A Passion Denied (50 page)

“Come on, John, in my former drunks, I always felt better when I threw up, so we need to empty your stomach.” He rolled Brady over and dragged him toward the headboard. He managed to sit him up, breathing hard from the effort, then pushed the pot in his lap.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you’d learned to drink during the war,” he muttered, still in shock that alcohol had crossed John Brady’s lips. In all the years he’d known him and all the times he’d tried to get him to drink on their leaves, he had never seen him tip more than a ginger ale. His jaw hardened.
Which meant something in New York had pushed him
way over the edge.

“Come on, ol’ buddy, I’ve got payback to do after all those times you cleaned up after me.” He held John’s scruffy chin with one hand and opened his mouth with the other, jabbing a finger to the back of his throat.

Brady’s body jerked as he gagged, but his eyes remained cemented closed. Collin tried it two more times. It finally paid off like a slot machine in Virginia City. A foul-smelling curtain of liquid gushed from his lips, spraying Brady, the bedding, and Collin with a nauseating slime. Collin gagged as he held Brady’s head over the pot. He looked away and tried not to breathe.

He heard Brady moan and was so relieved, he took a deep gulp of air.
Wrong move.
He fought back a heave and leaned forward to search Brady’s pale face. “Hey, buddy, you got this all backwards. You’re supposed to be holding my head, remember?”

Brady’s eyes opened to slits. “Collin?”

“Yeah, John, it’s me. How ya doing?”

Brady licked his lips and scowled. “What’s that smell?”

Collin chuckled. “The contents of your stomach . . . I assume after a partial bottle of vodka.”

Brady groaned and fell back against the headboard, head banging the wall.

“Brady?”

No answer.

“John! Wake up!”

One eyelid flickered, then stilled. Drool snaked its way down the side of his mouth.

“Okay, ol’ buddy, I don’t want to do this, but we need to wake you up.” Collin put the pot aside and heaved him up and over his shoulder with a grunt. He staggered under his weight before steadying himself, then wrinkled his nose. “Besides, you stink.”

He hauled him into the bathroom and laid him in the tub. He took his shoes off and dropped them on the floor. With a flick of his wrist, he turned the cold water on and flipped the shower lever.

Cold spray pelted Brady’s chest and face like a hailstorm, causing him to jerk like a drunken marionette. A curse word gurgled in his mouth. “What the devil are you doing?”

Collin’s smile was grim. “Cleaning ya up. You smell like a sewer.”

“Turn it off, you no-good—” A colorful string of words burned Collin’s ears.

He fought a grin as he turned the water off. “Drinking and swearing. Tell me, John, what other bad habits did you pick up in New York?”

Brady groaned, eyes still pasted shut. “Shut up, Collin.”

“That any way to talk to a buddy who got out of bed at six a.m. on a Sunday morning to brew you coffee? Now, do you want to take your own shower, or do you want me to give you one?”

“I don’t want coffee, and I don’t want a shower. Leave me alone.”

Collin reached for the faucet handle. “Fine, a shower it is—”

Brady’s eyelids peeled open faster than a tightly rolled window shade. He glared, and the whites of his eyes were so spidered with blood vessels that they complemented the red vomit stains on his shirt. “So help me, God, if you touch that faucet one more time . . .”

Collin cocked a hip. “Don’t get testy with me, buster. I’m the one Cluny hauled out of bed at the crack of dawn ’cause he thought you were dead. I’m short on sleep, so don’t push me. It wouldn’t take a whole lot to turn this water on and let your sorry butt drown.”

Brady closed his eyes and moaned. “Cluny found me?”

Collin exhaled his frustration. “Yeah, but he doesn’t know you were drunk. I kept the bottle out of sight ’til I sent him to get Father Mac.”

Brady jolted up too quickly. He groaned and put a hand to his head. “You sent for Matt? Are you crazy?”

“No, John, just worried sick. What the devil happened in New York, anyway? I’ve never seen you drink a drop of liquor, much less pass out stinking drunk.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Brady tried to wobble to his feet and failed.

“Well, too bloomin’ bad, John, because you need to talk to somebody.” Collin hefted him under his arms until Brady teetered on his feet in the tub, water sluicing off him like a fountain. “I suggest you strip down and take a shower, ol’ buddy. The way you smell right now is a real sin—one that even Father Mac can’t absolve.”

“Collin . . .”

He turned at the door.

“Did you make the coffee strong?”

“You bet. Stronger than that poison you poured down your gullet.”

Brady pressed a hand to the wall and nodded. “Will you send Cluny home when Matt gets here?”

“Yeah.”

“And get me clean clothes from the drawer?”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“I could really use two aspirins from the kitchen cabinet, if you don’t mind.”

“Will do.” He started to close the door.

“And, Collin . . .”

“Yeah, John?”

“Will you pray for me?”

Collin’s jaw twitched with emotion. He attempted a smile. “Haven’t stopped since you left for New York. Now get cleaned up. You can’t afford to offend the clergy.”

Brady nodded.

Collin closed the door and sagged against it.
Please, God,
help him.

He took a deep breath and headed into the bedroom to clean up the mess. The sound of the shower sent him to the bureau drawers, where neatly folded stacks of T-shirts and underwear reminded him what an orderly man John Brady was. Too orderly to be thrown into chaos by a bout with the bottle. He slipped into the bathroom and put the clean underwear on the back of the commode, then returned to the bedroom to peel the offensive cover off the bed. He wadded it into a ball before tossing it into the empty hamper. He held his breath while he emptied the vomit into the toilet and flushed, then trekked to the kitchen to scour the pot within an inch of its life. He palmed a couple of aspirin, poured two cups of coffee, and carried one to the bathroom.

Steam billowed into the air, misting Collin’s face with a fine sheen of moisture. He paused, head cocked. “You still alive in there?”

“No.”

Collin grinned. Brady’s voice sounded like a rusty tin can. “Coffee and aspirin on the commode.” He stooped to pick up the dirty clothing and closed the door. He hurled them toward the hamper and headed to the kitchen.

The nutty smell of fresh-brewed coffee sharpened his appetite, and he peered into the near-empty icebox.
Bingo!
No meat, but a dozen eggs. Better than nothing, he thought as he began cracking them into a fry pan. He lit the stove and doused the soupy mixture with a heavy dose of salt and pepper. Week-old bread lay in the breadbox. The cut side of the loaf sported an unhealthy tinge of green, but Collin grabbed a knife from the drawer and cut the questionable piece off. He sliced two more, finally popping them into the newfangled toaster he and Faith had given Brady for Christmas. He heard the shower stop and looked up at the clock on the wall. Six forty-five. Not bad. From the ranks of the dead to the land of the living in under an hour.

The front door flew open just as he scraped the last of the eggs onto a plate and slid them in the oven to keep warm.

“Is he still alive?” Cluny croaked, face as white as the collar around Father Mac’s neck.

Collin smiled and reached for another cup. “Yeah, bud, he’s alive. May not feel like it, but he is. Acts a lot like he’s got a touch of the flu. Threw up.” He nodded at Father Mac. “Thanks for coming, Father. Coffee?”

“Bless you, my son. Cluny caught me before I got my first sip.”

“I’ll have some too. And do I smell toast?” Cluny dropped into a chair at the table, his fears apparently alleviated by hunger.

“Sorry, bud, but I’m afraid you need to hightail it home.”

“I ain’t leaving.”

Collin set a steaming mug in front of Father Mac. “Have to. You can’t risk getting sick.”

Cluny’s lower lip protruded considerably. “I’m not leaving Brady.”

“Sorry, but he specifically told me to send you home. You want to upset him when he’s sick?”

“No, but—”

Collin tugged him to his feet. “Come on, he’s sicker than the time Miss Hercules ate your gram’s whole roasted turkey. Remember how she puked all over and slept for days? That’s what Brady needs—rest. He’ll see you tomorrow, I promise.”

“Tell him I missed him, will ya?”

“Will do.” Collin pushed him toward the door.

Cluny turned, the freckles on his face stark against his pale skin. “And, Collin?”

“Yeah, bud?”

“Tell him I’m praying.”

Collin blinked, astounded for the hundredth time at the healing effect John Brady had on people’s lives. “He’s lucky to have you as a friend, Cluny.”

“Shoot, no, Collin. I’m the lucky one.” He turned to go, and Collin shut the door, determined to fight the emotion in his eyes.

“What happened?” Father Mac asked quietly, his coffee untouched.

Collin turned and exhaled. He was suddenly exhausted. He grabbed his cup from the counter and sank into a chair across from Matt. “I don’t know, Father, but whatever it was, it was enough to put away a half bottle of vodka.”

“I didn’t know he even drank anymore.”

Collin took a sip of his coffee. His eyes locked with Matt’s over the rim. “He doesn’t, not since he was seventeen. Couldn’t even get him to go off the wagon during the war when we took leaves in Paris.” Fear sifted through him. “If the hell of war couldn’t get him to drink, I shudder to think what happened in New York.”

Father Mac frowned. “He would have seen his stepsister in New York, right?”

“Yeah, I think so. Helena. She and Michael still live in the house where they all grew up, which is where he stayed, I assume.”

Matt nodded, his eyes distracted and far away as he sipped his coffee.

The bathroom door creaked open, and their heads jerked up. They stared, still as stone, as Brady walked into the kitchen, coffee cup limp in his hand. His hygiene considerably improved, he was clean-shaven and hair slicked back, but his eyes were still red and glassy.

Dead and lifeless, Collin thought, and his stomach twisted. He jumped to his feet. “I have eggs and toast in the oven. More coffee?”

“No,” Brady muttered and dropped into a chair. His eyes trained on the empty cup in his hand.

Collin ignored him and filled his cup before topping both his and Father Mac’s. He plunked a plate of eggs and toast onto the table, along with plates and utensils. “Eat,” he said.

Brady continued to stare, his bleary gaze lost in a sea of bitter coffee. “I’m not hungry.”

“Yeah, well, you need a little something other than vodka to sustain that thick head of yours.”

That woke him up. His head shot up, and the red in his eyes singed like fire. “Go to the devil, Collin. As if I didn’t pull your head out of the latrine more times than I can count.”

Collin eased back into his chair, all humor depleted. “That’s right, John, you did. Which makes this all the more upsetting. What’s going on?”

Brady closed his eyes and ran a shaky hand over his face. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why? From the very beginning, you’ve known everything about me—my past, my present, what I think, what I feel. The best of friends, closer than brothers. Don’t you think I deserve the same?”

Brady lowered his head. “You do, but I can’t tell you.”

Collin’s jaw tightened. “Why?”

“Because I’m not ready.”

Collin slammed his fist on the table. “Not ready for what? To be a friend?”

Brady’s head lunged up, his eyes swimming with pain. “No, Collin, not ready to lose one.”

Collin blinked. He swallowed the emotion lumped in his throat and nodded. “If I leave, will you promise to talk to Father Mac?”

Brady nodded slowly, his eyes dull.

Collin stood. He glanced at Father Mac. “Can you try to get him to eat? I want him healthy at work tomorrow.” Collin gave Brady’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’m tired of carrying him.” He started for the door.

“Collin?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll have half of the day’s work done before you even shadow the door.”

Collin turned, hand poised on the knob. His throat tightened. “I want you to know, John, whatever you did, no matter how bad you think it may be, I will stand by you. I’m proud to call you my friend, because I know who you are—a man of integrity, honor, and passion for God. And nothing—
nothing
—you can say will ever change that for me. I love you like a brother and always will. See you tomorrow.” The door clicked softly behind him.

Brady drew in a deep breath and avoided Matt’s gaze. Tears filled his eyes. “Like a brother,” he whispered. “That doesn’t sound so good right about now.”

Father Mac leveled beefy arms on the table and leaned in. His tone was quiet. “Worse than you thought?”

Brady’s laughter held no mirth. “Yeah. Not only was I a child drunk, but apparently I was depraved enough to sleep with my father’s wife.”

He heard Father Mac flinch, the faint intake of breath piercing Brady’s consciousness anew. He was an infidel. A lost soul. A man who committed incest and adultery to gratify his own flesh.

He staggered to his feet, suddenly craving the numbing effect of the bottles he’d stolen from Michael’s stash. “I’d rather you leave, Matt. I feel sick and need to lie down.”

A firm grip fisted his arm. “No, John, we need to deal with this now. Once and for all.”

Brady jerked away, his eyes itching with tension. “And how do you propose to do that, Matt? What exactly do you have? A potion or magic formula that will make it all go away?”

Father Mac stared. The brown of his eyes deepened with intensity in a face that radiated pure peace and calm. “No potion, John, and no formula. Just the saving blood of Jesus Christ.”

The impact of Matt’s words pierced his heart. He looked away. “Maybe that’s not enough this time.”

“It’s always enough, John.” Father Mac pulled out a chair. “Sit. Please?”