Shallow Creek

It took every ounce of his being to smile and not point out that she’d once again confused him with his older brother, but even then, he couldn’t remember Grant winning the whole thing.  His brother wasn’t exactly his favorite person in the world, so it wasn’t hard to believe he’d forgotten such an illustrious achievement as winning the Shallow Creek Pie-Eating Contest.  Hopefully he wouldn’t have a chance to run into Grant and ask him.

The spoon moved painfully slowly, scooping up the red goop that he knew would taste like crap.  He fought to keep the mild smile on his face to appease his mother’s blatant anticipation of the flurry of compliments sure to fly her way.  Brendan noticed a smirk on his dad’s face.

Years of military food had suppressed Brendan’s gag reflex to a certain point, but apparently it hadn’t quite killed the natural response to inedible objects.  As he chewed the pie and its sugary filling, he resisted the urge to spit it all right back onto the plate.

“Good, right?” his mother asked, grinning like a fox in a hen house.

Mouth still struggling to purge the cherries, Brendan smiled big and swallowed the lot of it whole.  As bad as that was, he realized he had about twelve more shovels worth of the stuff to force down before he could escape this hellish dinner.  His mother’s demeanor took on a whole new look with this validation from her son.  She smiled a lot and caught him up on years’ worth of gossip he couldn’t have cared less about, but he played the role of the good son.  Slowly, but surely, he worked his way through the enormous piece of pie, and then chugged a glass of water upon completion.

Instinctively, his mom started cutting another piece.

“No, Mom,” he blurted out.  When she turned to him with a mixture of surprise and disappointment, he added, “I’d hate to eat it all now when we can save some for later.”

His dad smiled, but not kindly.  His mother insisted she could make more, but Brendan refused politely on the grounds that he would burst open if he consumed another bite.  She nodded reluctantly and started cleaning up.  Brendan’s dad stood and sauntered back towards the general direction of the television, so Brendan went to help his mom.

“Hun, get out of my kitchen,” she said when he tried to assist her.

“Just trying to help.”

“Well, I’ve done this long enough that I don’t need any help.”  She swatted him on the backside with a small towel. “Now, get!”

Chapter 4

The ceiling fan whipped around in a blur, creating an ethereal whirlwind in the little illumination granted by starlight coming through the blinds.  As a kid, the fans provided the only relief from the Texas heat.  In his absence, Brendan’s parents had finally upgraded to central air conditioning, a luxury never considered within the realm of possibility ten years ago.  The A/C wouldn’t run hard in late October, but in this part of the country the temperatures could stay uncomfortable all the way through Thanksgiving.

And uncomfortable accurately described the surprise reunion with his parents.

Now Brendan lay in his brother’s old room, staring at a ceiling fan, still seething towards his dad’s taciturn reaction to seeing his youngest son for the first time in nine years.  Shit, he’d forgotten how much civilian life could piss him off so quickly.  At every turn there was some stupid little thing ready to pounce and send his blood pressure through the damn roof.  If his dad’s pissy behavior wasn’t enough, when Brendan had suggested taking his stuff to his old room, his mother had hesitated before revealing she’d cleared it out for her antiques.

What the hell?  It’s not like he’d died.  They probably emptied his room before the stink of his old gym clothes had even dissipated.  To make matters worse, the only other free bed in the house was Grant’s old one.

Brendan shot up and sat on the edge of the bed, staring back at the sheets on the mattress.  Grant had probably screwed Michelle on this bed more than once.

Great.

Brendan ripped the top sheet off the bed and padded down the stairs and through the living room to the old couch he’d crashed out on many times in high school after watching TV into the wee hours of the morning.  As his eyelids drooped, threatening sleep, a final thought tried to needle him: Grant probably banged Michelle on the couch, too.

Whatever.  This was his couch.