Chapter 8 - Mason Wanted Me To Know How Much Caleb Had Given Him
Mason's supervisor role was suspended while the range reviewed what happened.
The assault was separate.
So was the falsified session.
No instant firing.
No police parade.
He still had a job to report to, just not one where he could supervise evaluations.
He texted me from a number I didn't have.
WE SHOULD TALK.
I replied:
PUBLIC PLACE.
He sent a café.
I almost laughed.
Our family apparently processed twenty years of damage over mediocre coffee.
Mason arrived late.
No uniform.
He sat.
“I’m sorry.”
“For?”
He looked irritated.
Good.
“All of it.”
“No bundle.”
He stared.
“Fine.”
He started again.
“I’m sorry I hit you.”
I waited.
“I wanted to hurt you.”
“Why?”
“Because when I saw you, I knew he was watching.”
“Caleb.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Mason rubbed his jaw.
“I had called him thirty-one times in six months.”
I stared.
“Thirty-one.”
“Yes.”
“He answered?”
“Four.”
“What were you calling about?”
Mason laughed.
“Do you want the embarrassing list?”
“Yes.”
“Apartment lease.”
“Okay.”
“Whether I should take a management job.”
“Okay.”
“My girlfriend leaving.”
I stopped.
“When?”
“Four months ago.”
“Why?”
“Not relevant.”
“Fine.”
Mason continued.
“Whether I should sell Gordon's truck.”
“That’s family.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He started saying, ‘Decide, Mason.’”
Caleb had apparently spent years giving opinions on everything.
Then one day decided the dependence was unhealthy.
“I thought he was punishing me.”
“For what?”
“Needing him.”
That sentence sat between us.
“What did you think I had?”
Mason looked at me.
“The part of him I never did.”
I laughed.
“I thought he was dead.”
“I know that now.”
“You had him at graduations?”
“Yes.”
“Birthdays?”
“Some.”
“Hospital?”
“When I broke my leg.”
“Thanksgiving?”
“Yes.”
I looked away.
Mason's face tightened.
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
“I know you got nothing.”
“Exactly.”
He stared at the table.
Then:
“He always talked about you like you were the thing he wasn't allowed to touch.”
I looked back.
“That's not my fault.”
“No.”
“Did you think it was?”
“Yes.”
There.
“At twenty-nine?”
Mason laughed bitterly.
“Apparently.”
“Why fake my evaluation?”
He took time.
“I saw your booking Wednesday.”
“And?”
“My first thought was that Caleb had arranged it.”
“He didn't.”
“I know.”
“But you thought he did.”
“Yes.”
Mason's fingers tightened around the paper cup.
“I thought he had ignored me for six months, then quietly brought you back to the one place that belonged to Gordon and me.”
“Belonged?”
“Emotionally.”
“Dangerous word.”
“I know.”
“So you logged me twice.”
“Yes.”
“What was the plan?”
“Make you think the registration was wrong. Cancel the evaluation. Send you to another facility.”
“That does not require hitting me.”
“No.”
“What changed?”
“You said, ‘I just got here.’”
I stared.
He continued:
“I thought maybe Caleb hadn't told you anything.”
“Then you should have stopped.”
“Yes.”
“Instead?”
“I panicked.”
“And grabbed me.”
“Yes.”
“Because?”
“If you stayed long enough to see him…”
He stopped.
I waited.
Mason finally said:
“I thought he would choose.”
There it was.
Between sons who weren't sons in the same way.
Between nephew and child.
Between years of presence and years of absence.
“You thought this was a contest.”
“Yes.”
“Did Caleb make it one?”
Mason looked down.
“Sometimes.”
That was important.
“How?”
“He'd compare.”
“What?”
“Temper. Grades. Patience.”
My anger sharpened.
“He compared me to you?”
“You weren't there.”
“Exactly.”
Mason laughed softly.
“Try being compared to someone who doesn't exist in the room.”
That landed.
Caleb had kept me alive in Mason's life as an imaginary standard.
Claire had kept Caleb dead in mine as an imaginary ending.
Both adults shaped relationships through people who weren't present.
Mason looked at me.
“I shouldn't have touched you.”
“No.”
“I shouldn't have used your name.”
“No.”
“I also don't want you thinking Caleb was some perfect father to me.”
“I don't.”
He nodded.
Then:
“He was good sometimes.”
I looked at him.
May you like
“I believe that.”
That seemed to hurt him more than anger would have.
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