Creep - Jennifer Hillier [79]
CHAPTER : 27
The doorbell rang at seven thirty, and Morris’s subconscious promptly implanted it into his dream.
He was in his kitchen cooking up a huge breakfast. Bacon, eggs over easy, sausage links, and French toast topped with his mama’s famous strawberry preserves (even though his mama had been dead for fifteen years).
Sheila was there, playful and affectionate, her arms around his slim waist.
In Morris’s dreams he was always thin.
He and Sheila started teasing each other about who should answer the door, and neither of them could because he was cooking and she was naked.
The doorbell ringing turned to banging, and Morris woke with a jolt.
He sat up, a new crick in his neck from yet another night in the Barcalounger. The doorbell rang again. Someone really was at the door, and the person was damned persistent. Goddamn Jehovah’s Witnesses. Third time this month they’d come around.
Swearing under his breath, he heaved himself out of his chair and padded toward the front door, pausing briefly to check his appearance in the hallway mirror. His thick hair was standing up in crazy tufts. His old terry-cloth robe hung open to reveal a stained undershirt and wrinkled pajama pants. Booze was on his breath from the night before. He was guessing he wouldn’t smell too good to a clean and brightly smiling messenger of God. He tousled his hair once more for good measure. He looked deranged.
Perfect. Maybe he’d scare them away once and for all.
Not bothering to check the peephole, he swung the door open with a flourish, prepared to lambaste the unfortunate soul standing there. The sudden insurgence of sunlight into Morris’s eyes temporarily blinded him and he couldn’t make out the shape standing on his porch. He shielded his eyes, trying to focus.
Then the shape spoke. “Hi, Dad.”
At the sound of the voice, Morris’s mouth dropped open.
Blinking through the sunny haze, he found himself face-to-face with a man in his late twenties. Dark hair, six feet four, maybe two hundred pounds. White button-down shirt and jeans. Tanned, fit, and healthy. An almost exact replica of Morris at that age.
He stared into the young man’s blue eyes, identical to his own. “Randall?”
“I see you’re off the wagon,” his son said with a sad smile. He reached over and grabbed Morris in a tight embrace. “Looks like I got here just in time. Hey, what’s up with your hair? How come you look crazy?”
Fifteen minutes later, father and son were sitting in the kitchen. His hair still wet from the world’s fastest shower, Morris brought over two cups of freshly brewed coffee and marveled at the handsome man who was his eldest son.
“I figured I could catch you before you went to work.” Randall looked around the kitchen, then out the window at the golf course behind the house. “Beautiful place, Dad.”
Morris stared at him. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
Randall grinned and took a sip of coffee. He took it black, just as Morris did. “Flew in late last night. Been in Austin with Mom the last couple of days. She and Bob just bought a new place. Needs some work, but it’s nice.”
Morris wasn’t interested in news of his ex-wife. “Where have you been?”
“Well, I—” Randall stopped, then laughed. It was a sound that warmed Morris to the core. “Dad, it’s been six years. How do I sum up?”
“Don’t. Tell me everything. How’s Donna?”
“Who?”
“Your girlfriend. It is Donna, isn’t it?”
Randall shook his head. “I don’t have a girlfriend, Dad.”
“Oh.” Morris was confused. “Sorry, I don’t know why I thought . . .”
Randall waved a dismissive hand. “It’s okay. It’s my own fault for not doing a better job keeping in touch. Where do I start? I guess after you and I . . .” Randall hesitated. “After I left Stanford, I went backpacking in Europe for about a year. Met a bunch of people. One guy, Dave, convinced me to go with him to the Philippines to volunteer for a youth organization. Our goal was to help impoverished communities achieve greater independence. It was hard work, but unbelievably rewarding. Then I hooked up with Amnesty and went