Fic: "Back to the Beginning" (4/9)
Title: Back to the Beginning (4/9)
Rating: G
Summary: Brian versus his family. May the best man win.
Disclaimer: The characters of QAF belong to CowLip and Showtime. Damn them for ending this series.
Earlier installments: One, Two, Three,
It was dark, after 6, when he reached the small, two-story house in its anonymous, unimaginative neighborhood. All the houses just the same, dull brown mediocrity, with little to distinguish between them--breeder paradise Brian thought with a hint of disgust. He cut the Corvette’s engine when he pulled up in front of the house he’d loathed since childhood, the home of one lie after another. He could see Claire’s battered Chevy standing in the driveway, the passenger side door open for some reason. He unfolded himself from the green low-slung car, stuffed the ring of spare keys he wouldn’t be needing into his coat pocket, and slowly walked to the front door.
When he pushed it open, he saw two fat suitcases, stuffed to overflowing. Beside them on the floor lay a pile of pictures, porcelain figurines and a half-filled bottle of his mother’s favorite perfume, a random collection of junk taken from various parts of the house. Brian shut the door behind him and tossed his black winter coat over the back of a chair, and only then heard Claire moving around upstairs. He was tempted to go up and confront her, since she was obviously rifling the house for anything she wanted, but he saw some papers strewn on the dining room table that caught his eye first.
When he got closer, he realized that one set of papers was typed and stapled together along the top edge, the envelope it came from torn open and discarded to one side, some lawyer’s name embossed in the upper corner. He flipped through the sheets, and found that Claire hadn’t been lying-Joan’s will spelled out in precise terms what she wanted done, and what Brian was expected to do. The farther he read, the angrier he got, his fingers beginning to crimp the edge of the pages as his lips thinned with rising fury. He ignored the envelope addressed to “Brian” in his mother’s familiar sloping handwriting. The one to “Claire” lay beside it, tear-stained and empty.
Then he heard Claire’s approach, weeping as she came down the stairs with another bundle in her arms, and Brian rounded on her. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“What do you care? They’re her clothes.” Claire swept past him and deposited them in a mound next to the suitcases. She brushed away some more tears and took a crumpled tissue from her pocket to blow her nose, before turning to accuse him. “You took your time getting here.”
“I had a client meeting. Busy busy,” he spat back. “But you haven’t wasted any time,” he added, throwing a glance towards the growing pile of clothing she’d tossed on the floor.
“I’m allowed to take whatever ‘personal effects’ I want. It says so,” Claire insisted, stabbing a finger at the document he still held. Her blotchy face was getting redder by the minute.
“Take whateverthefuck you want. I don’t care.” The anger in his voice came out bitterly, almost cruel.
“That’s no surprise. You never cared, not about her, not about Daddy.” Claire’s accusation matched Brian’s in harshness, and she wiped away another round of tears as she continued, “You haven’t even asked how she died. When she died. What kind of a heartless bastard are you?!”
There was a flicker of shock in Brian’s eyes, his sister’s words hitting too close to truth, and he flung out a sarcastic reply. “So tell me, Claire. How did Mommy Dearest go to her final reward?” The way he said ‘reward’ might as well have been a curse.
“She died in her sleep, last night,” Claire replied shakily, more tears spilling down her face, a lot of the fight going out of her voice. The words came out in jagged, broken groups. “I was supposed to…take her to get her… hair done this afternoon…but she wasn’t down here…when I came in. I found her. Upstairs.”
A sudden mental image of his sister discovering a corpse stopped him from saying the next words he thought. I bet Saint Peter is really a fag hairdresser, she can have it done in heaven. Instead, for the first time, Brian looked, really looked at his sister: unkempt hair, mismatched clothes were standard, but the pinched look around her reddened eyes was new. She’d been crying for hours.
The urge to fight disappeared as quickly as it came. Brian swallowed the caustic remark he was about to make, and asked, “Have you had anything to eat?”
“No.”
All afternoon on an empty stomach. And there was never any food in this house anyway. No wonder Claire was being such a bitch. Brian flipped open his cellphone and quickly asked Michael to pick up some food at the diner on his way over. Then he turned back to Claire, squaring his shoulders and letting out a long breath. He knew the answer, but he hoped he was wrong. “She’s still up there, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” Shaky, a new trickle of tears down her cheeks. She looked at Brian as if it was all his fault.
Brian glanced away, rubbed a few fingers across his eyes distractedly, then walked over to the kitchen phone and looked for the list of ‘Important Numbers’ his mother always kept tucked beside it. He dialed the one for her doctor, explained what was needed, and hung up. Then he flipped through the phone book until he found “Funeral Homes” listed, and called one that was located a few blocks away. It didn’t take long to set the wheels in motion.
He turned back to see Claire, still standing at the dining room table, hollow-eyed and unhappy. He explained that Joan’s doctor was coming to write a death certificate, and the funeral home would remove the body as soon as he was done. Ten minutes of research on the internet earlier in the afternoon had given him the information about what to do. Then Brian sat back down at the dining room table, idly fingering the envelope addressed to him, not opening it. He took out a cigarette and lit it, scratching the hair at his temple before he rested his head in the palm of one hand. Suddenly he felt every one of his thirty-eight years. Tired. Old.
Somehow, news that outsiders would soon arrive to dispose of the body didn’t make Claire any happier.
“Aren’t you going to go up and sit with her? Talk to her? Say goodbye?”
Brian looked up at Claire like she’d lost her mind. “What the hell for? Although I have to say, being dead means she’s got to be a better conversationalist than she used to be.” And a half-smirk crossed his face before he rolled his eyes and took another drag from the cigarette.
Claire shook her head in mute disgust and stalked up the stairs.
Finishing the cigarette, Brian got up and went to the sideboard where his parents’ liquor supply always stood. He poured himself whiskey, a double of whatever pathetic brand his mother bought, then looked across the room at the envelope marked “Brian,” sitting on the dining room table. Waiting.
Get it over with.
He carried the glass to the table with him and sat down. He tossed back the liquid, letting it burn a fire trail down his throat as he reached for the envelope and tore it open. The letter was a short one, typical of Joan’s terseness.
Dear Brian,
You’re probably wondering why I left the house and insurance to you. Claire’s no good with money, but you always have been.
Caught by surprise, Brian thought that’s the first compliment I’ve had from you in…forever. But any pleasure was lost as he read on.
I want you to be the brother you should have been to her, and take care of her and her boys. John and Peter need someone to protect them and show them how to have rewarding lives.
Too late, Mom. Her brats are already vicious liars and I sincerely doubt you want me to teach them how to give good head.
I’ve prayed for you every day since the day you were born. I don’t know if my prayers will be answered, but I hope you’ll choose to love God and turn your back on the sinful life you’ve been living.
No way in hell.
Then, five words that made him bite his lip. Hard.
I love you, Brian.
Mom
He began to rock back and forth in the chair, staring at the words but no longer seeing them. The letters M O started to waver as his vision blurred, unexpectedly, and Brian closed his eyes, crumpling the paper into a ball with his left hand.
When Michael and Justin came through the front door ten minutes later, the single trail of moisture down his cheek had long since been brushed away, but there were traces of unshed tears still caught in Brian’s eyelashes.
Five
Rating: G
Summary: Brian versus his family. May the best man win.
Disclaimer: The characters of QAF belong to CowLip and Showtime. Damn them for ending this series.
Earlier installments: One, Two, Three,
It was dark, after 6, when he reached the small, two-story house in its anonymous, unimaginative neighborhood. All the houses just the same, dull brown mediocrity, with little to distinguish between them--breeder paradise Brian thought with a hint of disgust. He cut the Corvette’s engine when he pulled up in front of the house he’d loathed since childhood, the home of one lie after another. He could see Claire’s battered Chevy standing in the driveway, the passenger side door open for some reason. He unfolded himself from the green low-slung car, stuffed the ring of spare keys he wouldn’t be needing into his coat pocket, and slowly walked to the front door.
When he pushed it open, he saw two fat suitcases, stuffed to overflowing. Beside them on the floor lay a pile of pictures, porcelain figurines and a half-filled bottle of his mother’s favorite perfume, a random collection of junk taken from various parts of the house. Brian shut the door behind him and tossed his black winter coat over the back of a chair, and only then heard Claire moving around upstairs. He was tempted to go up and confront her, since she was obviously rifling the house for anything she wanted, but he saw some papers strewn on the dining room table that caught his eye first.
When he got closer, he realized that one set of papers was typed and stapled together along the top edge, the envelope it came from torn open and discarded to one side, some lawyer’s name embossed in the upper corner. He flipped through the sheets, and found that Claire hadn’t been lying-Joan’s will spelled out in precise terms what she wanted done, and what Brian was expected to do. The farther he read, the angrier he got, his fingers beginning to crimp the edge of the pages as his lips thinned with rising fury. He ignored the envelope addressed to “Brian” in his mother’s familiar sloping handwriting. The one to “Claire” lay beside it, tear-stained and empty.
Then he heard Claire’s approach, weeping as she came down the stairs with another bundle in her arms, and Brian rounded on her. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“What do you care? They’re her clothes.” Claire swept past him and deposited them in a mound next to the suitcases. She brushed away some more tears and took a crumpled tissue from her pocket to blow her nose, before turning to accuse him. “You took your time getting here.”
“I had a client meeting. Busy busy,” he spat back. “But you haven’t wasted any time,” he added, throwing a glance towards the growing pile of clothing she’d tossed on the floor.
“I’m allowed to take whatever ‘personal effects’ I want. It says so,” Claire insisted, stabbing a finger at the document he still held. Her blotchy face was getting redder by the minute.
“Take whateverthefuck you want. I don’t care.” The anger in his voice came out bitterly, almost cruel.
“That’s no surprise. You never cared, not about her, not about Daddy.” Claire’s accusation matched Brian’s in harshness, and she wiped away another round of tears as she continued, “You haven’t even asked how she died. When she died. What kind of a heartless bastard are you?!”
There was a flicker of shock in Brian’s eyes, his sister’s words hitting too close to truth, and he flung out a sarcastic reply. “So tell me, Claire. How did Mommy Dearest go to her final reward?” The way he said ‘reward’ might as well have been a curse.
“She died in her sleep, last night,” Claire replied shakily, more tears spilling down her face, a lot of the fight going out of her voice. The words came out in jagged, broken groups. “I was supposed to…take her to get her… hair done this afternoon…but she wasn’t down here…when I came in. I found her. Upstairs.”
A sudden mental image of his sister discovering a corpse stopped him from saying the next words he thought. I bet Saint Peter is really a fag hairdresser, she can have it done in heaven. Instead, for the first time, Brian looked, really looked at his sister: unkempt hair, mismatched clothes were standard, but the pinched look around her reddened eyes was new. She’d been crying for hours.
The urge to fight disappeared as quickly as it came. Brian swallowed the caustic remark he was about to make, and asked, “Have you had anything to eat?”
“No.”
All afternoon on an empty stomach. And there was never any food in this house anyway. No wonder Claire was being such a bitch. Brian flipped open his cellphone and quickly asked Michael to pick up some food at the diner on his way over. Then he turned back to Claire, squaring his shoulders and letting out a long breath. He knew the answer, but he hoped he was wrong. “She’s still up there, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” Shaky, a new trickle of tears down her cheeks. She looked at Brian as if it was all his fault.
Brian glanced away, rubbed a few fingers across his eyes distractedly, then walked over to the kitchen phone and looked for the list of ‘Important Numbers’ his mother always kept tucked beside it. He dialed the one for her doctor, explained what was needed, and hung up. Then he flipped through the phone book until he found “Funeral Homes” listed, and called one that was located a few blocks away. It didn’t take long to set the wheels in motion.
He turned back to see Claire, still standing at the dining room table, hollow-eyed and unhappy. He explained that Joan’s doctor was coming to write a death certificate, and the funeral home would remove the body as soon as he was done. Ten minutes of research on the internet earlier in the afternoon had given him the information about what to do. Then Brian sat back down at the dining room table, idly fingering the envelope addressed to him, not opening it. He took out a cigarette and lit it, scratching the hair at his temple before he rested his head in the palm of one hand. Suddenly he felt every one of his thirty-eight years. Tired. Old.
Somehow, news that outsiders would soon arrive to dispose of the body didn’t make Claire any happier.
“Aren’t you going to go up and sit with her? Talk to her? Say goodbye?”
Brian looked up at Claire like she’d lost her mind. “What the hell for? Although I have to say, being dead means she’s got to be a better conversationalist than she used to be.” And a half-smirk crossed his face before he rolled his eyes and took another drag from the cigarette.
Claire shook her head in mute disgust and stalked up the stairs.
Finishing the cigarette, Brian got up and went to the sideboard where his parents’ liquor supply always stood. He poured himself whiskey, a double of whatever pathetic brand his mother bought, then looked across the room at the envelope marked “Brian,” sitting on the dining room table. Waiting.
Get it over with.
He carried the glass to the table with him and sat down. He tossed back the liquid, letting it burn a fire trail down his throat as he reached for the envelope and tore it open. The letter was a short one, typical of Joan’s terseness.
Dear Brian,
You’re probably wondering why I left the house and insurance to you. Claire’s no good with money, but you always have been.
Caught by surprise, Brian thought that’s the first compliment I’ve had from you in…forever. But any pleasure was lost as he read on.
I want you to be the brother you should have been to her, and take care of her and her boys. John and Peter need someone to protect them and show them how to have rewarding lives.
Too late, Mom. Her brats are already vicious liars and I sincerely doubt you want me to teach them how to give good head.
I’ve prayed for you every day since the day you were born. I don’t know if my prayers will be answered, but I hope you’ll choose to love God and turn your back on the sinful life you’ve been living.
No way in hell.
Then, five words that made him bite his lip. Hard.
I love you, Brian.
Mom
He began to rock back and forth in the chair, staring at the words but no longer seeing them. The letters M O started to waver as his vision blurred, unexpectedly, and Brian closed his eyes, crumpling the paper into a ball with his left hand.
When Michael and Justin came through the front door ten minutes later, the single trail of moisture down his cheek had long since been brushed away, but there were traces of unshed tears still caught in Brian’s eyelashes.
Five