Chapter 10
WILLOW
“Do not eat the doughnuts. Do not eat the doughnuts,” I tell myself aloud as I drive to Unc’s. “Not yet, at least.”
I stopped by the Main Street doughnut shop, where they greeted me by name, which surprised me, considering it’s only my second time being there, but I guess word spreads fast. At least the kind lady with the big smile behind the counter had called me ‘Hank’s niece’ and not ‘Bobby Tannen’s girl’.
I might be both, but one feels like family.
The other feels a bit like jealousy, at least from the women in town, though Doughnut Darla, as she told me she’s known, didn’t seem like the type to fawn over Bobby at sixty-plus and white-haired beneath her hair net.
Regardless, the sweet smell of doughnuts is calling my name from the big white box on my passenger seat. But I manage to hold strong, pulling into Unc’s driveway without so much as a crumb on my fingers or face.
Unc’s house is a cute ranch-style home, with blue-painted brick and white shutters.
The flower beds are a bit overgrown, long shoots popping up through the line of shrubs, and the scalloped concrete barriers are a bit askew, even cracked here and there.
I add yardwork to my list of things to help Unc with.
It’s not urgent, but I’m sure he’d appreciate it being taken care of since he’s obviously not able.
Getting out, I balance the box of goodies in one hand so I can ring the bell.
No answer.
Maybe he’s still asleep? He probably keeps bartenders’ hours too, and it is early, but I wanted to stop by before opening for the lunch crowd.
I ring the bell again and hear muffled noise from inside. I open the storm door, holding it back with my butt, and call through the door, “Unc? It’s Willow. I brought doughnuts.”
The knob rattles as it’s unlocked, and I’m not sure if Unc is opening the door because it’s me on the other side or because of the doughnuts. Either way, I’m calling it a victory.
“Willow? Girl, I wasn’t expecting you this morning,” Unc says.
His voice sounds scratchy, like he hasn’t used it for a couple of days.
I wave the doughnuts around enticingly, and he steps back with a sigh.
That answers that, I guess . . . the doughnuts are my ticket inside.
As long as I get one too, I can handle that.
Inside, my eyes adjust to the dim lighting and I get a good look at Unc.
He looks like he took a trip to hell, walked through fire, and came back through the grease pits.
His hair is slick with oil, but not smoothed back like usual.
Rather, it looks like he fixed it a couple of days ago and has slept on it against every flat surface since.
His face looks more heavily lined, even from just the short time since I’ve seen him, and I realize it’s because he’s gaunt and probably dehydrated.
His eyes are glassy blue and staring at me harshly.
Or what should be harshly but looks tired and weak.
Every nurturing cell in my body wants to force him to bed, tuck the blankets up under his chin, and feed him soup. If I so much as attempt to suggest that, he’ll kick me out onto my butt before I finish getting the words out. Alternate strategy time.
“Okay, lead me to a table where I can set these down because they’ve been calling my name the whole way here.” I hold the box to my ear and sing-song, “Willow. Eat me, Willow.”
Hank’s answering smile is tentative. “All right, girl. Come on in here. Fair warning, the maid ain’t cleaned in a while.”
“You have a maid?” I ask, surprised.
One of his bushy brows lifts sardonically. “You’re looking at him.”
That makes more sense. Unc is a do-it-yourselfer if ever I’ve met one.
I follow him into the den, then the small kitchen, where he waves a hand at the four-seater round table pressed up to the wall. I guess he only needs three chairs for poker nights. “Have a seat. I’ll grab us coffee and plates.”
“Oh,” I say with a start toward the cabinets myself, intending to help. But at his glare, which is gaining strength by the second by the sheer force of his will, I do as ordered and sit down to let him keep his pride.
He pours two mismatched mugs of steaming coffee and sets them on the table, then gets plates. I manage to pull two napkins from the holder on the center of the table and hand him one.
Quietly, he opens the box and takes the first pick, putting a bear claw on his plate. Licking the glaze off his fingers, he moans, “Mmmhmm, Darla makes a damn fine doughnut.”
I select the pink one with sprinkles that I bought hoping I could have it. I take a ginormous bite without even setting it down, open-mouth chewing as it dissolves into sugar in my mouth.
Unc chuckles. “Guess you agree.” He makes no move to eat his bear claw, though, seemingly satisfied with a sip of coffee instead. “What brings you by so early? Everything go okay last night?”
I swallow thickly, getting the doughnut down. “Did you hear otherwise?”
Oh, no. Chief Gibson probably already told Unc about my late-night guest at the bar and this is his way of getting me to confess.
Unc’s brow lifts and he stares blank-faced at me, straight as can be, with no hint of what he’s thinking.
I finally set the doughnut down and wipe the frosting and sprinkles off on the napkin. “Chief Gibson stopped by, though I guess you already know that.” His lips quirk, confirming my suspicions. “We weren’t doing anything, just talking. And we left right after the chief.”
Unc takes another sip of coffee. “And by ‘we’, you mean Bobby Tannen and you?”
My eyes widen in realization. “You had no idea, did you?”
He laughs at that, shaking his head. “Knew you two were getting friendly, but sometimes, it’s best to let the other guy show their hand first.”
I try to be mad, really, I do, but it’s a losing battle because he’s right. I sigh, give in, and spill my guts. “The whole Tannen-Bennett family came by last night, mostly to meet me, it seems. They hung out, and I made them all drink Girly Beers.”
Unc’s smile grows at that and he flashes me a thumbs-up. “They like it?”
I feign outrage, giving him my best ‘offended’ face. “Of course they did. It’s delicious!”
“If you say so.” He definitely does not agree. “Then what? Get to the good stuff, girl.”
“Closed up shop at two, and Bobby stayed to help. He even pushed the broom and mop around. Then everyone headed home for the night, and we . . . stayed. And talked.”
Unc’s bony fingers bend in the air like quotation marks, “Talked. Yeah, I’ve done some ‘talking’ in my day too.” He repeats the finger movement.
“No, actually talking,” I insist, but he doesn’t look convinced.
“Okay, and some ‘not talking’ too, but nothing too . . .” I search for the word I’m looking for but I can’t think of one that I’d feel comfortable telling a seventy-year-old relative, so I settle on, “Nothing that’d require a cleaning of the bar. I just sat on it.”
He holds up a hand, palm toward me. “Say no more. And Patrick?”
Thankful to be off that part of story, I explain the rest. “Chief saw the lights on and my car in the lot, so he checked to make sure I was okay.”
Unc smiles slightly. “He’s a good one.” He finally picks up the bear claw and takes a small nibble off one side, but it looks like swallowing it costs him dearly as he goes a little green.
Sticking to coffee, he asks, “So, what’s the story with you and Bobby?
Seems like he’s taken a mighty fine shine to you. You feeling the same way?”
Wow, direct and to the point, and staring me down with those blue eyes that dare me to lie. It’d do me no good. Unc would know it either way. “I am. It’s a lot . . . and fast . . . and intense. And not what I came for, but he’s . . . something else.”
Unc hums like he understands my muttered answer perfectly.
“He is that. Always figured he’d make it out of Great Falls.
I know he wanted to in his younger days before his mom got sick.
She was a sweet woman, raised those hellions up the best she could, but Paul put them through the wringer.
They ended up better than I would’ve figured.
Bobby especially. He always seemed a bit more even-keeled than his brothers.
Don’t know if that’s true or not.” He looks off to the side like he’s remembering something from long ago, but he doesn’t share whatever he’s thinking.
“So you think he’s a good one too?” I ask, using his words.
He pats my hand across the table, his dry and cold against my warmth in the moment of contact. “I think you already know the answer to that question yourself and don’t need an old man’s blessing to do what you want, Willow. Especially mine, given I ain’t seen you in way too long.”
“I know. It has been too long. I’m sorry for that—”
“Now, don’t you be apologizing for things that ain’t no fault of yours. Harold was a son of a bitch, too big for his britches, and hell, for that matter, so was I. We didn’t appreciate what we were losing when everything blew up between us, but I sure do now.”
He looks around the house and I follow his gaze.
He’s been alone as long as I can remember.
I never had an aunt, but there are touches of softness here and there, as though someone helped him make the place cozier.
Patterned pillows on the couch and a crocheted throw blanket on the back of the recliner, a flyer advertising last month’s Fourth of July parade is held to the refrigerator by a pair of painted clothespins with magnets on the back, and a tray on the counter is lined with small bottles.
A collection of pill bottles . . . a whole bunch of them.
I nearly choke at how many there are and I have to fight back tears. What happened between Grandpa and Unc has had far-reaching consequences I don’t think any of us intended to pay.
“I’m just glad I’m here now,” I tell Unc.