Chapter 27
morgan
After all that, they ended up spending the rest of the evening in the parlor with Morgan set up on the couch, a blanket covering his lap and a baggie full of ice draped over his knee.
A little TV tray held what remained of the rhubarb crumble.
A small fire crackled happily in the stove, sending out waves of warmth.
On a stack of pillows, carefully arranged by Jack, was the laptop, and they were watching one of the Bourne movies.
Jack sat cross-legged on the futon, back curved forward as he focused on the screen. Warm firelight shone on his hair, making it look like it contained threads of brass.
Jack looked over his shoulder at Morgan, the movement casting his face in half-darkness, like some sort of chiaroscuro photograph. His expression seemed to say that he expected Morgan to tell him to get moving and jump on that train.
Firelight flickered in his eyes, and his shoulders were stiff.
Then he turned his attention back to Bourne, watching Matt Damon’s super-soldier antics as he battled his way out of yet another corner.
Bourne was good. It was mindless watching, but not too mindless, on account of Matt Damon being handsome as well as charming.
What Morgan wanted—among so many other things—was the kind of resolution that Bourne movies tended to provide. The good guys won and continued on.
Unlike Morgan, who wasn’t a good guy and had been spinning his wheels for weeks. Months, even. First in Denver, and now here in Hysham. Only to be rescued by someone he’d thought he was rescuing.
But he’d failed in that, just like everything else, because instead of being grateful, he’d abused Jack’s trust. He’d basically agreed that Jack should leave when it was clear that, given half a chance, Jack could be a beloved member of the Hysham community—far more than Morgan himself.
The train whistle sounded again: two long blasts, one short. Then another long as the train’s engine and the tons of steel and iron it was pulling trundled over the crossing.
A bit of wood broke in the small stove, and Jack leaned up on his knees and reached to open the door. He adjusted something, pushing the wood around with the short iron poker, the movement shifting his flannel shirt to one side and making his white T-shirt ride up.
His movements were lithe and easy, and Morgan envied him.
When Morgan had been with Bradley, after the accident, he’d slumped in his chair and expected Bradley to take care of him. He’d considered himself badly treated because Bradley had left him.
He should have rallied himself and hired someone to help him, to remind him to take his pills at the right times and to drive him to PT if he couldn’t be bothered to call a cab. But no, he’d simply sat there and complained and let himself fade away, like a train whistle headed to parts unknown.
He was a grown man, for fuck’s sake, and should be well past the point of feeling sorry for himself.
His knee would heal. He’d get the feed and grain sorted out and sell it.
Maybe not for a ton of money, but he would sell it and return to Denver, and in the meantime, he was going to take better care of himself.
“Thank you, Jack,” he said, finally remembering his manners long after he should have. “For everything.”
Jack jerked him a nod but didn’t look away from the laptop. Giving Morgan a cold shoulder he most certainly deserved.
When it got late, Morgan got up from the couch and limped to the bedroom. It was the least he could do, giving Jack his privacy.
The room was chilly, especially after the cozy warmth of the parlor. And lonely. The bedsheets would be positively ice cold. But he’d be damned if he kept hogging Jack’s space, grabbing for him in the night. Loading Jack’s shoulders with problems that were not his to solve.
Instead of dwelling on any of that, he worked his way through the PT exercises. They were simple. Leg raises, low stretches, balancing with his hand against the wall. He started small and only did one or two reps of each, and was quite warm when he finished.
He took some Tylenol, had a hot shower, and went to bed, where he lay staring at the shadowy ceiling as if it would have answers for him. Outside, a low wind started, more like a Chinook than a blizzard, or maybe the weather was just taking a breather.
When he woke up and looked out the window, sunlight was sparkling off the white waves of snow. From down the passage, he could smell bacon frying, and something sweet with cinnamon.
Jack was cooking because he was earning his keep and because he liked to cook and because Morgan had been a stone around his own neck, wallowing in self-pity. Well, that was stopping, had stopped, as of last night.
He got dressed, promised himself that he’d do his exercises later, and thumped down the hall with his cane. His knee was stiff, and his whole body ached as he walked, but in a good way, like the promise of healing. And if he could heal, then things would get better.
Tonight he’d set his alarm for the first time in ages so that tomorrow he could get through exercises and a shower before he smelled anything being cooked on the stove.
So that when Jack was hard at work, he, Morgan, would also be hard at work, or at least helping, rather than being a lump that expected to be waited on.
In the sunshine-filled kitchen, Jack was standing at the stove, sock-footed, hip cocked, a fork in his hand as he tended to the bacon in the cast-iron frying pan. It appeared he’d washed at the sink again, his damp dark hair shiny with the reflected sunshine off the snow.
Morgan opened his mouth to ask Jack why he hadn’t used the shower, then shut it again. Then he asked, “Why aren’t you wearing your new clothes? You look like a hobo.”
“I am a hobo,” Jack said, and if his voice was stiff, Morgan knew the only person to blame was himself.
On the counter was a waffle maker, of all things. Jack had presumably found it in one of the cupboards. Beside it was a large bowl, pale batter lacing the rim. And beyond that, a stack of waffles sat on a plate, wafting fragrant steam into the air.
“Who’s going to eat all those?” Morgan asked, coming closer. He didn’t mean to sound so critical. It wasn’t right, given the fact that Jack was doing all the work. So he added, “Unless it’s for that hollow leg of yours.”
Jack’s smile flickered, there and gone again as he turned over several slices of bacon.
“You can freeze ’em,” he said. “Two or three in little baggies, and ta-da.”
While Morgan watched, Jack picked up a piece of bacon from the plate next to the stove and crunched his way through it. Jack loved bacon, and he loved cooking, and he loved coffee.
“Hey,” Morgan said. “I have to go to the bank today, assuming the roads are clear, so maybe after we can stop at the coffee shop? See what they have going on, maybe get some pastries?”
It sounded so banal. It had been much better in his head, where it should have stayed.
“Okay,” Jack said. A quick shrug, his back to Morgan. “Whatever.”
Jack’s reaction to the invitation wasn’t what Morgan had thought it’d be. Perhaps Jack thought today was the day Morgan was going to withdraw a thousand dollars and hand it over with the order to vacate.
“I need to ask about getting access to Oralee’s safe-deposit box, and I found a coffee can of quarters that I need to deposit,” he clarified.
That was true, and maybe the fact that he needed Jack to drive him all over the place would put Jack at ease that today wasn’t the day. Jack’s leaving didn’t have to be soon, even if the sun was shining and Plowy McPlowface was going to be out and about.
Not only did Morgan need to look after his own health, he also needed to be honest with Jack. Be clear about his plans, his expectations. Name the day. Buy the plane ticket. Maybe book him a hotel room in Santa Monica. Stop being the wishy-washy guy he had been, leaving Jack to dangle on a string.
“Sounds good,” Jack said. He took a golden-brown waffle off the waffle maker and added it to the pile, then prepped the waffle maker for the next pour of batter.
“I’ll set the table,” Morgan said.
“I’ve got it,” Jack said, not turning around.
“No,” Morgan said. “I can do it.”
He did his best, using his left knee a little bit more than usual, carrying things with his left hand if he had to use his cane. He put out the carton of milk for the coffee. Carried over the bear-shaped bottle of honey. Got raspberry jam from the fridge. Sugar bowl from the counter.
Everything was ready, and Jack was just finishing up, so Morgan took his pills and marked that in the notebook, which he put back in the drawer, and by the time he sat down, he felt as though he’d earned his rest. This would work if he just stuck with it.
They ate in silence, and afterward, Morgan insisted on carrying the dirty dishes to the counter by the sink, saving Jack at least that much work. He even wiped down the table and refilled the sugar bowl, feeling domestic and proud of himself, even if it was for such a small task.
Feeling a little awkward as he watched Jack filling the plastic bin in the sink to wash dishes, he said, “I need to make sure I’ve got all the paperwork for the safe-deposit box, and then we can go. Can you drive? In about an hour?”
“Sure.”
That was all Jack said, his back to Morgan, making Morgan feel more like a heel than ever.
He put on a sweatshirt instead of his robe and used his cane as minimally as he could on his way down to the chilly office.
He looked at the pot-bellied stove and thought about asking Jack to come and build a fire for him.
Before yesterday, Jack would have done it without being asked, so Morgan only had himself to blame if he was cold while he worked.
Instead, he rubbed his hands together and blew on them, then sat at the desk and started going through the folders in the pile, looking for the paperwork he’d collected for the safe-deposit box.
He didn’t know why it seemed so urgent to get into that safe-deposit box. It probably didn’t contain anything important, and the fee wasn’t much, only fifty bucks a year. However, the feed and grain’s new owner wouldn’t want the hassle of getting the box transferred over, so closing it made sense.
He found the key, and the paperwork showing him as the joint account holder with right of survivorship, and the coffee can of quarters.
The metal can was heavy and awkward, but it would have to do because there wasn’t anything else to put the coins in. He set it beside the front door and went upstairs to put on his sneakers, then looked around for his coat. Right. He’d left it in the parlor.
There he found Jack gazing out the window, looking lost—or maybe he was just waiting for the moment Morgan gave him his walking papers. All of this was Morgan’s fault, and he needed to make up his mind. Fish or cut bait.
“Hey,” he said. “Thank you for driving. I’ll make it worth your while.” With a wince, he clamped his mouth shut.
“Sure.” It was a sad echo of the way Jack had said it in the kitchen. “Ready when you are.”
With a sigh, Morgan reached for his coat. Slipped it on. And led the way down the stairs, his cane thumping dully as he went.