Possessive Daddy Next Door

“I see what you mean,” I say. “This is hard for you then.”

“Asking for help goes against my nature.”

“But you’re doing it for Tab.”

He takes my hand and squeezes it. “And for you.”

I smile up at him. We walk along and I have a thought. “Should we get Patricks?”

He grunts. “Nah. Fuck him. I think he’ll just make it more difficult.”

“Why?”

“He’ll worry too much. Might make your mother less likely to get involved.”

“But you said this was his idea.”

“Yeah, it was, but he’s still this family’s protector. Can’t help himself.”

I shrug. “Okay. I don’t think we need him anyway.”

“Good.”

I lead him down the halls and through a short passage. We reach my mother’s little art tower. I know she’ll be in there, probably will be in there most of the day. We walk up the staircase and stop outside of a large door. I knock twice then wait for my mother to call out.

“Come in,” comes the muffled voice.

I nod at Max and he goes in first. My mother’s sitting on a small stool in front of a large canvas. She’s wearing a chic sweater and light-colored jeans, and both are covered in paint, as if it doesn’t matter that she’s ruined some expensive clothes. She’s holding her brush and she’s frowning at the canvas.

From what I can tell, it’s just a big splotch of color. She’s made some aggressive strokes from the center. I don’t know what her ultimate aim is, but I have to admit, so far it looks beautiful. Geometric and abstract, but still beautiful.

My mother’s paintings line the walls in deep stacks and rows. She’s incredibly talented, and the paintings represent all different artistic styles. There are impressionist paintings, realistic paintings, and even some expressionist and surrealist styles mixed into the bunch. She likes big, bold colors and classical subjects.

The room itself is an octagon with large windows that overlook the grounds. It’s one of the most beautiful rooms in the whole house, and I can understand why she spends so much time up here alone in it. She has a phone, her painting supplies, and that’s it. We were never allowed in here as children, and even today we have to knock and get permission to enter. This is her sacred space, and nobody interrupts her when she’s working without a good reason.

She makes a quick stroke on the canvas then sighs and shakes her head. “It’s not coming today,” she says and looks back at us. She arches an eyebrow. “What do you think, Max?”

He tilts his head. “Reminds me of Rothko mixed with Pollock. I like the sense of line and space.”

I stare at him. “Huh?” I say.

He grins at me. “I’m not just a pretty face.”

Mother laughs, delighted. “I’m glad you made those comparisons,” she says. “That’s what I was going for.”

“It’s good.” He looks around the room. “All of these are good. You’re very talented, Mrs. Lofthouse.”

“Call me Sylvia,” she says.

“Okay, Sylvia. I mean it, though. Have you ever considered showing these?”

Mother laughs again and shakes her head. She puts her brush into a cup of water and stands, wiping her hands on her apron. “No, Max, I couldn’t. Unfortunately, that sort of thing isn’t for people like me.”

“Ah,” he says. “I see.”

“Maybe you think that’s silly. But to me, that sort of thing matters.”

“I don’t think taking pride in your family is silly, Sylvia.”

She nods once then looks at me. “So. You interrupted me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say automatically then clear my throat. I stand up straighter. “You heard about what happened?”

“I heard,” she says and looks at Max. “I heard your problem came into my house and got one of my staff injured.”

“That was a mistake,” he says. “An unfortunate mistake.”

“And yet you caught one of them. Send him to jail.”

“The locals took him, at least,” he confirms. “But there’s another out there.”

“Yes, I heard. Ran out the front door, bleeding all over the place. The cleaning costs are going to be extraordinary.” She sighs. “As if it matters.”

“We’re here for your help, Mother,” I say.

She looks at me again. “And how can I do that, darling?”

I stare at her for a long moment, not speaking. I have so much I want to say. I have years of pent-up aggression, anger, frustration.

But none of that matters. I know the game she’s playing. I bet she already made calls after last night. If she hadn’t already started those calls days before, at least.

“There are people you might know,” I say. “People who have connections to the men that want to hurt Max.”

“You think I know the mafia, dear?” She laughs but her eyes stay calm. “What a silly notion.”

“I think you know more people than you’re letting on,” I say. “I know what you get involved with, Mother. I know the sort of money you spend around town.”