother when mine wasn’t willing.
I stare at the still, gentle countenance of the woman who raised me. The humble, giving woman who’s merciful, tender love gave me the foundation to be the man I almost became. The man I was becoming until Bennett left.
This pain is different. Bennett was still breathing when she abandoned me.
“You know she’ll come back now. I can’t do it, Gran. I won’t,” I whisper. Joppy whines again, nudging my hand, bringing me back to reality. I pull my phone out of my jacket pocket and open up my contacts.
Balthasar shows up ten minutes later, Smith thirty. Both of them beat old George Van Zantwick, the town mortician. Balthasar is tearful, wholly unashamed of the wet tracks running down his face. Smith is stone-faced and angry. Words aren’t necessary. All three of us know what the others are thinking and feeling. None of will admit to how much we’re thinking about Bennett.
