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Alex turned the key, shutting off the motor. The noise of the engine died, leaving empty space where the comforting whirring had filled the car.
Alex kept his eyes staring straight ahead of him, not looking at John as he spoke. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, “It’s not too late to turn back, you know.”
John sighed, letting his nerves leave his body with his breath. “I’m sure.” He took Alex’s hand from where it rested on the dashboard, giving it a kiss, then a squeeze. “We came all the way back here, there’d be no use in just turning around. Besides, I really need to see the kids.”
“Ok then,” Alex leaned in, giving John a quick peck on the cheek. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” John smiled, extricating himself from his boyfriend's grasp. He opened the car door, stepping out into the street.
“Be careful,” Alex called after him.
“Always.” John shut the door gently.
The street was empty of people, but that was to be expected. At 5 in the afternoon on Thanksgiving, everyone was inside with their families, stuffing themselves with food until they could eat no more. That was probably just what his family was doing. And he was going to crash the party.
This visit wasn't a new idea. Ever since the summer he left, just less than three half years ago, he knew he would come back. He hadn’t wanted to wait so long, but what with school and jobs and money being tight, it was the best he could do.
He had always wanted to come around the holidays, there would be more people, less room for his father to get away with any nasty form of revenge he might have planned. The kids, his siblings, would all be in one place.
Thanksgiving though, that was Alex’s idea. The Washingtons, George and Martha, had invited them to celebrate with their family every year, but they had never had the time off before. This year they did. Alex had wanted to go, of course, he and George shared a special bond that John could see kept up through the mountains of letters they sent one another.
John had no real friendship with any of the Washingtons, but that didn’t stop them from kindly including him in every invitation. He was ready to go, to be Alex’s plus one, but then another option had been proposed.
“You could go see your family.”
It was a simple sentence. But one that rocked his world nonetheless. To think that he hadn’t thought of his own family first…
That wasn’t what he needed to focus on now though. He had to focus on surviving the evening. He had to focus on his siblings.
John looked up from where his eyes had been fixed to the pavement, seeing his house- no, the house he had grown up in, right before his eyes. His feet had carried him there on instinct. Even so many years later, the muscle memory of walking home every day up until 10th grade hadn’t left him.
He scanned the house. It was practically the same as when he had left it, a new coat of paint, maybe, and a balcony on the previously unguarded top porch. There were yellow roses in the front lawn now, not the pink anymore, and a croquet set was spread haphazardly in the grass.
John inhaled the scent of freshly cut grass and clean air. It was familiar, but it wasn’t home anymore.
He took another breath, squaring his shoulders. He couldn’t stall forever, he supposed. He pulled on the lapels of his denim jacket, fixing the collar and smoothing the wrinkles from it. He walked forward, up the walk he had walked so many times before.
He raised a fist.
He knocked on the door.
The noise of voices he hadn't even registered stopped, like a fan you didn’t know was on cutting off, leaving the room emptier than it had been. Through the quiet, he heard a gruff voice he could never forget ring out.
“Pasty,” it ordered, “get the door please.”
“Yes dad,” came John’s oldest sister's delicate answer. She sounded no different than when he had left, but a shy 13-year-old girl with a sweet nature and kind heart. Now though she would be 16. Practically a grown woman, wise, and strong, and capable, and-
The door swung inwards, giving John his first glimpse at his not-so-young sister. She was taller, her hair was longer, and her features had lost the last bits of childish plumpness, but she was still very much his little Pasty.
John could feel a grin spreading over his face like butter on a steaming hotcake at the sight of her.
Her response was not quite as pure. First came shock, surprise in its purest form. That morphed into a grin, but that was quickly overtaken by a frown, a frown that melted into a grimace of anger and disgust and then finally- nothing.
In a split second, Pasty had wiped all emotion from her face, as if it had never been there at all. It was eerily similar to what his father did.
“What are you doing here?” Pasty asked, voice flat.
John tried to quell his grin, just a bit, but it did no good. “I’m here, Pasty. To see you.”
His sister shook her head. “No.” She opened the door wider, poking her head out and scanning the street behind him. “No John you can’t be here, you really can’t. You need to leave. Now.”
John chuckled, keeping a calm front for his sister. “Don’t be silly, duck.” He reached out a hand pushing the door in. “I know what I’m doing.”
He walked past her, into the entryway, stomping his feet on the mat. “Get out of here Jackey,” Pasty hissed. She tugged on his arm, but John shook her off with ease. “I’m serious.” John turned to reassure her again, his back to the entrance of the dining room and his front to the door. Her stone-cold glare froze him in place, real fear in her eyes. “If dad sees you… or worse… if she sees-” Pasty cut off abruptly, eyes going wider than a deer caught in headlights at the sight of something behind him. “Fuck,” she murmured under her breath.
When had John’s Pasty, his naive little Pasty, learned to curse like that? John turned slowly, his easy-going grin dropping away at the sight in front of him. “Fuck…” he echoed.
She was the same. A picture-perfect copy of the girl he had left in the street that night. Not a hair was out of place, dear god- she was even wearing the dress she had worn to that disastrous family dinner. And her eyes were fixed on him.
“Martha…” he breathed.
Pasty backed away slowly, inched down the hall. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she rushed out, turning and fleeing into the dining room. To let his father know he was here, no doubt.
That was what John wanted. Wasn’t it? Well, it had been. But he hadn’t accounted for Martha. That changed everything…
He cleared his throat, starting again. “Martha-”
“Patty,” she cut him off. “It’s Patty now.”
“Yes, sorry, Patty,” he amended, “I just want to say…” John trailed off as Martha started to come down the hall, heading straight for him, a furious gleam in her eyes. He took a nervous step backward. “Wait,” he put his hands up defensively, “Patty please hear me out.”
She was so near he could feel her breath on his face, coming in short angry puffs. She paused for a split second, as if trying to decide what to do next. Then her left hand snapped out, the back of it connecting with his face with a resounding clap.
She shook her head at him. “John Laurens,” she sneered, “I hoped I’d have to see your ugly face again.” She glared at him, and he took another step back.
Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea in the first place…
He felt his face. The skin burned, but he had survived much worse. It had been a while, though. His finger came to rest on a small divot in his skin, right in the center of the handprint that was sure to appear. It was wet.
He brought his away from his cheek. The red that coated it sent a shiver down his spine. What kind of hand made a face bleed? Well, unless Patty held a knife or some other weapon, there was only one option. A ring. And one with a stone. And on her left hand…
John looked down to the offending appendage, laying daintily at Martha’s side. Sure enough, the ring finger sported an expensive-looking diamond. And not the kind of diamond your mother bought you for your birthday.
“Are you…” John started, eyes flicking between her hand and face. There was only one type of ring that could be. “Are you engaged?”
Martha opened her mouth as if to speak, but was interrupted by the dining room door banging open.
Martha turned over her shoulder, and John looked too, locking eyes with the person he most dreaded seeing. Or, the person he had dreaded most before Martha came into the picture.
His father.
“John.” There was no emotion behind the gruff voice, no hint of anything in Henry Laurens’s eyes.
“Dad.” John tried to match his father’s expressionless tone, but he could hear hints of anger and disgust and resentment seeping through. No one could ever match Henry Lauren’s masks. His father looked him up and down, shaking his head slightly.
They stood there silently, the tension a palpable force in the air.
“Is everything alri…” the voice trailed as the who owned it appeared around the doorway. Henry’s gaze stayed fixed on John, but John looked to the newcomer. He knew that voice…
Gilbert stepped into full view, mouth falling open at the sight of his childhood friend.
“ Gil? ” John asked, incredulous. This was growing worse by the second. Gil looked from John to Henry, back to John, and then to Martha.
His face fell, becoming a sea of concern. “Oh, honey,” he rushed over to Martha, grasping her hands. “Are you alright?”
Martha looked up at him, large sad doe-like eyes welling with emotion. She didn’t say a word, just buried her head in his shoulder, letting out a small whimper.
“Oh, pet,” Gil soothed, stroking her hair, hugging her close. “It’s ok, it’s ok.” Gil turned his attention back to John, glaring daggers at him. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“No Gilbert,” his father’s tone remained steady, blank. “We can’t send a guest away, especially at this time of year. Gilbert shot him a look, but with a quick shake of his head Henry shut him down.
“I- I sho- Ar- are you-” John stuttered, his surprise blocking his words. He looked to his father for an explanation. “ What is going on here?”
Henry scoffed, a small noise. “A lot has changed, John. Get yourself cleaned up, then come join us for supper.”
“No I-” John started but his father cut him off.
“ I insist. ” Henry Laurens left no room for argument, so John simply nodded. “I assume you know the way to the washroom?”
John shook his head, walking past his father down the hall. He knew where he was going. Of course he did.
When John emerged back into the hall, all was just as it had been before he had arrived. Quiet sounds of conversation filtered in through the cracked door to the dining room.
He gingerly brushed a finger to his face. He had cleaned the blood away, and the mark wasn’t too bad, but it was less than ideal.
John cleared his thoughts, squared his shoulders, and walked over to the dining room doors. Be confident. Confidence was the key. That was what his Alex had told him at least. He pushed the door open. Confidently.
Again, all conversation died. Everyone looked at him. He fidgeted.
Henry broke the silence. “John. Come to the table.”
Not a request, a command. John started walking to the one open seat at the end of the table, the one no one was sitting in, but a sharp breath from someone, he couldn’t tell who, stopped him. That seat, the one at the foot of the table, had always been his. He didn’t know why it was empty now, but it was.
“No.”
John turned to face his father, raising a questioning eyebrow.
“Up, next to me. Pasty, get him a chair.”
John’s sister did as she was told, the scraping of the chair against hardwood unbearably loud. There was a bit of confused shuffling, everyone scooting down a few inches to make room for him. When the task was complete, Pasty returned to her chair, not looking at him as he passed her.
John walked slowly to his seat. His father was seated at the head, with John was on his right. Everyone slowly resumed eating, though in complete silence. John leaned back in his chair, tipping it on its back two legs, a habit his father had always used to scold him ruthlessly for.
“How will you ever get a wife, John, if you can’t even sit properly? What do you think your mother would say, if she could see you now, just another street hooligan? One day you’ll fall and split your head open if you keep doing that.”
John banished those thoughts from his mind. They did him no good. He looked around the table, taking stock of all those present. Directly next to him was his aunt, his father’s sister. Her eyes were fixed to her plate as she shoveled food into her mouth at an alarming rate. Next to her was her husband, who looked rather confused. A few pairs his father’s friends resided next to the first pair, but John glanced over them, turning his attention to the more interesting side of the table, the one opposite him.
Directly across from him, the one next to his father, was his eldest brother. Harry, a shocking 14, was different. Tall, and very thin, with a shadow- could that be the beginnings of a mustache? -lining his upper lip. Next to him, Pasty, and next to her, Polly. She was five. Five! John could barely believe it. The last time he had seen her, she was still in diapers! She was quite cute, he supposed, curly ringlets pouring from her head barely contained by a bright yellow ribbon. She stared at him intensely, as if she couldn’t quite place how she knew him.
Next to her was another couple, friends of his father he presumed, though he didn’t know them. And then there was… them. Mar- no, Patty, who was looking anywhere but him, and Gil, who was glaring directly at him. The couple held hands, on top of the table, Patty’s ring sparkling in the afternoon sun that poured in through the open window at the end of the table.
John pulled his gaze from his former fiance, looking at the final chair, the empty chair on the end. There was a place setting there, but no one for it. He glanced back around the table noticing what he had missed, or what he had missed missing the first time around.
Where was Jemmy? He must be around here somewhere. His father would never let him miss an event like this, what with everyone that had come just for the occasion. Perhaps he was sick and had to rest, upstairs in bed. Maybe that empty seat was for him, if he felt well enough to come down. Or maybe…
John thought back to the gasp that had shot out when he had tried to take that end seat. It tugged the strings of a memory buried far in the back of his mind, from when he was just a young boy. Something about his mother… it hovered right on the fringe of his consciousness.
John set his chair down on the ground with a quiet thump, looking to his father. ”Where’s Jemmy?” he asked. Henry paused, his knife halfway into the slab of turkey on his plate. The clank of a fork against china smashed from somewhere to his right.
“Jemmy,” his father started, “he’s… um… well…” he trailed off. John cocked his head to the side. He had never, not once, heard his father at a loss for words.
“He’s dead.”
John tuned in shock to the voice. His little sister’s voice. Polly stared solemnly into his eyes.
“ Polly ” John’s father hissed, “we’ve talked about-”
“He was going to find out anyway,” Harry interrupted defensively, a slight hitch creeping into his voice. “We can't sugar coat it.”
“No,” John mumbled, “no you can’t.” How was one supposed to react to finding out their little brother had died from the five-year-old sister they barely knew? There was nothing to say, no script to follow. “When,” he asked instead. He couldn’t deal with the emotions now. He needed to focus right now, focus on the facts.
“About half a year ago.” It was his father this time.
“Fell off the top porch,” Pasty added.
“Oh.” There was really nothing else to say. Jemmy was gone. Pure and simple. He was dead, just like Nelly and Henry Jr and Eli and Mom. His family was cursed, the bodies just piled up. “So…” John glanced at the chair at the end of the table.
“Yeah,” Harry said.
The meal continued in silence, all energy and joy sapped from the room. Any emotion, any nerves, had been replaced by heavy grief. Grief. For Jemmy. For that sweet little boy without a care in the world. For his little brother that just wanted to laugh and play and-
“John,” Henry’s voice drew him out of his thoughts. “Would you come with me? I need a word.”
A word . Right. That was always how it started. But not this time. John wouldn’t let it go like that.
“Sure.” He stood up, pushing back his chair, following his father out of the room, down the hall, into his office.
John looked around as he entered. Nothing had changed. There was still the same oak desk, the same dark chairs, the same overflowing bookshelves.
John pulled the door shut, leaning his back against it, crossing his arms defensively. He waited.
Henry stood in the middle of the room, a good five feet away. “Why, John.”
“Why what?”
Henry shook his head, “Don’t be difficult, boy.”
John smirked. “I’m not being difficult.” If there was one thing he enjoyed, it was getting a rise out of his father.
“Why,” Henry growled through gritted teeth, “did you come back. We’re all much better off without you. For once I don’t have to worry about my poor innocent children being corrupted by a fucking-”
“Yeah yeah,” John interrupted, “I get it. I’m a good for nothing lowlife who doesn't deserve to live. I've heard it more than enough.”
“Why,” Henry repeated.
“Because I love them.” Henry scoffed. “No, don’t scoff,” John raised his voice. “I practically raised them, Harry and Pasty and Polly and…” he trailed off. “I love them,” he breathed.
“No, no you don’t.” Henry walked to him, pushing his nose right into John’s face. “If you did,” he hissed, “you wouldn’t have left.” He stepped back, a malicious smile enveloping his face.
John felt his cheeks grow hot, felt his eyes prick. “No,” he mumbled, “no no you’re wrong. You’re wrong.” Henry shook his head, letting out a chuckle. “YOU’RE WRONG” John screamed, raising his fist and flinging it at his father’s face.
It was a slow punch, sloppy, born out of rage. Henry was fast. He reached up, catching John’s wrist with his iron grip. Henry squeezed, but John didn’t let himself show the pain it caused. Then all at once, he let go. The smile was still there, glued to Henry’s features. If it was possible, it even grew, just a bit.
“Go ahead,” Henry whispered, “If you hate the man that raised you that much.”
John shook his head, slowly. “No. I’m not you. I’m not like you.” He turned his back on his father, opening the door. He stepped into the hall, pausing for a brief second. He looked over his shoulder, staring Henry down. “I love them. More than you ever will.”
John walked away.