Just like those mentoring sessions—even a little bit of that a cademy seemed to be tainting my little brother. He was suddenly privy to all he was missing in life. How good things could be. Would be . . . if he’d just sign on the dotted line. I think ignorance would’ve been preferable for us. Not bliss, but easier. I mean now that we’d had a taste of Pete Davenport’s world, how could we possibly go back to our old existence and have a hope of being satisfied? It seemed as bland as a bowl of oatmeal after a vacation filled with elaborate breakfast buffets.
“Hey, Drews!” I called from the kitchen, dropping my basket to come in for a hug. “How’d it go today?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?” He shrugged his shoulders, and I decided not to press the sore point. “Are you hungry?”
“Nope.”
“Not even for homemade chocolate-chip cookies?” I used my most tempting tone.
“Especially not for chocolate-chip cookies.”
“Since when do you not like chocolate-chip cookies?”
“Since I learned cancer cells feed off sugar,” Andrew replied with more emotion than he’d shown in a long while.
I was quiet a beat, thinking of how to turn the conversation away from the dark side. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you don’t have cancer then.” This was met with a scathing look, like I just didn’t get it. (I’d been on the receiving end of that look for quite a while.)
“Can I have his share?” Mikey came up behind big brother to unabashedly hug on him. Andrew managed to turn it into a headlock. I waited for him to let go until Mikey’s face started to turn the same color as boiled hot dogs.
“Stop that!” I yanked on Andrew’s arm. “You know I don’t like it when you do that to your little brother, who has been waitin’ all afternoon for you to get home,” I said pointedly.
“Aw, Come on!—I’m just showin’ him some of me new moves.” After which, Andrew tripped and flipped Mikey over his leg, so that he came crashing to the floor like a feedsack.
“Andrew!” I scolded as I peeled his shadow from the floor. “What’s gotten into you?”
“It’s okay, Kadee. I’m not hurted.” Mikey spun around for my inspection. I grabbed my littlest brother and wrapped my arms around him. I couldn’t help notice the divide between us. Intolerable.
“I know what would make this better,” I said, reaching over to nab Andrew. “A Drewy sandwich!” I pulled him into a squishing hug between a squealing Mikey and me, squeezing him like the force of my hug could push out the old Andrew, from before all this Academy malarkey started. The best I got was a giggle that finally pushed its way through his sealed lips to burst out into an open laugh. Satisfied with that, I let him go but not before ruffling his hair.
“So, what’s this about not wantin’ my homemade cookies made especially for you? I even added my secret ingredient—the one sure to combat cancer.” Mikey grinned. Andrew rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. “Can anyone guess what it is?” I teased.
“I can! I can!” Mikey’s feet left floor the same time his hand hit air. “Wuv!” he blurted out triumphantly, unable to refrain from revealing the punchline to our long-running family joke. Plus, it had the added appeal of being the only answer he could come up with faster than big brother.
“That’s right,” I said, taking his doughy hand, and one whose fingers were already almost as long as mine. “Love.”
Andrew looked up at me with his wide, intelligent eyes; it was my vulnerable little brother standing before me now. “But Mama got cancer and she always used love as her secret ingredient.”
“Oh, Drews.” I pressed his face to my chest, hoping he could feel my love beating into him.
We were just sitting down to dinner when the thud of heavy work boots (which was a misnomer if I’d ever heard one) outside the door crashed our party-of-three. Blue jumped up from under our feet, growling a moment too late to be a proper watchdog. We watched as he skidded over to greet his prodigal master, tail wagging, never one to hold a grudge.
The rest of us weren’t so forgiving. It’d been a few days since we’d seen Daddy, and that was for about the span of two commercials—long enough to hand down a bunch of orders and instruct us about what we were doing wrong, then let us know he didn’t want to be bothered while he watched the game.
“Uh-oh. Looks like The Sarge is home,” Andrew announced the obvious.
Our eyes cast around for something we had done wrong, some object left out or muddy shoes left on. I wondered why we hadn’t heard the unmistakable, unmuffled noise pollution of his Bronco pulling in. And then realized: he must’ve planned a covert sneak attack to bust his wayward kids on some kind of infraction we were getting up to in his absence.
I felt the familiar contempt creep over me. Not much he could say though—we didn’t even so much as have the TV on tonight. When Daddy barged through the door, you could practically here the dunt-dunt-dunt! His eyes zeroed in on me occupying the space at the head of the table.
“Katie, what’s that dog doin’ in the house?”
“Sorry, Daddy.” I rose from his seat to let a whining Blue out; he left a bundle of sad dismay.
“If a commander can’t trust his troops to hold down the fort in his absence, then how can I trust you to follow my rules when you’re called to duty?” Daddy said, forming some kind of analytical logic I was too tired to grasp. He looked down on me like he was waiting for more contrition than I was willing to offer up. When none was forthcoming, he began a preacher’s pace across the length of the dining room table.
I breathed in through my nose, deciding on a preemptive strike against his sermon. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I was seein’ to his sore paw with the salve you use for the calves, and then forgot he was in the house when I started dinner. It won’t happen again.” I went with a half-truth.
His hard look hadn’t softened one iota. What was I missing? Earnestness. I blinked up at him, my eyes trying to conjure crocodile tears. “I’m really sorry, Daddy.”
A few seconds of listening to the clock tick with three kids sitting at a table still as stones happened before Daddy relented. “Is them cookies I smell?”
“Yes, sir.” I immediately hupped to it. “Would you like some supper, Daddy? I have your plate warmin’ in the oven.” I’d found the missing ingredient at last—solicitousness.
“That sounds good, Katie-girl.” He was mostly angry we hadn’t all jumped for joy that he was rewarding us with his presence. He plopped down, in the chair I’d just warmed for him, satisfied in the knowledge he was still king of his castle. “How’s them lessons goin’, boy?” He cuffed Andrew on the back of his neck—the closest thing to affection Daddy willingly gave.
“Good,” Andrew replied, digging into his cooling meatloaf.
“The Davenport cadet treatin’ you all right?”
A couple of chews and a swallow happened. “Yes, sir. He’s been great.”
“Good. Really apply yerself and get a lot outta these lessons, son. After all . . . they’re free.”