>>5283545>>5283580>>5283732>>5283733>>5283744>>5283883“I think you and I are long overdue for a one-on-one talk, Jean,” you say quietly.
Caroline swiftly interposes herself between Tom and her husband. In a hushed, urgent tone, she whispers: “Go back to your room, Tom. Don’t you still got some worksheets to finish?”
He squirms in her grip. “I finished them last night.”
“Well, why don’t you get started on next week’s homework and reading? Just in case Dr. Cho calls for you-”
“I already finished that, too. The whole month’s, actually.”
“…just go to your room, Tom, okay?” she nearly pleads. “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready. It isn’t nearly finished.”
Whether or not he recognizes that trouble’s brewing isn’t important. But the boy obeys his mother, nodding dutifully. He waves at his father, cheery and bright. “Hi, dad! Are you staying for dinner? Uncle Sinleq’s here!”
Jean doesn’t take his eyes off of you, even as he replies, “…I see that, Tom. Hello. Son, I…”
“Tom,” warns Caroline.
“Fine, fine…” the boy sulks, shuffling away. But not before he turns to you one last time. “Story over tilapia. You promised, okay?”
With that, he makes his exit. Only when the door to his bedroom audibly closes shut do the three adults in the room begin to talk. And even then, in low, urgent voices.
“Caroline, can we borrow your veranda?” you ask. “I promise to stay quiet.”
She looks alarmed. “Sinleq, what’re you-”
“I just want to talk.”
“Tom is here and awake, and listening!” she hisses. “If you’re going to fight, I won’t have it here-”
“I just want to talk,” you insist, still gazing at Jean. “That’s all I want to do.”
“Caroline-” Jean interjects.
She turns to her estranged husband, a pained expression on her face. “Jean…”
Relaxed as you are, you keep a very sharp, peripheral glance towards his hand. And every time the interlocking gears, gyros and bolts make as much as a click, gooseflesh raises along your skin, and along the side of your face where it had last struck you.
The maimed mechanic visibly swallows. You’d almost say that he looks too stunned to speak, like a deer in headlights. “…you wanna talk, Sinleq? Now, after three years of silence?”
You cross your arms, scowling. “If I didn’t, I’d be out the door. Besides, it cuts both ways. I don’t think you sent me any letters, Jean.”
His face reddens, and the muscles of his neck strain in anger. But even as Caroline gasps and you tense for a fight, he keeps his cool, breathing slowly, deeply. “…I suppose you aren’t wrong.”
The scowl turns into a wry, self-effacing grin. “Veranda, then?”
Jean nods hesitantly, turning to Caroline. "Just a talk. It won’t be…”
…like the last time. Hopefully.
Say what you will about Jean's inability to properly express his grief. He won't make himself look bad in front of his son.
(cont.)
