Prodigal

Chapter 34-1

34

Otto waved Adam ahead, and Adam did his best to walk normally up the steps and through the screen door.

“You can leave that open,” Harlan said, from the kitchen. “Afraid we might’ve let it get a little too hot in here, with the fire.”

The cabin layout was open as you entered, with the kitchen to the right and a seating area with a fireplace to the left. A hall presumably led to the bedrooms and bathroom in the back. The interior walls were the same as the exterior—the logs were visible—and undecorated except for a large quilt. It hung between two windows on the wall across from the fireplace. The floor was real wood, with the occasional bit of persnickety millwork sticking up at the seams, and a large, round, braided wool rug lay in front of the fireplace. Adam desperately wanted to lie on the concentric circles of earthy color.

“Put your filthy shoes by the door and come sit down,” Harlan said.

Adam should have guessed—the place was immaculate. He toed his slippers off, leaving his feet naked, and crossed to the kitchen table. Otto remained standing at the entry while Adam took the nearest chair.

Harlan set a steaming enamel mug in front of Adam. “You look like you could use some coffee.”

“Thank you, sir,” Adam said, letting the mug warm his hands and steam warm his face.

“It’s traditional to drink that, not just inhale it,” Harlan said, sitting across from him and smiling. He was a handsome man, with silver hair and trimmed mustache, but striking dark eyebrows, and a tanned face that made the silver shine. He must be in his sixties—well into his sixties, and perhaps beyond—but he had a vitality that transcended his age.

The screen door made a scraping sound, and Adam felt a surge of cool air. Forgetting that twisting was not his friend, he turned to see Otto leaving.

“No promises,” Harlan said.

Otto bowed his head at Harlan and backed out the door.

Adam didn’t know whether to follow. He placed his hands on the table and braced himself to stand.

“It’s okay, son,” Harlan said. “There’s nothing more he can do here, and you’re staying with me. When was the last time you had anything to eat?”

Adam wasn’t sure. Had he eaten today? He’d had muffins at JJ’s. Was that today? But then he threw up in the hospital, so the muffins probably didn’t count.

Otto’s truck rumbled outside. Adam listened as it reversed and made its way down the drive.

“Man drives like a paranoid,” Harlan said. “Just because I had an incident or two. I tried to tell him I was drunk at the time, but I don’t think that helped.”

Harlan got up and went to the gas stove. Adam had noticed the pair of big tanks outside, nearly as high as the roof. The man slipped a plain, white apron over his head and turned on the burner under a cast iron pot. “Just take a minute to warm up,” he said, stirring. He retrieved a heavy bowl from an open shelf. “We’ll get some food in you, and then you can tell me how you came to be dressed like a homeless man.”

Adam looked down at his scrubs and his bare feet. He wasn’t sure his shirt wasn’t on backwards, too.

Harlan brought a plate of biscuits to the table with some butter. Adam looked at the smooth tops and round brown edges, and he could imagine the flaky layers inside, butter melting over the side…

“You wait for the soup, or I cut your fingers off,” Harlan said, setting his knife next to the plate. He was smiling—sort of—but Adam still wasn’t sure if the man was serious.

Now that Adam’s salivary glands had woken up, the aroma of the soup was intoxicating: light tomato-based broth, with the starchy smell of potatoes and other veggies, and the primal tease of chunks of meat. He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes until the clunk of the bowl on the table in front of him made them shoot open.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, grabbing a spoonful and pausing only long enough to blow the heat away. “Mmm…”

“Best soup you’ll ever eat, but I can’t take all the credit,” Harlan said.

Adam reached for a biscuit and slathered it with butter, trying to pace himself so he didn’t burn his mouth on the broth. “Reminds me of my grandmother’s soup.”

“Then you’re in for a treat.”

Harlan smiled a Cheshire cat grin as a woman ambled from the back of the cabin, face shielded by a pale blue towel as she rubbed the crown of her head.

“Harlan, I thought I heard a truck. I hope it wasn’t Jim again.” She reached the wet ends of her long, white hair, glanced up, and dropped the towel on the floor. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Adam’s mouth nearly hit the floor along with the towel. “Iris?”