Page 90 of College Town

The place looks derelict. It’s clean inside, because he and Mom and their hired help, Nancy, ensure that it is, but Lawson knows all the furnishing and fixtures are badly out of date. Mom watches all those home reno shows where happy married couples demo and redo houses, but they’ve lacked the funds for such an endeavor, or the personal know-how and time to do it themselves.

Lawson kills the engine and then grips the wheel with sweaty palms. “So. Here we are.” When he dares to glance over, he sees that Tommy’s frowning.

“I know it looks like hell,” he begins, and Tommy interrupts him.

“Where’s the ramp?”

“What?”

“Your dad.” Tommy gives the back of the house a narrow-eyed once-over and then lowers his gaze to meet Lawson’s. “He’s in a wheelchair, you said. You need a ramp.”

“Oh. Yeah. We were gonna get one, but the contractor bailed, so…”

“You couldn’t build one?”

“I tried.”

The true story is that insurance was supposed to cover a ramp, but the paperwork and red tape pushed the project back by over a year. Finally, he and Mom realized they’d have to pay for the job themselves. Lawson spent all summer toting his dad up and down the back steps while Mom managed the wheelchair any time they had to take him to the doctor, and he bartended like a fiend to put away enough cash for the job. The contractor they selected came highly recommended by a friend of his mom’s, who even passed along photos of the built-in banquette and bookcases he’d installed in her home.

The contractor – Steve – turned out to be only a few years older than Lawson, and far, far more attractive than Lawson expected. Steve was the one who initiated the flirting, the sidelong looks; Lawson didn’t think he could be blamed for taking him out back the night he swung by the bar where Lawson worked, and getting down on his knees for him. Lawson could be blamed, though, for thinking it meant something. For calling him after hours, and getting hiswifeon the phone.

Steve abandoned the job, and then apparently talked about Lawson with his contractor buddies, because not a single contractor in town had an opening after that. Not for two months, not for three, six, twelve, fourteen…

Lawson built a ramp, he even used YouTube. And the first time he tested it, it collapsed.

In the dark, he smashed the lumber to bits with a sledgehammer, until he couldn’t see thanks to the sweat and tears pouring down his face. The next morning, Mom saw the destruction, pulled him down, and pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead.

So they don’t have a ramp.

Lawson opens his door and climbs out because he can’t take Tommy’s pitying look any longer. “Come on if you’re coming,” he says, slings his bag over his shoulder, and doesn’t wait up. “Let’s get this over with.”

The car door shuts behind him, and Tommy’s fancy shoes grit over the loose patch in the concrete of the driveway.

Lawson’s spurt of defiant bravery lasts all the way up the (not a ramp) back steps to the door, and then he pauses, and rattles his keys in his hand, and wonders if he should have called ahead. He entrusted Dana with his parents, with the explanations, and though he’s had two days to think of it, he still has no idea what he’s going to say.

He lets out a long, slow breath as he stares at his haggard expression in the little square windows set in the door.

A hand lands in the middle of his back, a specter of a supportive touch, quickly withdrawn.

He fits the key in the door and lets them in.

Today’s Thursday – is it really only Thursday? – which means that Mom will be elbow-deep in alterations today. As expected, the kitchen is cool, and clean, the breakfast dishes in the drying rack by the sink, the pan she fries the eggs in still soaking inside it. He hears the TV on in the living room, some old rerun with a laugh track, which means that Dad was still wakeful after breakfast, and is in there with her while she works at her.

Lawson stands a moment by the table, looks reluctantly over at Tommy to see what his reaction is. He expects more pity, or even disgust. How could someone who dines at exclusive restaurants and wears fifteen-thousand-dollar watches be anythingbutdisgusted by this suburban time capsule?

But Tommy issmiling. It’s a small, private thing at first, but as he takes a slow turn and gazes around the room, dark eyes flicking back and forth in quick snaps, it grows and grows, and he’s flashing teeth by the time he gets back around to Lawson. “It’s the same,” he says, like that’s a good thing, giving a disbelieving, but obviously delighted shake of his head. “The curtains! And, look.” He goes to the molding around the pantry door and taps at the old marker lines where Mom used to measure Lawson’s height as he grew. “You were never this little,” he chuckles, bending to tap the lowest line.

Lawson swallows, and swallows again. “Yeah, well, you still are,” he says, weakly.

Tommy chuckles some more.

“Law?” Mom calls. “Is that you, honey?”

His heart trips again, aflutter with nerves all over again – but Tommy’s still smiling, warmly, and that helps, even if he knows better than to latch onto it like a lifeline.

He hears the click of Mom’s scissors going down on the table as he makes his way into the room, Tommy in tow. “No, no, Mom, don’t get up. We’re, um…” He stalls out, still not sure what to say.

Like the kitchen, the living room is just as Tommy must remember it. Same brown carpet, same dark wood coffee and end tables. The couch is newer, a comfortable corduroy that Lawson’s spent more than a few nights on when he got in too late to disturb his parents on the second floor. The recliner’s still there, but it’s been bumped aside to make room for Dad’s wheelchair by the table, lamp, and electrical outlet there. The loveseat’s been moved, too, to accommodate Mom’s tailoring table, with its built-in measuring lines and extra-thick top, its pincushions on the corners.

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