“I’m really tired, Dad. If you don’t mind, I’ll turn in early,” Hank said, rising to his feet.
His father, instead of responding, spoke to Maggie. “I raised him better, Maggie, I promise.”
“What did I do wrong?” Hank demanded.
“You excuse yourself to the lady of the house, son. Especially when she’s just served you the best meal you’ve had in over a year.”
“You mean the best meal I’ve had since Mom died, don’t you, Dad?” Hank gulped down the lump he felt growing in his throat.
Grief over the loss of his mother took him by surprise. He knew his father was having difficulty with his mother’s death, but he’d been fine. He’d kept busy. It was Dad who—he backed from the room, not even able to face his own thoughts, much less the consternation on the faces of the other people in the room.
No one spoke for several minutes. Then Larry said, “He’s really tired. Didn’t get much sleep, you know.”
“Of course,” Maggie said.
“I’d better go talk to him,” Carl said, looking older almost within seconds.
Maggie reached out a hand to catch his. “No, Carl, I think it will be better to talk to him about it tomorrow morning. We have to respect Hank’s grief.” Carl nodded in agreement and returned to the table and sat down.
“Do you remember that first night, when you talked about Linda? The words tumbled out of you as if they’d been blocked inside you for months. Has Hank ever talked like that about his mom since she passed?”
Carl slowly shook his head, a frown on his face.
“I think the best thing you can do is give him some space…And besides, just because you’re happy with me doesn’t mean Hank is. Perhaps it will be best if Timmy and I leave.”
“No, Maggie, I’ll insist—”
“But that doesn’t work, Carl. Didn’t Hank insist that you stop mourning your wife and be happy?”
“Yeah, he did,” Carl said slowly.
More softly, she asked, “Did it work?”
Carl stared at the floor. “You know it didn’t.”
Maggie patted Carl’s shoulder. “It isn’t your fault, Carl.”
“I guess you’re right,” he conceded. “Which gets me to thinking. If you helped me to open up about my feelings maybe you could do the same for Hank.”
The old man’s expression brightened with the thought that he might just have hit upon a compelling reason to persuade Maggie to stay.
Chapter Three
It took effort for Hank to pry his eyes open the next morning. He’d barely undressed before he hit the bed and fell asleep last night. This morning, he noticed the clean sheets and the tidiness of his room.
Somehow, instead of feeling good about the changes, he felt violated. He felt as if she had invaded his space. He hadn’t asked for anyone to take care of his room. He had hired her to cook and look after his dad, not to invade his privacy and to mess with his things.
He’d make sure that she knew her duties this morning. As soon as she got up he’d set things straight. She probably slept late every morning. He’d probably still have to fix his own breakfast.
He rolled out of bed and groped on the floor for the clothes he’d taken off the night before. Everything else was even dirtier because he hadn’t had time to do laundry before he left. With his eyes only half open, he continued to feel around on the floor for his clothes.
They weren’t there!
Okay, maybe his dad had come in and picked them up and put them on the only chair in his room. They weren’t there, either.
He whirled around, scanning the room. Everything was neat and tidy, no dust on the chest of drawers, no dirty clothes piled in the corner. Crossing to the dresser, he pulled open a drawer. Stacks of clean underwear and T-shirts met his gaze.
He sheepishly took out a pair of briefs and a T-shirt. Then he opened another drawer and found a stack of clean jeans. In the closet he found numerous shirts hanging neatly in a row.
When he was dressed, he headed for the kitchen. He’d overslept this morning. It was already eight-thirty. He assumed that he would have the kitchen to himself, but he found his father, Timmy and Maggie sitting at the table.
As soon as Maggie saw him standing at the door, she jumped to her feet. “Good morning, Hank. Come have a seat.”
Before he could move, she’d filled a mug of fragrant coffee and put it at his place. With a scowl he moved to his chair and pulled it out. He hadn’t looked at his father.
Maggie didn’t return to the table. Instead, she began cooking pancakes. Once she had the batter on the grill, she moved to the microwave oven and turned it on. In no time, he had a plateful of pancakes and bacon.
His father passed the butter and syrup. “Here you go, son. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted Maggie’s pancakes.”
Before Hank could taste the pancakes, which he was sure would be run-of-the-mill, he had to clear up last night’s fracas.
“Dad, I’m sorry about last night, but—”
“Don’t worry about it, son. You were overtired from the round-up. Many a time your mother would say she didn’t want to see me after a round-up until I’d showered and slept for a day or two.”
Hank couldn’t believe how casually his father had spoken of his mother. They’d avoided talking about her ever since she’d died. His father had turned into a zombie and he’d held back his own grief so as not to burden his father.
“Go ahead, boy, eat your pancakes before they get cold.”
Hank gave his dad a nod, not sure he could speak without letting everyone know how upset he was. But even though it was painful to talk about his mother’s death, it made him feel good to know his father hadn’t forgotten his mother.
When he put the first bite of pancake in his mouth, he realized there was nothing run-of-the-mill about these pancakes. They tasted as good as a regular cake.
“Are you sure these aren’t dessert?” he asked without thinking.
“Told you they were good,” Carl said with great glee.
Hank continued to eat, refusing to look at Maggie or his father. When he’d gobbled down the stack of pancakes on his plate, Maggie calmly asked him, “Do you want some more?”
“No! I mean, no thank you.”
“Are you sure? I have leftover batter that will just go to waste.”
“Fine. I can eat some more if you have the batter,” Hank agreed. He kept his head down until Tim slid out of his chair and patted Hank on the knee.
“Yes, Timmy? What is it?”
“Do you have a headache? That’s what Mommy has when she won’t talk.”