Danger, Sweetheart Part 21

Blake almost missed the reb.u.t.tal over Sandy's guffaw. The man actually slapped his knee, something Blake had a.s.sumed no one did outside of Westerns. Though Blake knew the futility of introducing people who knew each other, he was a slave to the lifelong habit of stiff manners. "Sandy, this is Garrett Hobbes. Garrett, this is-"

"I know who he is, cripessakes. Look, when do you jog or lift or whatever? Big guy like you," Garrett added almost resentfully, "you must be in there a lot. Prob'ly got big fancy gyms in Vegas, right? I might move there, if I don't find anything good in L.A."

Mental note: Burn Las Vegas to the ground and never return. Possibly the entire state of Nevada. Cannot be too careful.

"Really, Garrett? We're still discussing your sweaty regimen? Since you're so keen to know, I was a one-percenter, now cast into the other part of that equation, and I used the hotel treadmill-"

"Don't like jogging in the desert?" Sandy cracked, and slapped his knee again.

"Good Lord, no. I'd be on the treadmill around two thirty A.M. And that's because I was a) an insomniac and b) not an incurable a.s.s." Probably not an incurable a.s.s. Well, not as big an incurable a.s.s.

"Fine, enough, don't even know how we got on that topic-"

"You brought it up. Don't you remember? It was fifteen seconds ago."

"-but I've been thinking about you, stuck there with a bunch of jerks who want you to fail-"

"Are we still talking about Las Vegas?"

Garrett would not be deterred. "And I thought of someone who might be able to get you to see sense, and as it happened he was swinging by town today anyway, so I reached out and, you know."

"What?" Blake had no idea where this was going. The elderly man had by now joined them. He was slender going on emaciated, the weathered skin of his face stretched so tightly you could easily make out the shape of his skull. His neck was too long for his body, his shoulders too narrow. He was neatly, dully dressed in gray slacks with a black leather belt, a tan dress shirt, and black dress shoes. Clean shaven, with a head full of scrupulously trimmed white hair and pale brown eyes, almost sand colored. He held himself with stiff pride, and stared and stared at Blake and said nothing. His mouth was small and tight with ... disapproval, perhaps? Disappointment? A recent lemon dessert? "I know what?"

"This is your grandpa, Mitch.e.l.l Banaan."

Over the sudden roaring in his years, Blake replied, "No, it isn't."

"It is, though."

"Isn't. My grandfather is dead, as are his wife and three of their four children, my mom being the fourth. It's the reason my mom and I came to Sweetheart; it's why she inherited the unholy mess of bankrupt farms. Ergo, this man is not my maternal grandfather."

"They gave up the farms," Sandy explained, effortlessly inserting himself into private family business, or Garrett's delusion, or both, "but not because they died. You thought they were dead? Who'd tell you something like that?"

No one, he realized with startled dismay. Questions shoved aside, evaded, or not even asked were at once much clearer.

Who died? he had asked, and Shannah had not answered directly, merely going on to discuss the farms she inherited.

If they hadn't died and left her the property headache, he had pointed out, we wouldn't be out here. He had seen her puzzled expression and wondered at it.

Died? I'm not getting you. They didn't- He had wondered, but then Mom had cut Natalie off and it never occurred to him to revisit the question.

Blake then did something he had never done before and hoped would never do again: he did what Rake would have called a "headdesk" on the steering wheel, hard enough to make the horn blare, and roared, "You colossal jacka.s.ses are alive? Because if that's so, I am going to kill all of you!"

Thirty.

"So. One of Shannah's boys." The old man (his grandfather the old man was his grandfather who is not dead for the love of all that is unholy and when did my life become a soap opera) sized him up with the warmth of a snake glaring at a robin's egg.

(what? stop thinking like a laid-back NoDak and reclaim your ident.i.ty, your big-city cold, intense, soulless ident.i.ty) sized him up with all the warmth Margaret of Anjou (the queen, not the h.e.l.l-pony) had for Richard, the Duke of York. Whew! Better.

"Which one are you, then?" This in a tone often used for questions like "paper or plastic?": chilly indifference. Five seconds into their first meeting, Blake understood why his mother had fled Sweetheart.

"Blake." I suppose we're to have a conversation now? Or something? "The oldest." Because Rake is ... not going to believe this when I tell him.

"You don't look like a Banaan." The relentless frigid regard was getting difficult to bear. Blake imagined he would drop his gaze, soon, and direct his responses to his feet. "Not at all like Shannah, or me."

Then Blake pictured his mom, the generous kindhearted child who read twentieth-century literature to a dying man because that was a respite from her life, that was a wonderful warm experience compared to any interaction with her father, and just like that, the ancient troll's evil spell was broken. Blake's head came up and he took a step forward. His grandfather did not step back. Good.

Keep not backing up, old man, let me get in there chest to chest. See what I did inherit from my mom.

"We favor our father's side." Thank G.o.d. The nuclear option, while devastating, respected, if not loved, Shannah and adored the twins without condition. The moment she found she was a grandmother, Nonna bent her will to securing every advantage she could for Shannah and her sons. This man, now. This man was something else. "In almost all things."

"What are you doing here, boy?"

Excellent question. And if there had been no easy answer half an hour ago, there certainly wasn't one now. He stared at the man in mingled frustration and annoyance and finally came out with, "I don't know."

A snort. "Typical. Your mother's the same. She didn't know what the h.e.l.l she was doing; she just left. And then look! Got caught with you and your brother. Tell you what, she was a sorry girl after that. Told her. We said, 'This is what happens when you turn your back on family.' We said, 'Being smart got you into this, better hope being smart can get you out of it.'"

I cannot imagine the courage Mom used when she found she was pregnant and realized she needed her family. Asking this man for help must have been like asking for ... for ...

His historical knowledge failed him. For the first time in his life (when he was sober, anyway), he could not complete the metaphor. Instead he reached out, found his grandfather's shirt collar, twisted, pulled. They were close to eye to eye; his grandfather was two inches taller.

"Old man, I have had a s.h.i.t week and am giving serious contemplation to beating you to death."

"They teach you to push around old men in Las Vegas?"

"No, they taught me to never bet against the house in Las Vegas. Your daughter taught me! 'No one is an unjust villain in his own mind.... Some of the cruelest tyrants in history were motivated by n.o.ble ideals.'* She taught me 'those who are capable of tyranny are capable of perjury to sustain it.' She taught me 'under tyranny it is right to be a rebel.'"

"What-"

"The daughter you turned your back on helped me learn my letters, got me my first library card, showed me the universe as best she could, and never quit. You, though. You quit. That's all you do, isn't it? That's why people p.r.o.nounce 'Banaan' like it's a curse around here. Your daughter wanted to be better than that. And she is. She's worth fifty of you, old man, and you have no idea how badly I want to break your nose."

There was a snap! and they both looked to their left; Sandy Cort was popping his gum and watching with an avid gaze. "To think I almost didn't head to town today," he said, as if amazed there could be a universe where he missed the confrontation.

"p.i.s.s off, Cort. This is family business kakk!"

Kakk because Blake had tightened his grip. "You are not family. You turned on my mother when she needed you. You sulked when she left and punished her when she tried to return. Do you know what all of this means?" He took a deep breath and bellowed, "You're the reason I'm in Heartbreak, you judgmental sack of s.h.i.t! And coming to Heartbreak is both the worst and greatest thing to ever happen to me! Do you think I want to be beholden to you for anything? I would rather be Rake's personal a.s.sistant for a calendar year!"

"You're busy," Garrett said. "We can talk later."

Blake had forgotten him, too. "Busy, yes, and also, 'Power-l.u.s.t is a weed that grows only in the vacant lots of an abandoned mind.'"

"What the f.u.c.k are you talking about?"

"Not me. Ayn Rand. Do you even have a library card?"

"I only read Men's Health and Maxim," Garrett replied, puzzled.

"Maxim?" Sandy said, rolling his eyes. "For G.o.d's sake, Garrett. That's p.o.r.n for kids not old enough to legally buy p.o.r.n who don't have Internet access."

"It is not! They have s.e.x tips and sports articles."

"'The Hottest NFL Cheerleaders' is not a sports article."

"You seem to know a lot about it," Garrett shot back.

"That's true, Sandy," Cort added, amused. "You do."

Another snap! of bubble gum from Cort's jaws of life. "Yeah, my grandson reads it and leaves it lying around. Kid just got his driver's license last week."

"Reb.u.t.tal, Garrett? No?" Without loosening his grip on his hateful grandfather, Blake shifted his attention to the sweaty, greedy, pathetic man who somehow thought that arranging a meeting between grandfather and grandson would fix everything. "I had to work and live here for weeks to understand why places like Sweetheart are necessary. Because one piece of earth is not just like another."

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake," he huffed, already looking around the quiet street for an escape route.

"In Las Vegas, the lights are always on, but not because anyone who cares about you is waiting. No clocks, so you aren't reminded how much of your life you're p.i.s.sing away betting against a house that never loses. Vegas can suck you dry and then turn her back on you; Sweetheart is the pitcher of lemonade on the lit porch." Not my best.

"What the f.u.c.k does this have to-"

"I don't know; I am tired and confused and angry!" And hot. No one had warned him that North Dakota springs could be downright tropical.

"Atta boy." From Sandy Cort, who blew a bubble of approval.

"And you want to make this place a miniature Vegas, with casinos and miniature golf and bright lights at ten o'clock at night, you soulless s.h.i.thead! Which you never would have thought to do without wretches like this enabling such a toxic mind-set." He gave his grandfather a light shake for emphasis, then released him. "And I helped you. You could never have taken it this far if I hadn't also been a soulless s.h.i.thead. Thank Christ I came to my senses in time." He was so staggered by the epiphany he was dizzy with it. And for some reason his hands no longer hurt. "Forget your ill-conceived plan, Garrett. I'll do whatever it takes to save Heartbreak, whatever I have to in order to get the funds. If I have to crawl, naked, the length of downtown to my mother on broken acid-drenched gla.s.s while listening to an audio of Angela's Ashes as narrated by my brother and follow my undignified pleading with an hour of interpretive dance, I will."

"Jesus," Garrett said with a flinch, doubtless picturing the tawdry scene.

"Yes! That's how determined I am. The place doesn't have to be profitable, either, so don't hang on to that hope. Heartbreak could burn down and I wouldn't let it go, do you understand?"

"What the f.u.c.k did they do to you out there?"

"Worked me half to death, starved me, put me in danger, let me operate heavy machinery while fatigued, made me eat lefsa and haricots verts, and put me in charge of an animal who yearns for my death," he replied happily. "This might be Stockholm syndrome. Don't care. Go away."

Here comes "this isn't over." That was unoriginal but vaguely bada.s.s, just the sort of thing Garrett- "This isn't over!"

-couldn't resist.

"And you!" he continued as Garrett stomped off. Cort nodded to show he was still listening and Garrett almost giggled. No, that noise Blake heard was him giggling. The man was so unabashedly eavesdropping, and it was clear he would be gossiping about this for weeks, and refused to exhibit shame. It was glorious. "You tell Roger he will never get the White Rose of York back. She is going to live to the ripe old age of ... of..." His research failed him. "... to whatever a ripe old age is for swine."

"I'm tellin' him a lot more than that." With Garrett's absence, Sandy seemed to realize the confrontation was winding down, and failed to hide his disappointment. "Welp, better get goin'. Nice to meet you, Blake. You say hi to your mama for me."

"I will, Sandy, nice to meet you, too."

An indifferent nod to the man so recently in Blake's clutches. "Mitch.e.l.l."

His grandfather's head moved a half inch in acknowledgment. "Cort."

"And you! Awful, horrible old man." Blake could not recall ever feeling so manically cheerful. He had no idea where he was going from here and did not care. His life had crashed and burned and he did not care. He kept having to stifle the urge to giggle and he did not care. It wasn't that a weight had been lifted. It was more like he had lived his entire life on a high-grav planet and moved to the moon: an entirely new world to explore while weightless and free.

"I'm done with this," his grandfather replied with chilly mien, but didn't get far once Blake's hand closed around his elbow.

"Of course! Things are out of your control, thus it's past time to run along, isn't that right? Our meeting didn't go the way you planned? You thought I'd be small and stupid and timid? Hoped I'd be? Thought I'd be bullied by my mother like you bullied her? Okay, that part's a little accurate.... Garrett told you I was having trouble and you came right over, didn't you? But not to help. You wanted to see Shannah's mistake up close." The man's disgruntlement was so plain, Blake could not stifle a smirk.

"Let me go."

"Not yet; my brother would tell you I love the sound of my own voice, and he would not be wrong, though Rake is..." Now that Blake had met a blood relative who was genuinely terrible, he would have to think of something else. "... perhaps a bit less terrible than I previously thought. So I'll leave you with what I think happened, why you're a pathetic s.h.i.t, and what will happen next.

"She left to get away, to see more of the world than Sweetheart, as teenagers have been doing since there were teenagers. But that's not what you told yourself. You decided she left to find a husband, to-what's the phrase? put on airs?-because for some reason you also thought it was 1950." He watched the old man's mouth get smaller and smaller, the only indication of his anger, and had a flash of inspiration. "You didn't know my father was wealthy! She came to you for help and you turned her away. You didn't reach out until after my father died, after she controlled the trust fund. And she told you where you could put it!" Blake could not recall the last time he was so delighted. "You a.s.sumed she was still the small scared girl who left. Don't you see, you ancient ghoul? She couldn't be that girl anymore; she had to be strong for her children. When you finally unclenched and called, she was the person you inadvertently made, strong, like obsidian, but brittle, also like obsidian."

"She owed loyalty to her family."

"So did you." Hard to talk through clenched teeth. "Run along back to whichever hole you crept from, old man, and don't dare to seek out my mom without a written apology of a minimum of five pages."

"Boy, you don't dictate my behavior."

"Do not call me that! My name is Vegas Douche!" Dear G.o.d. What have they turned me into?

Without a word, his grandfather turned and walked away, stride brisk, shoulders back. You could not tell by looking at him that anything was wrong. Blake had seen that quality before, but in his mom it was something to admire. In his grandfather it was simply the old man's place to hide.

"Five pages, single s.p.a.ced!" Blake shouted, and noticed Bev and Cameron Harmon stopped short across the street, then waved at him.

He smiled and waved back.

Then he pa.s.sed out.

Thirty-one.

It's okay he's fine everything is fine his hands don't even hurt so how could everything not be fine and yes a bit dizzy but it had been an interesting week so no wonder and he told the Harmons he tripped they rushed over when he didn't trip when he went down and his grandfather never slowed never stopped and good riddance you wretch you monster you are a dead thing and rumors of your not-death were exaggerated because you have always been dead for her and now she can be dead for you and we will be too the nuclear option has love enough for all of us and it was so hot but it was fine everything is fine and why is the road moving while the Supertruck stays still oh well home again home again and hurrah here is Heartbreak and Gary is pretending he doesn't know the difference between Lactuca serriola and Lactuca sativa and surprise Gary the Supertruck and I are in the garden with you and oooh look at him dive out of the way and shall I park beside the basil row or the tomato row oh I seem to be on the muskmelon row and this garden will not weed itself so Blake to the rescue and don't forget Natalie's strawberries ooops forgot to put down the ladder and now my head is in the muskmelon row which is all right no time to waste it's quicker this way much quicker and what is that terrible crash-bang noise and who is breathing on me who is snorting and breathing gusty hot breath on me and it's nap time now.

Thirty-two.

It wasn't a nightmare, but Natalie forgave herself for thinking so at first.