Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [31]
“Then I’ll make the coffee,” I said. “I need to get up anyway. I have a million things to do today.”
He left the room, and I grabbed my robe. In the living room I was surprised to find him standing motionless, staring down at his sleeping son. His expression broke my heart—a combination of raw longing and deep anger.
He turned when he heard me. His face recomposed itself into his blank, no-one’s-going-to-touch-me look. “I’ll be back in a half hour,” he said in a normal tone. “Don’t have time for a full run.”
I held my finger to my lips and pointed at the kitchen.
“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice flat. “Sam sleeps like a log. Always has, ever since he was a baby.” Only the strange light in his eyes revealed the emotion watching his sleeping child stirred in him.
While he was gone I made coffee and sliced tomatoes and Swiss cheese to eat with the bagels. As I worked I plotted my day. First, go see Nick. Last night must have been horrible for him, and I wondered if any of his friends had come to stay with him. I had just poured my first cup of coffee when a bleary-eyed Sam wandered into the kitchen. He wore a pair of baggy purple-and-black shorts and a stretched-out sweatshirt faded an odd grayish blue.
“Is Dad gone?” he asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“He’s jogging,” I said. “He should be back in about a half hour.”
“Maybe I should split, then,” he said, holding his mug with both hands and shivering slightly.
“Sit down,” I said, pointing to a dining chair. “You’re not going anywhere. You and Gabe are going to have to come to some kind of truce. You two may not be able to solve every problem you’ve accumulated in the last eighteen years, but you can at least be civil.”
“So tell him that.”
“I intend to.”
He smiled over his mug. “Wow, I bet you and Dad really tie it on sometimes. He hates anyone telling him what to do.”
“So I’ve noticed.” I set cream and sugar down in front of him.
“I drink it black.”
“Just like your father.”
He scowled and took a long gulp.
We were on our second cups when Gabe walked into the kitchen.
He glanced quickly at Sam before laying the white bag in front of me.
“There’s a dozen in there,” he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“I’m starved,” Sam said, sitting down at the table. I set out bowls, granola cereal, milk, orange juice, and bananas. “I’m toasting my bagel,” I said, my eyes darting between the two silent men. “Anyone else?”
They both grunted affirmative, glanced at each other, then back down into their bowls. After a few minutes of attempting conversation, I finally gave up and decided the slurping of milk and crunch of bagels were the only sounds I was likely to hear from these two this morning. By the time everyone was finished, I’d made up my mind that I was not going to come home after a stressful day at the museum to this unresolved standoff.
I licked my spoon, then slammed it down on the table. Both heads snapped up and stared at me. “Listen up, boys. I will not put up with this childish game of each of you waiting to knock the stick off the shoulder of the other. I know you can’t resolve all your problems in one visit, but you can be pleasant to each other for as long as Sam is here.” I turned and faced my stepson. His dark brown eyes were wary. “First you, Sam. Just how long do you intend to stay?”
His tanned face grew stubborn. I immediately nipped that attitude in the bud. “Now don’t go all juvenile on me. You want to be treated like an adult, so that’s exactly what I’m doing. An adult who visits has a set time in mind. We need to know what yours is.”
“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “A week, I guess.” He shot his father a fierce look. “Maybe I should just leave today.”
Gabe threw his napkin down on the table and stood up. “Run away when things don’t work out like you want. Why doesn’t that surprise me? That’s always been what you do best.”
Sam jumped up, his face twitching with