Page 4 of His Surrender
I suppose the haircut had stuck with him—as did other things.
“Hey, shithead,” I said, going over to pull him in for a side hug.
Ivan jabbed at my stomach. “Prick. You might be my big brother, but show some goddamn respect.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” I put my hands up and stepped back. “Should’ve said Corporal Shithead.”
Foster laughed and then his mouth snapped shut when Ivan looked at him. But my little brother was a big softie despite his hard exterior. He sprung forward and threw his arms around Foster before tickling his sides, making the boy squeal and try to break free.
“Uncle Jay! Help me!” Foster snorted as he laughed.
I held up my hands. “Sorry, kid. I’m no match for a Marine. Your dad could take me down in a second flat.”
“At least you know your place,” Ivan said over his shoulder.
“Ti chosuka?”What the fuck, bitch?I sprung forward and grabbed him around the waist.
Some things never changed. Ivan and I had always been pretty close, and there we were in our thirties still wrestling and acting like rowdy teenagers. We also tended to break out in Russian when doing it.
“Who you calling a bitch, bitch?” Ivan elbowed me in the ribs. “And watch your filthy mouth around my son.”
“Hey, I don’t mind.” Foster went over to grab a soda from the fridge. “Prodolzhat’.”
Carry on.
The little smart-ass.
My mom was Russian but had immigrated to America when she was a teenager. She had wanted me and Ivan to know the language, and by the age of five, both of us had been fluent in both English and Russian. Ivan had wanted Foster to know it too.
“Want a beer?” Ivan asked, lightly punching my shoulder before joining Foster in the small kitchen. He had a slight limp when he walked, which told me his leg was probably bothering him today.
“Sure.” I popped open the can when he handed it to me and took a drink. “Thanks.”
“I can make us dinner,” Foster offered.
“Let me worry about dinner.” Ivan ruffled his son’s hair. “Go keep your uncle company.”
Foster smiled and came to stand beside me. He might’ve been timid and quiet, but he really came out of his shell at home. I wished kids his age could see the Foster I knew. He deserved to have friends. Those little assholes had no idea what they were missing out on.
“How was school today?” I asked as Ivan filled a pan with water and put it on the stove to start heating.
“Okay, I guess.” Foster shrugged. “I like my history class and band. That’s about it.”
“How’s the clarinet playing coming along?” He’d had trouble last fall deciding what he wanted to play and had chosen the instrument after his teacher recommended it.
“The bass clarinet,” Foster corrected. “I still suck, but I’m improving.”
“Don’t say you suck,” Ivan said. “We all have to start somewhere.”
“Listen to your dad,” I told Foster. “He might be dumb as a bag of rocks most days, but he knows what he’s talking about.”
Ivan flipped me off, and I wiggled my eyebrows at him.
“Yeah, that’s what Mr. Barnett said,” Foster responded with a nod.
Mr. Barnett.The piano man. Well, that’s what Emery called him. I didn’t know his first name. I’d first seen him at the school last summer when I’d gone with Foster to get his schedule and walk around after they’d moved there. Then I’d seen him again at 906 Cocktail and Cigar Lounge, a cigar bar Emery and I frequented most weekends. He played the piano in a jazz band.
High school band teacher by day and jazz guy on the weekends. This Mr. Barnett was incredibly hot but totally off-limits. One, I got the feeling he was straight. At the bar, I often saw him chatting up the ladies. And two, he was my nephew’s teacher. I would never want to make things awkward for Foster by hooking up with the guy, no matter how hot he was.
