Fangs for the Memories(9)

“Please don’t go into details.”

“Well, I guess you’ve figured that part out. She got in the family way. But she told my father, instead of telling me, and he sent her away before I found out. She had my son, and then, well, she fell on hard times—single mother with a ruined reputation raising a baby. Back in those days, that meant more and made life more difficult, and she got desperate. She jumped in the river, and the baby was sent to an orphanage.”

“Wh-what?” I sputtered. “What are you telling me?”

Dick threw up his hands. “I never even knew about the baby until after I was turned. I was too late to help Eugenia, but I could help Albert. I was able to watch my son grow up from far away. By then, I’d made more than a few, well, I don’t like to use the term ‘enemies’—”

“People you screwed over in business dealings?” I supplied.

He nodded. “I left money for Albert when I could, tried to make his life easier. I watched him make all of the same mistakes I did—marry, have a son, not stick around to raise him. So I became a sort of benevolent long-lost uncle to the bloodline, dropping in when they needed something and finding a way to get it to them.

“When Gilbert was born, I could already tell there was something different about him. He was kinder, smarter, and just better than any of us ever tried to be. When he needed schoolbooks, he got them. When he needed glasses, he got them. When he needed college tuition, well—I don’t want to tell you what I had to do to get that for him.”

I stared at him, a bit dizzy over the rapid shift in how I viewed Dick Cheney. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Dick Cheney was a father? A grandfather? Suddenly, his comment about burying his child made so much sense. But looking back, remembering how sweet he’d been with Mr. Wainwright, I could see it. He was always so deferential toward him, so kind. And now I was sort of ashamed that I had assumed Dick was buttering him up for some sort of multilevel marketing scheme.

“I put off telling Gilbert about us being family. That’s why I was so pissed at myself at the shop. I always thought I had more time, you know? Maybe that’s the danger of living forever; it makes you take time for granted,” Dick said, wiping at the reddish moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Gilbert went off to war, traveled the world, made a life here in the Hollow. And I was able to see it all. I tried to approach him so many times. Over and over, I would get as far as his door and then run back to my car like a coward. I told myself, Not yet. Give it a few more years. I thought I would have more time to get to know him better and, eventually, tell him who I am. And when Jane’s gettin’ hired on at the shop meant spending time with him, I thought, This is it. This is my chance. But I kept putting it off because I was afraid he’d be embarrassed or ashamed to be related to me. Plus, I didn’t want to complicate Jane’s job. She was so happy there, and Gilbert honestly needed her help. And now I’ve lost my chance.”

“But I thought that he was still hanging around the shop in his ghostly form?”

“He is.”

“So you still have time to talk to him!”

“I did. I told him before you showed up about Albert and his mama and about how I’d watched out for him over the years. He was happy, grateful even, and that made me feel like an even bigger ass. I could have had a relationship with him. We could have gone fishing or traveled together or something. And I missed out on it because I’m a coward.”

“But you can still spend time with him.”

Dick stepped back to lean against my kitchen table, looking glum. “It’s not the same.”

“Well, cry me a freaking river, Dick!” I exclaimed.

He stared at me, eyes wide. “The hell, Red?”

I clapped my hand over my mouth. What was wrong with me? Why did grief bring about such horrifyingly inappropriate responses from me? Maybe I’d taken some sort of psychotropic, truth-serum-type drugs instead of my iron supplement?

Still looking slightly shell-shocked, Dick moved closer and pried my fingers away from my lips. “No, I think I want to hear this. You were saying?”

“I have parents who refuse to talk to me. I’ve been permanently removed from the family tree—with a blowtorch—because my parents are elitist, deadist snobs who are hyperaware of appearances. But you—you still have the opportunity to build that bond with Mr. Wainwright, to love him and let him love you, and you’re too much of a wuss to do it.”

“Hey!”

“You are! Man up, Cheney.”

He pulled a pouty face.