Lineage

The pause stretched out and Lance became sure John wasn’t going to continue. He weighed his next words carefully, and spoke them with as much tenderness as he could, continuing with what the alcohol had nudged into view. “When did she pass away?” The question swept across the deck like a subtle gust of wind, but Lance could see its effect on the caretaker. John’s eyes scrunched as if remembering a nightmare from only hours ago, and Lance regretted actually voicing his curiosity.

“Fifteen years ago this December. Cancer.” The older man spat the word as if it left an acrid taste in his mouth. “I watched her, the woman I swore to care for and cherish, I watched her …”

John’s eyes were still closed tight and Lance considered telling him to stop, not to cause himself any more pain. But in the midst of the other man’s anguish, Lance sensed a deep need for John to say the words. Perhaps he felt that if he revealed what had been festering within, it would diminish, like a wound partially relieved of its infection.

“I watched her die,” John finished, and breathed out.

The caretaker’s eyes were wet and Lance looked away out of respect. He didn’t know how to react or what to say. He felt as if the other man had bared a piece of himself so raw it glistened with newness and pain. The urge to divulge the details of his own childhood to John arose within him. He reflexively shoved the images and longing to reveal his past away, and instead, offered the only words he knew that wouldn’t hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Lance said at last.

John nodded as he stared at the leavings of the meal on his plate. “Me too, son, me too.” A reserved quiet fell over them again, disturbed only by the crickets and the sighing of the pines.

After making sure John had regained his composure, Lance asked the other question that had been nagging him. “Do you know what’s in the room at the base of the stairs?”

John shook his head. “Storage mostly, I think. Always been storage, ever since I’ve known the place.”

Lance frowned. “I can’t seem to get the door open. One of the keys on the ring seemed to fit it, but wouldn’t turn when I put it in the lock. You wouldn’t have the key on your ring, would you?” Lance watched John’s face for a flicker of hesitation that would belie his apparent ignorance.

“No. Haven’t really had to go into the old place as of late. Carrie’s had a cleaning company come in, so I’ve just tended the outdoors. As I said before, I haven’t been as enthusiastic since there’s been no one to appreciate it.” John turned his head toward Lance and rewarded him with a disarmingly genuine smile. “But now that you’ve moved in, that’ll change.”

Lance nodded and finished his beer in a few swallows, as John stood from the table and grabbed each of their plates.

“You feel like some dessert? I picked up a pie from the bakery today. I can’t bake worth a shit, but the gals at that shop sure can.”



The rest of the evening flowed past like an idle stream. Pie was eaten and current events were discussed. The two men shied away from anything resembling a deeply personal issue, so when the topic changed to politics, Lance was grateful that he and John shared similar views.

It was nearly midnight when Lance stepped out the front door, into the yellow glow of John’s yard light. The woods had fallen silent at last and only the occasional snap of a tree settling in the breeze disturbed the peace.

“Thanks so much for inviting me, it was really nice,” Lance said, extending his hand and shaking with John, who swayed above him on the stoop. Lance had stopped drinking after three beers, but John had carried on. After the eighth bottle had been exchanged in the kitchen, Lance quit counting.

“Don’t mention it, son. Glad we figured things out. Not good to have bad blood between people, poisons the soul.”

“You’re right. You’ll be by the house this week?”

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