Page 39

DIESEL

M errick bangs on the door an hour later. “Caden has to do number two!” he shouts. “He won’t do it in a port-a-potty.”

I glance over at Symphony. “Time’s up, I guess.”

She nods. We dress quickly and let in the crew. Caden races to the bathroom, and Merrick and Greta sit on the sofa near the door.

Symphony stands awkwardly by the television. I’m not sure what to say to her. Merrick and I have made our decision about shutting down the bar, and we’re not ones for circling back.

The plan is to enlist, although we’ll probably have a delay to make sure Greta is handled.

“Symphony, stay,” Greta says. “You’ve been so kind.”

But I can tell Symphony’s head is already out the door. “I have to get back. Tomorrow, I have class and my second day on the new job.”

Greta crosses the room to give her a hug. It’s an odd feeling in my gut, seeing a member of my family friendly with a woman in my life. It’s never happened, other than maybe a prom picture in high school. I never was a long-term gig for anybody.

Not this time, either. The six weeks since she showed up at my bar for a bachelorette have been the biggest stretch with a single person, well, ever.

But Merrick and I are moving on.

“Good luck with everything,” Symphony says to my sister. Then she opens the door and slips out.

Something in me revolts. I want to stop her, drag her back in here, change my mind.

But I clench my jaw and ride it out. I only realize Merrick and Greta are looking at me when I finally get out of my head and glance their way.

“Hard to go when it matters,” Greta says. “It’s only easy when you know you have to get out.”

I’m not here for platitudes. I clap my hands together. “What’s the plan? Take Greta to our house?”

“And then ditch her while we enlist?” Merrick shakes his head.

“She can keep the truck.”

“And buy food with what?” Merrick asks.

Greta drops onto the sofa next to my brother. “I’m right here. And Merrick is right. There’s no staying away forever. I have to deal with this. I just wanted to do it with you two rather than the ‘Pickles are Pickles’ crowd.”

I sit on a chair, elbows on my knees, hands clasped. “What do you want? Hide out until the divorce is final? Have us escort you back to Jersey and kick his sorry ass out of your house so you can move back?”

Caden comes out, and Greta bends over to open a small suitcase. She packed light. “Caden, go take a shower to get the sand off and put on these.” She passes him a set of clothes.

“Do I have to?” His whine is so Jude-like that it sets my teeth on edge.

“Yes, sir. Run along.”

We wait until he’s collected his clothes and turned on the shower.

“That’s a good idea, actually,” Greta says. “If we show up at the house, Jude can’t talk his way out of it.”

“I’ll shut that mealy mouth of his for fucking good,” Merrick says. “And enjoy it.”

Greta places a hand on his arm. “The two of you walking in will be enough.”

“Let’s do it, then,” I say. “We can leave in the morning. It will take a couple of days to drive up the coast.”

“I don’t want you to miss your vacation here,” Greta says. “How much longer do you have this condo booked?”

“Just until Thursday,” Merrick says. “We can cut any time.”

Greta counts on her fingers. “If we stay here until Thursday morning, we can drive Thursday and Friday, then get to the house on Saturday when he’s there. That’s better than in the middle of a workday when he’s gone.”

“Done,” I say. “We’ll hang here, show the kid a good time, then plan for the invasion and extraction.”

Merrick smacks a fist into his palm. “We go in, and he goes out.”

Greta shakes her head. “You two were in the Army too long.”

“Better for you,” I tell her.

Caden returns, his hair barely wet. “Done.”

Greta sighs. “Seven-year-old boys.”

“We were one once,” Merrick says. “How about some Mickey D’s?”

“Yeah!” Caden cries. “Mom makes me get apples. Can I get cookies instead?”

“Hell yeah,” Merrick says, looking at Greta like she has two heads. “Let’s go so Mom can have a minute to herself.”

Greta’s shoulders slide down. She’s been coiled pretty tightly since she arrived. “That would be lovely.”

“We’ll bring you back a cheeseburger, no pickles!” Caden says, scrambling for his sneakers.

“You know Mom’s order,” I say. “Sign of a good kid.”

Caden grins at me, and something tugs in my chest. When it comes to family, a rowdy nephew isn’t too bad.

We arrive in Greta’s tidy neighborhood mid-morning on Saturday. Caden is asleep in the narrow rear seat. Greta has opted to sit between us for this last leg so she can give directions.

It’s been a good trip, learning everything about the family’s life since we left. Sunny married a prince, which we knew, of course, but we’ve obviously never met him. Greta’s been to the palace and attended two of the royal weddings in the family.

Grammy doesn’t travel much these days unless it’s a big event, but she’s managing her little deli in Brooklyn. About half of the cousins are married, and more are engaged.

Anthony, rather than Uncle Sherman, is in charge of the deli chain now.

Sherman’s been using his retirement to work even harder building spinoffs.

He has Pickle Media in Manhattan plus Dougherty in Miami.

He’s also invested heavily in some of the other Pickle family’s pursuits, including our cousin Nadia’s animal rescue charity based in Colorado.

We pull up to a two-story brick house with white columns. Greta leans forward to peer out. “He’s in there. I can see the TV colors flashing on the blinds upstairs.”

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, leaving the engine running. “How do we want this to happen?” I tilt my head toward the back. We have to think about this moment for Caden.

“He’ll run to his room, I think,” Greta says. “He’s missed his PlayStation.”

“He won’t go to his dad?” Merrick asks.

“Unlikely, but we’ve been gone a while, so he might.”

Merrick shifts in his seat. “Diesel or I could stay in the truck with him.”

“If he doesn’t wake up when we open the doors,” I add.

Greta turns to look at her son. “You all were up late. He might stay down. I say let’s try that.”

I lean forward to look at my brother. “Who gets babysitting, and who gets violence?”

“No violence,” Greta says. “Well, maybe the threat of it.”

“That fucker is toast,” Merrick says. “I will not be happy until my fist is in the back of his throat.”

“Okay.” Greta blows out a gust of air. “Maybe I should take Diesel.”

“Not sure I’m any less inclined to punch him,” I say.

Caden stirs sleepily. “Are we home yet?”

Shit. The kid will be involved.

Greta unbuckles. “We are, sweetie!”

“Is Dad home?”

The three of us glance at each other.

“I think so,” Greta says.

Caden sits up, poking his chin between his mom and me. “Can I get on my PlayStation?”

“Of course,” Greta says, ruffling his hair. “You go right up to your room. Are your headphones working?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Use them. Get some of those zombies.”

He shoves his iPad and headphones in a small pack. “Let’s go! Those zombies aren’t going to kill themselves!”

There’s tension as we leave the truck like we’re about to head into battle. There’s no telling what will happen once we go inside. Jude could come out. He could confront Greta before Caden gets to his room.

We might have to act civilized.

Nobody should hold their breath on that count.

As soon as Caden is free, he races up the front steps and darts inside the door, leaving it open.

That tracks.

“Leave the bags,” Greta says. “We may well be walking right back out.”

Merrick smacks his fist into his palm. “Not on our watch.”

She hooks her arm around his elbow. “Let’s see how this plays out before we get too fired up.”

We enter a small foyer that smells of Lemon Pledge like my parents’ house did. I’m momentarily taken back, a teenager again, Merrick and I coming in after school or sometimes a ridiculously late night out. We were real terrors.

“Let me check the kitchen before we go up,” Greta says. “In case he came down for something to eat.”

I wait at the base of the stairs while she hurries to the back, Merrick on her heels.

They return in mere seconds.

“All clear,” Greta says. “He’s up there.”

We take the steps quietly, Greta first, then me, and then Merrick.

Greta’s house is clean and organized, decorated in muted tones like a furniture store display. The only personalized items on our path are baby photos of Caden on the wall as we pass.

We arrive at the upper floor. Greta lifts a finger to her lips to keep us quiet as she goes to the left. She opens a door to reveal Caden already firing up his PlayStation, headphones in place. He doesn’t notice us.

She quietly closes the door again and draws in a deep breath.

I give her a confident nod.

More family pictures line this hall. Greta’s wedding day with Jude. The two of them on a boat that I recognize as Uncle Sherman’s. Then with baby Caden as he grows.

I pause at one. It’s a group picture, not unlike the one we took weeks ago at Rhett’s wedding. Caden is tiny, so it was a while back, and naturally, Merrick and I aren’t in it.

But the entire rest of the Pickle clan is. Sherman and his sons. The Armstrong segment. Grammy. Then Mom and Dad with Greta and Sunny. Must have been before she married the prince.

There’s another one a few feet down, same group, only with a few more women as the cousins pair off.

I try not to feel anything about what I’ve missed. It doesn’t matter. We left for a reason.

And now, we’re back for a new one.

Greta stops outside a half-open door, standing taller as if she’s preparing herself for a confrontation.

“We’ve got you,” I say in a low voice.

She nods. “Wait here.”

Merrick and I stand like sentinels outside the door as she goes in. Jude is so into whatever show he’s watching that he doesn’t see her at first. I glance at the screen.

Three naked women writhe together.

Great. He’s spending his time after his wife left him watching porn.