Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It’s generally inappropriate to call a woman in tears a bastard or a son of a bitch, and ordering them to die and rot is fairly tasteless most of the time as well.  At least before you know what she’s crying about.  Rob Jackson might be forgiven for having those words on his tongue when he answered the phone, as it was his brother he expected on the other end and not the quavering, feminine sobs he heard as he put the receiver to his ear.

Five years had passed since he’d last seen Bill’s number on the caller id.  He’d waited by the phone patiently until it quit ringing then.  Five years still wasn’t long enough.  He still wished his brother were dead.

Of the eight years since Rob had called it quits with his brother, it had taken three for Bill to get it through his head that Rob wanted nothing more to do with him.  Now it appeared he was calling again.

He almost ignored this call like the last one, but didn’t.  It’d been a bad Wednesday already-he’d lost the Grey’s Industrial Services account, a new website that would’ve been great for the company’s portfolio as well as its books.  The LAPD finally decided that parking in front of the fire hydrant outside the office door was worthy of a two-hundred-fifty dollar fine.  To top it all off, Cindy finally admitted to her affair with her trainer. That wasn’t that big of a deal; he’d harbored stronger attachments to lawn furniture than any woman in a long time.  It just served as icing on top of an already shitty cake of a day.  Seeing Bill’s number on the caller id had proved that the day really and truly could get worse.

Any other day he would’ve ignored it without a second thought.  Not tonight though.  Tonight he wanted a catharsis.  It’d been a long time since he’d cussed out Bill for what he’d done to him, and it put him in a bit of a better mood at least.  A phrase somewhere along the lines of “You bastard sonofabitch, die and rot in hell,” had been what sprang to mind, and he marked it as either a good opening line or perfect for the moment before he hung up the receiver on his brother’s pleading voice.  Either would work, he’d just wait and see how it played out.

When he picked up the phone, he hesitated-an act he was later at least somewhat thankful for, although he could never figure out why he didn’t just lay into Bill right off the bat.  A rather feminine sniffle greeted his silence, soft, almost pleading.  At the very least it wasn’t Bill, and he quickly changed his game plan.  His pause apparently confused the tearful woman on the other end as well.

“Hello?”  Definitely a woman, speaking in that pathetic, shaky voice of someone who’s trying to be strong and failing miserably at it.

“Hi, this is Rob.”  Confused, he reverted to the office, speaking in the same tones he’d take with a customer before he even realized he was doing it.

“Hi, Rob.  It’s Janet.”

“Hi Janet.  Long time.”

“Yeah.  Um, I’m sorry to call you Rob.  I know things were never that great with us and everything, but…”  That’s a lie, he thought, but didn’t say.  It didn’t seem appropriate to antagonize her at the moment.  Maybe in a few minutes, but at least he’d let her have her say.

“What’s up?”

“It’s Bill…he’s, um, Bill’s dead Rob.  There was an accident at the factory today and…”  Her voice trailed off; she was still trying to be strong, but the façade was crumbling fast.

“You’re kidding me.  Is he-”  He stopped himself; of course Bill wasn’t okay, but that was the first thing that came to mind.  “Are you guys okay?”  In hindsight, this was almost as stupid of a question, but he couldn’t think of anything else.

“I don’t know.  Lisa’s handling the um, the arrangements I think.  She’s watching Jake and Caitlain right now.”  She was almost at a full sob again.  “I just wanted to let you know.  I know you guys weren’t very close, but…”  She couldn’t continue, her words drowned out by the deep crying only newborn widows are capable of.

“Janet, it’s okay.  Look, I’ll be out there tomorrow and help out as best as I can, okay?”  Something that resembled an “okay, thank you” found its way through her sobs.  He told her to take care and that he’d see her soon.

Hanging up the receiver, he sat in anticipation for the sick joy he knew should be coming along.  Any minute now, he’d burst into a wide grin, perhaps run to the store and get a bottle of champagne (or some cheap wine from the gas station if the grocery store had already closed).  It didn’t come though, and he sat in his office, going over various bills and invoices as a light rain blurred the city through the window before him.

After an hour he gave up trying to make sense of work and went online to order a plane ticket to Portland for the next day.  He called the office and left a voice mail, telling whoever would get to it first in the morning that he’d be gone for a while and to have Jim run the shop while he was gone.

He walked to the gas station at the corner, and instead of looking for the cheap wine he grabbed a cheap six pack and returned home.  Per his custom when he could hear the sleepy grumbling of the past waking up to rear its brutish head, he set one bottle aside and studied it as he drank the remaining five.  Still waiting for the malicious ecstasy he’d been expecting to join him at this long awaited news, he turned his computer off and went to bed.

The next morning he woke early and packed for roughly a week away.  If it were longer, he could always buy more shirts and slacks; if it were less, then he lost nothing but about fifteen minutes.  He smoked a cigarette on the sidewalk in front of his apartment, waiting for his cab to arrive, doing his part to contribute to the late spring smog.

He hated flying, and was not particularly looking forward to the short voyage up the coast.  A “good” flight bores you to tears; an exciting flight is what keeps the airlines in bed with the liquor companies.  Turbulence is God’s way of gently reminding you (and sometimes not so gently) that you’re His whenever He wants you.  He hoped the Almighty wasn’t in a reminding kind of mood today as the cab pulled up.  By the time he arrived at LAX, he relaxed slightly, knowing the flight would be fine; whatever Gods there may be had tried pretty damned hard to remind him of his mortality with the cab ride.  If they felt he still needed an extra push they obviously weren’t as all-knowing as they claimed to be.

After checking in, he found himself an area near the main entrance where he could enjoy a few cigarettes in peace while he waited the two hours before boarding.  Of course, it seemed these days “in peace” meant only two or three non-smokers an hour harassed him, and only five others gave him dirty looks.  He didn’t really care one way or another about someone preaching at him right now though; he was still waiting for the glee he had been positive would follow the news of his brother’s untimely death.  He was slightly disheartened that it hadn’t made its appearance yet and confused that neither grief nor remorse had taken the absent joy’s place.

Almost as much as flying, he hated kids.  They could be cute, he supposed, but mostly they were annoying.  Too loud, too messy, too much of a nuisance.  Cindy didn’t want kids; that had been one point in her favor, but she was some other poor sap’s problem now anyways.  He was sure that the kid who smiled at him as he smoked outside the terminal was no exception to the loud, messy stereotypical child, and he doubted Cindy would’ve been terribly impressed with her.

She looked like she might be cute at times.  Probably most of the time, if one were inclined to think runny noses and poor speech were endearing charms.  She was maybe eight, holding onto her mother’s hand as the woman dragged her along.  She waved at him and he tried hard to look annoyed at the interruption in the thoughts he wasn’t having.  Nevertheless, he found himself smiling back at her diplomatically as she walked past, her blond hair bouncing playfully along behind her as her mother tugged at one of her arms, a purple stuffed dinosaur in the other.

He finished his last cigarette with about fifteen minutes to spare before his flight boarded and hurried across the terminal.  After a quick bathroom stop, he found his gate and was just in time to stand in line as the attendants boarded the plane.  Luckily for him, Blondy was in line right ahead of him.  She noticed him, and turned and smiled again.

“We’re going to see my gramma.”  She stated this with such an air of importance that for an instant he thought she was referring to a foreign dignitary.  He smiled again at her.

“Really?  Well, that’s good.”  The girl’s mother turned at him, with stern embarrassment.

“Krissy, how many times do I have to tell you: don’t talk to strangers.  Sorry about that,” she added to Rob.  “She’s a bit too friendly sometimes.”

“It’s alright.”  The lady turned back towards the front of the line, while Krissy kept staring at him and smiling a smile that he could now see was shy a few teeth.

“Gramma’s old.  Older than dirt, daddy says.”  The lady gave a sharp tug on her child’s arm as Rob tried to hold back a chuckle in spite of himself.

“Krissy, be quiet!”

“‘Kay.”

The child finally listened to her mother as the line started to move.  Within minutes, they were boarding the plane, and Rob was relived to find himself seated alone in the aisle (and noticeably many rows away from Krissy and her mother, which he assumed was the mother’s way of showing appreciation for a lack of assigned seats on this flight).

The flight attendants came along briefly to help people stow away their carry-on bags, and as people took their seats another attendant walked down the aisle taking drink orders.  He satisfied himself with ordering a Crown Royal on the rocks in spite of the relatively early hour, and within minutes they were in the air.  Not long after take off, when the plane had reached a stable altitude, a different attendant returned with his drink and he sat alone with an $8.00 double shot and his thoughts of the past.

He tried to think of Bill, to try and feel something one way or another as he drank the whiskey, but it was hard-how could you remember anything about someone you hadn’t known for eight years?  There was before of course, all the great times they’d had growing up together, the parties and the ribbing and the long, late night talks about nothing and everything.

And there was then. The “then” that he’d used to alienate his brother, when his brother finally grabbed the proverbial straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.

He could barely remember the before, and it was only in thinking of then-the eight-years-ago then-that he started to feel anything.  Nothing new there; he’d thought of it plenty of times since it happened, and it always gave enough fuel to the fire that kept him from picking up the phone himself.  Part of him didn’t want to think of then, it wanted to try and grieve over his brother, because that’s what you do when family dies, right?  He wanted to try and force himself to respect the dead, but he couldn’t.  As an airy ding signaled the captain turning off the remain-in-your-seats notice, he gave up his battle with himself and let his mind wander to then.  To the eight-years-ago then.