Page 26 of Truck Me
“Well, then.” Grams claps her hands. “Now that that’s settled, will one of you boys set the table for me? Dinner is just about ready.”
I fight the smile that tugs at my lips. Those few simple words are Grams’s way of telling my brothers to leave me the fuck alone. As long as they listen, I might still make it through this dinner. That is, until I hear my father’s voice from the doorway.
“I’ll do it, Mom. You boys stay put.” Dad strolls into the kitchen and heads for the cabinet where the plates and bowls are kept.
The room falls eerily silent except for the noise Dad makes banging the dishes around. None of us have a great relationship with our dad, but mine might be the most strained. He’s the main reason I moved out and the reason I stay away as much as possible.
He’s never said the words, but he blames me for Mom’s death. Out of all his sons, I’m the only one he refuses to look at, talk to, or even acknowledge the existence of.
Because Mom chose me over herself. She put my needs over his, and he hates me for it.
She was diagnosed with cancer just after she found out she was pregnant with me. Much to Dad’s dismay, she refused treatment. The doctors gave her a choice. It was either they save her life at the risk of losing me, or she could forgo treatment and carry me to full term. She carried me to term. And from what Grams has told me, she barely made it to that point. She held me once, then quietly passed away.
Dad has apparently never been the same since. But I don’t give a shit. He should have been man enough to care for his kids. Instead, he lost himself to the bottle and whatever woman would spread her legs for him. That’s when Grams stepped in and became the parent we needed.
Liam was only three, and Warren was two. She completely altered her life to care for two toddlers and an infant without question.
But Dad kept knocking up woman after woman until there were seven of us. There are four mothers between us. Chase and Christian, identical twins, share a mother. Ash came along a couple of years after the twins. His mom took off right after he was born. That didn’t stop Dad from finding a new woman to warm his bed. Not a year later, Mac was born.
All three of their mothers are deadbeats. They took off the first chance they got, leaving Grams to raise seven rowdy boys on her own.
Dad sets the plates around the table while conversations about work start up. The seven of us co-own a garage and racing company, Mutter Truckers Auto & Racing. All but Warren and I work there full-time.
Warren is older than me by two years. He left for college right after high school and rarely ever comes back. He’s living down in North Carolina designing race cars. I hear rumblings every now and again from one of my brothers that they’re trying to get him to move home. Not sure that will ever work. He rarely visits as it is. Clearly, he doesn’t want to be here.
Can’t say I blame him. We’ve got nothing but bad memories anyway.
Dad works his way around the table. I don’t look at him, but I’m acutely aware of his position at all times. When he reaches my side, he sets a plate and bowl in front of me.
“Son. It’s good to see you,” he says, and all the rumbling of voices momentarily stops. Dad and I don’t talk. Ever.
I don’t return his sentiment. Instead, I take a long pull from my beer and ignore him.
“All right, boys.” Grams’ voice cuts through the tension. “Beans and cornbread are ready. Sophia, you’re up first.”
Sophia hops off Mac’s lap and he slaps her ass as she walks away.
“Hey.” She turns to him with a frown. “What was that for?”
“For knocking me off the baby pedestal. I’m no longer the youngest in the house.”
“Never gonna happen,” Chase teases. “Afraid you’ll always be the baby.”
Mac glares at him. “Better to be the baby than the prissy one. I can smell your girlie cologne all the way over here.”
We all laugh, including me, because both statements are true. Chase is the pretty boy in the family. He cares more about his hair than anyone in this family should. We’re gearheads and farm boys. Getting dirty and a little messed up is in our blood.
But the baby thing? Grams started that. When we were younger, we always had to fix our plates in order of age, from youngest to oldest. This was mostly to avoid fights over the food, but also to make sure my younger brothers got plenty to eat before the teenagers ate everything. Seven boys eat a lot.
Once everyone has a plate and is seated at the table, Grams makes us all hold hands to say grace. Something else she has always made us do. If it were up to her, we’d all still go to church with her every Sunday too. Liam still goes, but the rest of us avoid it if we can.
“Where’s Christian?” Dad asks before Grams can start. His is the only empty chair at the table.
“He delivered a bike this afternoon and hasn’t returned.” Chase offers.
Christian builds custom motorcycles, mostly for the local motorcycle club in the area, but occasionally he builds one for a hobbyist. He’s also a recovering addict. He’s relapsed several times and it’s hard for us not to question his absences. That was always the first sign he was using again.
Chase is always quick to step up and defend his brother anytime one of us questions his whereabouts or actions. Tonight is no different.