Lineage(67)

Lance pulled the door shut without a sound and continued to the bathroom. When he reemerged from the house, John was already seasoning the hissing steaks. The caretaker glanced over his shoulder and gave one of the first smiles Lance had seen, hoisting up the corner of his mouth like an uncooperative tent.

“I hope you like your steak rare, ’cause it’s the only way I know how to cook ’em.”

Lance laughed, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he noted that the old man was definitely growing on him.



Their dinner was eaten without much conversation. Most of their attention turned to the food before them, with only the occasional comment of hungry appreciation from Lance. The sun continued its descent behind the tall pines in the backyard. The birds that had been so active, flitting to and fro earlier, were now settling for the night. A chorus of crickets began their creaking song, while the ducks below on the pond continued their soundless laps.

Lance finally pushed back from the table, his stomach feeling as though it were in need of some well-placed sutures. John had already finished and was nursing his fourth beer at the other end of the table. His eyes remained on the deepening murk of the water at the bottom of the hill. Lance watched him in the fading light, as he debated asking the other man questions that pushed and pulled at his curiosity like an unruly tide. In the end, his need to know won out over patience, and he reasoned that sometimes the only true way out is through. Lance opened his mouth to speak, but John’s question halted the words on his tongue.

“Ever been married, Lance?”

“No.”

“Why? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“It scares the shit out of me.” John looked over at Lance and chuckled.

After a moment of staring at Lance, who had only broken into a slight smile, John said, “I get the feeling you’re serious.” Lance merely nodded and sipped at his beer. “What a thing for a horror writer to be scared of,” John mused. “I guess you’re not unfounded in thinking that way. I sure as hell was scared when I was standing at the head of that aisle, staring at the woman who was gonna be mine for each day after.” John stopped speaking, as if Lance had interrupted him. He looked out across the pond, to the emblazoned tree line beyond the water. The sun’s corona gave the illusion of a great forest fire behind the oaks and pines.

“I guess my parents didn’t give me the best example to judge it by,” Lance offered. “I’ll wager that between the right two people it can be something beautiful.”

John nodded without looking in Lance’s direction. “I built this place for her. My two hands, a hammer, and some nails were all it took. We moved here from a little town down south called Delrose. High-school sweethearts—wasn’t anything more foolish or more wise than what we had. Love pushed us this way after we graduated. I turned eighteen, and May, my wife, she was just shy of that when we got ourselves a one-room apartment down in Duluth. I tried working on a fishing boat for a while but it didn’t take. Must be my Irish legs stopped their heritage just short of the waterline in my case. Gave me a taste for beer, though,” John said, as he sipped the last of the brew appreciatively.

“I got a job caretaking at your place shortly thereafter,” John continued. “It wasn’t much at first, but it grew into more, and after a bit my name got around to the other, wealthier, folks up and down the shore. We were able to scrape enough together to build this place, and May eventually got her teaching degree. She taught at the school in Stony Bay, second and third grade mostly.” John abruptly stopped speaking again.

The pause stretched out and Lance became sure John wasn’t going to continue. He weighed his next words carefully, and spoke them with as much tenderness as he could, continuing with what the alcohol had nudged into view. “When did she pass away?” The question swept across the deck like a subtle gust of wind, but Lance could see its effect on the caretaker. John’s eyes scrunched as if remembering a nightmare from only hours ago, and Lance regretted actually voicing his curiosity.

“Fifteen years ago this December. Cancer.” The older man spat the word as if it left an acrid taste in his mouth. “I watched her, the woman I swore to care for and cherish, I watched her …”

John’s eyes were still closed tight and Lance considered telling him to stop, not to cause himself any more pain. But in the midst of the other man’s anguish, Lance sensed a deep need for John to say the words. Perhaps he felt that if he revealed what had been festering within, it would diminish, like a wound partially relieved of its infection.