Always respect your elders, Byron’s mother used to say. What his ma really meant was, always be polite, always be considerate. But no, Byron thinks. If we really mean to respect people in their maturity, then we must acknowledge them as fully formed individuals with long histories; we must be prepared to see them as they are, to recognize that a shit is a shit, young or old. Like this man, who ruined his mother’s life. This man does not deserve Byron’s courtesy.
Johnny Lyncook does not say hello, does not shake their hands, does not invite them to sit. He merely opens his mouth and stares at Marble. Then he pokes Benny on the arm and wags a finger back and forth between her and Byron.
“You two. Just like your father,” Johnny Lyncook says, nodding. “Just like Gilbert Grant.” Now he’s back to staring at Marble. He turns to the side table full of photo frames, leans down to pull one out of the bunch, and presses it into Marble’s hands. Byron sees that it’s a black-and-white photo of a teenaged girl in a school uniform, a plaid tunic over a white shirt. There is no mistaking who that girl is. She looks just like Marble, only much darker. Benny takes the frame from Marble.
“Our ma!” Benny says. Byron feels his throat go tight.
Byron looks at this old guy. Who does he think he is, keeping a photograph of Ma in his living room? Byron doesn’t even feel connected to this man. But then Johnny Lyncook smiles a lopsided grin. It’s his ma’s smile. Jeez, it’s Byron’s own smile. Which makes Byron want to grab hold of the man and shake him until he crumples to the floor.
Johnny Lyncook turns back to the sofa and eases himself onto the seat. Etta Pringle trips over something as she maneuvers around the coffee table between them.
“Bunny Pringle,” he says, in a tone that Byron can’t decipher. Almost like an adult who’s fixing to reproach a child. No, it’s something else. Something sharper. It’s because she knew, isn’t it? She knew that Covey had survived that plunge into the sea, all those years ago, and she never told him.
“Mister Lin,” she says, sitting down at the other end of the sofa, without looking at Johnny Lyncook.
Byron, Benny, and Marble follow Etta’s lead. They each sit in a chair facing the sofa.
“Marisol!” Johnny Lyncook calls. The woman who opened the front door earlier comes into the room, wheeling a serving cart of drinks and peanuts. “Lime water,” he says, and waves a hand toward the cart. There are slices of lime and a maraschino cherry floating in each drink. Marisol places a glass in front of each of them.
“You remember lime water, don’t you, Bunny?” he says to Etta. “You and Covey used to love this stuff. You loved all the same things, didn’t you? Always did everything together, just like sisters.”
Etta shifts in her seat. “Sure, I’ll try one of these,” she says, reaching for her drink without looking up at him. Byron watches Etta over the rim of his glass. The charismatic woman who threw her arms around Byron when she first met him is turning into something still and cold, right before his eyes. A person capable of keeping lifelong secrets. A person harboring a well of anger. She hasn’t gotten over her resentment of Johnny Lyncook, has she? Well, that makes two of them.
Etta Pringle is here because their mother asked her to take them to meet their grandfather. So here they are. But Etta is looking tight-mouthed and Byron is beginning to feel ill to his stomach. Benny and Marble, on the other hand, seem fascinated by this encounter with their mother’s father. They are leaning forward as Johnny Lyncook explains who the people in the other photos are.
As if they should care.
And now, Johnny Lyncook is saying something about the olden days but Byron isn’t really focusing on that. Byron has come to a decision. He’s going to get up and walk out of this room. He knows he shouldn’t punch out a ninety-year-old guy but he’s thinking that if he stays in this room, that’s exactly what he’s going to do.
“You want the bathroom?” Lyncook says, when Byron stands up. “Marisol, show Byron where the bathroom is.” Byron nods. He might as well make a pit stop before leaving. As he follows Marisol back across the broad marbled floor, he hears Lyncook saying, “I was big into the gambling, you know?”
Byron stops and looks back. His mother’s father is leaning forward on his cane, leaning toward Benny and Marble.
“I liked to gamble and I liked to drink. That’s how I lost my daughter.”
Byron turns back. “Lost your daughter?” He is aware that he is raising his voice as he crosses the floor. “Did you say you lost your daughter?” He is standing over Lyncook now. “You didn’t lose her, you threw her away. You sold her to a criminal.”