The Shortest Way Home (6 page)

* * *

C
ormac and his new bride lived in possibly the smallest house in Belham. As Sean pulled into the driveway, he wondered if it might have started out as a small outbuilding to the much larger house next door. A stable maybe, or a small barn for housing chickens. Sean remembered Cormac’s mention of it in a letter several years back, that it was perfect for a guy who lived by himself and spent all his waking hours at work.

It appeared to have been painted recently, the tan clapboards perfectly chipless and the confetti-pink color of the trim not yet faded to a more respectable muted rose.
Has to be the wife
. Sean chuckled to himself as he walked up the flagstones to the front step.

He had gone to the grocery store that afternoon to pick up a bottle of wine, but was quickly overwhelmed by all the choices. One was billed as “an ample yet balanced offering, rich with buttery, woody notes that cozy up just as nicely to mahi-mahi as to mixed grill.” It tasted like buttered wood? He wondered if he’d be able to master American culture and dialect as readily as he’d picked up so many others across the globe. Then his back started to throb and he gave up, snatching a pineapple from the produce section as he walked gingerly to the checkout. He now held the pineapple crooked in his arm like a football.

Cormac opened the door grinning warmly and stood there for a second as if he didn’t know what to say. Sean had the sense of fast-forwarding through time, from tennis team and high school graduation through occasional get-togethers over burgers and beers, to this moment now when Cormac’s bachelorhood, like so many other things they’d had in common, had faded to memory. This was Cormac’s new life, this pink-trimmed former chicken coop, and he seemed completely nonplussed as to how to explain it to his old friend.

“Pineapple?” said Sean, holding it out like an offering.

Cormac’s smile was tinged with relief. “Love some,” he said, and took it from Sean with one hand, ushering him in with the other.

The small front room had a woodstove—Sean assumed it was from before the wife had taken up residence—and a sofa and love seat with matching floral slipcovers—clearly from afterward. Cormac proceeded toward the back of the house, ducking his head under the low doorframe, and Sean followed. They came into a kitchen with painted cabinets and hammered wrought-iron pulls.

“Barb’ll be down in a minute.” Cormac reached into the fridge and presented two bottles of Schlitz beer.

“You’re still drinking this swill?” said Sean.

“Course not—I went out and bought it in your honor!” Cormac popped the tops and handed one to Sean. They clinked them and took long gulps.

“Yeah, still pretty bad,” said Sean.

“Nice how some things don’t change.”

They were starting to go through the names of their old friends—who’d moved away or married young or hit it big—when Barb came down. She was pretty, Sean thought. Tall and narrow, the kind of girl who was likely string-beany and overlooked in high school but had eventually softened and grown into herself by her thirties. She had long straight light-brown hair, nudged toward blondness by highlights, and a silver heart necklace and matching earrings studded with little pink gemstones. Watching them swing as she approached, Sean wondered how old she was. There was a sort of teenage quality about her.

“Hi there!” she chimed as she reached out to shake his hand. “Sean, I’ve heard so much about you!”

“Great to meet you, too,” he said. “So, you’re a photographer?”

She shook her head, and he had a moment of worry that he’d botched the one detail he could remember about her.

“Yes, you are,” Cormac chided gently. “Stop telling people you’re not.”

“I take pictures,” she corrected him. “When I’m done with school and I get my first paying customer, I’ll call myself a photographer.”

“Ah, then you’re a picture taker,” said Sean.

“Exactly!” She turned to Cormac. “See? He gets it.”

Over dinner in the tiny kitchen, they caught up on each other’s families. Cormac’s mother was active with the Belham Garden Club and had risen to the rank of secretary. “She takes it very seriously,” said Cormac. “Has an extra cup of tea before the meetings. You wouldn’t want to mix up your pansies and petunias in front of the Garden Gestapo.”

Sean laughed. “She must see my aunt quite a bit.”

“Not very much anymore, since she stepped down. But Mom stops by with a copy of the minutes so Miss Preston can keep current.” Cormac gave a wry smile. “Mom says she always reads them carefully and calls the next day with a suggestion or two for improvement.”

Aunt Vivvy wasn’t in the Garden Club anymore? She’d been president for as long as Sean could remember, and he’d always assumed she would die with a trowel in her hand. He sent up a little prayer for her, but it gave him no sense of having done something actually helpful; it felt like a bubble that popped and dissipated before rising into the sky.

Cormac asked, “Hey, how’s your sister’s play coming?”

“Good, I guess. She’s an understudy, but I’m pretty sure she’s planning to slip
E. coli
into the leading lady’s smoothie before the first performance.”

“Can’t blame her—she’d make a killer Mrs. Potiphar.”

How’s he know about that?
Sean gave his friend a questioning look.

“I had lunch at Carey’s Diner last week,” Cormac explained. “That girl’s gonna make it big one of these days.”

“That’s the plan,” said Sean, buttering a slice of sourdough.

“Oh, my gosh, yes!” said Barb. “We saw her in
Wicked—
she was Elphaba. Her voice is unbelievable. I took a picture when we went backstage to congratulate her.” She hopped up from the table and left. A moment later she was back, handing Sean a photograph of Cormac grinning widely, his arm around the shoulder of a woman with green makeup and a black wig. The woman stared straight into the camera, her eyes practically boring a hole into the lens. Without her auburn hair and abundant freckles visible, Sean could barely identify her as his sister.

“She played a witch?”

“Ha!” said Barb in mock outrage. “She played
the
witch—the main character. She was onstage practically the whole time!”

Sean stared at the picture. “No wonder she’s so pissed off at being in the chorus.”

“Well, the Worcester Footlight,” said Cormac. “That’s like a farm team for Broadway. Competition’s a heck of a lot tougher.”

Sean took a bite of his bread while he considered this. His sister was more serious about her acting career than he’d thought. Until now he hadn’t really believed she
had
a career.

“Hey,” said Cormac, “guess who’s living in Weston?” Sean hadn’t a clue. He glanced again at the picture lying on the table beside his plate. “Come on,” said Cormac. “I’ll give you a hint.” He waved a hand back over his shoulder as if he were flipping imaginary locks. “Oh, Sean,” he trilled in falsetto. “I’m
sooooo
cold!”

Sean’s gaze came up from the picture and leveled at Cormac. “No way.”

“Way.”

“Who?” said Barb. “Who is it?”

“Tell her, Sean.”

Sean rolled his eyes. “You’re really enjoying yourself, aren’t you, Herman?”

“Herman?” said Barb, confused.

“Hell, yeah.” Cormac grinned. “It’s highly enjoyable.”

“Jealous,” sneered Sean.

“Me and every other guy in school. Except Ricky Cavicchio. He was enraged.”

“And I got the scars to prove it!” Sean laughed and ran his finger across a small white line on his elbow.

“Who’s Herman?”

Cormac put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, his enormous thumb coming up to stroke her cheek. “I’m sorry to have to break it to you this way, honey, but you’re married to him.”

“Herman
Munster
?”

“Geez.” Cormac’s face fell in dismay. “Didn’t take you long to make
that
leap.”

“Man, it’s too obvious!” Sean cackled.

Barb wrung her hands in a spot-on Mrs. Munster imitation and said, “Oh, Herman!” Both men nearly fell out of their chairs laughing.

After dinner they sat on the low couches eating ice cream out of porcelain bowls with
Crème glacée
in curvy cobalt script around the rims. So un-Cormac-like. Sean grinned—innocently he thought—but Cormac made sure to mention they were a wedding present.

When Sean rose to take his empty bowl to the kitchen, he miscalculated how much effort it would take to hoist himself out of the squishy cushions. His back clenched in response, and he found himself falling backward into the couch. He was thankful that he made no embarrassing grunt of pain, but his face must have shown it because Cormac said, “Hey, are you—?” and Barb said, “Oh, my gosh, Sean!”

He meant to say, “I’m fine,” but what came out was
“Christ.”

Barb rushed to take the bowl out of his hand, which he held aloft to keep from spilling melted ice cream onto the slipcovers. “What’s happening? Cormac, get him some water!”

Sean slid slowly down until he lay prone across the couch. “I’m all right,” he insisted through clenched teeth. “Just a little back thing.”

“Are you sure it isn’t chest pain?” She slid a pillow under his head.

“It’s better if I’m flat,” he told her, tugging the pillow out. “Not chest pain.”

“Can you breathe okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just my lower back.” It was the first time he’d ever mentioned it to anyone. He never imagined that when he finally did, it would be to a perky picture taker with pink heart earrings. Cormac came in with the water, and Sean told him, “She’d make a good triage nurse.”

“She’s obsessive about keeping her CPR up-to-date.”

Barb gave Cormac an annoyed look. Sean patted her hand. “Good girl.”

As he lay there waiting for the spasm to subside, Barb peppered him with suggestions about MRIs and osteopaths and physical therapy. Sean politely declined all the advice, but asked for some ibuprofen, which she hurried off to find.

“Spin,” said Cormac quietly. “Is this . . . uh, is this related to . . .”

“No. Actually, I’m starting to think . . .” It felt weird to say it out loud. “I think I might have dodged the bullet.”

“Wow,” Cormac breathed. The two of them sat silently, contemplating the implications. Sean was glad Cormac didn’t say something sappy like congratulations. Not having Huntington’s would certainly be great news. But while it would solve one huge problem, cropping up in its place would be a whole lot of smaller ones, which generally fit under the heading of
What
Now?

Returning with the ibuprofen, Barb insisted again that he see someone about his back.

“I just need some rest,” he told her, downing four tablets with the water.

“But you’re in
pain
.” She said this as if he needed reminding.

“Yeah.
Back
pain. I haven’t had a limb hacked off with a rusty machete, Barb. I’ll deal.”

Barb flinched as if she’d been slapped.

“Hey.” Cormac’s face went dark with warning. “She’s trying to help.”

Oh, shit,
thought Sean, as he looked at his only real friend in Belham. He’d come and gone from so many friendships over the years, mostly by virtue of geography, sometimes by waning interest. But with the end of his days now likely far in the future, he had a sudden revelation sitting there in the tiniest house in town:
You can’t afford to screw this
up.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured penitently to Barb. “My social skills haven’t caught up with my change of address.”

She shook her head and flicked a hand toward Cormac as if to brush away his words. “Pain always makes me crabby,” she said. “You should see me with cramps—I’m such a bear.”

Sean glanced quickly at Cormac and caught the fleeting look of amused admiration.

“Thanks for understanding,” he told her.

Suddenly she slapped her hands onto her thighs. “I know! A massage! That’s what you need. And I have the perfect person—Missy over at Tree of Life Spa. She’s a
miracle
worker.”

Sean nodded, feigning enthusiasm. “That’s a good idea,” he said. “I’ll definitely try that.”

“Great! I knew we could figure something out. Let me just get the number.” Barb bounded upstairs to get her address book.

Sean’s gaze met Cormac’s, and he imagined his friend thinking,
Nice save.

“She’s great, Herman.”

Cormac’s face softened, accepting the apology. “One in a million,” he said.

CHAPTER 6

O
ver the next few days, Sean kept himself busy rereading his childhood copy of
The Magician’s Nephew
from
The Chronicles of Narnia
and doing minor home maintenance projects. Some were handed down by Aunt Vivvy, and some he came across himself, surprised that no one had yet discovered them. The bathtub drain was slow, the water level reaching his ankles whenever he took even a brief shower. He tried plunging it, but the water still rose like the tide. Down in the boiler room, he found a plumbing snake and wound it into the drain. That seemed to do the trick.

“I snaked the tub, Auntie,” he said as he washed his hands at the kitchen sink.

“Snake?” Her teacup clattered into its saucer, her eyes wide with anxiety.

“Not a real snake. I was just saying I cleared the tub drain.” It took a moment before she relaxed. He sat down at the old oak table next to her. “How are you feeling?”

“Right as rain.” Her standard response. She resumed sipping her tea.

“Deirdre says your joints are bothering you. Have you talked to Dr. Krantz about it?”

“Simon Krantz died two years ago. So no, I have not pestered him with my petty aches and pains.”

He took a Fig Newton from the small china plate where she’d laid them out like fallen dominoes. “Who’s your new doc?”

Another sip. “I am between health care providers at present.”

“Well, let’s get you hooked up with someone new and see if there isn’t something they can do for those joints. No need for you to stop doing the things you love if you can get on a good anti-inflammatory.”