Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

“But when you and Grandpa . . .” Unc flinches, and I graze around that wound. “Fought, you left. You left me like I was nothing, like maybe I wasn’t so worthwhile and important, after all. And I was hurt. I was furious for a long time. But time keeps passing, and when I got older, I realized we don’t always have ‘later’ to sort things out, so I came. For a change with you, before it’s too late. Before we’re out of time.”

The last words are my real fear. His time is short, shorter than it was all those years ago for sure, and there’s more at stake now.

He starts to speak but coughs, covering a catch in his throat. “How long have you known?”

“Since I came. It’s why I came,” I confess.

“I figured as much,” he says dryly, leaning back in his chair. He props his feet up on the desk, crossing his hands over his belly, the bandaged one still covered by the good one. He’s somehow the utter picture of relaxation, as though yesterday didn’t happen and we’re not discussing a cancer diagnosis.

The word alone hits me hard, which is why I’ve tried to avoid it, even in my own thoughts. Unc has cancer. It’s bad. He’s alone and needs help. He needs me.

Cancer. Death. Fear. Time.

Powerful words that seem to not hit Unc in the slightest. I want this memory—of Unc strong and resolute, dismissive of the seriousness of his reality. Click. Not with my camera, but with my mind this time. I know I won’t forget this image.

“Okay, your turn. If we’re getting this out in the open, what’s the prognosis? What does the doctor say your odds are and how can I help?” I’m a woman on a mission, charging full steam ahead to handle whatever needs attention. This is what I’m here for, and there’s no need to refute it any more or hide it in subtle, secretive moves so I don’t poke at his pride.

Unc snorts derisively. “Like he knows a damn thing. He says this is what’s gonna kill me, but he ain’t got a crystal ball. I might get hit by a bus tomorrow, so no sense worrying about what he thinks he knows.”

What a bright, uplifting outlook, I think wryly.

“There are no buses in Great Falls,” I challenge.

“You know what I mean. I ain’t worrying about things I can’t change. And school buses,” he counters, plenty of sass in his own voice.

I don’t bother reminding him that it’s summer and school buses aren’t running. “But you’re doing what the doctor says, right? Following orders?” I already know the answer, but I want to make him say it so he sees that he’s doing too much.

And he is—working six days a week for lunch and dinner shifts the way he always has, with just those rare two days he took off, still carrying boxes around like he’s a muscled up man of twenty, drinking his craft beer and eating from Ilene’s kitchen every night where even the vegetables are cooked in butter and salt. I’m not sure how to fight cancer, but my gut tells me it involves a lifestyle based on less stress, healthy eating, and eight hours of sleep every night. All things Unc is not doing. Hell, things he’s probably never done!

“I’m doing what I want, same as always. No reason to fix something that ain’t broke. And to be clear, I ain’t broke.” This time, I lift one brow, mimicking the move he’s perfected. “I’m not,” he asserts. “I’m old, not done.”

I’m glad to hear that he hasn’t given up. His fight is strong, going so far as to fight the doctor and whatever weakness his body has succumbed to with the iron will he’s always had.

Relief grows inside my heart, even though nothing has really changed.

Unc still has cancer. But now we’re talking about it at least, and that is a change for good.

He’s still a stubborn old coot. But now I can call him out on being pig-headed and ornery.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you from the get-go, but I wanted to stay, wanted time with you. I still do,” I plead. “I’m sorry if I overstepped with the yardwork and office organizing.” I look around the room, gesturing to the file cabinet with drawers that actually close cleanly instead of getting stuck on stacks of crooked papers. “I really was trying to help without stepping on your toes.”

His boots wiggle on the desk. “These old boots protect my toes just fine, girl. Don’t you worry about dancing on them. If anything, I should be the one apologizing to you.”

I shake my head, and he does the eyebrow thing, freezing my tongue before I can argue.

He sits up straight, his feet on the floor once again as he leans forward over the desk. “You said your piece, now I’m gonna say mine. You’d best listen up, too, because I’m not doing this whole thing again.” He points from himself to me, like this conversation is the very definition of hell to him. Not because it’s me, but because words have power and he’s speaking out loud about something beyond his control, a scary prospect for anyone, but certainly for a man like Hank Davis.