A Family Affair by Mary Campisi Page B

she was telling Greta to put in the salad. Next she’d be
sprinkling Crown Royal on top. And he didn’t buy that bullshit
about her constant pain. She’d fallen off that damn horse sixteen
years ago, and broken back or not, she should have enough dope and
booze running through her veins to make her numb.
    Harry laid down his fork, took a drink. He’d
need two more scotches just to block out the pathetic look on her
face. So what if Charlie was late? Maybe he was holed up in some
hotel room banging some young piece of ass and forgot about the
time. He almost laughed out loud. That would really make Gloria
cry.
    But Charlie was too straight for that kind of
behavior. That was Harry’s style. Given the opportunity, he’d be
the one shacked up in a hotel room, screwing some young piece of
ass, wife or not. And that’s why there wasn’t a wife, why there
would never be a wife.
    Just thinking about screwing made him hard.
Bridgett was only a phone call away; six foot, blond, blue-eyed.
Twenty-three, great tongue. Shit. Why was he sitting here with a
hard-on when he could be banging Bridgett?
    He knew why. Christine and Charlie. They
counted on him being here for this circus, one night, every month
and he wasn’t going to disappoint them, even if he had to put up
with Gloria.
    One night a month. No one ever depended on
him for anything, not his work, not his women, not even his
cleaning lady who demanded he pay her at the beginning of the month
because he kept forgetting the weekly checks. Maybe they thought
him incapable, uncooperative, or merely uninterested.
    And maybe they were right.
    The phone rang in the background. It was
probably Charlie, trying to pave the way for his late entrance.
Good old, diplomatic, Charlie.
    “ That might be Dad.”
Christine half rose from her chair.
    “ Sit down,” Harry waved a
hand at her, stood. “I’ll go see.” He grabbed his drink, let out a
small laugh. “I have to warn him to put his boots on before he
comes in here or your mother’s tears will ruin his
shoes.”
    He swung open the kitchen door and Greta held
out the phone to him. She was a pretty thing, close to forty,
divorced, two kids. He’d thought about banging her when he first
met her a year ago, unwinding that long, blond bun and wrapping it
around his fist while he pumped into her, but he’d quickly
dismissed the idea; too much baggage, and he liked her, which
didn’t make for a quick, mindless screw.
    “ Mr. Blacksworth, it’s a
man, for Christine.”
    He laughed, momentarily distracted by Greta’s
accent. He liked the way she said his name, all throaty and
ruffled, like she’d just crawled out of bed, naked, of course.
    “ Mr. Blacksworth. It’s a
man-“
    “ I know, I heard. So?
Christine’s twenty-seven years old, she can talk to
men.”
    Greta shook her head, the thick bun swaying
from side to side making him think of hips and sex. “He says it’s
about Mr. Blacksworth.”
    That jolted him. “I’ll take it.” He snatched
the phone from her hand. “This is Harry Blacksworth. You’re calling
about my brother?”
    There was a second’s hesitation, then a deep
voice filled the line. “There’s been an accident . . . your
brother-“
    “ What kind of accident? Is
he all right? Where is he?”
    The other man went on, “. . . was driving on
the back roads, and it was snowing . . . hard . . . Jesus, I’m
sorry.”
    “ What?” Harry gripped the
phone. “What the hell happened?”
    “ Uncle Harry?” Christine
stood inside the kitchen door. “What’s the matter? Is it
Dad?”
    Harry covered the receiver with his hand.
“It’s for me. You go back and keep your mother occupied, Chrissie.
I’ll be there in a minute.” She hesitated, then turned and
left.
    “ Hold on,” Harry said into
the receiver. He went out the back door, down the steps and onto
the patio, mindless of the cold. “Now tell me where the hell my
brother is.”
    “ There was an
accident.”
    “ Jesus, I already