By now Janie was fairly well resigned to her fate. She appreciated the fact that Brian had stayed on, patiently caring for her when most young men, under similar circumstances, would have moved out. That didn’t mean she treated him any better, though. Janie had grown into a helpless tyrant. In the absence of her other two sons, Brian became her sole target, but he was used to that. It seemed to him that his mother had simply taken up the role formerly filled by his older brothers, Quentin and Tommy.
“Nobody likes a Goody Two-shoes,” Quentin had told him on more than one occasion. “They think you’re nothing but a stupid little wimp.”
The difference between Brian Fellows and his best friend, Davy Ladd, was that Davy would usually rise to Quentin’s challenge and fight back, regardless of the bloody-nosed consequences. Brian was a survivor who kept his mouth shut and let the taunts wash over him.
By now, though, at age twenty-six, he was tired of being a “good boy.” He was beginning to see that there wasn’t much percentage in it, although he didn’t really know how to be anything else other than what he was.
“Mom’s about the same,” he said, answering Brandon Walker’s question in a matter-of-fact manner that didn’t brook sympathy.
Looking at this handsome young man in his deputy sheriff’s uniform, Brandon couldn’t help remembering a much younger version of the same young man, a little lost boy who had stood forlornly on the front porch of his ex-wife’s home each time Brandon had come by to pick up his own two sons, Quentin and Tommy.
Brandon no longer remembered where they had been going that day—maybe to a movie, maybe to the Pima County Fair, or maybe even to a baseball game. What he hadn’t forgotten was the solemn, sad-eyed look on Brian’s face that had changed instantly to sheer joy the moment Brandon asked him if he wanted to come along.
“You’re not taking
Brandon’s older son had a surly streak. Of all the kids, he had always been the sullen one—the spoiled brat with the chip on his shoulder. Janie had seen to that.
“Why shouldn’t I?” Brandon asked.
“Because he’s a pest,” Quentin spat back. “And a baby, too. He’ll probably wet his pants or have to go to the bathroom a million times.”
Brian had wavered on the porch for a moment, as if afraid that Quentin’s argument would carry the day. When Brandon didn’t change his mind, the boy had raced into the house to ask Janie for permission to go along. Moments later, he had come charging back outside.
“She said it’s all right. I can go!” Brian had crowed triumphantly, racing for the car.
“I get to ride shotgun!” Quentin had snarled, but Brian hadn’t cared about that. The backseat was fine with him. At that point he would probably have been grateful to sit in the trunk.
“You’ll take turns,” Brandon had told Quent, trying to instill in him a sense of sharing and fair play. And that was how it worked from then on—the boys had taken turns. But Brandon Walker’s lessons in enforced sharing had been lost on Quentin. Rather than teaching him how to be a better person, Brandon Walker’s kindness to Quentin’s half-brother fostered an ugly case of burning resentment that spanned the whole of Brian Fellows’s childhood.
“How about a cup of coffee or glass of iced tea?” Brandon had asked finally, emerging from a tangled skein of memory. Brian’s face had brightened into almost the same look Brandon remembered from that day on the porch.
“Sure, Mr. Walker,” he responded. “Coffee would be great.”
In all those intervening years, while the other three boys had gone through their various stages of smart- mouthed rebellion, Brian had never called Brandon anything but a respectful “Mr. Walker.”
Shaking his head, Brandon led the way into the house. One of his main regrets at losing the election had been missing the chance to watch this promising young man mature into the outstanding police officer he would someday be. That was something else Quentin had cost him—the opportunity of seeing ‘little’ Brian Fellows grow into Brian Fellows, the man.
“People at the department are asking about you,” the young deputy said, as he settled onto a chair at the kitchen table.
“You don’t say,” Brandon replied gruffly. “Well, go ahead and tell them I’m fine. On second thought, don’t tell them anything at all. If you’re smart and want to get anywhere in Bill Forsythe’s department, you won’t even mention my name, much less let on that you know me.”
After Brandon poured cups of coffee, the two men were quiet for a few moments. Brandon didn’t mean to pry, but in the end he couldn’t resist probing.
“How are things going out there?” he asked. “I mean, how are things at the department really going?”
Brian shrugged. “All right, I guess. But there are lots of people who miss you. Sheriff Forsythe’s”—Brian paused, as if searching for just the right word—“he’s just different, I guess. Different from you, that is,” he finished somewhat lamely.
“You bet he is,” Brandon replied, not even trying to keep the hollow sound of bitterness out of his voice. “The voters in this county wanted different. As far as I can see, they got it.”
Once again the two men fell silent. For a moment Brandon Walker felt vindicated.
A parade of boyfriends and briefly maintained husbands had wandered through Janie’s life and, as a consequence, through the lives of her three sons as well. One of them—Brian no longer remembered which one— had told him that children should be seen but not heard. Brian had taken those words to heart and had turned them into a personal creed. What had once been a necessary tool for surviving Quentin’s casual and constant brutality had become a way of life. Brian Fellows answered questions. He hardly ever volunteered information, although Brandon Walker could tell by looking at him that the young man was clearly troubled about something.
“So what brings you here today?” the older man asked at last.
Brian ducked his head. “Quentin,” he answered.
“What about Quentin?”
