Page 69 of Cocky Origins: May and Jerald Cocker

Back home.

In my own bed.

For good, not just on liberty.

Should be relaxed.

I’m about to hit the ceiling.

Don’t like this.

Can’t take it.

Not for another second.

I throw off the covers, walk into the hall in pajama pants and an undershirt. Feels strange here without my brother. Is this how Hank felt when I left, how quiet it was not having me around?

Shaking my hair out with rough fingertips, I head to the galley to fix something to eat.

Galley.

They don’t call it that here.

It’s just a kitchen again.

No more mess hall.

No more fellas talking all hours of the night.

No more alarms sending us to battle stations.

Why do I keep hearing them?

The smell of cigar smoke pulls me toward the drawing room. Door is closed. No mistaking that smell though. Pops is hiding his relaxation ritual.

The one he swore off after the heart attack.

At the sound of creaking hinges, he hurries to stamp out the habit, swearing under his breath.

“Just me, Pops. Relax.”

“Jerald! Thought I might have a tussle on my hands. Close the door! In fact, push that rug up against it! Was it the smoke that told you I was here? Have to stop that immediately. Can’t let her find out.”

I drag and bunch it as best I can. Wiping my hands I stroll over to ask, “Say, wanna give me one of those?”

His eyebrows lift with surprise. “Don’t mind if I do! When did you become a cigar man? Pick that up on the sub?”

“It was cigarettes. But I didn’t like them much. Let’s see how these taste.” He stands to hold out an open box, wood carved to inform all who can read that the treasure inside was rolled in Cuba.

Pops strikes a match on the fireplace mantel, flame impressive as sulfur catches. “Now don’t inhale it like a cigarette. We smoke this for the taste. Understand?”

I enjoy a couple short puffs as he tosses the lit match into the fire, shaking his hands from the heat that nearly bit him. We sit opposite each other with Pops in the velvet chair and me on the sofa to enjoy our cigars and our manly silence. At the same time and without discussing it, we kick our feet onto the coffee table — mine bare, his slippered.

After some time he asks, “Can’t sleep?”

“Must be the time zone.”

“Indeed,” he murmurs before a puff. “You’ve more strength than you know, son. Trust that. Lean into it.”

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