“You don’t need to call Kevin. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”
“I couldn’t ask you to do that. Maybe Tony can spare a few minutes.”
Tony and Amber had their hands full with three young boys and a construction business that had been struggling since the housing market took a dive. “Tony’s got a lot to do already. I can come by—”
“Please, don’t worry about it. I’ll give Kevin a call tomorrow.”
Katie piped up from down the hall. “Let him help, Ma. I swear, you’re going to drive Caleb crazy.”
“Well, he’s busy,” she chided. “He has to focus on his business. June over at the Parish House was telling me last week how many new businesses fail, especially when the owners don’t have the skills or the experience they need—”
“Holy cow, Mom, lay off,” Katie said. “Caleb’s not going to fail. Camelot Security’s doing fine. He can take an hour off tomorrow to do some plumbing, and I’ll make sure the office doesn’t implode while he’s out.”
Caleb threw Katie a tight smile, grateful she was loyal, if not honest. She made a shooing motion behind their parents’ backs. Get them out of here.
He opened the door and told his mother, “I’ll take care of it.”
“All right,” she said, as if she were doing him a favor. She tucked her purse under her arm. “Come by early, though. The tenant needs his shower working.” Glaring at her husband, she asked, “Are you ready yet, Derek? It’s time for us to go.”
Caleb’s father smiled his crooked smile, unperturbed. “I guess I am.”
Eventually, with Katie’s help, Caleb got them all out of the house, though not before his mother had remarked that the lawn needed mowing and the trim could use a coat of paint.
“We are never doing that again,” he said as he pushed the door closed.
“It wasn’t that bad this week. At least they left early.”
He checked his watch. Seven thirty. Still time to get over to Burgess Street. Pretty minor, as blessings went, but he’d take it. “She was on Dad’s case worse than usual.”
Already walking down the back hall toward her room on some private errand, Katie didn’t reply. Caleb made his way to the living room, where he took in the devastation three rowdy schoolkids and a dog had wreaked on his house in the span of a few hours. Open magazines covered the rug he’d sent home from Turkey. Couch cushions, blankets, and a folding chair formed some kind of rickety structure in the corner. There was a mystery puddle of clear liquid on the hardwood.
He shook his head at the wreckage and started putting the couch back together.
When he’d bought this place after 9/11, converting his savings and reenlistment bonus into the down payment, he figured he was probably heading into combat. He’d wanted the comfort of knowing that one day the war would be over and he would move home to Camelot and live in his own house.
He’d seen himself with a wife eventually, and maybe a kid or two. Police or security work to keep him busy. He’d never thought he would get deployed to Iraq three times in five years, or that he’d end up staying on in the army for another decade. He just hadn’t been able to walk away. Not when his men still needed him.
Never had he imagined he’d end up back home at thirty-three, a small-business owner with his baby sister as a roommate.
Not that he regretted any of it. He’d left home a cocky, aimless kid in search of new people to charm and adventures of the sort the Midwest didn’t have on tap. And he’d found them in Germany, Sarajevo, Iraq—but the military police had also given him the mission he hadn’t known he was craving. A day-in, day-out struggle to make a positive difference thousands of miles from home.
The army had taken fifteen years of the best he had, and he considered it a fair exchange for what he’d gotten in return. He’d served with honor. Now it was time to put his family first.
He surveyed the scene. Better, but he needed paper towels. While he was in the kitchen getting them, Katie came in, wet a rag, and began wiping down the countertop, her short black hair swinging around her face.
“You should try not to get so mad at Mom,” she said.
“She’s mean to him, and he’s weak. It ticks me off.”
“She can’t help it. It bugs her that Dad doesn’t remember things anymore. She thinks he just needs to try harder.”
“Yeah. It’s a problem.”
Before the stroke, Derek Clark had been a model husband and father. He’d managed the Camelot Arms Apartments with a capable good cheer, and he’d provided a decent living for the family. These days, the physical therapists pronounced him recovered, but he remained easily distracted. His short-term memory was pretty much shot. He seemed oblivious to how much his condition had deteriorated.
It made Caleb feel like shit to think about it, so he tried not to.
Katie exhaled loudly, blowing off steam, and opened the fridge door to put away a few bottles of salad dressing.