Lay Me Down

24. We are not okay.

{Pete}

When he came around the back, Jon was in a deck chair in the sun, his head leaning back against the cushion. His face looked pale, and he was hugging his arm against himself. Pete made two tall iced teas and brought them out, ice cubes chinking softly against the glasses. Jon opened his eyes when Pete set his on the table next to him and took a gulp of the cold drink without saying anything.

"You keeping up with the meds they gave you?" Pete asked.

"Yes," Jon said.

Pete shook the propane tank next to the BBQ. "How do hamburgers sound for supper?"

"Fine."

Pete scraped the brush over the grill, the sharp smell of charcoal and grease filling his nose. "I guess you're pretty bummed not to be able to play guitar or do any of your normal things, huh."

"It's just a couple weeks, Dad. I can deal," Jon said.

Pete glanced at him, wishing he could scrape a little of the crusty attitude off his son and get him to sparkle again. He guessed Jon was angry at him for something—either because he thought Pete was angry with him for messing up his bike or something else. If he was already the bad guy, he decided he would try and come at things head on. "Did you already know about Cary's sister?"

He might as well have lit the propane under Jon's chair. His son sat bolt upright. "What the hell kind of person do you think I am, Dad? If I had known, don't you think I would have told you before you let him come live with us?" Jon shoved to his feet and stormed inside, slamming the door.

Pete scrubbed the last spot of charring hard enough to scrape the steel, then straightened, letting out his breath. That was something he would have to address later.

He was sitting in the deck chair, swinging the BBQ flipper between his knees with the sizzle of meat behind him when Cary came around the corner of the house, carrying the shovel. There was dirt on his knees, and the back of his T-shirt was dark with sweat. He stood with his hand propped on the shovel, surveying the weed-choked flower bed that ran the length of the 40-foot fence. He turned a little toward Pete, speaking without looking at him. "Finished in front. Should I do back here?"

Pete got up and lifted the lid to check the burgers. "These are almost done. Just wash up for supper."

Cary nodded, setting the shovel against the fence.

"You mind getting out the buns and mustard and ketchup?" Pete asked. "Jon's laid up, and Mel's not feeling so well, either."

"Yes, sir." Cary said it quietly, but Pete heard him as he went by. His forehead wrinkled, and he pressed his flipper against the burgers, feeling the widening divide between his son and the boy who had just been his closest friend.

Jon was civil at the dinner table—Pete wondered if he should congratulate himself for teaching him to fake politeness when bitter hostility was closer to the truth. Jon passed the food and put mustard and ketchup on Bea's bun with his one good hand. He made conversation with Pete about church the next morning, his eyes staying flat and grey. He never once looked at Cary or spoke to him.

Cary was silent and nearly invisible as he ate in his place next to Bea. Pete saw him slide looks at Jon when his son had his head turned away, his own expression guarded as a bank vault. With a sinking feeling, he realized this was probably a normal mealtime for Cary, navigating around someone who was angry with him. It stung to watch his son treat his friend in this cold way. He wondered what he was going to do with these two boys living under his roof this summer.