Turn Signal by Howard Owen Page A

praise.
    He’s seen his son only twice since the day Brady almost shot him.
    The days of rent-free living at the farm are drawing to a close. Just in the last two weeks, the heirs have gotten an offer on Kenneth and Ellen Stone’s old place, only $5,000 below what they asked, from a Korean couple who want to run a dental appliances shop out of one of the bedrooms. Mike thought they should hold out, try to get full price, but Sandy and even Jack, tired of the whole drawn-out process, insist that they take it. It was the first real offer they’ve had, and they’re already eight days into fall. They were beginning to think their real estate agent, a recently divorced woman with gray roots and an inability to imitate enthusiasm as well as Jack thought a Realtor should, had given up.
    â€œDamn,” Mike said, “I just hate the idea of a couple of Orientals living in our home. The place’ll smell like that weird stuff they cook. They’re probably Buddhists or something. Probably be burying cabbage or sacrificing cats.”
    â€œThey’re Presbyterian,” Jack said. He’d learned that much from the agent, who threw it out as if that tidbit might make everything more acceptable. “And none of us have lived there in years.
    â€œIf you hate to sell it, why don’t you just let Brady stay there, like I asked you? Or move back yourself.”
    This shuts Mike up. He does want the money. He just wanted a little more.
    Jack goes into the den and calls the same number the Stones had when he was in high school.
    The phone rings four times, and then he hears Brady’s voice telling him, to the accompaniment of rap music so loud he has to hold the phone away from his ear, that “Brady’s out,/nom’ sayin’? He’s missin’; he ain’t home/But he’d be glad to hear your message/Wait two seconds for the tone.”
    For two months after Ellen died, her voice was still on the recording, uncomfortably reciting the number and asking whoever was calling to please leave a message. Jack knows he should be glad not to have her ghost greeting him.
    After the beep, he is halfway into an exasperated first sentence when he hears a click, and Brady answers with a terse, “It’s me.”
    â€œI guess famous actors have to screen their calls.”
    Brady’s voice warms a little, apologizing, but there’s something below the surface. Fear? Drugs?
    â€œCan I come over? I need to talk about something.”
    Jack hesitates only for a beat. It is true that Gina does not like Brady. Actually, she’d just as soon never have him in her house again after the time last year when she realized the next morning he had been smoking dope in their guest bedroom.
    Gina was as upset about Shannon recognizing the smell of marijuana as she was about Brady using it in their house, Jack figures.
    Now, though, Gina is feeling a little guilty about not even making an offer as Brady finds himself staring at his last month of guaranteed shelter. She won’t complain too much if he stays for supper.
    â€œYeah,” he says. “Come on over, if you can get here in this rain.” He says it knowing that Brady has a tendency, when he gets somewhere, to stay much longer than a normal person would. With Brady, a body at rest tends to stay that way.
    â€œBrady …” Jack begins, before they hang up.
    â€œYeah, right. I’ll leave the dope behind.”
    Brady makes something of a mess getting in and out of his wet outer garments. Jack is reminded of Brady at 6 or 7, always being told to hang up his things when he came in from outside, always forgetting. They usually forgave him his little acts of carelessness. This was partly because he was such a little charmer, always smiling, always seeming as if he wanted to do right but somehow couldn’t, and partly because of guilt.
    Shannon gets a towel and wipes up most of the water on the foyer’s tile