Page 287 of Golden Eagle

47

Lanny stared up at the house he’d grown up in. A simple brick two-story in Queens, with more boys than bedrooms. His mother’s herb garden still persisted, in the planter boxes off the porch, but would go dormant, soon. She’d take the best sprigs out at the roots and pot them to sit in the kitchen window. The rosemary, sage, oregano, and basil that she used in her cooking. A little lemon balm for the smell; she used to run her fingers along the leaves and then stroke them through Lanny’s hair, when he was only waist-high, so he’d “smell sweet as lemons.”

“I’m nervous,” he said aloud.

Beside him, Trina squeezed his hand. “Rob said they won’t be bothered by anybody.”

He snorted. That wasn’t what he’d meant, and they both knew it – but he appreciated her trying to deflect his real anxiety.

They went up the steps, and he used his key, calling “Ma!” as they went into the cramped entryway.

It looked so much smaller than it had when he was younger: the wallpaper, and the hook for coats, the rack for shoes; the glimpse of the living room, where he and his brothers had watched so many football games. The stairs that he’d slid down each Christmas morning, the banister prickly with garland, seemed narrower. The floorboards were shiny down the middle, from the passage of feet.

It smelled the same, though: like fresh-made bread, and pasta sauce simmering for later. A hint of the cigars his dad wasn’t supposed to smoke in his study, but always did.

“Ma!” he called again, heart pounding, towing Trina down the foyer.

His mother stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and he felt a sharp, swift pain up under his ribs when he saw her.

She wore a long, airy skirt, paisley print that would have looked ridiculous on someone else, but which suited her perfectly; matched her layered blue top, and the bangles rattling on her wrists. Her hair, more silver than black now, lay in waves down her back, her makeup only the subtlest touch to bring out her natural olive skin tone.

“Roland!” she shouted, and dropped the towel.

“Hi, Ma–” She barreled into him, and he caught her, returning the tight squeeze she gave him – but gently, oh so gently. He’d thought she felt fragile, by comparison, when he started fighting. But, now, as a vampire, she felt like twigs and bird bones. He knew he was stronger than Trina, and was careful, even though she was all muscle and sinew and tenacity; but when had his mother become breakable?

As quick as she’d flown to him, she pulled back, and swatted his chest. “Where the hell have you been?” she demanded. “I’ve called, and I’ve called – and poor Trina’s had to deal with me! Hello, Trina,” she said in an aside, “thank you for dragging my delinquent son home.” She hit Lanny again.

“Ow!”

“That doesn’t hurt, tough guy! Where have you been?”

“Ma –Mom.” He caught her wrists. Didn’t squeeze, only held her. But the strength of his grip caught her attention. Her head lifted, and her tirade stopped.

“Lanny,” she said, gaze searching his face. “Lanny. What?” She exhaled. “You’re scaring me.”

“I need to tell you something, Mom,” he said, softly, and her face showed surprise that would quickly turn to panic. “I have to go away for a while, and I need to explain it to you, first. It’s going to sound crazy…” His chest tightened, and he swallowed it down. “But, see, the thing is, I was sick…”

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