I was surprised when we were able to find a parking space in front of the house; it was the only one available on our block. We live near the beach, and at that time of year, as the weather was warming, the crowds were showing up.
I took Rachel aside and gave her the keys to the Volvo, asking her to give me some time alone with Travis. She hesitated, then relented. She told me to give her a call if I needed help. When he saw that she was leaving, Travis protested that he had promised to pay for a rental car, but she told him not to worry about it. “Just spend some time getting to know your cousin,” she said. “You might find out she’s not so bad.”
He made a face that looked like the warm-up for a sarcastic reply, then caught her disapproving glance. “Will we see you later?” he asked.
She promised she’d be back.
I stalled for a while, introducing him to our pets, showing him the house, feeding him lunch outside on the patio. The dogs took a liking to him and lay on the lawn, watching him. Cody reserved judgment, and busied himself rolling around in a patch of mint that Frank had planted for him.
I answered Travis’s questions about Frank, Pete and Rachel, none of which seemed to be designed to elicit more than small talk. He steered the topic of conversation away from himself, so I stopped asking questions, too anxious about coming up with a way to break the news about his parents to worry much over his reticence. I decided I would make a determined effort to discover more about him later. For the time being, I tried to learn what I could from what he chose to ask me. I suppose I learned more from what he didn’t ask.
He didn’t ask about me or Barbara. I told myself there was no reason to feel hurt over that, that he was a stranger. But he wasn’t.
And yet, what was there to bind him to us? I began to feel sure that as soon as I told him of his parents’ deaths, he would flee. It seemed to me that would be yet another loss, another unnecessary separation in our family saga of indifference. I wanted it to stop.
“I was wondering,” I said, “if you could stay a few days?”
He didn’t try to hide his surprise. “Here? With you?”
“Yes. In the guest bedroom.”
He stared at me a moment, and I half-expected one of his sarcastic replies. But he shook his head and said, “No, I’ve got my camper. It’s all I need-I prefer it, really.”
As if on cue, we were interrupted by a loud noise-a series of whoops and honking sounds-a car alarm. He was up on his feet and hurrying through the house. I followed him, but by the time we reached the front yard, there was no one near the pickup. He pressed a button on his key-chain and the noise subsided.
“Think someone tried to break into it?” I asked.
He glanced around and shrugged. “Hard to know. It isn’t one of those that goes off every time the wind blows, but I’ve had more than one false alarm from it.”
“There’s a stairway to the beach at the end of the street,” I said, “so a lot of beachgoers walk past the house. Maybe someone walking by was curious about ‘Cosmo the Storyteller.”“
He smiled, “Remarking on the paint job?”
“It is designed to grab attention, right?”
“Right.” He glanced between the camper and the house and said, “Mind if I move a couple of things into the house for safekeeping?”
“Not at all. But as I was saying, why don’t you stay?”
“No need to,” he said, walking to the back of the camper. “I have a place to sleep.”
“Well, then, stay here in your camper.”
“Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“Maybe we could get to know each other.”
He laughed as he opened the camper door. “Same question: why?”
I waited while he stepped into the camper and retrieved the rolling trunk. When I suggested he put it in the guest room, he seemed amused, but did as I asked.
We went back out on the patio.
“You asked why I wanted you to stay,” I said. “What happened-between our parents-it wasn’t right.”
“Oh? So we should suddenly become cousins? Real cousins? Just ignore the past few decades of neglect?” He shook his head. “You Kellys are unbelievable.”
“I’m as much a Maguire as you are!”
“Forgive me for saying so, but so what?”
“Do we have to perpetuate something our parents started? Make it worse?”
“Why start with me? Go ask my mother’s forgiveness, not mine. God knows Mom has always been more interested in you than I am. In fact, the last time I saw her, she told me she was going to cut me out of her will in your favor. Even showed it to me.” He laughed. “Some day you’ll be the proud owner of a couple of religious statues and a dozen or so Georgette Heyer novels.”
Well, that shut me right up.
“What?” he asked, seeing my dismay.
“I’ve tried to think of a way to tell you this,” I said miserably.
He stared hard at me.
I drew a breath. “When your mother called you at the Mission Viejo Library, did you call her back?”
“No,” he said warily. “But what business is that of yours?”
“I think she called to tell you about your father,” I began. “Was-was he ill?”
“Yes,” he answered, then his eyes widened. “Was…?” he repeated, then said, “Not already! It’s too soon! He’s… he’s not… he died?”
“Yes.”
All the color left his face. He lowered his head, exhaled loudly. He made no other sound for several long minutes. But then, as the shock seemed to wear off, he stood up, fists clenched. His face, so pale just moments ago, was now flushed with rage. “I can’t believe it!” he said angrily. “I can’t believe she-she asked you to tell me-”
“She didn’t!” I said quickly.
“You just took it upon yourself? Why on earth-”
“Because… maybe you should sit down again.”
“No,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me, as if trying to read my mind. “Something’s happened-what’s wrong?”
“Travis, I’m sorry, I’m-so sorry to have to tell you this, but your mother was in a car accident and-”
“She’s hurt? Where is she?”
I shook my head. “She was killed, Travis.”
“Killed?” he said blankly, as if it had become a foreign word. “Killed?”
I nodded.
“By a car?” Still unable to grasp it.
“She was crossing a street…” I said, but trailed off as I saw his face twist up with grief. “Oh, Travis-” I reached out toward him.
“No!” he said.
He turned his back to me, took a faltering step, then sat down hard in the chair. He brought his knees up, sitting sideways, curling himself up in the chair, hiding his head in his arms. “No, not her. Not her,” he said, again and again, until he began sobbing too hard to say it.
The dogs had gingerly stepped onto the deck by then, and stood with hips leaning against my knees in what I took to be some sort of pack formation against danger, their ears forward and watching him with concern. Deke looked back at me, then ventured forward first, sniffing at his shoes and singing a single, high-pitched note of anxious sympathy to him. I was going to call her back, but he reached for her and held on to her soft black coat, and soon Dunk was also sidling in to offer whatever comfort he could.
I started to go inside the house, to give him some privacy, but turned back at the last moment, unwilling to let the dogs be smarter than I was, deciding that the family stubbornness that had pitted the two of us against one another might be put to better use.
The dogs moved away as I knelt next to him. I put an arm around his shoulders. He stiffened. I half expected him to tell me to go to hell, but instead he tentatively took hold of my hand, then squeezed it tightly, not letting go. After a time, he shifted in the chair, uncurling enough to put his head on my shoulder, and we held on to one another until this first wave of grief was exhausted.
He quieted, then pulled away awkwardly and went into the house without saying anything to me. I stretched and got up off my sore knees, waited a minute or two, then followed him in, dogs trailing. I heard the sound of the bathroom tap running, and figured he was washing his face. I went into the kitchen, busying myself with wiping off the counter and rinsing the dishes from lunch.