Free The Shortest Way Home by Juliette Fay

is, the kid’s teacher called several times, Dee. Did anyone bother to call back?”
    “Well, that’s Viv’s job, isn’t it? She’s his legal guardian.”
    “And Viv’s pushing eighty and won’t leave the house. You’re the one who said she’s losing it. You couldn’t have checked to see if she closed the loop?”
    Deirdre took her feet off the table and leaned toward him. “You know what, Sean? You’re right. I should have checked. I should have done that instead of all the time I spent with the kid because he has no friends. In fact , I should’ve quit my job and my acting career and every other fucking thing I care about and become this family’s goddamned handmaid. But I didn’t. And neither, by the way, did you . In fact, you’ve been all about you. You haven’t given a shit about anyone else your whole life, Sean. So don’t come after me for a few phone calls Viv may or may not have answered.” She stood, put her glass on the counter, and left.
    Sean sat there at the kitchen table, stunned. How could anyone think he’d been all about himself, least of all his sister? He’d spent his entire adult life tending to other people’s gaping, gangrenous wounds. He’d had dysentery more times than he could remember and had never owned anything he couldn’t carry in a backpack. People commented on his selflessness so often it had almost gotten boring.
    He rose slowly, rattled by her attack. He dumped the rest of his beer in the sink and loaded her glass into the dishwasher. Then he went upstairs and got into bed. He tried to pray for her, which was what he always did—after praying for the attacked, he’d send up a prayer for their attackers to turn their hearts. But it didn’t work. He couldn’t quiet his indignation enough to open the window of prayer in his mind, couldn’t make the connection, couldn’t feel the sense of peace and oneness. All he could feel was the buzz of resentment in his head and the throbbing angry pain in his back.
    * * *
    A few days later, Cormac called to say Barb had a class on Tuesday nights—did Sean want to go to The Palace for dinner? Cormac already knew the answer. It was what they always did when Sean was in town—hit The Pal, ate greasy bar food, had a beer or two beyond their usual limit, laughed their heads off, got philosophical, laughed some more, then walked home.
    The Palace had been built as a fishing lodge on the shore of Lake Pequot, slowly morphing into a bar sometime during Prohibition (because what better time to start serving alcohol?). Rustic and perennially damp, it still felt a little like a fishing hut to which beer taps and bar stools had been added on a whim. The kitchen came later and was of unknown vintage, but certainly not recent.
    “What are you doing for money these days?” asked Cormac as he studied the stained and very brief menu.
    “I still have that trust account Aunt Viv set up when my mom got sick. I just pull the interest off that. Don’t worry, you don’t have to foot the bill.”
    “Hey, I’m honored to buy brews for a guy who’s done so much good in the world.” And Cormac meant it, Sean knew. But Deirdre’s accusation still rattled in the back of his mind, and the comment made him squirm.
    “So, how’s business?” he asked.
    “Pretty damn good, actually,” Cormac admitted. “You’d think strong coffee and fresh muffins were the only known antidote to some disease everybody has.” He put the menu down. “Hey, um. If you ever wanted to pick up some extra cash while you’re home, I could use the help. I mean, I don’t know how long you’re staying . . .”
    “Yeah, I’m not really clear on that, either. I was hoping a little time off would clear up this back thing.”
    “Which you won’t get looked at.”
    Sean shrugged.
    “Okay, well, just to warn you? Barb got a massage yesterday, and she knows you haven’t made an appointment. She’ll definitely bug you about it the next time you come over.”