The Prodigal's Return. Anna DeStefano
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of dawn?” groused the man who’d once led Jenn’s junior-high Sunday school class. “I’ve got a good mind to—”
“I—It’s one o’clock in the afternoon, Mr. Cain.” The stench of him made it difficult to speak. “I—I—”
“I, what?” He gave her a vague perusal, then a twisted smile. “Well, if it isn’t little miss Jennifer Gardner. Thought I’d seen the last of you when you sprinted out of here weeks ago.”
“I—I wanted to bring a few things over….” She bent to gather the scattered groceries. “I mean, when I dropped you off, the—the kitchen, it looked so…”
Repulsive?
She stooped and reached for a box of macaroni and cheese. Nathan’s hand made it there first. Hers recoiled before she could stop herself.
He crouched beside her and handed her the box.
“What business is it of yours what my kitchen looks like?” he asked in little more than a whisper, as if talking in a normal tone hurt.
“I—I just want to help.” She stood and put the distance she needed between them, a bag of store-bought guilt hanging from each hand. “Just trying to help a friend.”
“Friend?” He straightened, too, his knees cracking, his balance wavering, until all six foot three of him loomed over her. He half collapsed against the door-frame and crossed his arms over his chest. “What gave you the idea I needed help?”
He looked so much like his son even in his rundown state, Jenn caught herself staring.
“I almost ran over you the other night, Mr. Cain. And you didn’t— You don’t look well.”
“Well, isn’t that neighborly of you to notice.” His stare reinforced his sarcasm.
Then an odd sort of confusion slipped through his antagonism. He inched backward into the house, his motions unnaturally slow. Gone was the grace and coordination of the man who’d once given the teenagers in town a run for their money on the basketball court.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, manners from another time making a brief appearance. “I’m in the middle of something…something important.”
He began closing the door.
“But the groceries.” She shuffled the bags to one hand and laid a palm on the door, knowing that pushing him was a bad idea, but completely unable to stop. “I was thinking I could cook you something. Eating might help you feel a little better.”
“I feel just fine. And you’ve got no business here.”
His soulless eyes flicked from her hand to the pitying frown she hadn’t swallowed fast enough. She was staring at the closed door before she could say another word. Without a second thought, she turned the knob and pushed the door back open.
Nathan was standing in the middle of the kitchen, a can of beer in his hand. He didn’t look a bit surprised at her intrusion. He didn’t even look angry. Instead, he tipped the can back, happily on his way to inebriation.
“You’ve got no business here.” He drained his beer in the time it took him to reach her.
He attempted to shut her out again, but just keeping his hand from slipping off the doorknob seemed to get the better of him. Jenn had plenty of time to scoot farther inside before the door closed. Oblivious, Nathan barreled straight into her.
“Get the hell out of my house!” He jerked away. “Or I’ll call the sheriff.”
“No, you won’t. The sheriff’s probably the only person in town you want to see less than me and my father.”
Mr. Cain had nearly killed Glenn Hamilton, the former sheriff’s deputy who’d arrived at this same door eight years ago with a warrant for Neal’s arrest. That was the last time she’d stepped foot in the Cain house. The last time anyone from Rivermist had.
She juggled her shopping bags, searching for an uncluttered flat surface to set them on. Finding none, she spotted a relatively clean patch of linoleum beneath the wall-mounted phone and dropped the groceries to the floor.
“How can you bring yourself to eat in here?” The place was downright revolting.
“That’s none of your business. Now get out.” He was no longer yelling, but his eyes had filled with every awful emotion he had a right to feel toward her.
“I can’t do that.” Another glance around the room, and her resolve to simply drop off the food, reclaim her daughter and head home for a stimulating evening of worrying her heart out about Traci Carpenter evaporated.
The kitchen table seemed as good a place to start as any. She collected a stack of plates covered with half-eaten food and headed for the sink, moving a pile of empty beer cans to make room to work.
“Are you an alcoholic?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Not yet.” There was a long pause. “But I’m working on it.”
She’d been prying a burnt hamburger off a plate. Dropping it, she whirled to find him guzzling another can of beer.
“That’s not funny! You’re killing yourself.”
“Not exactly.” He saluted her with his can. “But close enough.”
“What are you saying?” Afraid she already knew the answer, her heart sank.
“I’m saying I want to be left alone.”
“Maybe no one else in this town remembers the man you used to be, but I do. And I can’t stand to see you living this way, not when I can help.” She spotted a pyramid of prescription bottles on the counter across the room and headed toward it.
Nathan followed, stumbling precariously close to the stove. He caught himself and struck out again, marching toward Jenn as she read the name of a narcotic pain reliever off one of the labels.
“Put that down.” He yanked the bottle away and threw it across the room. A swipe of his hand sent the rest of the medicine flying. “I still have more money than God. If I wanted things clean, if I wanted a nurse, I’d hire one.”
“You are sick.” She peered closer, through the booze and the bluster. Her pulse pounded. “Is that what the drinking’s all about?”
“I’m not sick!” he shouted, his voice sounding clearer by the second. He stretched himself to his full height, then he gifted her with a creaky bow. “I’m dying.”
“Wh-what?”
“I’m dying. And if I want to drink myself into oblivion, or live in a pigsty, or eat off the floor, it’s none of your damn business. So kindly take your food and your condescend…condes… Take your pity, and get out of my house!”
Jenn walked back to the sink, choking on her denial. A myriad of images assailed her. The gentle, funny man she’d loved to listen to classical jazz with. The broken man who’d watched his son escorted from the courtroom in handcuffs. The threadbare bum who’d stumbled into her car just two weeks ago, calling for his wife’s favorite cat.
Nathan Cain was dying.
Alone.
Oh, Neal. Where are you?
She picked up a crud-encrusted plate that had once been pristine bone china and began scraping, ashamed by the quick getaway she’d planned.
A stick of dynamite couldn’t budge her now.
“Stop it!” Mr. Cain shoved the dish from her hands. It fell to the countertop and splintered. Shattered pieces tinkled onto the hardwood floor. “Now look what you’ve done…those are Wanda’s favorite dishes…she’s gonna holler to bring the house down when she gets home. You’re gonna explain it to her, not me.”
He stepped through the broken china on his way to the refrigerator,