Part 12 (1/2)

That, of course, was when Crank walked into the room. He wore ... no, I must be imagining it. No, he was really wearing them. Too small Mickey Mouse pajama pants, with a plain white t-s.h.i.+rt that didn't fit all that well, either. Not that I was complaining.

”Feel terrible about what?” he asked, stumbling toward the coffee pot.

”Your car!” I replied.

He shrugged. ”I know you'll make good on it. And I'm not missing much, last night was the first time I'd driven it anywhere other than the 7-11 around the corner.”

”Oh, wow. Now I really feel terrible.”

”Seriously,” Crank said, ”don't.” He put what looked like about fifteen spoons of sugar in his coffee, doused that with a liberal helping of cream, then stirred.

”If you're gonna take all the sugar in the house,” Jack said in a booming tone, ”you'd better be prepared to go buy some later.”

”Sure, Dad,” Crank said. His face flashed irritation.

”How'd your show go last night?” As Jack asked the question, I heard footsteps in the living room, then saw Sean walk by the doorway and keep going, reading a thick textbook as he walked.

”It was all right,” Crank replied, at the same time I said, ”It was amazing.”

Jack smiled and brought the plate of bacon and set it in the center of the table. Crank said, ”Coming from someone with your musical taste, I'll take that as a real compliment.”

”You're a musician?” Jack asked.

”Not really,” I said. ”Skilled, but no talent.”

”Oh?” Crank said. ”You didn't say that. What do you play?”

I shook my head. ”Piano. I'd be embarra.s.sed to play in front of you. But my mom had me in lessons from the time I was two.”

”Since you were two?” he asked, his tone incredulous. ”Suzuki lessons?”

I nodded, taking a sip of my coffee and trying to pretend I wasn't incredibly uncomfortable. I couldn't figure Crank out. Last night, he was well beyond the verge of offensive. Why was he so friendly now? What changed? Just his mood? If he was that moody, then he was right-I should stay the h.e.l.l away.

Jack chimed in, ”Your mother wanted you to take Suzuki lessons when you were that young. But it was too expensive.”

Crank's face flashed irritation, almost anger. That was the second time in a few minutes. Like his father couldn't say anything right. Of course, who was I to speak? It's not like I've got the best relations.h.i.+p with my mother. On the other hand, Jack was so nice. Crank changed the subject. ”What's for breakfast?” Which was obviously not a well thought out question, since his father was at that very moment placing a huge platter of pancakes on the table.

Jack gave him a scornful look and spoke in a gruff, sarcastic voice. ”Go get your brother. Breakfast will be a surprise.”

Crank opened his mouth, then thought better of it and walked out of the kitchen.

”I never said I raised a pack of geniuses,” Jack said, shaking his head and giving me a sly smile.

I tried to hold it in, but I couldn't. After a few seconds, I burst into laughter, and he joined in. It felt good.

A minute or so later, Sean and Crank came back in. Crank sat to my left, nearest the kitchen wall, and Sean to my right. Their father took the seat across from me. He startled me by reaching out and taking both boys' hands. They, in turn, reached out to grab mine, and all of them bowed their heads. Never one to disrespect customs, I did the same, staring holes in the table. I was hyper aware of the fact that my left hand was in Crank's. His was hard, much larger than mine. Warm, but not sweaty. I could feel the calluses from playing guitar on his fingertips.

”Bless us, oh Lord, for this bounty which we are about to receive through Christ, our Lord, Amen.” It sounded like he was rus.h.i.+ng through. In my family, we only said grace for major holidays, if then, but I remembered enough to know he'd left out about half the words. Jack paused half a second then said, ”Eat up.”

Sean let go of my hand instantly and reached out to grab a stack of pancakes. Jack swatted at his hand. ”We serve guests first, Sean! And use your fork, please.”

Crank's hand lingered around mine, no longer than a second after Sean let go. Not enough to mean anything, he was just slow, I guess. But it was oddly uncomfortable and very comfortable at the same time. Confusing. Like everything else about him.

Before I knew it, Sean and Crank piled my plate high with more calories than I normally eat in a year. I didn't care. The pancakes had an odd texture, light and sweet, because of the rice flour, and I'd be happy if I could take fifty pounds of bacon to my grave with me. For the first few minutes, I concentrated on eating and deliberately ignoring Crank, because the last thing I wanted to do was pay attention to the fact that he was sitting two feet away from me in his pajamas. Or what looked to have been his pajamas ten years ago.

”This is incredible,” I said. ”Thank you so much. I haven't had a home cooked meal in-I can't remember when.”

”I'd like to hear you play the piano,” Sean said, out of nowhere. Which was odd, because he hadn't even been in the room when we had the conversation about it.

Crank looked at me, and I looked at Sean, and Jack looked at me, and I found myself furiously blus.h.i.+ng, which is something I don't do. Ever. ”I don't know ...” I said in a hesitant tone of voice.

”Come on,” Jack said. ”We'd love to hear it.”

”Please?” Sean said. ”No one has played it since Mom left. Dad has it tuned every six months, but no one plays it any more.”

I swallowed, because both Crank and Jack froze. I swear it felt like a bomb was about to go off in that kitchen, the tension hit so suddenly. At the time Sean said the words, Crank was reaching for another handful of bacon, and he literally froze in place with his arm extended.

A lot more was going on here than I knew about. And I didn't want to say or do the wrong thing. But I didn't know what the right thing was, and Jack and Crank, both frozen like terrified rabbits, were no help at all. It was obvious that both of them were so wound up around Sean that the whole situation could explode in a heartbeat. So, my voice sounding meager and unsure in my ears, I said, ”Okay.”

The end, not so much (Crank) When she said, ”Okay,” in that hesitant voice, I think I let out a sigh of relief. Because Sean went back to eating. On the one hand, the last thing I wanted was Sean getting attached to Julia in any way. On the other hand, I really didn't want to deal with a blowup this morning, and anything involving our mother risked a blowup from Sean.

So Dad and I went back to eating as if nothing had happened, and Sean launched into a monologue. For the last six months, he'd been alternating between a huge set of medical textbooks I'd picked up at an estate sale and an equally huge set of manga comics he'd ama.s.sed over the last two years. So it didn't surprise me when he started talking, seemingly randomly, about open heart surgery, but I could tell Julia was more than a little bit surprised.

Once he got started, it would be impossible for anyone to get a word in edgewise, so at the first pause for breath, my dad jumped in. ”Sean, this is fascinating, but I'm sure Julia might like to know more about you.”

Sean didn't respond for a second, so Julia asked, ”Where do you go to school, Sean?”

He answered in his usual loud monotone. ”Excel High School. It's a magnet for public safety studies.”

”It used to be South Boston High,” my dad said. ”I went there, and so did Dougal.”

I winced. He'd said that name once in front of her, but I didn't think she'd noticed. ”Dad,” I said.

”Oh, for the love of G.o.d, Dougal, we gave you a good Irish name when you were a baby!”

”And that's why I changed it!”

The corner of Julia's mouth quirked up. ”Dougal?” she asked.

”Isn't it a nice name?” Dad asked. ”Reminds me of the open fields of Ireland.”

I muttered, ”The only open fields you've ever seen are the basketball courts.”

”In my day, kids weren't so d.a.m.n disrespectful of their elders.” Dad looked irritated, but only barely so.

”In your day Whitey Bulger was running Southie like his personal kingdom and burying bodies in backyards.”

Dad just let out a grunt and took a sip of his coffee. ”You don't know nothin' about Southie in those days,” he said.

I shrugged and turned to Julia. ”What he's not saying is that back then, things weren't exactly on the up and up. And Dad was-straight as an arrow. Which is why he's still driving a patrol car instead of sitting behind a desk somewhere.”