Page 78 of High Density

“Doc?”Thomas asks when I take the seat next to his rocker.

“Yeah. Just checking in.”

“Good. Don’t get too comfortable,” he warns, handing me his empty tumbler. “I need a refill and you’re gonna have to get your own.”

I take his empty glass into the house, where I find my mother in the kitchen.

“The old coot con you into fetching him seconds?” Ma grumbles.

It’s a daily struggle for Ma, who tries to keep Thomas to his one drink a day, and he uses every trick in the book to get his hands on more. I figure he derives more pleasure from besting my mother than the actual drink itself, but for an old rancher who can’t do much more than sit on a porch and watch the world go by, it may be one of the few joys he has left.

“Come on, Ma, let up on the guy a little,” I plead his case as I top up his glass from the bottle on top of the fridge. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

She turns on me, her eyes glistening suspiciously.

“He could die,” she says with emotion.

I set the glass down and walk up to her, pulling her into a hug.

“Would that be so bad?” I suggest gently. “What is he, ninety-three? At least he’d die a happy man.”

“I’m not ready…”

Her response is barely audible.

“Ma…”

She steps out of my arms and turns her back, lifting her apron to wipe her face before bracing her arms on the counter by the sink, her eyes staring out the window.

“I may not be of his blood, but that old man is the only father I’ve ever known. I need more time.”

My mother didn’t have a great childhood. Her mother was an alcoholic, who pawned her daughter off to relatives most of her young life, and she never even knew who her father was. The hard outer shell Ma shows the world is her way of protecting herself and a direct result of her childhood experiences.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember Ma shields a fragile heart.

I grab Thomas’s glass and lean over my mother’s shoulder to kiss her cheek. Then I bump her aside and turn on the faucet, tipping half of the bourbon down the drain and topping it up with water.

“I doubt he’ll be able to tell the difference. He’ll be too busy enjoying the illusion he got one over on you.”

“Sneaky,” she says, a faint smile on her lips as she nods her head. “I like it.”

By the time I grab a beer from the fridge for myself and head back outside to join Thomas, Ma is by the sink, watering down the remains of the bourbon left in the bottle.

Twenty minutes later, I leave the old man happily dozing in his rocker and head over to Janey’s.

“Sterling gets to stay.”

I lean back in my seat, while Janey fills me in on her conversation with Junior Ewing this afternoon.

Despite my offer to cook, she already had dinner going by the time I got here. I’d stopped off at the trailer to pick up a change of clothes, since I plan to spend the night here.

I’m not sure who she’s talking about, but the news clearly makes her happy. I grin back at her smiling face.

“Sterling?”

Janey nods. “Yes. That’s the name of the pinto; Lacey Del Franco’s barrel horse.”

She stacks our empty plates and starts getting up, when I stop her.

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