Chương 6
She looked away.
Grant stared at the table for several seconds.
Then he turned to me.
“I didn’t know.”
I did not answer.
His face tightened.
“Owen, I didn’t.”
“Did you ever wonder why I got almost nothing?”
He looked down.
That was answer enough.
“Right,” I said.
“No, wait.”
He stood.
“I figured you were doing better.”
“So?”
“So Dad worried about me more.”
“He worried about you because you were constantly broke.”
“I know.”
“And that made it reasonable to take everything?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Grant ran one hand through his hair.
“I thought you didn’t care about the money.”
“I didn’t care about the money.”
“That sounds like a contradiction.”
“It isn’t.”
I looked at Mom.
“I cared about being lied to.”
Nobody spoke.
“I cared that every time I asked about the cabin, you acted like Dad had never said anything about it.”
Mom’s mouth tightened.
“I cared that I spent five years wondering whether I invented a promise because it was easier than accepting he changed his mind.”
My voice nearly broke on the last few words, and I hated that enough to stop talking.
The silence that followed was worse.
I turned away from them and walked into the kitchen.
Nobody followed immediately.
The sink held mixing bowls, a roasting pan, two knives, and the potato masher Dad used to complain was designed by somebody who hated wrists.
I turned on the faucet.
I had no reason to.
I shut it off again.
Behind me, shoes crossed the tile.
Lydia leaned against the refrigerator.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I looked at her.
She shrugged.
“If you said yes, I was going to worry.”
I opened a cabinet by habit and found the glasses exactly where they had been when we were kids.
I filled one from the tap.
“You knew about the sale.”
“I knew they were planning to sell.”
“You didn’t know about the rest.”
“No.”
I drank half the glass.
“Did you know Grant got money?”
“I assumed both of you did.”
“Apparently one of us was more expensive to love.”
She winced.
“That was mean.”
“I know.”
“You going to say it to him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe don’t.”
I set the glass beside the sink.
From the dining room came Grant’s voice, low and angry.
Mom answered too quietly for me to catch the words.
Lydia looked toward the doorway.
“She told everyone you didn’t visit Uncle David enough when he was sick.”
I felt my shoulders stiffen.
“I know.”
“No, I mean everyone.”
I looked at her.
“She told Aunt Carol you were basically absent.”
“That’s not true.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because Uncle David complained every Monday that you’d reorganized his medications wrong.”
I stared at her.
Lydia smiled sadly.
“He also bragged about you every Monday.”
I looked down at the counter.
There was a small burn mark near the toaster.
Dad had made it trying to warm a flour tortilla directly on the electric burner during one of Mom’s church committee meetings.
She had been furious.
He had spent the next week claiming the mark increased the resale value because buyers appreciated authenticity.
For years it had been nothing but an ugly blemish.
Now it nearly undid me.
Lydia touched my arm.
“Owen.”
“I need some air.”
She nodded.
I walked through the mudroom and stepped onto the back porch.
Cold November air hit my face.
Someone in the neighborhood was burning wood, and a dog barked twice behind the house next door.
Cars lined both sides of the street, their windows fogging as evening settled in.
I sat on the top porch step.
A minute later the door opened.
I expected Lydia.
Grant came out instead.
He closed the door carefully behind him.
For once, he did not have a beer.
He stood beside the railing.
“You mind?”
“It’s Mom’s porch.”
“Apparently property ownership is complicated in this family.”
I looked at him.
He gave a humorless half smile.
Then he sat two steps below me.
For almost a minute, neither of us spoke.
A leaf skittered across the driveway.
Grant picked at the frayed cuff of his sweater.
“I really didn’t know about the cabin deed.”
“I believe you.”
He looked back at me.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a terrible liar when you’re surprised.”
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“It isn’t.”
He nodded.
“Fair.”
Another silence settled between us.
Then he said, “I knew Dad wanted you to have something.”
I stared at the back of his head.
“What?”
“Not the cabin specifically.”
He turned slightly.
“Before he died, he asked me if I thought you’d come back here eventually.”
“Why would he ask you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you say?”
Grant rubbed his palms together against the cold.
“I said probably not.”
I looked away.
“He asked if I thought you still liked the lake.”
My chest tightened.
“And?”
“I said yes.”
He swallowed.
“Then he said, ‘Good, because Owen’s the only one who fixes anything without being asked.’”
I almost laughed.
“That sounds like him.”
“Yeah.”
Grant looked toward the darkening yard.
“I should’ve put things together.”
“You also called the place a dump.”
“It is a dump.”
I stared at him.
He raised both hands.
“A sentimental dump.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
The sound surprised both of us.
Grant smiled for half a second.
Then it faded.
“I was jealous of you.”
The admission came so abruptly that I thought I had misheard it.
“Of me?”
“Don’t make me repeat it.”
“I’m trying to understand it.”
“You left.”
“That made you jealous?”
“You got out.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“You built something.”
“You don’t even know what I do.”
“Exactly.”
I frowned.
He looked back at me.
“You never needed anybody to know.”
I did not have an answer for that.
May you like
Grant looked toward the kitchen window.
“I stayed here, screwed up three jobs, married too young, got divorced, moved back into Mom’s basement for eight months, and every time Dad talked about you, it was Owen got promoted, Owen bought a house, Owen knows how to fix that.”
