A Curve in the Road(27)

“Thank you, Verna,” I say. “Would you like to come back to the house? We’re just going to sit around and talk about happy times.”

“That would be lovely,” she replies. “I’ll tell Lester, and we’ll see you soon.”

As she speaks my father-in-law’s name, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, but I quickly shake the worry away. Lester is Alan’s father. Though he’s an insensitive brute most of the time, I can’t imagine that he’s not grieving in his own way today, especially because of how he and Alan parted ten years ago. I suspect Lester must have some regrets that he keeps buried under the surface.

“We’ll see you soon,” I say to Verna as I get into my mother’s car, feeling proud of myself for taking the high road today.

“Do you have anything decent to drink around here?” Lester asks the second we’ve walked through the door of my mother’s house.

I glance up at him as I remove my coat. “I’m not sure. What would you like? We have wine and beer.”

“No, not that,” he replies as if I’m stupid. “Do you have any rum? Vodka? Gin?”

I feel my blood pressure rising, but I swallow hard and work to find my inner Zen. “I’m not sure. Let me check and see what Mom has in her cupboards.”

Soon, I’m in the dining room on my knees, rifling through the china cabinet, where I find half a bottle of Drambuie and a full, unopened bottle of Canadian Club whiskey.

“Perfect!” Lester says, snatching both bottles from my hands. “We can make a mean Rusty Nail with these. Got any ice?”

“In the freezer.” I point toward the kitchen and stand slowly, grimacing at the ache in my legs. Lester doesn’t stick around to help me up, and I wonder why I’m so conscientious about being a good hostess when he has no qualms about being a terrible guest.

An hour later, he’s a third of the way into the bottle of whiskey, the Drambuie is gone, and he’s getting loud. I feel badly for my sister’s husband, Braden, who’s stuck in the kitchen with him and Bruce, listening to Lester rant about the Toronto Blue Jays. I suspect Braden is sacrificing himself just to keep Lester and Bruce out of the living room, where the women are sitting quietly with the children and Zack, talking about Alan and sipping tea.

When the sun goes down, I’m ready to call it a day. I turn to Verna and drop a few hints.

“It’s been a long day,” I say. “I’m ready to fall into bed.”

A rowdy burst of laughter erupts from the kitchen.

Verna chuckles. “Oh, listen to those boys out there. I’m glad they’re having a good time.”

A good time. Sure. Let’s party all night instead of remembering the man who was just lowered into the ground.

Zack, still dressed in his navy blazer and gray dress slacks, sits forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and weaves his fingers together, squeezing them tight. A muscle twitches at his jaw, and he gives me a look.

I know exactly what he’s thinking—that this is a blatant show of disrespect for his father on the day of his funeral.

Winston, who is lying on the floor next to Zack, sits up and stares at me as if he can read my mind. His mouth falls open, and he begins to pant.

I nod at my son, and we share an unspoken communication. Then I turn to Verna. “I think it’s probably time to say good night.”

She blinks a few times. “Oh. Yes. I see.” Setting her china teacup on the saucer with a noisy clink, she rises to her feet.

It’s clear that I’ve offended her, but I don’t care because Lester has been offending the entire household all afternoon with his heavy drinking and disrespect for the solemnity of the occasion. Not once has he mentioned Alan or expressed any grief or words of condolence. I don’t understand why he even came. Did he think this would be a rip-roaring good time?

From the kitchen, Lester shouts the f-word in a string of angry complaints about another sports team. His deep, booming profanity causes a jolt in my body. Carla glances uneasily at her girls, who snuggle close to her on the sofa. Her youngest daughter buries her face in Carla’s lap.

Zack exhales sharply. “That’s it. Party’s over.” He stands up and leaves the room. My heart races, and I leap to my feet to follow him.

Winston follows too.

“Hey, Gramps,” Zack says. “I think it’s time we call it a night. We’re all pretty tired.”

“What do you mean, tired?” Lester shouts back at him. “The party’s just getting started, boy. Go back to the living room with the ladies. Sip some tea and talk about . . .” He waves his hand dismissively through the air, wiggling his thick, stubby fingers. “Frilly things.”

After everything we’ve all been through over the past few days, my patience is stretched to the limit, and Lester’s cruel words directed at my son spark a mother’s fury in me. I move fully into the kitchen to stand beside Zack. “Lester. It’s been a hard day. The party’s over.”

Winston senses my anger and takes a stance between Lester and me, his front legs set wide apart, like a fierce guardian.

“What . . . ? Are you going to sic your crippled dog on me?” Lester asks.

“If I have to,” I reply, feeling my cheeks burn. “Please, just go. Zack’s right. We’re all beat.”