Free No Coming Back by Keith Houghton

all round, I guess. So, you got in late, did you?”
    The interstate had been at a crawl. Traffic jams trailing snowplows . Overworked police and red road flares. One or two crashes and cars overturned on the roadside.
    “Owen, I’d make you a coffee, but we’re fresh out.”
    He flaps a mittened hand. “Ah, no bother. The doctor warns me I drink too much of it as it is. I get these palpitations, you know? Arrhythmia, he calls it. He thinks it’s the caffeine. I don’t tell him I have a weakness for pastries.”
    “You should watch your cholesterol.”
    “Sure, like it’ll make a difference. When your time’s up, that’s it and there’s nothing you can do about it. God knows best, always does.” He glances around us, at the disorganized kitchen, at the mold crawling up the window frames. It’s probably the first time he’s stepped foot in here since before my mother left. His nose wrinkles. “Boy, this place smells, and in a bad way. You had a rat die round here?”
    I smile. “Probably.”
    I like my Uncle Owen, always have. He’s like a big lovable teddy bear. One of those people who gets on with life without complaint. Together with my Aunt Julia he runs Harper’s busiest homegrown general store, right in the heart of town. His outlook on life is sunny side up. Fix what’s fixable and make the most of what’s not. But it hasn’t always been this way. Before I was born, Owen used to hit the bottle harder than my father—so much so that my aunt had threatened him with divorce. Luckily for them, he saw sense and has been on the wagon ever since.
    I always sensed my father hated him for cleaning up his act.
    Then again, Owen and my father have always clashed.
    As boys they rarely saw eye to eye, often verbally sparring and frequently falling out to the point of throwing punches. If any brotherly love existed between them at all, it was a one-way street and all from Owen’s end. My father had issues, even then. He fostered an unhealthy need to compete with his older brother. But he never could. Owen was good at everything he put his hand to and my father despised him for it.
    As men they stayed out of each other’s way, on opposite sides of town, only coming together for Sunday service and at family functions, and only then when forced to out of obligation. I knew my father envied Owen’s popularity, the house he lived in, maybe his position of power in Harper’s community. Envy ate away my father from the inside out, always did, and not just with Owen. The irony is, my uncle is the least competitive person I know.
    “Well, will you take a look at this?” he says as he inspects the fridge. “It’s like the theory of evolution in here, and a bad case of salmonella waiting to happen. Oh my. I hope you’ve not eaten any of this stuff.” He sees my eyes dart to the empty milk carton on the counter, and makes a disapproving face. He closes the fridge. “I’ll see about getting you some provisions sent up from the store, fix you up until you’re settled in. In the meantime, you’re welcome to eat at our house. Like I say, your aunt’s away, but I’m sure I can rustle up a decent meal for the two of us. I remember you love my pot roast.”
    “I do, and thanks. I’d like that.”
    He flaps a hand. “Hey, it’s no big deal. It’s the least I can do. We’re family, right? Comes with the territory. Plus, it’s my seventieth birthday next week. It’ll be a great opportunity to get together and celebrate your homecoming properly.” He looks me over with doleful eyes, and I sense what’s coming next: the reason that brought me back to Harper. He spots my automatic withdrawal, even though I try to hide it. I don’t exactly run away and cower in a corner; it’s more of a subtle creeping of the flesh. “I’m guessing you haven’t seen your dad yet?”
    “No. But I will.”
    “You should. It’s only right. Prove you’re a better man than he ever was.”
    “Owen,” I let out a sigh, “I