Page 4 of Standing Still

“Chicken,” he makes clucking sounds.

I’m not ashamed to agree. Trying to tell mom I won’t be over for family dinner night is a fate worse than death. Dad assured me he’d make sure she let me off the hook, given they all know how important tomorrow is to me. And what a big thing it could be.

“Save me some leftovers.”

“In your dreams.” He hangs up.

He isn’t wrong. With the four of my brothers, their wives, kids and my parents, the chances of there being any leftovers are slim to none. Which sucks, cos mom’s cooking is by far better than any restaurant I’ve everbeen in.

I spend some time with my cousin and play ball with the kids and Jedi before heading back home. I make sure my dog is fed and watered before going back outside and over to my garage. I open it up and flick on the lights. I covered the Mustang up with a tarp because she needs protection.

Yes, I’m an anal dick when it comes to my car. My fists clench at the thought of Denny driving it. There are going to be so many rules, my demands will drive him so mad, he decides not to bother, and he will have already done me the favor by then, so if I piss him off enough, it could work in my favor.

I turn my back on the car and go over to the workbench where the project I started a few weeks ago was waiting. I took this up in the last few months. Not that I am overly creative, but I have a knack for building things, and I love working with wood. I’ve made a few items over the last couple of years, planters for mom’s garden, and some barstools for my friend’s bar, then the odd bookcase or side unit.

From that I’ve had a few people asking me to build stuff they can buy, so I’m branching out into something a little bigger. My sisters-in-law’s friend asked if I could make a table and chairs for her growing family. It was a challenge, doing something this big, but I’m enjoying it. Plus, it will take my mind off what is coming.

Given my work is usually finished by eleven each day, after the four AM starts, I didn’t want to waste my days sleeping. So long as I got to bed at a reasonable hour, I’m good. I’m making a little money out of this side job. And I’m also sounding like an old man.

Shaking my head, I get out the sander, ready to work on these table legs.

Chapter Three

Fortunately, the receptionist at the Taber Inn isn’t a familiar face and doesn’t appear to know who I am, so I check in and head up to the room without the additional headache of small talk. There was a package waiting for me at check-in, which has the name of the lawyer’s office on it.

I’d let them know where I was staying, so they’d dropped it off here before I arrived. After a long shower, a text to let Kevin know I’ve arrived and setting my phone and laptop on to charge, I call the lawyer’s office.

There is no reason why I have to hang around and wait until three tomorrow afternoon. It seems pointless. I want this over and done with. Fortunately, they can accommodate the change. Only saying they must let the other parties know and if it is an issue, they will call back. I’m not sure who the other parties are, but presumably dad left some of his things to other people in his life.

The room is nice enough, cosy and homey, a little chintzy for my tastes like a typical small-town bed-and-breakfast, but the four-poster bed is comfortable. Part of me wishes I’d booked ahotel outside of town, but I’m not a coward, at least, not that much of one.

I try to write to keep my mind occupied, but the words aren’t coming, the characters stubbornly quiet or trapped inside a box in my head. Larry Pruitt sent me several emails since I learnt of my dad’s passing, so I click over to them and read through the information again. I know where the law office is. There are only a handful of them in town. This one is close to dad’s house. We’re meeting to discuss his estate and to do the reading of the will.

For a while, I ponder who the other parties can be. A woman he’d been in a relationship with? There were no other blood relatives, just me. A wave of guilt hits me again. I terrorize myself with thoughts of him dying alone, but there must have been people around who cared about him. Who thinks his daughter is a bitch for staying away? I’ll scandalize them even more when they realise I’m not planning on staying for the funeral.

Kevin tried to talk me out of that. He thought I’d never get closure. I’m not sure I can bring myself to do it, though. I’d feel like a fraud. Looking back at the package I dropped on the bed when I first came in, I take a huge lungful of air. I felt a little claustrophobic and open a window, but it isn’t enough.

Walking around town isn’t an option. I’m under no illusion people won’t recognise me, even though the owner here didn’t. There is one place I can go where I won’t have to face anyone, but that is just as bad as the thought of speaking to people.

Opening the package, I tip out the papers but it’s the keys that my eyes laser in on. Dad’s house. After a solid five-minute pep talk, I snatch up the keys, grab my purse and coat, and head out.

The house hasn’t changed. I always hated the stairs leading up to it, especially when I was trying to sneak in or out, more than a little inebriated. Sitting in the car, I try to gather some strength.

This is the house where my brother died, the house my mom ran from when she could no longer stand the sadness and despair after her beloved son’s suicide, and she followed him into deathby jumping off a bridge in East Hartford. Dad hadn’t even noticed she was gone. He was out on the boat long before I left for school. She waited until I left before she got in the car and drove away from us forever.

Like we meant nothing to her.

So much tragedy, so many awful memories. It no longer seems real. Like I’m staring at a house I didn’t spend the first eighteen years of my life in. I can’t sit out here forever. Today should hopefully be the only time I need to be here. I should get it over and done with.

My hands shake as I slot the key into the lock. Stepping over the threshold, I am assaulted by an avalanche of memories. Good and bad. Happy family evening meals, or being yelled at about doing homework. Our two dogs barking and following my brother around. Then, hearing my mom scream when she found my brother, or my parents arguing all the time. And dad’s deafening silence when they were both gone.

The place feels like it’s been empty for a while, even though dad has only been gone a week. I close the door behind me and step beyond the entryway. All the décor, the furniture, even the old rugs on the hardwood floor are the same, a little more threadbare than before. It’s neat as a pin. Nothing out of place, and despite the feeling of emptiness, there is a faint smell of lemons.

There are no unnecessary items adorning the surfaces. Not like when mom was alive. All her trinkets and vases of flowers had gone long before I left for the last time.

The place is a mausoleum.

I wanted to leave this house after mom and Darren were gone. I hated it here. I’d mostly feared my brother’s ghost. I’d never seen his, or any ghost in fact, but being a scared fifteen-year-old, knowing your brother breathed his last in the room next door wasn’t easy.

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