The Favour

“Uh...no, thanks.”

“You want a soda? Or my mom has a few beers in there.” The kid gave him that same curious head tilt his mother had.

Gabe shook his head. “No, thanks.”

Bennett sipped some milk and licked at the mustache it left behind. “Did you fix it?”

“Not yet.”

“But you will,” the kid said.

“I hope so. If I can get the right parts. It’s pretty old,” Gabe said. “But...I’ll do what I can.”

The kid beamed. “Good. Loading and unloading it is my chore, but if it’s broken, guess what my chore is.”

“Taking out the trash?”

“That, too,” Bennett said. “But also washing the dishes. It freaking sucks.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Gabe’s mouth, though he did his best to keep it straight. “Hey, language.”

Bennett looked surprised. “You think freaking’s a bad word?”

He didn’t, exactly, and it wasn’t even his place to have said anything to begin with. It had just slipped out automatically. To his horror, it was the sort of thing his old man would’ve said. Gabe grimaced.

Bennett frowned. “Don’t tell my mom, okay? She’ll be mad.”

In high school, Janelle had had a vast and colorful vocabulary. It had included a lot of creative curses that went well beyond the normal four-letter words. Freaking wouldn’t even have registered on her radar.

“You knew my mom when she was little, huh?”

It was weird the way he’d echoed Gabe’s thoughts from just a few moments ago, and Gabe stuttered a little bit on his answer. “Um, yeah. I did.”

Bennett nodded. “Nan said you did. She said you’ve lived next to her since you were born. How long is that?”

“A long time.”

“So you knew my mom when she lived here, with Nan?”

Gabe looked at the ceiling again, wondering if he could just write down the parts he needed at home and give them to Andy to bring over. Hell, he could just go to the hardware store himself and buy them. He didn’t want to stand here talking to Janelle’s son about knowing her, but the kid was clearly waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, I knew her.”

“You went to school together?”

“Yeah.”

“Same grade?”

“Yes,” Gabe said, irritated now. “Jesus, kid. What’s with the interrogation?”

Bennett frowned for a second. “Sorry. My mom says the only way to ever find anything out is if you ask questions. I just wanted to know what she was like when she was younger.”

“So why don’t you ask her?”

Bennett shrugged. “Duh, you think the stories she tells me are the ones I’d think were more interesting to hear? Or just the sorts of things a parent tells a kid.”

“What kinds of things would you want to hear?” Gabe nudged his tool bag with a toe, getting ready to pick it up and make his exit.

“You know, the good stuff. Maybe you don’t know any good stuff.”

Gabe looked at the kid seriously. “If I did, you think I’d tell you?”

“Maybe.” Bennett shrugged again. “Andy knew my mom in high school, too—she says he did. But he doesn’t remember her at all. So I figured you must remember. Especially if you were good friends.”

“Did she...tell you that?” Gabe bent for the tool bag, hefting its weight so the contents jingled. “She talked about me?”

“Nope. Not really. But you knew each other. You lived next door. Went to school together.” The kid gave Gabe another of those curious head tilts; it made his hair fall in front of his face until he shook it out. “She talks a lot about her other friends. Mom says the friends you make in school are the ones you remember best, and if you’re lucky they stay with you.”

“Sometimes if you’re unlucky,” Gabe muttered.

“The kids here are dickweeds.”

Gabe shouldn’t have laughed; the kid was clearly serious. But he looked so much like his mother. It reminded Gabe of too much that had happened, and he couldn’t do anything but stare. Bennett’s smile, so much like Janelle’s, slid off his face.

“I’ve moved four times since I was born. Including this time, that’s five times.” Bennett ticked them off on his fingers. “We moved when I was a baby, two times. I don’t remember it. Then when I was in first grade. Third grade. Now here. I had friends in my old school, but I haven’t made any here yet.”

“You will.”

Bennett scowled. “I liked California better, but Mom says Pennsylvania’s nicer in the summer. And no earthquakes.”

The kid paused expectantly, waiting for Gabe to answer. Again, he had nothing to say. The kid was chatty. Weren’t kids supposed to be shyer than that? Most kids around here gave Gabe a wide berth.

“Bennett! I thought you were bringing me something to drink!” Mrs. Decker called from the other room. “Did you fall in the sink and go down the drain?”

“Just a minute, Nan.” Bennett filled a second glass with milk and put the jug back in the fridge. “Sure you don’t want anything, Mr. Tierney?”

“Call me Gabe.”

Bennett shrugged. “Okay, Gabe.”

That’s when Janelle finally came back into the kitchen, carrying a legal pad and a pen. Gabe saw what had taken her so long upstairs—she’d pulled her hair on top of her head into a soft bun that he knew from past experience looked casual and messy on purpose, but had really taken effort. She’d swiped on some gloss, maybe powder or something on her nose and cheeks to fade her freckles a little. Nothing major, nothing he was supposed to notice she’d done...but he did.

“Sorry it took so long. I have a lot of stuff still shoved in boxes.” Janelle smiled as she held out the paper and pen. “Here.”

In order to take it, Gabe had to set down the tools again. He did so quickly, ignoring the kid still standing there with the two glasses of milk, along with his mother and her makeup and her familiar smile. Gabe wrote the list, three items, scrawling the last so fast it was illegible.

“Your handwriting hasn’t changed much,” she noted.