3. Kieran
KIERAN
As I kick off my boots in the mudroom, I take a deep breath and try to rearrange my thoughts. I’ve lived here my whole life, but lately the place really brings me down. “Hey, Ma,” I say, after entering the kitchen. “How are you doing?”
“Okay,” she says from the stove. Then she drops her voice. “But your father is a bear today. And there’s something we need to talk about at dinner.”
“Okay. Sure,” I agree. Although my father is a bear almost all the time, and we both know it. “Are we making some sandwiches?”
“No, I cooked!” she says. “Chicken casserole.”
“Great,” I say, mostly meaning it.
My mom’s cooking is bland, and that dish is particularly tasteless.
She’d never been a great cook, but when her doctor suggested she cut down on the sodium, the menu took a turn for the worse.
Chicken casserole with no salt? Trust me, you don’t want any.
Even Rexie prefers his kibble to mom’s casserole.
I’ll eat it anyway, though, because I’m hungry, and it’s free. For a few years now, I’ve been saving up to rent a place of my own. My dream is to live in town.
My pile of cash is pretty tall at this point, so when Dad is back to work again, I can start looking for something cheap.
There’s even a chance that I’ll rent a house in Colebury from Zara, my boss at the coffee shop.
She’s probably losing her next-door tenant next month.
“He was offered a job in another state,” she’d said.
“If they leave, I’ll rent the house to you on the cheap, if you can help me with the yard work and the snow removal this winter.
” And then she’d named a price that fit my budget, especially if I got a roommate.
Man, I would shovel acres of snow to have a place of my own.
Meanwhile, I set the same kitchen table I’ve set my whole life. It’s square, with a joint right down the center. My mother and I always sit on one side, and my father and Kyle sit on the other. It’s a damn metaphor if I ever saw one.
“How was the desk job today?” my father asks as he shuffles into the room and pulls out the chair on his side. He says desk job the way some people say acupuncture . Like only a crazy person would get a job at an office.
“Fine. Busy.” I stick to one word answers with him. We have so little in common and don’t see eye to eye on anything.
“If they’re so busy, why don’t they take you full time?” Dad sits down gingerly, accepting a plate from my mother, looking down at the beige blob of food on it with a grimace.
Please don’t critique the food , I privately beg him. I can tolerate my dad’s ire toward me, but when he picks on my mother, I tend to lose my cool.
“I mean, how can you learn the ad business if you’re only there four afternoons a week?” he asks, picking up his fork with a wary glance at his dinner.
“I learn plenty,” I say mildly. The truth is that I haven’t said much about my job in Burlington. Nor have I said a word about the college course I’m hoping to take this spring. He won’t approve. And there’s no law that says I have to explain myself to him.
I’m just going to do my own thing and give the bare minimum amount of information to anyone who asks. That’s how you keep the peace in this house.
“You didn’t go to the gym?” my mother asks, just to keep the conversation flowing.
A wave of discomfort rolls through me, because the question makes me think of Roderick. Again. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to think of that guy and not feel embarrassed. “I almost made it to the gym. But Kyle called me and sent me home to do his chores instead.”
“It is his night, isn’t it?” my mother asks. “Where is that boy?”
“Tending bar for a couple hours, for extra cash.” I shovel in some more of my mother’s casserole and chew so I won’t say what I’m thinking.
“It’s good to earn extra cash,” my father says, excusing Kyle. “We’re going to have a tough season around here.”
“Why?” I set down my fork. “Did we lose an animal?”
“No.” He shakes his head.
That’s when the kitchen door opens and Kyle steps through, grinning. “Am I just in time for dinner?”
“Yes you are!” my father says, smiling for the first time, because his eldest—his boy—is home.
“It’s my super power.” Kyle hangs his coat on a hook.
“Sally, get him a plate,” my dad says.
My mom gets up and makes Kyle a plate, while my brother slides into his chair. He plops twenty bucks on the table in front of me. “Thanks for your help.”
“Sure,” I grunt, wishing I’d never made a big deal about it in the first place. I tuck the bill into my pocket anyway. My rent fund can use it.
Mom sets a plate in front of my brother, and then takes her seat again. “Since Kyle’s home, we might as well talk about this winter.” My father’s scowl tells me I won’t like whatever she’s about to say. “Your father is having back surgery. Soon. He’s going to be out of commission for months.”
“Weeks,” my father corrects gruffly.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s a spinal fusion. Major surgery, with a long recovery time.”
Spinal fusion . Yeesh. I’ll be googling that later, but it already sounds dreadful. I feel a rare pang of sympathy for Dad. But when I look up at him, the steely look in his eyes asks for no pity.
“Okay,” I say, draining my glass. “You know Kyle and I will pitch in.” I give my brother a sideways glance.
“Yeah, we’ve got this,” he says. “It’s good that you’re doing this before calving and planting.”
“That’s the idea,” my mother says. “It’s going to be a rough time for a little while. But I knew you’d both pitch in. It’s the Shipley way.”
“Right,” I say, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “I can give you weekend afternoons and Mondays. I don’t go to the office on Mondays.”
“What if you found a job closer to home instead?” my father asks.
Wait, what? “You think that’s so easy to do?”
“It has to be easier than driving clear across Vermont to work that desk job. And you’re pouring coffee in the mornings. Seems like you could save yourself a lot of trouble and take a job at the hardware store in town.”
“So you’d have me quit the Busy Bean and bail on Audrey and Zara? Is that the Shipley way?” The Bean is owned by Audrey Shipley, my cousin’s wife. If my mom was gonna pull the family card, it seemed worth mentioning.
My father shrugs, as if I’m being ridiculous. “Audrey can find someone else to sell muffins, no?”
“How about you let me figure out the best way to get paid?” I ask, and each word is a little chip of ice. The undertone is perfectly clear, too—if he’s not paying me, then he can shut the hell up. “I just offered you every spare hour of my week. Is that not good enough?”
“It’s great,” Kyle says quickly. “We’ll figure this thing out, right?”
“Right. But you’ll have to be thoughtful about your schedule. Baling those oats is a two-man job, so you’re going to have to make yourself available when I’m off work.”
“No problem,” he says.
“That means baling and handling the fences even when there’s football on TV.”
“I know. Jesus .” Kyle gives me a grumpy look, too.
But I already know how this is going to play out—a long, cold season doing farm work after putting in a full day at my other two jobs.
“If we all pull together, it will be okay,” my mother says.
“That’s right,” Kyle echoes. “And cold drinks when the work is done. That’s the Shipley way.”
He makes it sound so simple. Meanwhile, I’m sitting across the table, trying not to scream.
In this house, that’s the Shipley way.