The Long Run Home Pt. 3

The Long Run Home
Part Three

 

What on earth is that little Hussy doing here? What dealings could she possibly have with BJ Benjamin? A cold sweat is beginning to form at my temples as the teapot I’m filling with water starts to overflow. I don’t care; I just keep peeking through the tiny opening of the kitchen curtains outside, where I saw her slowly drive up.

“Honey, we are completely out of blueberries right?” Benjamin says coming through the backdoor, startling me. I’m guessing he didn’t notice the white car, which is good. I take one last peek out, and see she’s leaving, which is even better. I turn off the faucet, and pour out some of the excess water from the teapot.

“Yes darling I’m sorry, we are all out. Why?” I ask, walking over to set the teapot on the stove.

“Well, I was feeling a bit more energetic this morning and thought I could beat the kid to the docks. Long story short, I am in blueberry pancake debt to our son”, he says standing beside the kitchen table, eyeing my basket of fresh muffins. He better not do what I think he’s going to do.

“You thought you could beat our son, a star athlete, to the docks this morning?” I sarcastically ask.

“Delusional right?” he laughs. He picks up one of the muffins, and begins picking out the blueberries and places them on a napkin. I knew this bastard was going to do that. I roll my eyes, and retrieve a teacup and saucer out of the cabinet.

“Morning mom!” BJ Benjamin says, bursting through the backdoor.

“Good morning my Love, I hear you beat the pants off your father our there”, I say turning toward him to see if I can read on his face that I know he won’t say out loud.

“You know it! Hope those pancakes are done by the time I get out of the shower old man”, he teases his father and grabs a muffin from the basket on the way upstairs.

I notice an envelope sticking out of his left pocket before he turns the corner. I wonder if that little conniving witch gave him that. My mind is swarming with questions that I’m truly afraid of knowing the answers to, but I can’t just ignore the fact that Carl’s daughter came to pay my son a visit. I really want to call him, but we have an arrangement that we stick to, I’m with my family and he is with his this morning. Although, his family is creeping in my backyard and that isn’t part of the arrangement.  I stare at Benjamin with disgust as he mixes the blueberries from my muffins into his pancake batter. Normally, I would be more upset about this, and act on my anger, but I’m more concerned about that white envelope.

“Honey do you need anything from me? I’m going to take my tea upstairs and start reviewing this case for Monday’s disposition”, I ask not planning on staying no matter what his answer is.

“No I got it thanks, thanks. Sorry about the muffins, I’ll eat the ones I picked apart”, he says, pouring the batter into the skillet.

I roll my eyes once again and head for the stairs. I can hear the sounds of the shower running in BJ Benjamin’s bathroom as I slowly make my way closer to his bedroom door. If I know my son, he’s taken off his clothes, removing nothing from his pockets, and leaving it all in a pile on the floor. I should be able to retrieve the envelope and at least look at it closer, even if I can’t get to what’s inside. I push the door open a little wider, and gently poke my head in. Just as I suspected, I see the pile of sweaty clothes on the floor, just outside the bathroom’s threshold. Making my way to the pile ever so cautiously, trying not to set off the popping sounds of my old bones. Thankfully, his shorts are on top of the pile, and I don’t have to disturb the mound of clothes too much. I pick up the red shorts by the elastic waistband, and the envelope falls at my feet. I’m taken aback as I stare at the handwriting, curved into the letters spelling out my name. Feeling a bit lightheaded, I bend over to pick up the envelope anyway. It isn’t sealed shut, only tucked; giving away exactly who this envelope came from. There is only one person I know that won’t seal hand delivered letters, and it’s not Carl – it’s his wife, Helen.

 

To be continued…

Written by Tamica Nicole © 2016

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