Trophies by J. Gunnar Grey Page B

expelled them. During
all the years of Father's disregard, Uncle Preston and Aunt Viola
had visited Boston twice yearly, always saving one day to spend
with me, and they'd sent Patricia over every summer since she was
eleven and I was twelve.
    "All right, Charles?" Aunt Viola kissed me a
second time for good measure. I kissed back.
    Uncle Preston gave me a gentle shake. "Come
and talk with me, lad."
    It never occurred to me to refuse nor even
request a reason. We excused ourselves from the ladies and ducked
behind a display of oils I'd missed earlier. Uncle Preston, hand
still on my shoulder, eased me close enough to whisper and be heard
through the background chatter.
    "Your father wants to see you."
    He just did, or at least he'd had several
chances and hadn't even glanced at me. But I said nothing and gave
myself extra-credit points for self-restraint. I needed a quick and
courteous method of telling Uncle Preston to keep his nose out. I'd
no intention of chatting politely or otherwise with Father.
    But to my horror he looked past me and raised
his chin, as if inviting someone to join us, before I had a chance
to stop him. I shot a glance that way. Father limped toward us
through a wash of light, his cane tapping on the hardwood floor
barely audible through the chatter. His eyes were fixed on me, not
as stern as I recalled but not gentle either. Over his shoulder
Linda and William watched, my brother's spotlighted expression
skeptical. Behind us, I heard a little gasp that had to be from
Patty.
    Had they all conspired to trap me?
    "Uncle Preston, no. I don't—"
    "Shhh." His look was not kindly. "He has a
heart condition and arthritic knees. He's not going to eat you.
Don't you think it's time you two made up?"
    To hell with courtesy. I shook off his hand
and returned his look. "It's not your business."
    His cheekbones tightened, the skin of his
cheeks whitening over their angles. "We'll finish this later." And
he left.
    The tapping was very near. I supposed I could
run for it, but that felt cowardly and I refused to allow my family
to reduce me to such behavior. There was no civilized choice but to
face my father.
    He stopped behind the display, close enough
so the backwash of a single spotlight touched both our faces. At
this vantage point, the lines etched about his eyes and jaw were
impossible to miss and deeper than I'd thought, the grey of his
hair more advanced. Uncle Preston was right: Father still looked
fit, but the robustness was gone and the courtroom warrior was past
his prime, even if his black evening suit recalled childhood
memories. And it was something of a shock to realize I now had a
few inches on him and had to look down to meet his gaze.
    I wasn't certain what I felt. Shocked
wariness layered my thoughts and no hard emotion seemed ready to
bubble to the surface. Good; perhaps I could get out of this with
some sort of dignity intact.
    After all, I'd prepared for such a meeting
since I was twelve years old and first realized he wasn't going to
return to Boston to retrieve me.
    Father took a deep breath and raised his
chin. "Charles."
    It was the first word he'd said to me since I
was eleven.
    Something inside me — something alive —
uncoiled from about my heart. Blood pulsed in my ears. Perhaps I
was wrong about the numbness.
    I found I needed extra air, too.
"Father."
    "I'm so sorry." He paused. "For your
loss."
    Aunt Edith, he meant, and not anything that
had passed — or not passed — between the two of us. That apology,
it seemed, would not be forthcoming. I made appropriate noises
despite my contrary inclination. "Thank you."
    "I wished to see you tonight. There's much we
should discuss and I'd like to arrange a time to do so." Tension
stood between us like another living thing. He watched me in
silence, as if waiting for something, pressed his lips together,
and tried again. For the first time in my memory, his articulate
voice sounded gentle. "I didn't wish to see you left alone at such
a