Chapter 19Hennessy
Chapter Nineteen
HENNESSY
I don’t have the slightest idea what’s just passed between Bryan and me, but I know it was significant. It’s a moment of such intensity that it’s almost painful to sustain it…so I don’t. I break the spell.
“So was Janet right?” I ask him as he savors another bite of sweet potato pie.
“About what?” he mutters through a mouthful. “About the pie. Is it a ‘past’ pie?”
He nods at me, holding up a finger that indicates I should hang on a second while he finishes chewing. Once he’s swallowed, he takes a gulp of the coffee and wipes his mouth before answering.
“Yeah, I suppose it was. My grandmother used to make sweet potato pie. It was her thing. And I haven’t had any since she died.”
“And was she right about you being from the South? I mean, because I just assumed you were from the west coast…” He looks at me for what feels like a long time before he speaks. And when he does, his voice is softer—more hesitant
than I’ve ever heard from this overly confident man. “Yeah, I’m from North Carolina, actually. My mother still lives there, just outside of Charlotte.” Well, that begs the next question… “And your father?”
An awkward pause follows, and I’m starting to think he’s not going to answer. But then he does.
“He and my mom are…estranged, I guess you could say. He’s in North Carolina, too.”
This piques my curiosity.
“And where is he?”
“Oh, uh, well, you probably wouldn’t know it. It’s just a tiny little speck on the map in a rural area. It’s called Butner.”
I feel my eyebrows go up in surprise as he mentions the familiar name.
“Really? I have a friend who lives in Butner! She’s a public defender as well. And since that’s where the big federal prison is…”
The realization hits me like a piano falling from the sky. A grand piano, not one of the little upright jobbies. While plenty of people work in Butner, no one really lives there. That is, except for the inmates of the penitentiary. I see from his expression that he’s just watched me put the pieces of the puzzle together.
“I could use a top-up on my coffee,” I say brightly, waving at our server. “How about you, Bryan? Or maybe you’d like another piece of pie? I wouldn’t mind trying the sweet potato if you want to share a slice.”
The smile that he bestows on me is real. It’s not the one that he practices in the mirror so he’ll appear charming as he tries to win friends and influence people. This one is tentative and…what? Grateful. He’s accepting the life ring I’ve just tossed him.
“Yeah, I could go for some more pie,” he replies. “But we’ve got to get extra whipped cream this time, okay?”
“Well, duh!” I answer, taking a page out of Bailey’s book. We both laugh…and it’s nice.
…
Bryan pays the bill at the counter while I slip back into my parka. There’s a line of people waiting to get in, as usual, so I decide to wait for him on the sidewalk. Outside, I catch sight of Jameson coming toward me, pushing Jackson in the stroller and waving.
“Jeez, James, you’ve got him bundled up like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man,” I giggle when she’s within earshot. “Well, we’re not even getting into the double digits today,” my sister informs me, her breath forming frosty white clouds to prove her point. “I was just down at the post office and saw you coming out,” she explains.
“I can’t believe how cheap that bill was! You know, in L.A., that same—” Bryan stops short when he joins me out front and finds my sister there, too.
“And who’s this?” he asks, squatting so that he’s eye level with the baby’s stroller.
“Bryan, this is my nephew, Jackson,” I tell him. “But you know…he’s not always great with strangers…”
Bryan shakes his head dismissively. “Oh no, kids love me,” he informs us.
Before I can advise him against it, he’s in Jackson’s face, gushing animatedly.
“Well, hey there, big guy. I’m Bryan. Can you say Bryan?” He looks at the stranger shyly, nibbling on a bagel. “Do you like the yummy bagel, Jackson?” Bryan continues in baby talk.
That’s when Jax ditches his bashfulness, sits up straight and starts to giggle.
“Bryan…”
It’s a warning. One he doesn’t heed.
“I guess I’m speaking his language.” He grins up at me.
“Bryan, really, I wouldn’t get in his face.”
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Jax!” the toddler exclaims in an excited, slurry voice. Those of us who know Jackson know that it’s a very dangerous voice. But Bryan will not be dissuaded from trying to bond with the kid.
“My name is Bryan. Can you say Bryan?” he asks again, determined to get him to say it. “Bryyyyyy-annnnn.”
Jackson giggles again, and I know it’s too late. “Dooooooosh!” he proclaims loudly, pointing at Bryan, who looks up in confusion at a mortified Jameson. “Did he…did he just call me a…douche?”
I, on the other hand, am not mortified. I’m in hysterics, doubled over and trying not to pee my pants.
“Bryan,” I hear Bryan try one more time. “My name is Bryan …”
But my nephew is having none of it.
“Brybry! Brybry, doosh, doosh, doosh, doooooooooooosh!” the kid calls out in progressively louder screeches.
“I, uh, I think I’d better get going,” Bryan says, getting to his feet quickly and backing away as if Jackson’s little red head is about to start spinning. Turns out he does pretty much everything but that.
“Dooooosh!” Jax screeches at the top of his lungs, points an accusing finger at Bryan and then throws the frozen cinnamon-raisin circle of bread, hitting him squarely on the nose.
The rogue bagel then proceeds to bounce off and go flying against the plate glass window of the pie shop with a loud “ Thwap !”
People in the pie shop are now peering at us curiously from inside, but I’m howling too hard to care at this point.
“Yeah…okay. Uh…see you soon,” I hear Bryan mutter, rubbing his nose.
“Bryan, I’m so sorry,” Jameson gasps in mortification. “Jackson, you tell Bryan you’re sorry right now!” she demands.
The redheaded menace pouts for a moment. “Now, Jackson,” his mother warns.
“Sorra Dooosh,” is what I can make out of his attempt at an apology.
“Yeah, okay, then, I’ll just be going…”
“Wait, wait, Bryan,” Jameson says, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. “Please let me make it up to you. Will you join our family for Sunday supper after Mass?”
“Mass?” Bryan and I both echo at the same time.
This has suddenly become not-funny. I manage to straighten up and wipe the tears of laughter that have been streaming down my face, hoping to find a way to deflect this
invitation. But my sister presses on, despite my desperately mouthing the word “No!” and shaking my head.
“Mmm-hmm. We attend the eleven o’clock service. Fifth pew on the left,” she explains.
“Uh, I’m not Catholic,” Bryan says.
“Right, he’s not Catholic. Too bad,” I jump in.
“Oh, but it’s a polka mass this week,” she explains with an excited grin. “Those are so much fun. You don’t have to be Catholic to enjoy a good polka mass.”
“Really?” I say, forgetting my concerns about exposing Bryan to the entire insane family at one time. “It’s a polka mass? Oh, I’ve missed those…”
“I’m sorry, did you say polka mass? Like ‘Roll Out the Barrel’? That kind of polka…but like hymns?” Bryan asks, looking between the two of us for some sign that we’re pulling his leg.
“Yes, exactly like that,” Jameson confirms. “Father Romance’s real name is Grigory Romanski—good Polish name. He likes his polkas. Ooooo, Henny, maybe the youth group will sell pierogis in the fellowship hall again.”
“Ohh, you think?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“You know, I’m gonna get going. I have some things to take care of back at the office,” Bryan says, pivoting awkwardly in his chunky new boots.
“Sunday. Eleven o’clock. We’ll be looking for you,” Jameson calls after him. He holds up a hand and keeps walking.
“Was that a yes?” she asks me. I shrug.
“I hope not…for his sake.”