The Prodigal Valentine. Karen Templeton
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a nap after you eat. I’ll make sure your father keeps the volume down on the TV when he gets back from his golf game.”
Still trying to wrap his head around the odd sensation of having never left—he could swear even the orange, red and yellow rooster-patterned potholders were the same ones he remembered—Ben smiled, picked up his fork. “That’s okay, I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look like somebody who hasn’t had a decent meal in far too long. Did I give you enough eggs? Because I’ve got plenty more in the pan…here,” his mother said, reaching for his plate, “I might as well give them to you now, save me the trouble later—”
“No, Mama, really, this is plenty,” he said, shoving a huge bite of eggs into his mouth. “Thanks.”
The phone mercifully rang. The minute the wisp of a woman and her canine entourage shuffled and clickety-clicked to the other side of the kitchen, Ben quickly wrapped half of his breakfast in his paper napkin to sneak into the garbage later. He’d die before he hurt her feelings, but he’d also die if he ate all this food.
Why, again, had he expected this trip home to provide him with the peace he so sorely needed? Not only was his mother fussing over him like he was a kindergartner, but the minute he got out of his truck he could feel all the old issues between him and his father rush out to greet him, as bug-eyed and overeager as the damn dogs. And then, to top it all off, there was Mercy.
Oh, boy, was there Mercy.
Ben took a swallow of his coffee, wondering how a ten-second interaction could instantly erase an entire decade. For one brief, shining moment, as he’d watched her battling that bush—he chuckled, remembering—he was twenty-whatever and about to combust with need for the hottest tamale of a woman he’d ever known. Who, physically at least, seemed to be in the same time warp as his mother’s house. Except he was glad, and surprised, to see she’d finally given up on trying to tame her insanely curly hair. Not much bigger than one of the Chihuahuas—although a helluva lot cuter, thank God, he thought as the biggest one of the lot returned to cautiously sniff his ankles—Mercedes packed a whole lot of punch in that thimble-sized body of hers.
Except, her appearance aside, he doubted she was the same woman she’d been then. God knows, he wasn’t the same man. Why he’d thought—
Stupid.
Yeah, his mother had wasted no time in telling him Mercy was still single, but Ben somehow doubted his abrupt departure all those years ago had anything to do with that. Mercy as a torch-carrier? No damn way. A grudge-nurser, however…now that, he could see.
Not that he’d broken any promises. After all, she’d been the one who’d made it clear right from the start that it had only been about itch-scratching. Because he knew she wanted what her sisters had—marriage, babies, stability. And she knew the very thought made him ill. So there’d never been any illusions about permanent. Still, that didn’t excuse Ben’s taking off without giving her at least a heads-up. She’d deserved better than that.
She’d also deserved better than a pointless affair with some pendejo who’d been convinced that running away was the only way to solve a problem he didn’t fully understand.
Too long it had taken him to realize what a dumb move that had been.
“You’re finished already?” his mother said at his side, going for his plate again. “You want some more—?”
“No! Really,” Ben said with a smile, carefully tucking the full napkin by his plate. “I’m fine. It was delicious, thank you.”
She beamed. “You want more coffee?”
“I can get it—”
“No, sit, I’m already up.”
After handing Ben his coffee, Juanita sat at a right angle to him, briefly touching his hand. Although her stiff, still-black hair did nothing to soften the hard angles of her face, her wide smile shaved years off her appearance. “It means a lot to your father,” she said softly in Spanish, “that you came back. He’s missed you so much.”
Ben lifted the mug to his lips, not daring to meet his mother’s gaze. He’d known how much his leaving would hurt Luis, but staying simply hadn’t been an option. Now, however…
“Just doing my duty,” he said, only to nearly choke when his mother spit out a Spanish curse word. Now he looked up, not sure what to make of the combined amusement and concern in her ripe-olive eyes.
“For ten years, you stay away,” she said, still in Spanish. “As if to return would contaminate you, suck you back into something bad—”
“That’s not true,” he said, except it was. In a way, at least.
“Then why didn’t you even come home for holidays, Benicio? To go off and live your life somewhere else is one thing, but to never come home…” Her face crumpled, she shook her head. “What did we do, mijo?” she said softly. “Your father adored you, would have done anything for you—”
“I know that, Mama,” Ben said, ignoring his now churning stomach. He reached across the table and took his mother’s tiny hand in his, taking care not to squeeze the delicate bones. “I was just…restless.”
Not the entire truth, but not a lie, either. In fact, at the time he might even have believed that was the reason he’d left. Because he’d never been able to figure out why, after he’d been discharged from the army, he couldn’t seem to settle back into his old life here. But time blurs memory, and motivations, and reasons, and now, sitting in his mother’s kitchen, he really couldn’t have said when he’d finally realized the real reason for his leaving.
But for damn sure he’d always known exactly what he’d left behind.
His mother smiled and said in English, “Considering how much you moved around inside me before you were born, this is not a surprise.” Then her smile dimmed. “But now I think that restlessness has taken a new form, yes? Something tells me you are not here because of Tony, or your father, but for you.”
A second or two of warring gazes followed, during which Ben braced himself for the inevitable, “So what have you really been doing all this time?”
Except the question didn’t come. Not then, at least. Instead, his mother stood once more, startling the dogs. She took his empty mug, looking down at it for a moment before saying, “Whatever your reason for coming back, it’s good to have you home—”
“Ben!”
At the sound of his father’s voice, Ben swiveled toward the door leading to the garage, where Luis Vargas, his thick, dark hair now heavily webbed with silver, was attempting to haul in a state-of-the-art set of golf clubs without taking out assorted wriggling, excited dogs. Ben quickly stood, tossing his “napkin” into the garbage can under the sink as his father dropped the clubs and extended his arms. A heartbeat later, the slightly shorter man had hauled Ben against his chest in an unabashedly emotional hug.
“I didn’t expect you for another couple of hours, otherwise I would’ve stayed home!” The strong, builder’s hands clamped around Ben’s arms, Luis held him back, moisture glistening in dark brown eyes. Slightly crooked teeth flashed underneath a bristly mustache. “You look good. Doesn’t he look good, Juanita? Dios,” he said, shaking Ben and grinning, “I’ve waited so long for this moment! Did you eat? Juanita, did you feed the kid?”
“Yes, Pop,” Ben said, chuckling. “She fed me.”
His father let go, tucking his hands into his pockets, shaking his head and grinning. A potbelly peeked through the opening of his down vest, stretching the plaid shirt farther than it probably should. “I see you, and now I’m thinking, finally, everything’s back the way it should be, eh?” He slapped Ben’s arm, then pulled him into another hug while his mother fussed a few feet away about how he shouldn’t do that, the boy had just eaten, for heaven’s sake.
Now the house shuddered slightly