Page 21 of Playing By Ear

His father glanced up at their approach. “All right, Jimmy?”

Jamie stopped short at this offhand greeting. “Erm…hi, Dad. How are…things?”

“Busy.” Martin checked the grandfather clock to his right. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

Jamie looked at his sister, eyes beaming an SOS signal. He hadn’t known what to expect—a cold shoulder, a warm embrace, a volcanic blowup—but he had not expected his father to greet him like he’d been away ten hours instead of ten years. Either they’d all entered a time warp or the cancer was gobbling up his dad’s memories like Skittles.

Belinda seemed as shocked as Jamie was, but she recovered quicker. “It’s Easter holiday week, Dad,” she said. “Remember? We had Cadbury eggs yesterday on Palm Sunday.”

Martin gave a delighted grin. “Ah, right. Love those. Jimmy, did you want something? I’ve got a lot on today.”

All the old helplessness and confusion rushed back, leaving Jamie the same dumbstruck lad. Atop those feelings lay a new, terrifying sensation: pity.

“N-no, Dad,” he said. “Just popping in t-to see if you need anything. Like, from the shops?”

“I’ve got people for that.” Dad picked up his mobile. “What I really need is some peace and quiet to do my work.” He made a shooing motion.

Jamie took a step back, as though his father’s hand had conjured a gust of wind. “O-okay. Then I’ll…see you later?”

Martin nodded hurriedly, already focused on his phone.

Jamie looked at Belinda. She jerked her head toward the door.

As they moved to leave, their father slammed his palm on the desk. Jamie nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Hoo-hoooooo!” Martin pounded the arms of his chair, roaring with laughter. “I wish you could see your faces just now. Fuckin’ priceless.”

Jamie’s cheeks burned. “Sorry?”

“Youse two really think I’m so far gone I’d forget ten years without my son?” He turned his glare on Belinda. “What you been telling him? That my head’s pure mince now?” Martin stood up and came from behind the desk. “’Mon, then, Jimmy. Gi’e your old man a hug.”

Jamie shuffled forward, his head spinning so hard he thought it would fall off his shoulders. His father met him halfway, looming as he embraced him.

Jamie’s traitorous arms closed around his dad’s body. How did this feel good?

Dad let go and scanned him. Then he ruffled Jamie’s hair. “You finally cut it. Good choice. I like the beard, too. Bit like my own. Sit, both of youse.” He waved them toward the couch, then turned to Gerry. “The prodigal son’s returned. Away and bring the fatted calf!” When the bodyguard hesitated, Dad added, “Fetch the food.”

Jamie bristled at the biblical comparison. He may have left home, but he wasn’t the one who had sinned.

He followed his sister to the worn brown-leather sofa—the one that had been in their old living room—and sat on the edge of the seat. Wait, that made him look nervous. He slid back and curled his arm along the back of the couch.

There. No big deal, just hanging out with his gangster dad in the room where his innocence had been well and truly slaughtered.

Gerry returned with a tray of sandwiches, which he set on the coffee table before them. Jamie’s mouth watered. They were his favorites, the prosciutto and fresh mozzarella on focaccia from the Italian café his father owned 51% of.

Beside the food sat an assortment of San Pellegrino bottles. Jamie remembered when a San Pell wasn’t a special treat but was as normal as—well, as a glass of water.

“Gonnae no be shy, Jimmy.” Martin settled into the plush leather armchair closest to him. “Get some scran down your neck.”

Jamie picked up a plate and a sandwich. “I’m called Jamie now.”

“Bah.” Martin swatted the air like the name was a pesky housefly. “Jamie’s for soft wee lads. But I’ll call you James. What do you say? Compromise?”

Jamie took a bite of his sandwich, stretching out the tension rather than giving his dad the satisfaction of a quick consent.

Then he wiped his mouth and said, “Fine,” though the name felt like an itchy shirt. James was a mature adult. James was someone of whom much was expected. James might even be the one who wrote all those desolate lyrics Jamie would never sing.

Belinda cleared her throat and took a sandwich. “Must be strange, being back here at the old house.”