Chapter 12 - THE FIRST CONVERSATION WITH NOTHING ON THE TABLESixteen months after the assault, Brandon asked to meet.
No attorneys.
No property papers.
No accountant.
I almost refused.
Then Harold said:
“You are allowed to talk to your son without making him your beneficiary.”
So we met at a barbecue place in Fort Worth.
Public.
Loud.
Ordinary.
Brandon arrived early.
He looked healthier.
Less expensive clothing.
No watch I recognized.
“I sold it,” he said when he caught me looking at his wrist.
“What?”
“The Rolex.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were staring.”
“Old people stare.”
He smiled.
First easy moment in a long time.
We ordered.
For ten minutes we discussed nothing important.
Football.
Charles’s bad driving.
My physical therapy.
Then Brandon put down his fork.
“What were you protecting when you kept the house only in your name?”
Direct.
I appreciated it.
“Control.”
He looked surprised.
“Not safety?”
“That too. Mostly control.”
“Why?”
“Because after your mother died, everything started disappearing.”
Her clothes.
Her car.
Her side of the closet.
My company.
My strength.
“My house stayed.”
Brandon listened.
“I also liked knowing there was something you still needed from me eventually.”
He looked down.
“At least you admit it.”
“Yeah.”
“What was I protecting?” he asked.
I knew.
“The idea that you weren’t dependent on me.”
He nodded.
“When the restaurant failed, I felt like a loser.”
“I kept rescuing you.”
“Yes.”
“You asked.”
“Yes.”
“Then resented me.”
“Yes.”
Both true.
“I thought buying Mansfield would make everything even.”
“Money?”
“No.”
“Then?”
He looked at me.
“Respect.”
There was the word Amber once wanted violence to loosen from me.
Not signature.
Respect.
I said:
“I respected you before Mansfield.”
“No, you loved me.”
That stopped me.
Different things.
Brandon continued.
“You loved me like a son. You didn’t respect me like a man.”
“Why?”
“Because every time I failed, you fixed it. Then reminded me you fixed it.”
“That was unfair.”
“It was also partly my fault. I kept coming back.”
“Why?”
“Because being rescued felt better than finding out I couldn’t do it.”
There.
His fear.
I understood that intimately.
The conversation shifted toward the assault.
He did not want to.
I insisted.
“What were you protecting when you hit me?”
His face changed.
“My deal.”
“What else?”
“Myself.”
“From?”
“Looking like a liar.”
“Because you were one.”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
He took a long time.
“Amber.”
I frowned.
“I had told her you were definitely signing. She put nearly everything she had into the deal.”
“So you wanted to force reality to match the lie.”
“Yes.”
“Did you think about stopping?”
“Before I hit you?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah.”
That answer mattered.
“What happened?”
“You tore the papers away.”
“I hadn’t yet.”
“No. When you said no the second time.”
He looked ashamed.
“I knew then.”
“Knew what?”
“That you weren’t going to sign.”
“And?”
“I panicked.”
No excuse.
A description.
Then he said:
“I thought if I scared you enough, you’d become Dad again.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
“The Dad who fixes everything.”
My throat tightened.
He had hit me trying to summon the version of me who rescued him.
That may have been the saddest truth of all.
I reached into my jacket and handed him Ellen’s note.
He read it.
Smiled once.
Then covered his eyes.
“Mom was brutal.”
“Yes.”
He folded it carefully.
“Can I keep this?”
“It’s yours.”
Not a house.
Not a check.
May you like
A page of his mother’s handwriting.
For once, inheritance weighed almost nothing.
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