Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(86)

I think Ben has a strange power over me—the ability to balance my chaos. And, the more time I spend here on the grove—in his life—the more I think that his entire world seems to stabilize me. Or at least makes me care less about my own problems. Hearing Ben upset the way I did today, though, and with Wilma no less, was like a kick to my little self-centered universe, pushing it off its axis.

A loud clatter comes from the barn, followed by a hushed curse. A mixture of concern and curiosity—more curiosity—pricks me and I step forward to the window next to the large closed barn doors to peer inside.

And jump back with a yelp as a face appears inches away. The image comes into full view a moment later when Ben’s dad pushes open the door to stare at me through red, glassy eyes. Ben obviously gets his height and frame from his father, though this man has long since lost all of his muscle mass, replaced with the lanky skin-and-bone look of a deep-rooted alcoholic. I’m betting that at one time he was quite handsome. Maybe as handsome as Ben. Maybe that’s how he managed to interest so many women. Except there’s no charming smile, no dimples, and certainly no friendly crystal-blue eyes to win me over. Those are all his wife’s contributions to their son.

“I’m sorry,” I offer. “I heard a noise and just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Oh, yeah?” I catch a hint of the slur seconds before a waft of whiskey hits my nostrils. “I’m fine, but that’s nice . . . nice of you to check.” Taking a quick step to correct his balance, he says, “I heard you were admiring my carpentry?”

I guess Wilma and he do still speak. Knowing what I know, I wonder what those conversations are like. “Yes, the furniture in the house is beautiful,” I offer with a tight smile. I’ve never been comfortable around drunk parents. I’m even more uncomfortable around drunk fathers. Especially ones that I know are prone to cheating on their wives. Especially ones that are looking at me the way Ben’s father is looking at me right now. I fold my arms over my chest.

He waves his one arm dramatically. “Come in!”

I glance over my shoulder. Ben’s not out yet.

“Oh, he’ll come find you,” Ben’s father says. I try not to stiffen as his hand falls to my back, guiding me farther into the barn. The smell of cut wood instantly permeates my nostrils and I inhale deeply. “You can smell that, can’t you? Wood—the best smell in the world.”

I relax a little as he shifts away from me, stumbling over toward the opposite wall, where a myriad of saws sit lined on tables as if on display, the metal on the tools gleaming. An old tube TV lights up a corner, the sound of the baseball announcer’s voice buzzing softly in the background, competing against the crackle of country music over the radio.

“It’s very clean in here,” I remark, looking at the piles of wood neatly stacked along another wall. And in the center of the room—a giant two-story space with naked bulbs dangling down from the rafters—sit several pieces of furniture in various states of completion. “I always imagined a lot of sawdust in wood shops.”

“Used to be.” Strolling over to place his only hand on a giant slab of grainy wood, he murmurs, “This was going to be a beautiful coffee table. I could have made thousands selling it.”

I let out a low whistle.

He peers up at me. “Would you like me to finish it for you? It’s black walnut. Not easy to come by a piece like this.”

My eyes widen in surprise with the offer. Jack would love a coffee table like that. I open my mouth, the beginnings of “Sure!” escaping, when Ben’s voice cuts into the murkiness with a harsh, “No!” Spinning around, I find him standing just inside the door, his jaw taut with tension as his eyes dart around the space as if chasing ghosts within the shadows. Even the darkness can’t hide the ashen color of his skin.

“What’s wrong, son? Forget what this place looked like?” The resentment laced through Joshua Senior’s voice is unmistakable.

I hear Ben’s hard swallow as he steps up behind me, curling his arms over my shoulders and across my chest, hugging me to him. Almost protectively. “Come on, you little thief. I’ll let you drive, seeing as you’re hell bent on it.”

His words are teasing, but I know not to argue or joke or give him a hard time; the odd softness in his voice echoes like a shriek within these walls. “Okay.”

“What’s the rush? You haven’t been in here in, what, eight or nine years? How long has it been since the accident?” Ben’s dad slaps the wood table surface. “Don’t you want to look around? Relive some memories?”

“Joshua!” Wilma’s cry comes from the doorway and when I turn to look at her, her pale face matches Ben’s. And I see the tears. There are definite tears welling in her eyes as she looks from her husband to her son—pausing on him, a pained expression furrowing her brow—and then back to her husband. I catch the subtle nod of her head. “Why have I let this go on for so long?” I think I hear her murmur faintly as a mask of resolution slides over her face, a moment before she closes her eyes and squeezes them tight.

And glancing at her husband’s face, I believe he heard it too. I watch as whatever little spark of fury sat burning in him dies. He hangs his head and shuffles quietly past us and out the door.

Walking slowly forward to Ben and me, she reaches up to lay a hand on his cheek. “It was an accident, Benjamin. We all know that. Even he knows that, whether he wants to admit it or not.” Fresh tears find their way down Wilma’s cheek. “But everything after is all my fault.”