Miranda James - Classified as Murder

He regarded me for a moment as Dante squirmed in his arms. He smiled, and all at once I could see the little boy who used to come to me for help with his math homework. I hadn’t seen many signs of that little boy in years.

I swallowed a sudden lump in my throat while I watched Sean and his dog enter the house. I wandered over to the chair Sean had vacated and sat down, trying to absorb everything.

Sean’s appearance and behavior alarmed me. I knew his job was demanding, but surely he wasn’t working so much he had no time to eat. I was a stress eater, and were I in his place, I probably would have gained fifty pounds by now. Sean was obviously not like me in this respect.

Since his mother’s death, nearly four years ago, Sean had held himself aloof from me. Just why, I wasn’t sure. He was always closer to my wife, Jackie, while my daughter, Laura, was closer to me. Not an unusual dynamic in families like ours, I supposed, but I thought my wife’s death from cancer would bring us all closer together. That hadn’t happened.

Diesel climbed into my lap and rubbed his head against my chin. I adjusted my position to accommodate him and wrapped my arms around him. He snuggled against me and chirped. We sat that way for a few minutes, and I felt better. He always knew when I needed comfort.

“We’ll do our best to help him, won’t we, boy?” I rubbed Diesel’s side a couple of times before gently signaling him that I needed to get up.

In the kitchen I read the note my housekeeper, Azalea Berry, left for me on the refrigerator door. The woman was determined to save me from starvation, or so it would seem from the meals she cooked. According to the note, I could look forward to roast beef, au gratin potatoes, green beans, and cornbread, with lemon icebox pie for dessert. The pie was in the fridge, but everything else was in the oven, probably still warm.

If anything could whet Sean’s appetite, it was Azalea’s cooking. When she got a look at him, I knew she’d want to fatten him up.

I glanced at my watch. Nearly four—it would be a while before I was ready to eat. I decided to wait until Sean had a nap, and then we could eat together.

“Come on, Diesel.” I spotted him returning from another visit to the utility room. “How about we go upstairs and let me change clothes? Maybe read for a while before dinner.”

If people heard how I talked to this cat when we were at home, they would probably think I was edging into senility. But frankly I didn’t much care. Diesel was a loving companion, and most of the time I was convinced he understood exactly what I said to him.

He scampered up the steps ahead of me, and by the time I reached my bedroom, he was stretched out on the bed, his head resting on a pillow. He blinked at me a few times before he closed his eyes. He wasn’t used to romping around the yard with a dog. He would soon be sound asleep.

By the time I put my book aside, it was after six, and my stomach reminded me it was time for dinner. Diesel was still asleep on the bed when I left the bedroom and walked to the head of the stairs.

I paused for a moment to listen. Sean’s bedroom was a few feet down the hall, its door shut. He was so tired he might sleep through the night.

Then I remembered the dog. I doubted Dante would be happy cooped up until morning. He needed to be fed and let outside again before then.

If Sean didn’t get up sometime before I was ready for bed, I would take care of Dante for him and hope I didn’t disturb my son.

Halfway through my meal I heard feet pounding and nails scrabbling on the stairs. Sean, barefoot but still dressed, entered the kitchen moments later, preceded by the cat and the dog. Dante hopped around Diesel in circles as the cat made his stately progress toward me.

“Dante, calm down, for Pete’s sake.” Sean growled at his pet, and the dog sat down right in front of Diesel. The cat stepped over the poodle, and Sean laughed.

“Just in time for dinner.” I waved at the spread on the table. “I figured you might sleep the night through, though.”

“I probably could have.” Sean yawned. “But Dante woke me up, and I realized I was starving. He must be, too.”

“I don’t have any dog food.” I frowned. “There may be some scraps of ham in the fridge, though.”

“It’s okay, Dad. I brought his food with me.” Sean headed for the utility room and came back in a moment with a can of food and two bowls. He gave the dog food and water. Diesel approached, looking interested, and the poodle growled at him before sticking his head into the bowl. Diesel flicked his tail around twice before turning away. He came to sit on the floor by my chair.

“Get yourself a plate. There’s sweet tea in the fridge, and diet Coke.”

“What, no beer?” Sean scowled.

“Sorry, no.”

“I’ll pick some up later.” Sean found a plate and silverware and came to sit across the table from me.

We ate in silence for a few minutes, and I was pleased to see some of the signs of strain had faded from his face.

“Azalea must have cooked this.” Sean put his fork down.

“Oh, so you think your old man can’t cook like this?” I pretended to be offended.

Sean chuckled. “You’re a decent cook, Dad, but you’ve never made a roast like this.” He forked another bite of meat into his mouth and chewed. “Mmmmm.”

“I can’t argue with that. Azalea is a wonderful cook.” I grinned. “So wonderful, in fact, I’m starting to suffer from done-lap disease.”

Sean looked alarmed, and I hastened to explain. “Done-lap, as in my stomach’s done lapped over my belt.”

He responded to that bit of antique Southern humor with a roll of the eyes. He ate a bit more. Then he set his fork aside and cleared his throat.

“I’m not going back to Houston, Dad. Can I stay here with you?”

THREE

I stared at Sean, too surprised to answer.

The moment stretched too long, and Sean focused on his empty plate. “If you don’t want me here, I’ll find somewhere else to go.” Abruptly he stood.

“Sean, sit down.”

The sharp tone in my voice surprised both of us, I think, but Sean did as I asked. He regarded me, his uncertainty obvious.

“Why on earth would you think you’re not welcome?” I tried to rein in my sudden anger. “Of course you can stay here.”

I felt a paw on my leg. Diesel stared up at me and warbled. I rubbed his head to let him know everything was okay.

“Sorry, Dad.” Sean looked down at his plate again.

“How long is your vacation? You certainly look like you need one, all the weight you’ve lost.” I was going to get him to talk to me if I had to drag every syllable out of him.

Suddenly Sean glared at me. “Permanent.”

“What do you mean? I’m not sure I understand.”

“Permanent vacation. As in I quit my job,” Sean said in a tone of exaggerated patience. He folded his arms across his chest and watched me.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, I guess. I should have figured it out because of his odd behavior in showing up unannounced on a Friday afternoon.

“Why did you quit your job?” I tried to keep my tone matter-of-fact, nonconfrontational.

He uncrossed his arms and leaned down to pat Dante’s head. “Because I couldn’t stand it any longer.”

Whenever Sean didn’t want to tell me the truth about something, he wouldn’t look at me.

“What couldn’t you stand?” If I were patient enough with him, perhaps I might get to the truth.

“The hours, for one thing.” He glanced up at me. “I had no life outside work.”

“When you first started with the firm, you seemed to thrive on the workload.”