One
Marcus
Nothing like burying your father in the company of a bunch of strangers. I glance around, taking in the faces that my dad picked as his family. The people he chose over his only son.
My dad wasn't a complete deadbeat. Vinnie Maloney's dad walked out on him and his mother at five p.m. on a Sunday after stepping out for a gallon of milk and never returning. His poor mother worked three jobs to feed and clothe him when we were growing up. At six foot five and two hundred and ninety pounds, Pop Tarts and peanut butter sandwiches were an appetizer to that kid.
My dad, George Kent, sounds prestigious, right? Yeah, not so much.
George Kent got my mom pregnant in high school. They'd been high school sweethearts as far as I know. After graduation, my parents tried to make it work, but having a newborn and no money was like tomatoes to spaghetti sauce. You can't have one without the other.
Knowing George Kent wasn't her prince charming she encouraged him to leave, and leave he did.
Five hours south to a town called Climax Cove.
Now, George paid my mom a monthly amount for me that might not have added up to what the state of Oregon would have deemed fair, but he tried. More than Vinnie Maloney's dad ever did.
Every summer, my mom would drive me down to Climax Cove to spend eight weeks with my “dad.” Then at the end of eight weeks, George would leave the comfort of his small town where everyone knew him to drop me off at my mom’s place in Portland.
I stare down at the casket he built himself. The time and care he put into every boat he ever got his hands on, showing through with the ornate detail in what his body now lays in. What kind of man pencils down a blueprint of his casket and executes the job himself? George Kent is—was—a rare breed.
At twenty-eight, I assumed there would be more time. More time for what, I'm not sure. For bonding? He never was the type. Maybe for him to teach me more about the craft? All those summers I spent in Climax Cove were the flint to the embers that burn inside me to restore boats. Then again, maybe he knew. After all, he left me his business.
The one passion I shared with my dad was restoring boats. The love of making something beautiful after time and circumstance had done their damage didn't just appear one day. That love came from my dad. At five he had me sanding. By seven, I was using the circular saw. Hell, at ten, I was his right-hand man, next to him from sun up to sun down.
My dad probably had too much patience. Way more than any dad with a kid should have. He never got angry when I did something wrong. I barely heard his voice rise above library tone.
He was a quiet man, who enjoyed nights on his deck by himself drinking his whiskey, and watching the sunsets alone.
“Your father would be so proud that you're taking over his legacy,” Betty, the middle-aged librarian says and touches my arm. Her eyes fill with the sadness that should be wracking me right now.
“Thank you for coming, Betty,” I say, leaving her with a smile.
I resented the people of Climax Cove growing up and now I'm supposed to befriend them. Especially if I want to stay in Climax Cove and take over Kent Restoration. The choices are slim for me. In truth, I was a month away from being desperate enough to ask my dad to take me under his wing and that was before my job let me go because they were downsizing.
“I left a casserole in the fridge at the shop for you along with a basket of cookies,” Betty says.
“Thank you.”
A sad smile forms on her lips and then she walks down the hill, her skirt swishing side to side until she reaches her car. I've wondered if she was more to my father than I knew. One thing’s for sure, even if they were virtual strangers she probably still knew him better than me.
Two
My dad may have been patient and diligent, but organized he was not.
I place the nuts and bolts into their respective compartments while All-American Rejects blares from my phone. It’s a menial task but one thing I inherited from my mother was her OCD. I was the only teenager I knew who color coded his t-shirts in a drawer. I'm not uber organized on everything in my life, but things I can control are usually orderly.
Apparently, my personal life isn’t something I can control because it’s a shit storm right now. Now that I’m moving down here the tornado is whirling even faster and approaching an F5 level.
Gretchen, my pseudo-girlfriend, is pissed. When I look at Climax Cove I see the possibility to make something of myself—she sees a death sentence. Small town living isn’t in her blood.
The All-American Rejects song stops playing and my phone rings with the song I programmed for her, “Boom Boom Pow” by Black Eyed Peas. I’m sure you get where I was going with that, so I won’t spell it out for you. Says a lot about our relationship. It’s not like “I'm Yours” by Jason Mraz is blaring.
I lean back in the old desk chair my dad rarely sat in and slide my finger over the screen.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Marcus, when are you coming back?” She’s excited and I can picture her bouncing around her apartment the way she does when she has too much energy and nowhere to direct it.
“I'm down here for awhile. I have to get everything in order. My dad's lawyer is coming by tomorrow with the paperwork.”
We've had this conversation twice. She doesn't want to admit to herself that our short fling of two months is drawing to a close because we’re going to be living hours away from one another. Portland is not a hop, skip and a jump from Climax Cove.
“Blake just got a gig and they're playing this weekend. You have to come up.” Her voice does that slight whine thing that’s like razorblades to my balls.
I blow out a breath. Our mutual friend Blake, who I’m pretty sure likes Gretchen, is in a band trying to make it big.
“That's not going to happen. I have too much to do down here.”
I wait because I know it's coming…
“MARCUUSS,” she whines, full toddler like.
“We've been over this. Go and have fun,” I urge her because truthfully the band scene isn't one I've enjoyed for some time.
My stepdad sat me down six months ago, as my mom lingered and acted like she wasn't listening. He lectured me about responsibilities and being a man and making a living. How working at the shipyard, fixing boats as they came in wouldn't last forever. He must have been psychic because I was laid off last month.
Both he and my mom want more for me and it wasn't until I sat in that office being let go, that I realized, I did too.
“But, I miss you,” she says, drawing me back to the present.
Aka, she misses my dick. Gretchen loves one person—herself.
“Then come down here,” I say, a smirk heavy on my lips because on some level I enjoy putting her on the spot.
“I have work.” Lame excuse since she works as a checker at a grocery store.
She doesn't want to come here as much as I don't really want her to. We had fun together, but it was never serious and it’s time to part ways. Though it seems I might be the only one who sees that writing on the wall.
“You could find work down here,” I say.
Why am I pushing this conversation along? Because you're bored as hell in this small town and this is the only conversation you’ve had that isn’t about how much your dad will be missed in a week.