The Prodigal's Return

“What are you saying?” Afraid she already knew the answer, her heart sank.

“I’m saying I want to be left alone.”

“Maybe no one else in this town remembers the man you used to be, but I do. And I can’t stand to see you living this way, not when I can help.” She spotted a pyramid of prescription bottles on the counter across the room and headed toward it.

Nathan followed, stumbling precariously close to the stove. He caught himself and struck out again, marching toward Jenn as she read the name of a narcotic pain reliever off one of the labels.

“Put that down.” He yanked the bottle away and threw it across the room. A swipe of his hand sent the rest of the medicine flying. “I still have more money than God. If I wanted things clean, if I wanted a nurse, I’d hire one.”

“You are sick.” She peered closer, through the booze and the bluster. Her pulse pounded. “Is that what the drinking’s all about?”

“I’m not sick!” he shouted, his voice sounding clearer by the second. He stretched himself to his full height, then he gifted her with a creaky bow. “I’m dying.”

“Wh-what?”

“I’m dying. And if I want to drink myself into oblivion, or live in a pigsty, or eat off the floor, it’s none of your damn business. So kindly take your food and your condescend…condes… Take your pity, and get out of my house!”

Jenn walked back to the sink, choking on her denial. A myriad of images assailed her. The gentle, funny man she’d loved to listen to classical jazz with. The broken man who’d watched his son escorted from the courtroom in handcuffs. The threadbare bum who’d stumbled into her car just two weeks ago, calling for his wife’s favorite cat.

Nathan Cain was dying.

Alone.

Oh, Neal. Where are you?

She picked up a crud-encrusted plate that had once been pristine bone china and began scraping, ashamed by the quick getaway she’d planned.

A stick of dynamite couldn’t budge her now.

“Stop it!” Mr. Cain shoved the dish from her hands. It fell to the countertop and splintered. Shattered pieces tinkled onto the hardwood floor. “Now look what you’ve done…those are Wanda’s favorite dishes…she’s gonna holler to bring the house down when she gets home. You’re gonna explain it to her, not me.”

He stepped through the broken china on his way to the refrigerator, his mildewed tennis shoes grinding the pieces into the floor.

Jenn picked up the shattered pottery and watched him pull another beer from the nearly-empty fridge, trying to get her head around the idea that the man was expecting his dead wife home any minute.

“Mr. Cain.” She tossed the remains of the plate into the trash, where the bits slid off the teetering pile of waste. “Don’t you think—”

“Think what?” He looked her in the eye and popped open the can.

“Why don’t I make you a cup of coffee?”

“Coffee’s not going to fix what ails me, girl.” He chugged half the beer in one swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And don’t think my brain’s so addled you can sweet-talk me into your version of turning lemons into lemonade. I know my wife is dead, damn it! I may be drunk, but I’m not an idiot. Not yet anyway.”

“I don’t think you’re an idiot.” She reached deep for the social worker inside her. For the honesty and detachment that made her so good at her job. She gave the filth around her a pointed stare. “What I think is that this place should be hosed down by a Health Department SWAT team.”