Jack’s lips thinned, but he said nothing. The truth was, after seven years in-country, doing whatever it took to survive and try to make things right, it was difficult to embrace the rhetoric of politicians and government officials who’d never stepped foot on a bloody field or held a dying brother in his arms, yet made back room deals with power brokers and despots in the name of democracy and foreign relations.
But he’d done his part. He’d given his country—– hell, the fucking world—– seven years of his life and a huge part of his soul. He was done.
“Just think about it, that’s all I’m saying.”
“I don’t need to think about it, Bri. The answer is no.”
Brian sighed and concentrated on wiping down the bar. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. Well, I hear the paper factory is hiring for third shift.”
––––––––
September 2015
Pine Ridge
“Just think about it, that’s all I’m saying.”
“I don’t need to think about it. The answer is no.”
“Dad, you can’t go back to living at the Pub just yet. You’ve got to take it easy for a while, and that means not going up and down two flights of stairs a couple times a day,” Michael explained, his normally calm voice belying his frustration.
“I’ll not be a burden,” Jack said, setting his jaw.
“You wouldn’t be a burden. We’ve got more than enough room at the farm. Maggie’s already converted the downstairs playroom into a bedroom for you. She bought new flannel sheets and extra-fluffy pillows, and is stocking the pantry with all of your favorite, heart-healthy foods. Do you want to be the one to tell her she’s been busting her ass for the past week for nothing? Because I sure as hell don’t.”
Jack almost smiled at that. Maggie was a good woman, as fierce as a mama bear when it came to protecting her family. She was the perfect complement to his level-headed, intellectual son.
“She’s going to take it personally, you know,” Michael continued, taking advantage of his hesitation. “And she’s already upset with you.”
Jack sighed. “I didn’t plan to have a heart attack.”
“No,” Michael agreed, leaning back against the window sill. “And deep down, Maggie knows that. I think she’s more upset with herself than you, anyway.”
That surprised him. “Why would Maggie be upset? It wasn’t her fault.”
“She says she sensed something was wrong, and thinks if she had pushed the issue or talked to me about it, she might have been able to do something.”
“My arteries were blocked,” Jack scoffed. “What could she have done?”
Michael shook his head. “Maggie? Nothing. But you, you might have.”
Something in his third-born son’s tone grated. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“The kind of damage you had doesn’t happen overnight, Dad.”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “If you’ve got something to say to me, boy, you’d best say it.”
“Fine. You want me to say it? I think you’ve been having the warning signs for a while. I think you’ve known there was something wrong, and you chose not to do anything about it.” Michael looked pointedly at this father. “Tell me I’m wrong, Dad.”
He couldn’t. Not without lying, and he wasn’t going to lie.
“That’s what I thought. The question is, why, Dad?”
How could he explain something like that to his thirty-six year old, happily married son? What kind of words could he use to express what it’s like to live without your croie for almost twenty-five years? To have her be the first thing you thought of every morning and the last thing every night, even after all this time?
He couldn’t. Nor did he want to. The last thing he needed was his son believing he had suicidal tendencies. Some snot-nosed psychiatrist would show up, wanting to talk about feelings and past traumas and all kinds of crap he had no intention of discussing with anyone. Some things a man was better off keeping to himself.
“I didn’t think things were that bad,” Jack finally said on a careful exhale. “I thought if I took it easy for a while, laid off the spicy foods, it would pass.”
Michael didn’t say anything, probably trying to determine if he was full of shite. Thank God it wasn’t his son Shane doing the asking. That boy had a bullshite detector on par with Kathleen’s.
“A man doesn’t like to admit he’s getting old,” Jack added quietly. “Not even to himself.”
Seconds ticked by in the silence. Jack said nothing more. Either Michael would accept that or he wouldn’t, but that was all he was going to get.
“All right, Dad,” Michael finally said. “Try to get some rest.”
“I will.”
Michael was at the door when he looked back. “What should I tell Maggie?”
As much as he opposed the idea, it was probably the best way to get Michael and everyone else off his back. Taking the path of least resistance wasn’t something he did often, but he wasn’t feeling strong enough to fight every battle.
“Tell Maggie I like the orange juice with lots of pulp.”
Michael grinned back at him triumphantly. “I knew you were a smart man.”
Chapter Eighteen