Torn - Part Four (The Torn Series) (8 page)

“I haven’t decided.”

“They must have invited you for a reason.”

I grimaced. “I figured you’d think I should go.”

“So go,” she said, “And call me when your visit’s over. Or call me in the middle of it, I’ll have my phone. Just call me.”

I nodded. I hated to admit that I might need her but it felt good knowing she’d be there. “Same goes for you,” I said. “If it gets to be too much. Just call me.”

“Deal.”

CHAPTER 8

Christmas snuck up on me. After confirming that I’d make an appearance at Dad’s place, I threw myself into practice like a madman, pausing only for random night jobs and, on a couple occasions, for Riley.

I saw a lot less of her than I liked. She was working a lot as well. When she wasn’t working, she was forlornly picking away at chords on her guitar.

At least she’d dusted it off and picked it up. I tried to be encouraging without being pushy, which was tough for me, pushy bastard that I was.

“If I never play again then Jen wins,” she said one evening. It was one of the rare nights where our schedule lined up. We’d already fucked both before and after ordering take-out Chinese and were finally feeling sated. At least for the moment.

“Don’t worry about Jen,” I said, “Who cares what she thinks.” I sat naked on the edge of her bed and strummed the only two chords I knew.

She sat up, wrapped in her sheets. The girl’s room was still bare as shit, though she’d picked up a dresser at some point since the last time I’d been there. Minimal furniture, apparently no attachment to the room or to the apartment itself… It would be so easy to move her in with me.

“I know I shouldn’t care,” she said, “I just felt so shitty after… after everything.”

I glanced at her over my shoulder. Her hair was in disarray, her lips still swollen. She was gorgeous. “I thought we weren’t dwelling on the past.”

“I’m not,” she said, her voice small.

I snapped my fingers. “I’ve got it.”

“Got what?”

“We’re doing Second Christmas. Just like we did with Thanksgiving.”

I could hear the smile in her voice. “We are?”

“Yeah. Before my fight. I’m supposed to eat a lot leading up to it, anyway. And invite your sister.” I strummed my two chords. “And you can play us Christmas carols.”

She laughed. “I can, can I?”

“Yeah. No pressure to write new songs or learn more lame-ass pop music. Just play what you guys already know.”

When I looked back at her, her eyes were glistening.
Oh, fuck
. “Don’t,” I warned. But she was already rising to her knees. She crawled across the bed and wrapped her arms around me, sniffling, eyes leaking.
Jesus
. I hugged her back and hid my grimace.

“You’re the best, you know that?” she said with one last sniffle, finally letting me go.

“Yeah, well. Cut that out.” I cleared my throat and gestured at her face.

She laughed at me. “They were happy tears, you brute.” She wiped them from her cheeks with one hand and then, moving before I knew what she was trying to do, she wiped them on my bare arm.

“Oh, my God, so gross,” I said, snatching the sheet away from her to dry my skin.

She laughed again. “Getting me to sit on your damn face isn’t gross, but that is?”

“Accurate.” I carefully place the guitar on the floor, then pounced on her, rolling us around so that she was resting on my chest. “One of those things is much more fun than the other.” I slid my hands between us and squeezed her breasts, then rolled her nipples between my fingers. She gasped softly, and a wicked grin spread across her face.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Turning you on,” I said, “You’re leaving me for Connecticut tomorrow. I want as much of you as I can get before then.”

“Except the yucky tears.”

“Exactly.” I tugged on her hips. “Now get the hell up here.”

○●○●○●○●○

The memory of her taste lingered on my lips and in my mind, carrying me through the misery of visiting my father.

I hadn’t been to the apartment in years. It smelled like old cigarettes, dirty socks, and unwashed dishes. The ratty old carpet that had been there since the seventies was more stained than I remembered it. The walls were yellowed, the curtains thick with dust.

My father was a reflection of the state of his apartment. Gray, dusty, sagging. Old. When had that happened? He was a blazing-eyed beast in most of my memories.

But the years had caught up.

“Dad,” I said, approaching the armchair where he sat. Tony had let me in and was back in the kitchen, “supervising” the oven. Really, he was sitting on the counter drinking straight from a bottle of whiskey.

“Michael,” Dad said, groaning as he stood. He gave me an appraising look - up and down, like he was assessing a car. “You look rested.”

It wasn’t a compliment.

“Tony’s got a lasagna in the oven.” He pulled a cane from behind his chair and used it to support himself as he walked past me. When had that happened? It was like the old man had aged more than a decade in the few years I’d stayed away.

I followed him to the kitchen. “Put that shit down,” he barked. I knew he was talking about the whiskey bottle even though I hadn’t rounded the corner yet. “Your brother’s here.”

“Yeah, Dad, I let him in,” Tony said. I rounded the corner and found Dad lowering himself onto the single chair near the window. The kitchen was too small for three people so I leaned against the entryway.

“Lasagna?” I asked.

He shrugged. “From Capo’s Deli down the block.” I could hardly believe that old place was still in business, considering the rate at which some neighborhoods were changing.

“Let me know what I owe you.”

“Later,” he waved. Then he passed me the bottle. “Merry Christmas.”

“Cheers.” I took a swing.

Dad shook his head with disgust. “My boys,” he spat.

“Don’t pick a fight,” Tony said, glaring at the old man, then at me in turn. “Either of you.”

That was out of the ordinary, normally Tony cheered on our arguments. He loved being the better son, the golden boy. I passed him the bottle.

“You haven’t been around,” Dad said. He reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Been busy,” I said. His hands shook as he tried to light the limp old cigarette he stuck in his mouth. Tony muttered something under his breath and helped him with it. “Want one?” Dad asked, gesturing with the packet.

“Yeah.” I’d take anything to calm my nerves. “Thanks.”

Tony took one, too. I didn’t smoke as much as I used to. My dedication to fighting had forced me to cut the habit down, and being around Riley made me want to do it even less, simply because her nose wrinkled. She didn’t even need to say anything. I just stopped, for the most part.

But sharing a smoke was the most companionable thing my father had done in as long as I could remember. I wasn’t going to turn the old man down. Especially if Tony was so oddly against us butting heads.

“Whatcha got in there?” Tony asked, gesturing at the paper bag I’d left next to the door.

“Shit.” I’d nearly forgotten about it. Riley had been adamant that I not show up empty-handed, so I brought more booze and a pie. “Lemon meringue,” I said as I pulled it out, “Should be refrigerated.”

I slid it inside the fridge amongst nothing but beer bottles and condiments. Was this how Dad had been living? There wasn’t so much as a carton of eggs or a loaf of bread.

The old man was staring out the window, down at the view of the same alley I used to stare at while Mom hummed at the stove when I was a child. There was nothing to look at but garbage and the occasional cat, but that was the view - the alley and the brick wall.

I used to name the cats. Tony and I would halfheartedly throw junk down at them, never intending to hit one, only to scare them. One point for making one jump, five for a yowl.

Until Dad caught us. Then it was ten points for a hit. He demonstrated with an empty jar. We never played the game again after that.

I pushed the memory down, back in the bottle where it belonged. Looking at Dad now, it was hard to believe it was the same man.

He finished his cigarette in silence, then rose and announced, “Gotta take a shit. You two stay in this kitchen. I won’t have the building burning down because you can’t operate an oven.”

I watched him leave, hunched over his cane, grunting with the effort of walking.

“What the fuck,” I asked Tony, keeping my voice low so he wouldn’t overhear from the bathroom. “Is he sick?”

“Early Alzheimer’s,” he said flippantly. As if it were no big deal. But it hit me like a punch to the gut.

“The fuck? When did this happen?”

“Sometime while you were out playing around with your buddies,” he said, “Who the fuck knows when. I only know because I’ve been opening his mail.”

“What?”

Tony shrugged. “He forgets his bills sometimes if I don’t.”

“Fuck.” So the old man
was
sick.

And it sounded like Tony had been taking care of him.

I didn’t think I was supposed to feel shitty about it, all things considered, but I did. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“So you could give me a heap of bullshit over it? I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “I only dragged you out here now because he’s so desperate to see our fight. I think…” he trailed off, staring at the timer on the oven.

“You think what?” I prompted, trying to let the hostility leave my voice. I always had my guard up around Tony, but maybe right then it wasn’t necessary.

“I can’t deal with him while I’m in the ring, obviously. Someone will need to keep an eye on him.”

“Why can’t you just leave him home?” I grumbled.

“Because he doesn’t have a shitload of time left, Michael,” Tony said. I cringed at my name. “Sure, he’s gonna live for plenty more years, but they ain’t gonna be good ones. Those are used up.”

I would have never called any of them “good,” but I knew what he meant. I sighed. “I can enlist Lockett to stick with him,” I said, then shook my head. “Of course he wouldn’t want to miss this fight. He’s been pitting us against each other for years. This must feel like the culmination of all his hard work.” My mouth twisted with the words, with the nasty truth of them.

“It’s a grand finale, all right,” Tony muttered. I cursed. I wasn’t ready for this. Had I wished the old man would croak? Hell yes, on many occasions. But I wasn’t ready for his old age, for having to deal with his care. I’d always sort of assumed he’d take himself out in some alcohol and rage fueled accident. Not this.

I cursed again. “What are we going to do?” I asked.

“We?”

“Yeah. I’ll help. I want to help.” That wasn’t entirely true. I also wanted to run out of that apartment and never look back, not at either one of them.

Tony eyed me suspiciously, as if he didn’t think I was serious. I didn’t blame him. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Relief washed over his face. How long had he been shouldering this? “You can take over his laundry,” he said, “He has a hard time using the machines, and remembering what needs to get washed. Last time he did it alone he locked himself out of the apartment.”

“I can do that,” I nodded. I’d hate it. I’d hate every minute of it.
But it’s time to man up
, I told myself,
Take the high road
. I’d help more for Tony’s sake than for Dad’s, but I’d do it. They were the only family I had.
Dammit
.

Giving in to my first impulse and running away would be cowardly, I felt. And how could I face my girl if I felt like a coward?

I couldn’t wait to call her after dinner. I didn’t need to spill my guts. Not yet, not while I was still processing all this new information. I just needed to hear her voice.

Dinner was eaten in silence. I cringed when Dad spilled tomato sauce down his shirt and Tony had to help him mop it up. How far the old man had fallen. It was hard to even stay angry at him. The past still hurt and probably always would. But seeing him like this really dumped a bucket of water on the old flames of my rage.