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I return to the kitchen. The only rag I find is soiled. Where’s the bathroom? I walk out of the kitchen and down a small hallway. I find an equally small bathroom. One washcloth hangs on a rack. It doesn’t look too clean either, but it’s better than the one in the kitchen. I turn on the faucet, dampen the rag, and walk back to the living area.
“Here you go.” I hand the cloth to Dad.
Dad wipes the crusty blood from the man’s forehead. His wound doesn’t look as bad once it’s cleaned, but sure enough, a jagged cut slices through the goose egg.
“Hey.” Dad slaps his cheek. “Wake up.”
A low belch emanates from him, and the acrid stench of beer and halitosis erupts into the air.
“Damn.” I wave my hand in front of my nose.
“Drunk as hell,” Dad says. “You want to stay here and try to wake him, and I’ll look for coffee?”
I shake my head. “I’ll look for the coffee.” I head back into the kitchen.
A coffee maker sits on the counter, but the kitchen houses no coffee that I can find. The best I can do is an old jar of instant coffee whose contents are hard as a rock. With a kitchen knife, I chop off enough of the brown rock to microwave a mugful of instant coffee.
“He’s coming to,” Dad says when I return. “Sort of.”
“Here’s the coffee. All he had was instant.”
“It’ll do. Just set it on the table.” He continues to shake the man. “Come on, man. Wake up.”
“Maybe get him into a sitting position,” I suggest.
“Yeah. Good idea. Help me.”
Together we move him so he’s sitting upright. His head moves from side to side, and finally, one eye opens.
“Come on,” Dad says. “Wake up.”
He looks at Dad. Then at me. Then at Dad again. “Where am I?”
“Home, I assume,” Dad replies.
“Then who am I?”
“You tell us.”
“I mean, who are you?” He moves one hand to his head. “Fuck. Head hurts.”
“You gave yourself a hematoma,” Dad says.
“What’s that?”
I roll my eyes. “A bump on the head.” You moron.
“How much did you drink?” Dad asks.
“Don’t know.”
“Judging from the cans in the kitchen,” I say, “at least a twelve pack.”
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Dad says. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you remember your name?” I ask impatiently.
“Floyd. Now who the hell are you two?”
“Your fucking guardian angels,” I say sarcastically.
“Wha…?”
“I don’t think you have a concussion,” Dad says. “You passed out from drinking and hit your head. You’re lucky. The swelling seems to be going down.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
The cat jumps on his lap.
“Hey, Poozles.”
“Poozles?” I say.
“Her name. Poozles.”
Whatever. What do I care what the guy names his cat? But Poozles? Sheesh.
Dad picks up the cup of coffee. “Here. Drink this.”
Floyd takes a sip. “Hot!”
“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not sorry at all.
If this is indeed the man who fathered me—and I already know he is—then he’s not only a loser drunk, he also abandoned two children. Not that I ever believed my biological father would turn out to be some paragon of society. But this?
“When’s the last time you cleaned this place?” I say, acid lacing my tone.
“I don’t know. What does that matter?”
“You’re living in a pigsty,” I say. “You’re probably not taking care of the cat either. You can be arrested for that.”
“Poozles is fine.”
Indeed, Poozles appears content in Floyd’s lap. Another thing that irks me. My father is a cat person. God.
“What’s your last name, Floyd?” Dad asks.
“Jolly. Now who the hell are you?”
“Talon Steel, and this is my son Dale.”
“What are you doing here?”
I’m done playing games. I just want to get this shit over with.
“We came to talk to you,” I say.
“What for?”
“Don’t play stupid.” I clear my throat. “You know exactly who I am. I’m your biological son.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ashley
After a shower, I feel better. My eyes are still red and swollen from crying, which means I cannot, under any circumstances, see Dale today.
No problem. He and Talon are apparently still in Grand Junction. Who knows when they’ll be home?
Tomorrow, I begin my internship.
If Dale knew what I’d been up to only hours ago, he’d refuse to work with me. And for good reason.
Diana is gone, and I don’t know anyone else, despite having met every member of the family last night.
After a light lunch with Jade, I decide to sit on the deck with a book. After perusing the large library in the house, I decide on Pride and Prejudice, an old favorite I haven’t read since high school.
I open the book—
I jerk when the French doors open.
“Ashley,” Jade says, “you have a visitor.”
Who would be coming to see me?
Then Brock steps onto the deck. “Hey.”
“Oh, hi.”
“Some greeting,” he teases.
“You want some iced tea?” Jade asks. “Lemonade?”
“Lemonade would be great,” he says. “Thanks, Aunt Jade.”
She walks back through the door and into the kitchen.
