Chapter 7
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“U gh,” my niece groans, leaning back as she shuts the door to my pantry. “You don’t keep anything good in this place, Uncle B.”
“If by ‘anything good,’ you mean sugary, processed garbage full of preservatives, you’re right,” I chuckle. “If you want something sweet, you’ll find a refrigerator full of fresh fruit, straight from the farmers’ market.”
“Gag,” she says with a roll of her eyes.
“Clare!” My sister looks at her daughter in horror, and I let out a laugh, waving off her concern.
My mother is in the living area, inspecting all of the décor – most of which came from my old house, and is simply set up in a new place here – and my father sits in the large armchair near the unlit fireplace.
I can’t help but wonder why he even came tonight, if he insists on acting so uninterested in not only my home, but in everything that I do.
I don’t know that I’ve ever been close to the man; if I was, it was too long ago for me to remember it. He was hardly present while I was sick. He wasn’t there for either one of my marriages or for my divorces.
He couldn’t be bothered to attend my swearing-in after I passed the Bar. I’d made the mistake of telling him that I was going into family law, and he’d denounced my career before it even began.
There are some people in this world who shouldn’t have children. I know that I’m one of them, and I often think that Jefferson Montgomery is one of them, as well.
Graham, like my mother, is admiring the way that I’ve decorated the house, paying particular attention to the Sacred Heart hung on the wall in my entryway. I worry about my brother and his devotion to God almost more than I worry about our mother’s.
Graham’s faith will eat him alive one day.
Approaching my little brother, I clamp down on his shoulder with my hand. “Would you like to see the library?” I ask him.
Can I show you something other than God and what our parents want for you?
“I would love to see it,” he smiles.
Guiding him through the house, I take him up the stairs and into my private library, where we’re met with the smell of leather, ink, and pages, both freshly printed and well-aged. Flipping the switch next to the door bathes the room in a soft warm light, chosen for its ease on the eyes so that I can stay up just a little bit later and read for just a little while longer before my eyes start to ache.
Moving to one of my bookshelves, I pull a leather-bound book from the shelf and flip through the pages. “I love this one,” I tell him. “It’s one of my favorite Dostoevsky novels.”
I move to hand the copy of Crime and Punishment to him and he steps away from it as if it’s radioactive. “Brody,” he warns.
“Fine.” Pushing the book back into its place, I reach for another. “ The Count of Monte Cristo, ” I tell him. “Take it. Read it, tell me what you think.”
“What is it about?” He asks.
“That’s up to you to decide,” I tell him with a shrug.
He considers. For just a moment, I actually see him considering it.
And I plead with him silently to take the book.
Just one book.
“No thank you,” he finally says with a shake of his head. “Mother and Father—”
“I know,” I concede with a sigh. I lean against my desk, studying my brother for a moment. I want so much more for him in his life than the path that’s been set out for him. The path that he so blindly and so faithfully follows. “Alright, little brother. Go turn some of that fruit into something Clare will willingly consume,” I tell him.
Standing, I drape my hand over the nape of his neck and lead him out of the room. He glances down the hall to the locked door next to my bedroom, and his head tilts.
“That’s like your old house,” he comments, “the closed door.”
“Yes it is,” I tell him.
“Why do you keep it closed?”
“I love you, Ham,” I say with a squeeze to his neck, “but not everything that a big brother does is his little brother’s business.” He turns to me, concern carving itself into his face. “It isn’t Devil worship,” I tease.
It certainly is my own slice of Heaven, though.
Our father is waiting near the base of the stairs as we make our way down, and he stops me with a hand on my bicep as Graham moves to the kitchen.
“What were you doing with your brother?” He asks. More of a demand for information than it is a question, really.
“I was showing him my office,” I lie.
“Graham is a good boy,” he tells me, tightening his grip on me in an unspoken threat. “I don’t want you planting wicked ideas in his head.”
My head tilts, and I pull my lips into a tight line. “He isn’t a boy, though, is he?” I muse. “He’s a grown man, and when he finally makes his own choices, I’ll be here for him. Will you?”
Shrugging out of my father’s grip, I join the rest of my family in the kitchen, where Graham is working whatever kind of magic it is that he possesses to turn a rainbow of fresh fruit and Greek yogurt into something resembling parfaits.
My niece actually joins in on the work, which is practically unheard of. It isn’t that she’s spoiled, though she’s never wanted for anything, between our family’s money and that coming in from her parents. She’s just deeply wounded. Losing her father as young as she did changed something in her.
I can understand that.
Even with my own father’s presence souring the evening, it’s still nice to have my family here. I’ve worked hard for the life that I have outside of them, and I’m proud of it. Being able to share things like a new home with my mother and my siblings, seeing them smile at my accomplishments, makes that pride swell.
I pull my phone from my pocket to snap a few photos of everyone gathered around, enjoying each other’s company, and I send them to Tripp.
I set my phone onto the counter, watching and waiting for his response as soon as the message shows as being read, but it doesn’t come. I’m about to power off the screen when a chat bubble finally appears on the screen.
It isn’t lost on me that he excludes our parents from his message.
Like Clare, I understand my brother, as well.
After another two hours of dodging my niece’s questions about my love life, listening to my mother and sister singing together, and trying to avoid my father’s hypercritical gaze, I stand under the eave of my front door, saying goodbye to my family.
Clare is the first to get into a car, passing me with nothing more than a quick wave and a ‘ see ya later, Uncle B! ’
My sister and parents aren’t far behind her, leaving Graham and I alone. Glancing back toward our parents car, waiting for him with the engine running, he turns toward me and places a hand on my shoulder.
“I don’t know what happened with Patrick, but please come to service this Sunday,” he pleads.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him.
“I pray for you every day,” he says. His grip on me tightens as he speaks. “I pray for your soul and your health. I don’t…” Pulling in a long breath, he says, “I don’t know that my prayers for Tripp are heard anymore, and I don’t want the same for you. Whatever it was, it isn’t worth losing your relationship with God.”
He isn’t trying to guilt me; sweet little Ham Montgomery doesn’t have a manipulative bone in his body. All the same, my chest tightens as I pull my little brother into a hug and clap him on the back.
“I’ll think about it,” I echo. “I’ll say a prayer before I go to bed, alright?”
Relief floods his features, making room for a proud smile to creep across his face. “Okay,” he nods. “Thank you.”
As he turns to walk away, I see the little kid who sat at the dinner table next to me, watching as I broke off pieces of a saltine cracker because it was the only thing that I could keep down.
The first time that he’d ever asked to say grace for our family was the first day that I’d come back from going to treatment for the second time. He was too young, and I didn’t want him to do it, but it seemed important to him.
My father pulled him aside afterward to whisper something to him – back then, I didn’t have the energy to ask what it was, and now, I don’t think I’d have the stomach to.
“Ham,” I call out, and he turns to face me. “If you ever want to move out of there…”
“They’re getting me an apartment after my ordination,” he tells me proudly, wearing a wide smile.
And just like that, the little boy seated next to me at the table disappears into our parents’ car and is on his way back to the life they’ve manufactured for him.
I haven’t knelt to pray in so long that I could almost be convinced that I’d forgotten how to, but I do it tonight, if only because I told my baby brother that I would. I kneel before the small ivory Pieta sitting on the mantel of my fireplace, making the sign of the cross.
I ask God to listen to my brother – maybe the only one of us with any real faith left in Him. I ask Him to show Graham the truth about the people that he so blindly trusts.
I ask Him to send me a sign. To point me in the right direction, because I’m not sure what I’m doing anymore, or where I’m going.