Most of the kids weren’t paying attention, though of course, their parents were. Bennett, on the other hand, stood on the Tierneys’ porch, a bag bulging with treats in one hand. His eyes were wide, his gaze going back and forth between Mr. Tierney and Gabe, who was now muttering something into the old man’s ear.
Janelle moved carefully through the grass to avoid stepping on any eggs. “What’s going on?”
Mr. Tierney was now fighting to shove Gabe’s hand from his shoulder, but Gabe wasn’t letting go. It had the look of something that could turn ugly...and with an audience, too. She stepped up.
“Hey!” She kept her voice light. “Is it time for the Easter Bunny yet?”
“Screw the Easter Bunny!” Mr. Tierney cried.
Gabe’s fingers dug deeper into his shoulder. “Be quiet. There are kids here, old man.”
Mr. Tierney’s eyes had gone red-rimmed and watery. Gabe smoked but never smelled more than faintly of tobacco; Mr. Tierney stank of it. Also body odor and a mixed perfume of fainter, awful smells Janelle couldn’t identify and didn’t really want to.
“Where’s Andy?” she asked.
“In the house,” Gabe said without looking at her. “He’ll be out soon.”
Mr. Tierney muttered something and jerked away from his son’s grasp, hard enough to send Gabe’s hand knocking against the porch railing. With a venomous look, the old man spat to the side, pushed past his son and went inside. Janelle watched him for a second.
“Bennett, go play,” she said. He did at once, but she waited another half a minute before turning to Gabe. “What was that all about?”
“He wanted to get in the costume.”
Janelle frowned. “Okay?”
“Not okay.” Gabe shook his head but kept his voice down, his gaze darting back and forth over her shoulder and not meeting hers. “Andy’s the Easter Bunny, that’s the way it is. That’s the way it always is.”
“Did Andy not want to do it, or...?”
“No. He’s inside dressing right now. The old man just got it in his head that this year he was going to do it. And he can’t. Jesus.” Gabe’s mouth twisted before he rubbed a hand over it. “Jesus Christ.”
Janelle turned to look at their yards, where all the kids were finding the last few eggs and the parents had clumped into groups, gossiping or sorting through the baskets of candy to pick out a few treats for themselves. Something was going on here that she didn’t understand, but she did know Gabe well enough not to push him for an answer. She watched her son bend to help a smaller child pick up an egg from the base of the apple tree at the back of Nan’s yard.
Behind her, the back door opened and Andy came out in the white Easter Bunny suit. The head was so big he had to turn sideways to fit through the door, and one ear had been fixed in the back with a wooden spoon and duct tape to keep it from flopping. The suit had clearly seen better days, but none of the kids seemed to care. Some squealed and ran toward the chair they’d set up earlier for him. Some hung back, reluctant until their parents encouraged them to go and get the small paper bags of candy Janelle, Andy, Nan and Gabe had spent hours stuffing.
Andy nodded his giant, ponderous head slowly. Carefully. He held the smaller kids on his lap or posed with the bigger ones at his side for pictures. He hugged them all, never speaking to ruin the illusion, but using gestures to communicate.
“He’s good with them,” she said.
Gabe sighed. “Yeah. He is.”
“Didn’t see you at church this morning.” She kept the words light, not quite teasing. More curious than anything else.
Gabe looked at her, one brow raised. “You don’t see me at church any morning.”
“Well. True. But Easter Sunday. I’d think you’d go to church on Easter, if you don’t go any other time.”
“I’ll get my sermon when my brother comes next week.”
Janelle grinned. “How is he?”
Gabe shrugged. “He’s fine, I guess.”
“He didn’t want to come for Easter dinner?” They’d been invited to Joey and Deb’s house for Easter dinner, a relief to Janelle, since Nan had said she wanted to cook a full meal, and Janelle hadn’t felt up to it.
Gabe snorted. “He’s a priest. He was working today. We never see him for Christmas or Easter.”
She felt dumb then. Of course. “Oh. So, he has a congregation?”
“Yeah. Down near Pittsburgh.”
“Do you see him...often? I mean, other times that aren’t priests’ working days.”
“No. He doesn’t come home very often. He’s busy.”
“Pittsburgh’s not so far away.” Janelle looked out to the yard, where the children were still lining up for a chance to sit on the Easter Bunny’s lap. “Surely he could just come home for a visit. Or you could go down there. Priests are allowed to see their families, have a social life. Aren’t they?”
“I don’t really know what priests are allowed to do, Janelle. I’m not a priest.”
She’d pissed him off. It didn’t matter how. Even if she knew the reason, it was likely she’d have found some other way to make him mad. She seemed to have that knack.
“I was just asking,” she said sharply. “I haven’t seen Michael in a long time. Thought it would be nice to see him again, that’s all.”
Gabe gazed at her for a few silent moments before he gave a derisive snort. “You think so?”
Janelle put her hands on her hips, but kept her voice low, not wanting to attract attention. “Yeah. I do. What’s wrong with that? I always liked your brother. And he’s a priest. That’s interesting. So, yeah, Gabe, I guess I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. What’s your problem?”
He held up his hands and shrugged.
She’d stepped closer so she could make sure he heard her every word without having to raise her voice. It was too close. Now she could smell him. Smell smoke and something like cedar, something like soap.
He backed up a step, but the porch railing was behind him. He was trapped. He looked down at her for only a second or two before his eyes darted away. He pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket and tucked it between his lips. He took a lighter from his pocket—a familiar Zippo lighter. One she hadn’t seen in years.
Without thinking, Janelle took it from him. “Oh. Wow. You kept it? All this time?”
She looked at him, searching his eyes for something, anything that would give her a clue about what he was thinking. There was nothing. Without taking the lighter from her hand, Gabe flicked the top open and lit it. He brought her hand to his mouth to light the cigarette, his fingers warm and callused against hers. He looked into her eyes as he sucked in that first draw of smoke. He let it out slowly, slowly, so that it drifted across her face.
Then he moved back a little more, finding room despite the railing. He made a space between them, small in size but enormous in meaning. He touched the charm nestled in the hollow of her throat, but said nothing. When he withdrew his hand, Janelle touched the same place, also without a word.
Together in silence, both of them stood and stared at each other. She wanted to speak. She wanted, maybe, to do a lot of things. But in the end, she didn’t.
TWENTY-THREE
MICHAEL AND ANDY weren’t identical twins, but they’d always looked a lot alike. Time had painted lines on Mikey’s face and streaked his hair with silver. Michael looked more like Gabe now, and when Gabe looked in the mirror, sometimes he was disgusted to see the old man. Out of the three of them, Andy had always been the one who looked like their mother, and time had been the kindest to him.
Seeing Michael and Andy sitting next to each other, Gabe found the differences even more pronounced. The black suit and white collar didn’t help. Neither did the holier-than-thou attitude, though to be fair, Gabe thought, Mikey really was holier than any of them.
He’d already regaled them with stories about his parish and his hobbies and just about everything else he could talk about without giving any of them room to speak. The old man ate it all up, hanging on every word. So did Andy.
Gabe, on the other hand, couldn’t help thinking how much of a smug sort of prick his younger brother had become, priest’s collar or no. It didn’t matter that Michael had brought the ham and all the trimmings and set out a feast to rival any gourmet restaurant, or that he’d given Andy an envelope full of scratch-off lottery tickets, or that he’d listened to the old man’s confession in the back room, both of them in there for what seemed like an hour. Michael had always been thoughtful and considerate. Concerned and deliberate. But now those traits seemed somehow less genuine, more like he was faking them.
“You could stay longer,” Gabe told his brother in the kitchen when the old man had settled himself in front of the TV and Andy was in the shower. “Andy could use a few more days with you.”
“Can’t,” Michael said matter-of-factly as he packaged up leftovers into neat portions and labeled them in his sloppy, sloping hand before putting them in the freezer. “Now look, these will be good for Dad’s dinner when you’re not here. Make sure he knows where they are. Just tell him to reheat for five to seven minutes.”
“He’s not starving,” Gabe said.
Michael didn’t even look up. “It won’t be good for him every day—there’s too much salt in the ham. But once a week or so, that will be fine. Those frozen dinners I brought are better. Low sodium, low fat.”
Gabe snagged his brother’s sleeve. “Mike, what the hell are you doing?”
Michael paused, still not looking at him. “Just...trying to help.”
“I told you, he’s not starving. The old man can make himself a sandwich. He’s not crippled.”
“You should take better care of him!” The shout seemed to surprise Michael as much as it did Gabe, maybe more.
Gabe took a step back to lean against the kitchen counter. “You have a problem with how I run things around here?”
Michael’s eyes narrowed. He frowned. “The place could be cleaner. You should get him out more, get him out of the chair and outside. Get him interested in something other than television. And Andy spends too much time playing video games.”
Gabe stayed stoic, giving his brother plenty of rope and waiting for him to hang himself with it.
“Dad needs a better diet. For that matter, all of you do.” Michael ticked off his grievances on his fingertips, really getting going now. “The bathroom down here is disgusting. That stack of newspapers by the front door is a fire hazard. How can you live like this, Gabe?”
“Could you do a better job?”
Michael hesitated, but finally looked at him. “You know I can’t move home. C’mon. Don’t be a...”
“A what?” Gabe’s brows rose.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” his brother said quietly. “My life is with my parish.”
“Andy could move down there, close to you. He could go to school. Get a better job. And the old man—”
“I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” Michael interrupted. “He’s our father.”
“And you live three hours away and see him a few times a year,” Gabe replied pretty calmly, all things considered. “You bring presents and food and swan in here like you own the place, giving advice. Listening to confessions. Let me ask you something, Mikey, what exactly does the old man tell you in that back room?”
Michael’s expression went stony. “You know I can’t tell you.”
“You don’t have to. I’m sure I can imagine.” Gabe went to the fridge to pull out a beer he didn’t want, but would drink, anyway, just to wash the taste of bitterness away. “Whatever. If you can do a better job, you’re welcome to it.”
“I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Yeah?” Gabe gave him a look. “It sure seems like you do.”
“You’ve always been the one who likes to fight,” his brother said.
That was enough for Gabe. He pulled his cigarettes from his breast pocket and went out onto the back porch. His brother followed, letting the door close behind him. He held out a hand silently, waiting until Gabe handed him the pack. He shook out a smoke, tucked it between his lips and waited for Gabe to offer a light.
They smoked in silence for a minute or so.
“You know...I’d be happy to listen to your confession,” Michael said. “When’s the last time you went?”
“I don’t have anything to confess.”
Michael shook his head, drawing deep on the cigarette and letting the smoke seep out through his nostrils. He’d never smoked as a kid. Hardly drank. Funny how the collar had changed him in ways nobody would ever have guessed.
“Everyone has something to confess,” Michael said.
“Even you?”
Michael paused. “Even me. Maybe especially me.”
“So, who listens to yours?” Gabe let the cigarette burn, watched it become a tube of ash.
“God. Or another priest.”
Gabe shrugged. “What good would it do me to confess? What do I get from it, Mikey, can you tell me that?”
“You can get God’s forgiveness, Gabe.” His brother put out a hand to touch Gabe’s shoulder.
He didn’t shrug away, just looked at Michael’s hand until he dropped it. Then Gabe finished his cigarette and crushed it out in the coffee can full of sand on the porch railing. He opened the back door and waited for his brother to go through first, but Michael hesitated, clearly waiting for him to respond.
“It’s not God’s forgiveness I care about,” Gabe said, and went inside.
TWENTY-FOUR
THE ONE THING Janelle had ever asked her son to give her for Mother’s Day was to be allowed to sleep in, but Nan would be up and about in a few minutes, anyway. For now Janelle relished the warm weight of her blankets in the chill spring air. Later today, they had planned a picnic with the aunts and uncles.
Her phone rang after another minute or so, and she rolled to snag it from its place on her nightstand. “Mom. Hi. Happy Mother’s Day. You’re up early.”
“Wanted to catch you before you got your day started.” Janelle’s mom laughed softly. “Happy Mother’s Day, honey. How’s your grandma?”
“She has her good days and her bad days.”
“She’s a tough one,” Mom said. “How’s my Bennett?”
They talked for a while about Bennett’s schoolwork, Nan’s health, the gossip about family and friends. Janelle got out of bed as she spoke, dressed with the phone to her ear, even managed to brush her teeth. She went downstairs still talking, meaning to give the phone to Bennett so he could talk to his granny.