Classified As Murder

“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.”

Sean bridled at that, perhaps sensing criticism. “I’m not afraid of hard work. I gave them 110 percent every day, seven days a week.”

“It was an observation, not a criticism. I wouldn’t have lasted six months. Much less made it through law school. I have no doubt you worked very hard, and they were lucky you were so dedicated.” I put as much warmth into the words as I could.

“I sure as hell did work hard.” Sean relaxed a bit, slumped back in his chair.

“That’s an incredible amount of stress for anyone.”

Sean looked at me then. “Yeah, it was pretty bad. At first I didn’t mind. It kept me from thinking about, well, you know.”

I knew all too well. His mother died the summer after his first year of law school in Austin. When he started his second year, I hardly ever saw him. Then my aunt died and left me this house. Laura moved to Los Angeles, and I decided to come back to Athena.

Leaving Sean on his own in Texas.

Funny, I had never thought about it like that before now. The realization stunned me.

I suppose I was too wrapped up in my own misery after Jackie’s death to understand the impact of giving up the only home my children had known.

Was this the root of my difficult relationship with Sean the past four years?

What could I say now to him that could possibly make up for what I had done?

Before I could say anything, Dante startled us both by barking. He bounced up and down by Sean’s chair.

“Sorry; that means he wants to go out.” Sean stood. “If I don’t take him now, he might wee on the floor.” He picked up the dog.

“It’s okay. I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind.” I pushed back my own chair. Diesel muttered in protest.

“It’s your house.” Sean strode ahead, and the cat and I followed him to the back porch.

I let Diesel go out with the poodle, and Sean and I stood on the porch, gazing into the dimly lit backyard. The animals disappeared into the shadows cast by my azalea bushes. The air was cool and fragrant, with a hint of the Confederate jasmine that grew along the fence.

“I’m glad you’re here.” I reached out and gave Sean’s right shoulder a squeeze.

“Thanks, Dad.” He breathed deeply with evident pleasure. “I’d forgotten how quiet it is here. In Houston you can hear traffic noise no matter what time it is.”