“It startled me, too,” I assured him.
He bent and picked up the grocery bag, taking a deep steadying breath as he did so. “Let’s go,” he said.
When we were out on the road, Aidan spoke again. “I’ve just got a thing about dogs,” he said. “Because of my hand.”
I nodded. “Do you remember the day you lost your finger?” I asked him, steering us onto the highway. “I mean, really remember it?”
“I have this snapshot image,” he said. “I can see my hand with the finger half torn off, and the blood just starting to flow. The dog didn’t take it off cleanly. It was semiattached, but I guess it wasn’t… what’s the word? Viable. So a doctor must have finished the job.”
Aidan checked to see if I was okay with this grisly story, and apparently I wasn’t turning pale, because he went on.
“At the base of the finger, below the main wound, there was a separate tooth mark, I guess from where the dog gripped and let go before biting down again and taking the finger. In my memory, it’s a dent, just starting to fill up with blood. Now it’s a scar.” Aidan extended his left hand, slightly tilted, so I could see the pink mark just below the stump.
“What kind of dog was it?” I asked, returning my gaze to the highway.
“A pit bull, I think,” Aidan said. “That’s what I remember most, the white face with pointed-back ears.”
“Pit bulls just don’t seem to fit with your neighborhood,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s weird, I know.”
After a moment, I spoke again, asking Aidan what most likely seemed to him an unrelated question.
“When you lived in Georgia,” I said, “what did you do for fun?”
“Fun?” Aidan said. “Not a lot. There wasn’t much to do out where Pete lived.”
“Did you ever hunt?” I asked. “Go target shooting?”
“Hunt, no,” he said. “I went target shooting, once. We knocked cans off a fence.”
“How did it make you feel, handling a gun?” I asked.
“It was boring,” Aidan said, shrugging. “Once I’d done it, I didn’t feel like doing it again.”
“Did it make you nervous?” I asked.
“Not really,” he said. “Why? Are you recruiting for the police academy?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head in amusement. “My job isn’t really about shooting, anyway. They make you learn to use the gun before they turn you loose with it, but if you’re lucky, you never have to shoot anyone on the job. I never have.”
“I was going to say, you should be talking to Colm,” Aidan went on. “I think he’d probably have about eight guns by now, if Hugh weren’t so opposed to them.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Colm mentioned that, about your father.”
The Hennessys were like a family viewed through a prism. Nothing lined up. Hugh loved his antique pistols and had kept them in his study; no, Hugh hated guns and wouldn’t have one in his house. Marlinchen was afraid of loud noises, but Aidan wasn’t scared of guns. On the other hand, he really was afraid of dogs. It didn’t square with my theory about the study. I didn’t know if I could make sense of it at all.
“What about you?” Aidan said, breaking into my thoughts. “Did you ever hunt?”
“Me?” I said.
“Well, you grew up on the Range,” he said. “Lots of people hunt and fish there.”
I shook my head. “When I lived in New Mexico, for a while I was infatuated with my older brother’s crossbow. Then I shot a deer with it. I can’t even remember if it was deliberate or a whim or even just an accident, but I know after that I never wanted to hunt. Couldn’t stand the idea.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “But my anti-hunting morals don’t run that deep. I mean, I eat meat.”
“Good,” Aidan said. “You can stay for dinner, then.”
Aidan’s meal-baked chicken and mashed potatoes with a green salad- was simple and satisfying, not quite as well seasoned as the dishes his twin sister prepared. At the table, the kids talked about final exams, summer coming, and their plans to visit their mother’s grave on her upcoming birthday.
After we were done eating, Marlinchen said, “Donal, maybe you want to go watch some TV? We’re going to talk about some boring stuff.”
To a lot of kids, a phrase like that makes the radar go straight up; they know the truly interesting grown-up issues are going to be put on the table. But Donal accepted his sister’s words at face value. He left.
When he’d gone, Marlinchen said, “I talked to Ms. Andersen today, about Dad.”
I recognized the name, after a moment: I’d seen it on a bulletin board at Park Christian. She was the medical social worker in charge there.
“How is he?” Colm asked.
“Good,” she said. “He’s been steadily improving. You guys knew that. In fact, Ms. Andersen says he can live at home.”
Beside me, I felt Aidan shift in his chair, but he said nothing.
“He still needs physical therapy, and speech therapy,” she said. “But all that can be done here. Ms. Andersen’s going to help us with all those things. I agreed that we can move him home next week.”
“Wait a minute,” Aidan said. “Just like that? This is something we need to talk about.”
“I would have discussed it with you guys before I said yes,” Marlinchen said, “if we had any alternative. But we don’t. Dad’s insurance won’t pay for his hospitalization if the hospital itself has recommended outpatient treatment.” She speared a stray piece of lettuce on her salad plate, but didn’t eat. “You know what the money situation is like. We can’t pay for it ourselves.”
“Isn’t physical and speech therapy and home care going to cost us, too?” Aidan pointed out.
Marlinchen straightened confidently. “That’s the thing,” she said. “Dad’s insurance is pretty good on paying for outpatient services like that. The therapists can even come out here. Home care is a little different. We won’t have someone live in, but Dad’s at moderate-assist level.” When no one seemed to know what that meant, she explained. “That means he needs help with 50 percent or fewer of daily activities.”
If anyone was bothered by my presence at a family discussion, they didn’t say so, and I made no move to get up.
“That’ll improve as Dad keeps up with his rehab,” Marlinchen went on. “It won’t be a big deal, especially since there are five of us here with him. We’ll all pitch in.”
“I won’t,” Aidan said.
Marlinchen looked politely confused, as if she’d misheard.
“I’ve got a job,” Aidan said. “I’ll help with money. But I can’t bring him his meals or sit with him and pretend… pretend that…”
Liam was looking down at the carpet, as if embarrassed. Colm’s face was unreadable.
“Aidan,” Marlinchen said softly, pleading. For a brief, golden time, all had been right in her world. Aidan had returned, and her father was ready to come home. Now that facade was crumbling.
“What do you want from me, Linch?” Aidan asked. “You want me to say it doesn’t still bother me, or pretend it didn’t happen?”
That was exactly what Marlinchen wanted. She wanted to lay psychological Astroturf over everything ugly.
“I know you have legitimate grievances,” she said. “But Dad’s had a stroke; he could have died. That changes people, profoundly. It might soften him, in a lot of ways.”
Could. Might. So much of what Marlinchen said was wishful, divorced from hard evidence.
“If you can just keep an open mind,” she went on, “I think maybe we’ve got a chance to start over here. All of us.”
Aidan shook his head. “He won’t change, and I won’t share a home with him.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Where else could you live?”
“I’ll live out there,” Aidan said, pointing to the detached garage.
“No, you won’t,” Colm said, unexpectedly entering the conversation. “That’s my place. I’m not moving my things out to make space for you.”