treasure awaits

Late. Fucking Kieran. Some things never change. A block of ice in my gut every time the door swings open, from which this nasty little thought gives me some distance.

He won't show. My gut knows.

Or maybe he will, half an hour now after the appointed time, maybe later, shambling in with his wild hair and wasted mind. For what?

The undeleted texts still burning in my phone:
how did u get this # where r u
have my ways u in Beantwn meet me u know where 
why
just come treasure awaits 
more info lil bro, money not an option
treasure awaits. K


I nod to the waitress for more bad coffee, bad idea. Eyes shut against the bitter taste and the syrupy air of diner breakfast. Me at the breakfast table, not late but there, right there as Ma and Dad pretended to listen but only waited for him. Him appearing whenever, smelling of whatever. The fights then, the threats, the way he could waltz out as easily as in. Even when he started staying away for months at a time, he was all they could think about.

I open my eyes, check instinctively for purse and briefcase, pull out my phone.

Brian going to be late plz resched ten am mtg thx Angela


Last time he looked so good, that beaming politician's smile and dark merry eyes, and he seemed well-fed and calm as we chatted over waffles in this same old place. He wore one of those braided leather chokers, like a young surfer dude, and he had brought me a single red rose. I had planned to demand that he roll up his sleeves and instead ended up laughing myself into tears over old stories about nuns, Dad and our uncles stumbling home, the old Mustang. I know the Irish song and dance, the comfortable bullshit, and no matter how stony my heart, when he starts singing I have always joined in the chorus.

As I handed him the cash I knew I would never see it again.

Angela, lass, you're an angel. Fucking Kieran. Not this time.

The door swings open and the old bell sounds. He won't show, I think hopefully, fearfully, as I turn to look.

Treasure awaits...

Gotta start sometime, right? 

Attempt first, prompt afterwards. I'm not editing very much, but just trying to get into a groove...quantity first, then quality, right? :)

*********************************

Well, this is odd.

It's a letter from my Uncle Skip. He's stateside, in Boston…which is a long trip from his adopted Australian home. I wonder if my mom's going to visit? Nah…she doesn't so much travel past the grocery store and the pet food store. 

Boston…why Boston? Why next Tuesday? "Treasure awaits?" I think that Uncle Skip's seen 'Pirates of the Carribbean' one time too many…or else maybe he's got a little Captain in him. Heh...Mikey would totally get that lame-ass joke. I should call him and see if he has a letter too…although if he doesn't have one that'll give him a bigger reason to sulk. 

Maybe I should go…work is pretty slow, and I haven't seen Skip for years…sometime before I got married…2000? Earlier? It's been years. I can take a train to Boston next Tuesday if he can fly around the globe, I suppose. 

"Treasure awaits…" Well, he's family. And it's been too long. But what does that mean?

*****

I'm sitting in The Haven, a Scottish pub that one of my college roomies introduced me to back in another life. It's about 3:00 on a Tuesday, and while the pub is quiet I'm certainly not the only one day drinking. I'm staring into my smartphone like I'm very important…checking email, ordering widgets for that big presentation in Peoria, whatever it is that businesspeople do when they're uncomfortably waiting for a long lost family member to walk through the door with treasure. I'm trying to remember my Uncle…I know I'll recognize him…the face shape, light hair and blue eyes that he and my two aunts shared…everyone in that family except my brown haired, hazel-eyed mother, come to think of it. Is that the treasure? I don't know that I want to tell my mom that's she's adopted after all these years…and I wonder if he's that big of a coward.

And then I order another Belhaven and chide myself for the drama. Let's just have a nice reunion…

He walks in the door. He's still a strapping (strapping? does anyone use that word to describe strong, tall men anymore?) man, striding through the pub, eyeing all two of the women in the pub before deciding that it's me that he's related to . His hair has been white for as long as I can remember, his eyes are still blue and piercing, and he's tan. He has an Aussie accent, and big strong arms, and he wraps me in them.

And I dissolve into ugly, wracking sobs. He's the first family member who has held me close, in that fatherly way, since my own father died six months ago.

Treasure? Found. Regardless of the reason that he came. I wipe my blotchy red face, promise to not ever greet him that way again, wave the bartender over to get a round for my uncle, and settle in to hear his story.

You receive a letter in the mail from an out-of-town relative asking you to drop everything and meet him in Boston ASAP. He doesn’t say why, but signs off on the letter (just above his name) with the phrase: “Treasure awaits.”