Page 126 of College Town

Tommy snorts. “No. There’s a specialist in New York who works with stroke patients.”

Lawson’s gut turns to ice. His hands still, and then wrap tight into the towel, while Tommy continues scrubbing the pot, oblivious.

“Dr. Guthrie. He’s experimenting with a new robotic surgery that–”

“Stop,” Lawson says, low and heavy, and Tommy stops. Turns to him, frowning. “No.”

“I’m not saying your dad’s a good candidate – Dr. Guthrie would need to evaluate him, first – or if he’d be willing to–”

“No,” Lawson repeats. “Stop talking about this.”

Tommy takes a breath, brow furrowing, gearing up to argue…but his gaze tracks back and forth over Lawson’s face, and he subsides with a slow exhale, and a defeated slump of his shoulders. “It’s just an idea,” he says, turning back to the sink.

Just another way for you to throw money at us, Lawson thinks. “You didn’t say anything to them, did you?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t.”

“I won’t,” Tommy says, “but I wish I could help.”

Lawson wishes a lot of things. If Tommy wasn’t a mobster, if he was really just an insurance man, if they were together…then, maybe, they could talk about taking Dad into the big city to talk to a specialist. But Lawson won’t do it like this. He won’t get his parents’ hopes up only for Tommy to bail on them when it’s time to go sling dope in the next city, and the next.

“You can scrub the skillet,” Lawson says, and can’t quite manage to sound teasing. “That’ll help.”

Tommy chuckles, and passes over the clean pasta pot.

~*~

Lawson dutifully pulls the novels from the shelf that Dad wants to let Tommy borrow, and stacks them up on the coffee table. “Thanks for coming,” Lawson tells him with a false, cheery smile, and then helps get Dad upstairs.

“He’ssssss. A nicccccssse. Boy,” Dad says, while Lawson’s washing his hair.

“Tommy?”

“Uh-huh. Agoodboy.” The last is pointed.

You date him, then, Lawson thinks, sourly.Let him whisk you away to New York to see this Dr. Guthrie person before he drops you like a hot rock.

Inwardly, he knows he’s not being fair to Tommy, but he feels small, and hurt, and petty right now, after the intimacy of earlier, the glimpse of what-could-be at dinner.

He forces himself to soften. “You liked catching up with him, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” He cracks an eye open, as shampoo suds trickle down his temple, and says, “In-invite him. Back.”

“We’ll see.”

While he helps Dad into clean pajamas and back into his chair, and then bed, he wonders what Tommy and Mom are talking about downstairs. Mom had already started a pot of decaf when Lawson and Dad headed upstairs, and the two of them looked cozy on the sofa. Now that the album’s been looked through, Mom can start in on the real gossip. If Dad’s up here giving him the nudge, no doubt Mom’s working her angle with Tommy downstairs.

Lawson sighs, and when Dad lifts his brows inquiringly, he shakes his head. “Just a long week, that’s all.”

Dad touches his face, fleetingly and unsteadily, and Lawson squeezes his hand before he tucks the covers in snug around him. When Dad points to it, Lawson fires up the Kindle and passes it over; he promises to check in on him later and ducks out into the hallway.

At the far end, the door to his own room stands half-open, lamplight spilling out across the runner in a fat, grapefruit wedge of warmth.

When he changed earlier, he left his door shut.

He can’t decide if it’s nerves or anticipation shivering down his back as he walks down the hall and then pushes his door the rest of the way open. Either way, he’s somehow not prepared for the sight that greets him.

---