Scott Sherman - Third You Die

I knew I should have called first. Unlike my mother, I did understand boundaries. No one wanted an unexpected caller-especially one sure to bring up painful memories. Showing up with no warning or invitation was rude of me.

Good.

I wanted to make this as difficult for the Dawsons as I could. Tony had told me they were both retired, and I was hoping to catch them by surprise.

At least I’d brought a gift.

The Dawsons’ doorbell played the first ten notes of “America the Beautiful.” The patriotic call was answered by a man I assumed was Brent’s father.

He was of medium height, medium build, and a once-handsome face of no particular character. His thinning hair might once have been as blond as his son’s, but now was the most nondescript brown possible. He wore a NY Yankees T-shirt that hung over baggy sweatpants. He was unshaven and his hair hadn’t met a comb yet, even though it was well after noon.

I’d been expecting a scowling scarecrow, an obvious villain of a man with the ungenerous features of an Ebenezer Scrooge. Instead, I found myself standing across from a man of stunning blandness. Even his expression was slack, as if his facial muscles couldn’t be bothered to reflect any particular mood.

Until he looked at me. Then, I saw the same spark of “Could it be?” in his gaze that I’d gotten from everyone else who knew Brent when they first saw me.

But where Charlie and Lucas were overjoyed that Brent might be back, the same couldn’t be said for his dad. His eyes widened in shock, then settled back to their normal size when he realized I was nothing more than a look-alike, then narrowed in suspicion.

“Yeah,” he greeted me. “Whaddya want?”

“Hello.” I extended my hand. “My name is Kevin Connor. I was a friend of your son’s.”

I let that sit for a moment.

“And?”

“And… I wanted to stop by to offer my condolences.”

“Okay, thanks,” he said dismissively. “Good-bye.” He started to close the door.

I blocked it with my foot.

“Wait,” I said.

“What?” he said, his voice close to a snarl.

“Harry?” A woman’s voice came from inside the house. “Who is it?”

To her: “It’s no one. Don’t worry about it.”

To me: “Get your foot out from my door, you little fairy.”

Lovely.

“I just want to talk,” I said.

“I know what you want, ” he spat. “I know what you are. It’s because of people like you that my son is dead.”

“Right,” I said, all at once filled with an anger that surprised me, “because I threw my vulnerable teenaged son out of his home to fend for himself because I was such an ignorant, hateful bigot. Oh, wait, that wasn’t me.”

It hadn’t been my plan for things to get this ugly this quickly. Another one of my schemes gone wrong.

“It can’t be ‘no one’ if you’re still talking to him,” the woman’s voice called. “Who is it?”

“I said don’t worry about it, Claudia. Mind your business.”

“Her son isn’t her business?” I asked.

“She doesn’t have a son anymore,” he barked. Spittle flew from his mouth in an ugly spray.

I had to hand it to Mr. Dawson-he’d made the transformation from sleepy old dog to rabid pitbull in record time.

“Thanks to you,” I prodded.

“Either get the fuck away from this door,” Mr. Dawson hissed, making a fist, “or-”

He was interrupted by his wife, who squeezed in beside him. It was closer to dinnertime than breakfast, but she wore a fluffy pink robe with matching slippers. Her hair was pulled into a sloppy, slightly greasy bun, from which stray locks had limply escaped. She wore no makeup. Good bone structure and the same luminous quality to her skin that I’d observed on Brent couldn’t hide the bags under her eyes or the deep furrows between her brows.

“Claudia,” Mr. Dawson growled. He stepped forward, trying to keep himself between her and me. But she’d already gotten a look at me. With surprising confidence, she pushed him aside and stood before me.

It was her turn. The confused moment of impossible recognition, followed by the reaction that revealed the person’s true feelings toward Brent.

What showed on her face was both familiar and unexpected. It hit me like a slap of sunshine.

A flush of hearts.

A mother’s love.

Her hand reached out to me instinctively and then pulled back to cover her mouth. She made a tiny, muffled squeak upon realizing her mistake. Her eyes filled with tears.

“I told you, you didn’t need to see this.” Mr. Dawson grabbed his wife’s arm.

Again, she surprised me with the strength with which she moved. She pulled from his grip as if he weren’t there, stepping forward and cradling my face in her hands. Her eyes met mine with an intensity and tenderness that I knew weren’t meant for me. “Who are you?” she asked in a husky whisper.

“I’m a friend of Richie’s,” I said. “I just want to talk.”

“A faggot friend,” Mr. Dawson muttered.

“My god,” Mrs. Dawson exclaimed, turning to face her husband with fire in her eyes. “Will it ever end? You’ve already taken my son from me once.” She gulped back a sob. “Twice.

“I let it happen,” she said, sounding furious and sad at the same time. “Now, it’s too late. But if this young man knew our boy, if he can tell me about our son, I want to hear what he came here to say.”

She took my hand in hers. “Don’t you?” she asked her husband. “After everything that’s happened, if there’s anything of a father left in you, anything of a man, don’t you? ”

Apparently, the bitter shell of Harry Dawson contained neither father nor man. After giving his wife a disgusted grunt he grabbed his keys off a hook by the door and “accidentally” bumped into me on his way to his car. Real mature, asshole.

He got into his automobile and slammed the door shut for emphasis, just in case we hadn’t figured out he was pissed. He peeled out recklessly, swinging in a too-wide arc out of the driveway, leaving new tracks in what was once a nice lawn.

“I’d apologize for him,” Mrs. Dawson said to me, “but I don’t think I’ll be doing that anymore.”

She stood up a little straighter and ran her hands down her robe. “I’m a mess. So’s the house. Now, for that, I’m sorry. I usually believe in keeping a neat home.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I said. “It’s must have been a difficult week for you.”

“It’s been a difficult twenty-five years,” she said, regarding the damage left in the grass by her husband’s hasty departure.

“Maybe it’s about to get better,” I offered.

She was still looking at the damage to her yard. “Everything grows back,” she said, wistfully. Then, remembering what had brought me there, she added, “Except for the things that don’t.

“Some things are gone forever.”

Mrs. Dawson ushered me into her home. She was right. It was a mess. Dirty dishes everywhere, jackets and shoes carelessly left wherever they’d been taken off, and it smelled: a bitter, rank smell like sweat and old age. Sorrow lived here, sorrow and regret.

All the shades were drawn, and the living room where we sat was dark and depressing. The furniture had been ugly to begin with, and age hadn’t done it much good. Thin layers of dust coated everything. Nothing seemed less than twenty years old, except for an incongruously large flat-screen TV that dominated one of the walls. Across from it was the “man chair,” Mr. Dawson’s hideously oversized brown canvas recliner, which had drink holders built into the armrests. It was hard not to imagine him sitting there self-importantly, watching the Big Game, yelling at his wife to bring him another beer.