Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

“When I was in high school, there was a girl in my grade who was going through some shit at home. We all knew it. It was a different time then though, people didn’t get in other people’s business like they do now. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah. It was a different world then.”

He nods, gazing off into the distance. “Her dad killed himself accidentally in a hunting accident the year before and she never really got over that, I don’t think. I remember her sort of not being in the gymnasium, not being in the cafeteria, not really participating in classes we had together.”

His tone gets soft on the last few words. He works his jaw back and forth as he relives a memory I’m not privy to.

“What happened?” I ask.

“She killed herself.”

The sentence is harsh. Black-and-white. So final. The reality of the end of a little girl’s life, a child I didn’t know, spirals over my skin, chilling it to the core.

“Oh, Lance. I’m sorry,” I say.

“We all went to the funeral,” he continues, not moving his eyes from the tree line below. “I remember sitting there and wondering why no one helped her. How all of these people sort of let her down, you know? I think I knew that day I’d be a teacher or somehow working with kids. I’d be the guy who maybe sees those things and helps somebody out.”

“That’s why you’re so great with Ollie, huh?”

He shrugs. “It’s hard to explain.”

“You explained it just fine,” I promise, resting my palm on his calf.

“My mom was always beating us on the head to be decent people,” he says, dragging himself into a sitting position. He takes my hand when I start to pull it away and places it on his knee, his hand pressing on top of it. “She had four kids. All of us were healthy. All of us were bright, capable kids. Almost every night at dinner, piled around a round table in her kitchen, we’d say our prayers. When we’d open our eyes, she’d be sitting there, one hand holding Dad’s, just watching us almost in awe.”

The picture he’s describing comes to life in my imagination, a woman with dark hair like Lance’s and brighter eyes, smiling back at him. I can see them all sitting at a table, passing around bowls of homemade dishes, the room full of a love I’ve never known.

My heart aches at the vision. It squeezes, craving to have something fill it in a way Mrs. Gibson’s heart must’ve been full.

“She would tell us,” he continues, “that we couldn’t rest on our laurels. That we were given more blessings than other people for a reason and that was to help those who needed a hand or an extra set of eyes or ears.”

“She sounds amazing. I can’t imagine being raised by a woman like that.”

He chuckles. “She was tough as nails though. There were expectations and we had to meet them.”

“Like grades and stuff?” I ask as he squeezes the top of my hand.

“Kind of. I guess we had to work to our potential. But she better not catch you back talking or driving by a broken down car or not holding a door open at the grocery. That happened to Machlan once. Poor guy,” he says, smiling at the memory.

“She sounds lovely.”

“She was lovely.” He sighs, seemingly content with the conversation. So, I press my luck.

“What was your dad like?”

He wiggles on the blanket, taking a moment to get comfortable again. “Dad got up every morning at four forty-five. He was out the door by five-thirty and rolled in a few minutes before six every evening. We had supper at six sharp and then he’d take out the garbage while two of us kids did the dishes and Mom relaxed. Then he’d take one of us outside to do something. Throw a ball, work on a car, head to the bait shop. Whatever it was that needed done or we wanted to do.”

“I love that he made you do the dishes,” I giggle.

“Oh, trust me. These hands have met their fair share of dishwater,” he laughs. “If it needed done, he didn’t care if you were a boy or a girl. Blaire took out the trash, she took her turn mowing the lawn. Us boys would clean toilets and mop floors. You were never too good to get your hands dirty,” he smiles.

“I think I would’ve loved him.”

“I did,” he admits. “I always envied my dad in a way. He was a man’s man, you know, without the chauvinism. He was proud of his family. Proud of us. But if someone said something cross to him, he’d kick the fuck out of them.”

I burst out laughing, my hand slipping out from under his. “I didn’t see that curveball.”