light which only works half the time at night, protected by a short wall of stones. A large tree Lauren and Michael planted together stands guard on the other side of the yard, towering to the sky. The kitchen door hides behind a white fence which lines the path to the front door, and three bushes huddle together under three windows which peer into the kitchen of the home. Harlan walks deliberately; Cynthia follows his footsteps closely.
Lauren always walks separately from Alex and Michael for some reason, as if she does not want to taint their steps.
“Good afternoon,” Michael greets warmly from atop the stairs. He smiles as his father draws closer.
“Good afternoon to you too,” Harlan says. One clunk, two clunk, three clunks, four. Now the two stand only a couple of feet apart.
The two shake hands, and then hug. Michael feels the familiar roughness of his father’s embrace bringing him closer to home.
Harlan sniffs.
“You’re telling me you still haven’t quit?” Harlan lets a smile crease his lips.
“I’m working on it.”
“Still?”
“That’s bad for your health, you know.” Cynthia adds. She hugs her son while looking up at him. She’s short, but her husband has allowed her to stand tall since Michael was a child.
They bask in each other’s presence for a moment.
“So,” Harlan says.
“How’ve things been with you and Lauren?”
Michael looks away, nodding. “We’ve been alright.”
Cynthia shoots Harlan a look.
“You sure about that?” Harlan presses.
“Yeah, it’s been a little awkward, but we’re all here, aren’t we?” Michael replies. His fingers twitch towards the pack of cigarettes.
Harlan nods, chewing the response slowly.
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Harlan asks.
Michael’s smile fades. “We’ll wait and see.”
“Have the two of you considered going to see somebody?”
“Harlan,” Cynthia quips. He’s acting like a bastard, once again.
“I’m sure Jack wouldn’t mind the extra money.” Michael opines. Lauren never joins him when he goes to see Jack.
“It’s just a suggestion.” Harlan says, meeting Cynthia’s steeled gaze with one of titanium concern.
I’m trying to help. Harlan’s eyes sparkle.
I’m scared. Cynthia blinks.
“We’re just going to see how it goes for the future. We’ve just got to take it one day at a time, and then –”
The front door opens. The three turn. There stands Alex, a smile on his face similar to the one shared by his father and grandfather. He’s already taller than his mother and inching up on his father. He’s going into eighth grade, yet he could be mistaken easily for a Sophomore. Harlan knows he’s a growing boy, and he’ll streamline out in puberty. Acne is starting to dot his face, along with the regular facial expressions of concern which affect all middle school kids. The blue eyes shine behind his version of the McGregor glasses.
“There he is!” Harlan steps forward to shake his grandson’s hand as Alex walks past the screen door.
Cynthia follows to give Alex a hug, and a big, wet kiss on the cheek.
“Hi Grandmom,” Alex says, wincing slightly.
“Hello Alex. You know I’m only going to be able to do that for a couple more years, until you’ve got some girl doing it for me.”
Michael rolls his eyes. Alex lets out a chuckle.
“You hear that, kid?” Harlan asks. “One of these days you’re gonna like having that happen.”
“Of course I will, Grandpa.”
“Are you ready to be an eighth grader?” Cynthia is starting the process. The subconscious grandmother checklist, similar to the mother inspection checklist Lauren had used the day of Alex’s accident, begins.
Kiss? Check.
Hug? Check.
Harlan chides him about girls? Check.
School? In progress.
Friends? Up next.
Talking about how his parents are messing up his life by being irresponsible, and are damaging him like a family heirloom in a fireplace?
That’s Harlan’s inquiry.
“I think I’m ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve got most of my work done already.”
“What did you have to do?” Harlan asks.
“Read some summer reading books.”
“When I was your age, I was working, not doing reading assignments.” Harlan remarks, looking at Michael.
“Really?” Michael interjects skeptically, smiling. “You were working at the age of 13?”
“Of course!” Harlan says. “I was cutting grass for an older man who lived down the street! His name was Mr. Richard Collins. Ex-military, and he paid me three dollars every time I cut his lawn.”
Michael senses a story from Harlan. He interjects in the name of preventing sunburn.
“Alright, so I’ll just send Alex here three miles down the street to the next house and expect him to get paid, most likely in either apples or horses, like the olden days.” The nearest house is only a few feet down the road.
Harlan frowns. “He’s gonna have to learn someday, Michael.”
“I still haven’t.” Michael takes another cigarette out of his pack.
“You’re telling me.” Cynthia chimes.
“Hey now,” Harlan says, turning to her. Cynthia laughs.
A tapping comes from the glass door, snaring their attention.
Lauren wears a shy smile on her face, her black tee shirt bearing spots from her work on the day’s lunch, her jeans and bare feet comfortable on the floor of her home. Her hair descends in waves to her shoulders. Michael never understands why she makes herself look so good for his parents. A collision of emotions rocks him: there’s his wife, age not having done much to her over the 42 years it has held her in its grasp. How much effort does it take to construct her smile?
“If you don’t mind me interrupting, lunch is ready.” Lauren says, stepping outside.
