He didn’t know why he was getting punch. He wasn’t thirsty – he felt like he was going to throw up – but his hands needed something in them. They felt naked. He wanted a gun and he wanted this day to be finished.

He glanced over his shoulder, watching Carol as she bid farewell to the guests, and didn’t have the energy to feel guilty that he’d left her to do that. Kim was in the corner, sitting in the chair she always took when it was well past her bedtime and they were just starting a new game of chess. Josh was at her feet, playing with a semi-truck, and she didn’t move when he rammed the trailer into her shin.

His head whipped around as the juice overflowed in the plastic glass, spilling across his fingers and down his hand. At first he just watched, transfixed as the sugary liquid streamed along his skin and returned to the punch bowl. The rivulets were thick and unbroken as they traveled their course through the hairs and fine wrinkles, but then he noticed it coating his wedding band, covering it in its red stain and he panicked.

“Shit,” he breathed as he fumbled with the cup and ended up dropping it into the bowl. The punch splashed at him on contact, but he didn’t notice – he had to get the blood off his hands, off his ring, off Teri.

There weren’t any napkins left on the dining room table and the foam was drying between his fingers, coating the slick surface in its sticky residue. He tugged at it, trying to pry it from his hand, but, as it was with anything, the harder he tried, the more the ring resisted, lodging itself just below the knuckle.

He blew out a frustrated breath and continued to pull, losing sight of the ring as his eyes began to flood with tears. Moving quickly toward the kitchen, he pushed his way through the swinging door and all but ran to the sink. The faucet was already going – Marilyn was washing some carrots for the dinner salad she’d busied herself with – and he shoved his hand beneath the flow, working the ring around his finger and trying to get as much of the blood off as possible.

Turning from the vegetables, Marilyn noticed the blur of motion and heard the hitched breathing over the sound of the running water. “Jack?” she asked, turning from the celery and the kitchen table. Her hands blindly found the rag she’d balled up and tossed onto the bar and she moved toward him.

He didn’t seem aware that she was in the room and she watched, aching, as he scrabbled for the gold band when it went tumbling into the sink. She was reaching for his back when the door swung open once more and Phillip stepped into the room.

She gave him a worried glance then let her eyes return quickly to Jack’s shaking shoulders. Phillip nodded grimly then motioned with his head for her to leave the kitchen. Marilyn briefly thought about staying, being some sort of ally for Jack as he dealt with his father, but the fact that Phillip had all but ordered her from the room let her know that he was there for family business.

She knew better than to interfere with that.

She left the rag on the kitchen counter and went out through the side door, deciding to spend a few moments alone in the back yard rather than face the remainder of the dwindling crowd in the living room.

Phillip watched her leave, letting his focus fall on the hardwood flooring somewhere between Jack’s unmoving form and the wastebasket by the doorway. He turned his head, slowly, and stared at his oldest son as Jack groped for the faucet handle several times before reaching it to turn it off.

“Son.”

Finally realizing that he wasn’t alone in the room, Jack stiffened, his shoulders jumping as he felt his father’s heavy hands land on both of them. He couldn’t wipe at his eyes without him noticing the movement, so he resisted the tug when Phillip pulled at him to turn around.

“Jack?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

For any other parent, for any other child – the touch would’ve been comforting. A physical reminder that he wasn’t alone in this. But the hands were weights, holding him down like an anchor when he was struggling to come up for air.

“Jack?”

Once more, this time, impatient. He had to turn around.

Eyes trained on the floor, Jack shifted, leaning sideways against the sink instead of fully facing him. He was relieved when Phillip’s hands fell away, but still felt the heat of his steady gaze.

“You’ve stained your shirt,” Phillip observed aloud after watching him quietly for several moments.

Jack looked down at the red spattering that decorated the front of his white button-up. His tie hid most of it, but there were several large spots that made it very noticeable. He didn’t care. He would never wear this suit again.

“You got what you wanted,” he breathed, wondering if he was signing a metaphorical death warrant by starting this conversation, but too damn tired of fighting it to care.

Phillip lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes. “And what might that be?”

“I failed.”

Phillip snorted at the admission and gave his son an even smile as he took a few steps back and turned on his heels. “If that’s what you’d like to believe of me, Jack, then fine – go ahead, I won’t stop you, but I think you know that I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you.”

Jack pushed himself away from the sink and took a step toward his father. “What’s best for me? What’s best, Dad? How can you know what’s best for someone you don’t even know?”


“Stop being so dramatic. I think I’d know my own son, whether you want to realize that or not.”

Phillip glanced over his shoulder and gave him a pointed look, but Jack was livid.

“You know nothing about me. Nothing,” he snarled, not pausing to wonder why he was dredging up the past during a time like this. “You were always too busy with something else, with something more important than raising the family you made.”

“If there’s any truth to those statements, it’s by your own doing, Jack,” Phillip shot, stung by the accusation, the ungratefulness. “You’ve alienated yourself from this family, from me, since the day you were born.”

“That’s not true and you know it,” Jack said quietly. “All I ever wanted was for you to accept me, to accept the things I needed in life and quit trying to force me down the chute you’ve pushed Graem through.”

“So this is that? This,” Phillip asked, gesturing around the kitchen, but obviously meaning the things that were going on outside the walls, “is what you wanted to do with your life? I’m glad things are working out so well for you.”

“You son of a bitch,” Jack breathed.

“Quit acting like a petulant child. Button your coat, son – straighten your tie,” Phillip sighed, weary of the conversation at hand.

“Why?”

“Because you’re in here – doing God knows what – when you should be out there thanking people for coming, for the flowers and cards and prayers. That’s what you do when things like this happen, or have you forgotten so quickly? Quit leaving other people to deal with your messes.”

Jack clenched his fists and felt his fingertips brush against the ring. It was still wet. “Don’t you tell me how to mourn for my wife.”

“Is that what you call this? This...moping around? This silent act? It doesn’t do anyone any good, Jack – you need to pick yourself up and start moving again. Kimberly needs -”

“Stop. Stop it. Don’t you dare tell me what my daughter needs.”

He was dizzy now. Blood was rushing past his eardrums like a loaded freight train and its whistles were blowing and the brakes were screeching, but it wasn’t going to stop. It was too late. He’d swung before he realized what he was doing and when his fist connected with his father’s jaw, Jack felt a sharp sting in the tips of his fingers; his knuckles had been pressed past their limits.

More instinct than anything, it was a perfect punch. It landed just in front of the left ear, below the mandible, catching the fleshy part of the cheek so his teeth would slice through the tender skin.

If the table hadn’t been behind him, Phillip would’ve fallen to the ground, but, as it was, he caught himself on the unforgiving wood and staggered back to his feet. His wrinkled hand slowly rose to his mouth and when he brought his fingers away, they were traced with blood. The red looked even brighter under the light of new kitchen bulbs.

Phillip made a show of sucking at his wounded cheek, then cleared his throat. “You could’ve been so much more than this. Such a waste.”

Fist still clenched at his side, Jack watched as his father straightened his suit jacket, smoothed a hand over his hair and silently left the kitchen. As the door swung back and forth, the frantic hushed murmur of the people still circulating throughout the house told him that they had to’ve heard nearly everything.

His fingers slowly straightened and automatically gripped for the chair back that had been knocked away from the table. He sat down shakily and both hands went to his knees. He tasted bile and it burned the back of his throat.

“Jack?”

His head turned suddenly at the new voice in the room and he closed his eyes when he saw the source.

“What the hell just happened?” Graem ordered as he made his way across the room. He crowded his brother, wanting to make him uncomfortable so he’d at least lift his head, but he thought twice about placing his hands on him. “What’d you do to him, Jack? What’d you say?”

He’d just watched their father walk briskly out the front door and circle around the house toward the garage, where Graem could only guess he was going to get his car. He’d seen Jack go into the kitchen only minutes before and it didn’t take much, with the shouting, to put a plausible scenario together.

“What didn’t I say?” Jack fired back, sitting up to create some space between him and Graem. “I’ve never – not one time – asked him for anything. I didn’t even do that today. This isn’t about him, it isn’t about what he thinks is right.”

He stood abruptly and sent the chair flying backward. It skidded across the floor and ended up tumbling over, but Jack kicked it aside and tore the back door open. Against his better judgment, Graem followed, ignoring the questioning glance that Marilyn threw him when he stepped into the yard.

“No, it’s about your wife, Jack – and she’s dead,” he continued, hoping to talk some of his reason into his brother, but knowing all the while that it was a futile effort. “Acting like a gorilla toward our father isn’t what you should be doing.”

Jack turned, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and hurt. “Get the fuck outta here – you’re just like him. You always have been.”

“What the hell are – ”

“No – I’m done. Leave. Now.”

Jack’s tone brooked no argument, so Graem nodded, shrugging his shoulders as he backed up on the patio. He raised his hands in acquiescence and let a humorless smile spread across his lips. “Fine. If that’s how you want it, you can sit here, drown yourself in your misery and shut out everyone who’s ever given a damn about you.”

“Is that what you call this?”

“You’re a fuckin’ burnout, Jack,” Graem spat, pointing a finger toward his brother in a knowing way. It was a low blow, but that’s how Jack had set up the game, so that was how he was going to play it.

Jack’s eyelids narrowed to slits, one of the only traits that he’d been able to recognize as one of his father’s. He took a step closer to his Graem and consciously lowered his voice. “You don’t know a damn thing about me. You never have. You never wanted to.”

“I never needed to,” Graem countered, eyes rolling as he spoke the words. “You’ve always shown me everything with your actions, Jack. You know, you pride yourself on being able to read people, but that ability runs in the family. No matter how hard you try to close yourself off, you’re an open book and I’ve read every page.”

Jack tilted his head as he took in the comment, puzzling over it for only a moment before he decided it was a waste of time. “I asked you to leave,” he said quietly, feeling the train come to a halt as he finally calmed. It was over, he was finished. He wasn’t going to do this anymore.

Before Graem left, Jack had already turned his back on him, making his way further into the yard instead of retreating to the house. In the far corner was an herb garden that Teri had planted only a few weeks before. It was hot out and the sprouts were already curling into themselves. They were withering away, but Jack wasn’t going to water them. It would only delay the inevitable. They could die like everything else.

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