Читать книгу Comfort And Joy - Amy Frazier, Amy Frazier - Страница 5

HOW MUCH PRIDE DID a man have to swallow to ensure his kids’ well-being?

Gabriel Brant figured he was about to find out.

As he drove past a sign that read, Welcome to Hennings, Best Little City in New York State, he glanced in his rearview mirror to check on the twins. Justin’s eyes—far too old for a five-year-old’s—met his.

“Daddy, Jared’s hungry.” Ever since Hurricane Katrina had destroyed their home and Gabriel’s restaurant a little over two years ago, Jared hadn’t spoken. With the uncanny sensitivity of a twin, Justin spoke for him.

“We’re almost at your grandfather’s.” The thought worked Gabriel’s stomach into knots. “He said he’d have lunch ready.” Something out of a can, more than likely. The old man would do it deliberately. To emphasize that a talent for cooking was no big deal.

A third of the way down Main Street, Gabriel turned right onto Chestnut, where the storefronts gave way to residences. Two days before Thanksgiving and still not a snowflake in sight, yet some of the houses were already decorated for Christmas.

“Daddy, we see Santa!” Justin exclaimed, pointing to a large plastic figure next to one front door. “Does he come to Grampa’s, too?”

The twins could remember the motel, and then the cramped mobile home “city,” in which they’d spent the past two Christmases. Where charities had provided a holiday chow line and a few presents for the kids.

Outsiders simply did not understand or want to understand how this particular storm had not gone away. Its devastating effects still lingered months and months and months afterward. The enormity of rebuilding and the inescapable red tape involved with the process kept countless lives in a state of perpetual uncertainty. Gabriel was sick and tired of waiting. Wanting a real roof over his boys’ heads this holiday season was one of several compelling reasons he’d finally given in to Walter Brant’s appeal to come home. Trouble was, Hennings hadn’t felt like home to Gabriel for seventeen years.

“Does Santa come here, too?” Justin pressed.

“I believe he does.” Gabriel would make sure he did, even though the money situation was stickier than gum on a New Orleans sidewalk.

He pulled into his father’s driveway. Backed by lowering clouds, the squat brick Craftsman-style house with the broad front porch seemed to scowl at him. After the past two years, Gabriel had inured himself to feeling on the outs. Almost.

The return to Hennings galled him, sure, but his sons needed to be in a place that didn’t automatically mistrust them, didn’t patronize them because of their plight or refer to them as “refugees.” As if their misfortune had been their fault.

Whether Gabriel liked it or not, Hennings was his hometown, and he had every right to return. Every right—no, he had an obligation—to give his twins a fresh start. Compared to the protracted chaos left in the wake of Katrina, Walter would be a balmy breeze.

Right.

“We’re here,” he said, trying to infuse the words with enthusiasm.

“You think Grampa will make po’boys for lunch?” Justin asked.

“I doubt it, kiddo. Until I can get to the store for supplies, you two will be eating…the Grampa Walter special. Which definitely won’t be what you’re used to. But you’ll be real polite, y’hear?”

“Yessir. Polite as curtsyin’ crawdads.”

Gabriel smiled at the silly reply the last of a string of babysitters had taught the boys. She’d been nice. But like so many others, she’d left—out of necessity—for greener pastures. In her case, a sister’s in Fort Worth.

Both boys unbuckled and clambered out of their booster seats as Gabriel opened the back door. But when Walter appeared on the front porch, Justin and Jared remained in the car. Gabriel hadn’t told his sons much about their grandfather, because he wasn’t sure of the reception they’d receive.

“Come on, you two. Let’s go meet your grampa.”

It was a short but frosty walk between the car and the porch, the November day only partially contributing to the chill.

“What took you so long?” Walter asked as they climbed the steps.

“Traffic,” Gabriel replied.

“I mean what took you so long? Your rooms have been ready for two years now.”

And so it began.

“You know I needed to stay close to New Orleans. To see if I’d be allowed to rebuild the restaurant.” Into which he’d sunk every last dime of his savings. Lost every last dime was more like it, if the class-action insurance suit didn’t pay off. “The powers that be haven’t ruled on that yet.”

“If you’d stayed in New York, you wouldn’t have been in the path of that hurricane.”

“Don’t start.”

The two men eyed each other in an antagonistic standoff.

“Well, am I gonna get a proper introduction?” Walter groused, looking down at the boys. “Five years old, and yet to meet their grampa. Kept away that long, you’d think these kids were in the witness-protection program.”

Promising himself he wouldn’t rise to the old man’s bait, Gabriel put his hand first on one twin’s head and then the other’s. “This is Justin and this is Jared.”

“’Bout time I met you two. Kinda small for five-year-olds, aren’t they?”

“Walter…” His father’s name came out in a low, warning growl.

“You always were touchy.” Walter turned to squat before the boys. “You know how to shake hands like men?”

“Yessir,” Justin said shyly, holding out his small right hand and nudging Jared to do the same. “Daddy taught us.”

There had been precious few extras Gabriel could give his sons these past couple of years, so he’d concentrated on those small but important things he could provide. Like a firm handshake and the ability to look a person in the eye. Small fries to some folks, but if his boys were going to swim and not sink in Walter Brant’s world, they’d need self-confidence.

One bushy eyebrow raised, Walter took each of the boys’ hands in turn. “Well done,” he said at last. Grudgingly. As if he’d expected to catch Gabriel in some parenting gaffe. “I guess you must be my grandsons, after all. But tell me, how am I gonna tell the two of you apart?” Walter squinted up at Gabriel. “You didn’t tell me they were identical.”

“That’s because they’re not, to me,” Gabriel muttered between clenched teeth.

Walter ignored the admonition as he turned back to Justin and Jared. “Hungry?”

“Yessir.”

“Then quit makin’ my porch sag and come on in the house. I got SpaghettiOs and fruit cocktail.” Holding open the front door, Walter challenged Gabriel with his glance. “And I just got a fresh loaf of Wonder Bread.”

Gabriel didn’t bite.

The house hadn’t changed. The living room still had the same furniture his mother had picked out long ago. Sofa, end tables, TV, Walter’s La-Z-Boy, Marjorie’s reading chair, her upright piano—the lid closed over the keys—and a table with a huge lamp, standing in front of the picture window. The fancy lampshade was still wrapped in plastic. Walter hadn’t even removed the knickknacks over the mantel. The small dining room behind the living room was as it had been when their original family of four sat around the old oak table each Sunday for Marjorie’s pot roast dinner. Gabriel bet the room hadn’t been used at all since his mother had died seven years ago.

Yet nothing looked neglected. Everything was in good repair, in the exact place it “should be,” without a speck of dust in sight. The house at 793 Chestnut represented a solid, unchanging universe, controlled, as it always had been, by Walter.

Gabriel was having difficulty breathing.

Walter had set the kitchen table for four. “You can wash up right here. I got this out of the attic for the boys.”

Gabriel recognized the stool his father had made in his basement workshop. Gabriel and his older brother, Daniel, had used it to wash up at the kitchen sink for years, until Walter eventually had determined they were “man enough” to stand on their own two feet. That was the thing about Walter. He wasn’t mean. He just insisted that life proceed according to his timetable. You could be a son of a bitch without being mean.

Gabriel helped his boys wash and dry their hands as Walter dished out four servings of SpaghettiOs. A small Pyrex bowl of fruit cocktail sat at each place, along with a glass tumbler, knife, spoon and paper napkin folded into a triangle. A milk carton, wrapped loaf of bread and tub of margarine were in the center of the table. Nothing more than was absolutely necessary.

“Need phone books?” Walter asked, as Justin and Jared climbed into their chairs.

“We can kneel, Grampa,” Justin replied. Gabriel winced. Walter couldn’t know just how much the twins had learned to make do since Katrina. With a nod from Gabriel, both boys began to eat with gusto.

“I called the school,” Walter said, pouring milk into everybody’s glasses. “They wouldn’t let me register the boys—you have to do it. Tomorrow. They’re expecting you.”

“Can’t it wait till after Thanksgiving?”

“These two need to be in school. The sooner, the better.”

Gabriel knew that. He didn’t need to be told. Didn’t need to be sitting at his father’s table, feeling a lot more like he was seventeen and lacking in judgment than thirty-four and a father himself. Maybe he should have taken one of those positions he’d considered in Atlanta or New York City. Problem was the only housing he would have been able to afford in either place wasn’t fit for the cockroaches, let alone his sons.

“You talked to Daniel recently?” Walter asked, changing the subject, as if he’d settled the whole school issue.

“No.” Gabriel replied cautiously to this loaded question. “How’s he doing?”

“Coming up on his twenty years.” His older brother was career army. “But I don’t see him retiring. Dangerous as his job can be, he loves it. Plus, we need men like him.”

Jab.

Gabriel had done his own time in the service. The Coast Guard, on Lake Erie, much to Walter’s dismay. An even bigger disappointment was that Gabriel had been assigned to the mess and had discovered he loved cooking, even under military circumstances. After his discharge, he’d entered culinary school. Women’s work and a waste, in Walter’s mind.

“Daniel going to be stateside for the holidays?” Gabriel asked, as if the jab hadn’t found its mark. “The more people around, the more I like cooking.”

“What makes you think you’re cooking?”

“It’s the least I can do, if you’re putting a roof over our heads.” Temporarily. Only temporarily, until the job he was set to start on Monday earned him enough for the deposit on an apartment. Temporarily, while he built up his savings again and looked around for the right town, the right city to start his own restaurant. Again. “I’ll shop tomorrow for Thanksgiving dinner. After I register the twins.”

“It’s not going to be highfalutin French stuff, is it? Or worse yet, Cajun. That spicy junk gives me heartburn. I like my Thanksgiving dinner traditional.”

“Turkey. Chestnut stuffing. Cranberry sauce. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Green beans. Pumpkin pie. Traditional enough for you?”

Walter looked suspicious. “If you make real whipped cream for the pumpkin pie, I guess. Daniel won’t be home, though.”

“You have any friends or neighbors you want to invite?” Now there was a rhetorical question. Walter, a retired union steward, had always been a curmudgeon, set in his ways and absolutely sure of his opinions. Marjorie had made and kept friends—never any she brought home—but Gabriel would be surprised if his father was still on speaking terms with his drinking buddies down at the VFW.

Walter didn’t answer as he got up and headed for the stove. “You boys want seconds?”

“I do,” said Justin. “You’re a good cook, Grampa.”

The look Walter shot Gabriel was one of pure triumph.

MINUTES AFTER THE LAST of her students had been dismissed, Olivia Marshall surveyed the disaster that was her kindergarten classroom. Hastily, she put away costumes that had spilled out of the dress-up box. Construction paper scraps littered the floor beneath the low tables. And the wastebasket beside the paint-smeared sink overflowed with used paper towels. She absolutely could not, would not leave this mess for the custodial staff.

“Ms. Marshall!” Five-year-old Eric Sedley, on the verge of tears, dashed back into the room. “I forgot my turkey! I can’t go home without my turkey!”

Stepping quickly to his desk, Olivia retrieved the pinecone-and-pipe-cleaner bird, covered with glitter, that had been the last project of the shortened day. “Now scoot, before you miss your bus!”

“The driver said she’d wait for me.” Eric clutched his handiwork to his chest. Tears averted, smile in place, he ran from the room. “Happy Thanksgiving, Ms. Marshall!” echoed in the corridor.

It would be pointless to remind him to walk.

Early dismissal before a major holiday guaranteed pandemonium. Because—unlike most of the faculty—Olivia didn’t have to rush home to get ready for tomorrow’s feast, she’d spend the afternoon tidying her classroom.

“Ms. Marshall.” The voice of Kelly Corona, the school clerk, crackled over the intercom. “I’m sending a Mr. Brant your way. I’ve just enrolled his twins, and they’d like to meet you and see their classroom before Monday.”

Great. She surveyed her image in the stainless-steel towel dispenser mounted over the sink. If the disorder in the classroom didn’t scare them off, her appearance might.

Pulling the elastic band from her hair, she quickly retamed her ponytail. Mr. Brant? The only Mr. Brant living in Hennings was Walter…Unless…With a quickening heartbeat, she shrugged out of the paste-covered smock she had on, shook glitter from her trousers and smoothed her top. Although there was nothing she could do about the smiley face “tattoo” Fiona Dunne had drawn with marker on the back of her wrist, she managed a quick hand wash and cursory cleaning of her fingernails, which always seemed to have crayon embedded under them. Before she could dry her hands, her three visitors were standing in the doorway.

Olivia couldn’t determine who looked more uncomfortable—the boys or the man who stood protectively beside them. She might have passed him on the street without recognizing him, but face-to-face, how could she ever fail to remember those piercing blue eyes? They could only belong to Gabriel. A good six inches taller than she was and solidly built, the adult version of her childhood friend would have struck her as more than handsome if his features hadn’t been shadowed by a scowl that seemed indelibly etched.

“Come in.” She hastily dried her hands. “Please, don’t be put off by the mess. I assure you it’s creative chaos. I’m Olivia Marshall.”

He held out his hand. “Gabriel Brant,” he said, as if she were a complete stranger. Her own moment of recognition was muddled by his faint Southern inflection. The Gabriel Brant she’d known years ago had been a scrappy blue-collar Hennings through and through. “These are my boys, Justin and Jared.”

Oh, my. Identical twins. Same ill-trimmed mops of tawny hair. Same intense blue eyes. Same wary stance. She’d have her work cut out for her, keeping them straight. At least they weren’t dressed the same. In fact, their outfits looked as if they’d been chosen haphazardly from some yard sale.

She knelt before the boys. “So who’s Justin and who’s Jared?”

One of the twins raised his hand. “I’m Justin. He’s Jared.”

“Well, I’m Ms. Marshall, and I’m going to be your teacher.”

The boys didn’t seem to know what to think.

“Would you like to play with our BRIO town, while I talk with your dad?”

“What’s a BRIO town?” Justin asked.

She led the boys to a carpeted corner where interlocking BRIO train tracks surrounded a town that changed every day, depending on her students’ imagination. Because of the Thanksgiving skit and the turkey craft project, the miniature village had been neglected today. It was probably the only spot in the classroom that didn’t look as if a tornado had struck it.

“There are DUPLOs, too,” she said, pointing to a crate filled with blocks in primary colors. “If you want to make your own buildings.”

Although their eyes sparked with longing, the twins turned to their father nervously.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Ms. Marshall said so.”

Justin and Jared settled down to play, but with a hesitation that puzzled her.

When she turned back to talk to Gabriel, he seemed hesitant, as well. As if judging how much he should disclose. “Where we’ve been living,” he said at last, “there weren’t many resources. And if someone managed to get a little extra, he guarded it fiercely. The boys have learned to make sure they’re reading the signs right. If it’s okay for them to touch something that doesn’t belong to them.”

She tried to take in his statement without making judgments. After ten years as a teacher, she knew not to pry. Besides, underlying family issues always came to light in their own time. But where had this family lived, that sharing was so difficult?

“You did say Gabriel Brant?” she asked instead, proceeding cautiously. “Daniel’s brother? Walter’s son?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Do you remember me? One summer when you were ten and I was eight, you actually let me tag along after you. I think all your other friends had gone off to various day camps that year.”

His chuckle wasn’t much more than a grunt. “I do remember. But what happened to the pigtails and glasses?”

“The pigtails have been known to appear now and then, usually on field days, but laser surgery finally did away with the need for glasses.”

He studied her carefully. “Your aunt’s a great lady,” he said. “How is she?”

“Aunt Lydia died six years ago.” Olivia waved her hand to ward off any sympathy. “She was seventy-eight. Right up until the end, she said she’d had a wonderful life.” The best part, she’d claimed, was having the opportunity to raise her grandniece.

“I still live in the house,” Olivia continued. “At the end of every year, I give a party for my students and their parents. On the veranda. I serve refreshments using Aunt Lydia’s recipes. Although I’m not the cook she was, I can follow directions.” She grinned. “Sort of.”

Gabriel glanced at his boys as they played in the corner, one providing quiet commentary and the other eerily silent. “Sounds like a good time,” he said without much conviction. “If we’re still here.”

“This isn’t a permanent move to Hennings?”

“That depends on whether I find a better job than the one I have lined up here.”

Olivia decided to let that explanation suffice. “Tell me a little about the boys. About the school and the program they’re transferring from.”

His expression darkened. “This is the first opportunity I’ve had to enroll them anywhere.”

“Did they go to preschool?”

“No. But I read to them. We count together. When I cook, they help me measure. They’re bright,” he said. His pride had an edge. “They’ll catch up.”

“Of course. Anyway, this is kindergarten,” she assured him, trying to ease his defensiveness. “We don’t start drilling for college entrance exams until first grade.”

When he didn’t respond, she prodded him. “That’s teacher humor.”

Preoccupied with watching his sons, he largely ignored what she was saying. He seemed to have fewer social skills now than he had as a ten-year-old.

“What’s this?” The boy Olivia thought might be Justin broke the uncomfortable silence. He stood at her desk, pointing to the pinecone turkey she’d made.

“Why, that’s a Thanksgiving turkey. Would you each like to make one to go on your dinner table tomorrow?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We have to get going,” Gabriel said, his brusque manner reminding Olivia of his father.

“Please, stay a few minutes more,” she urged, bringing her thoughts back to her responsibility. Her new students. “This is such a simple project. And if the boys have fun today, they’ll look forward to returning on Monday.”

Instantly, she knew she’d hit upon Gabriel’s soft spot. What was best for his sons. Before he could change his mind about staying, she cleared room at the craft table, dusted glitter off four chairs, then laid out fresh materials.

“Sit, Daddy,” Justin urged, plopping down in a pint-size chair as Jared wordlessly claimed the seat next to him. “You can help.”

Next came a scene Olivia never tired of watching. When a new parent first sank onto a kindergarten chair. Would the adult handle it with nonchalance, with self-deprecating humor, or with a sense that this was a deliberate assault on his ego? Over the years, Olivia had come to view it as a remarkably accurate test of character.

Gabriel Brant sat warily. As he’d sat many years ago on her aunt’s antique wicker porch furniture. Aunt Lydia had served them homemade lemonade and gingersnaps. The memory tugged at Olivia now. She remembered how, at the end of the summer, Aunt Lydia had said, “He’s a fine boy with a good imagination. Let’s hope Walter Brant doesn’t drum the imaginative part clear out of him.”

As Olivia showed the twins how to twist brown pipe cleaners to form the turkey’s head, legs and feet, and then demonstrated how to secure them in the pinecone’s “tail feathers,” Gabriel helped. Remarkably, his large hands were adept at this, his patience—with the boys—infinite. He never seemed to become more comfortable, though, only more determined. To accomplish this small task for his sons. Only when they’d finished shaking glitter onto the cones, and both Justin and Jared, who’d looked so sober upon entering her classroom, were smiling shyly, did Gabriel appear to relax.

She handed him the second demonstration bird she’d made today. “Now you can each have a turkey at your place tomorrow.”

“What about Grampa?” Justin asked. “He’ll need one. We’re staying with him. Every day we’re gonna walk from his house to school.”

Interesting. When Gabriel had left town after high-school graduation, Olivia had heard rumors that it was because Walter and he were such polar opposites they couldn’t stand to be in the same room. What had happened to bring Gabriel back?

He offered no explanation.

“I’ll give you another one I made earlier with the class,” she said, rising. “That way no one gets left out.” Returning to the table, she handed a fourth turkey to Gabriel and then spoke to the boys. “So do you think you’re going to like coming to school?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Justin replied, but Jared only stared at his turkey.

“Jared,” Gabriel said gently. “Look at Ms. Marshall when she’s talking to you.”

Jared did. Self-consciously. There was intelligence in his eyes, but deep uncertainty, as well. Although he made the requisite eye contact, he didn’t speak.

“Well, I’m looking forward to having you both in my class. Let me get your dad a list of the supplies you’ll need.”

As if glad to be dismissed, Gabriel rose. When she handed him the list of pencils, crayons, glue sticks, tissues, change of clothes and more that was the standard request of kindergarten parents, he blanched. “They’ll each need all these?”

“Yes,” she replied. This was always the ticklish part. “But if, for any reason, you can’t provide the supplies, I do have a discretionary fund….”

“I’ll see they have what they need by Monday.” His expression hard, he looked her in the eye. “Don’t do me any favors. Don’t offer any charity.”

She was stung by the vehemence of his words.

As he turned to leave, it was as if he’d thrown a switch, shutting her out completely. In retreat, the set of his broad shoulders was stiff. The light touch of his hands on his sons’ heads was gentle, but nothing else about Gabriel Brant was soft or yielding. Nothing that indicated the return to Hennings was the least bit pleasant for him.

What had life dealt her childhood friend to harden him so?