Andrew was a liar. Most people in the family knew that but, as for the outside world, I doubted they cared enough to investigate. He had just finished giving Aunt Violet the semi-polished version of his latest fiction. He had told her that the only reason he hadn't done more for our father during his last days was that when I came home from Idaho four months ago I had immediately taken over. Of course, Aunt Vi knew the truth. She had been one of the relatives who called me out in Boise, where, incidentally, I had moved to get as far away from the old man as possible, to tell me my mother needed help and Andrew, who still lived at home, mind you, wasn't providing any. None. Zero. Zilch. So, despite my deep hatred of the abusive bastard I called Dad, I came back to Jersey resigned to fulfill my duty as the firstborn son.
Now, for some insane reason, here was Andrew attempting to rewrite history. I felt like punching the fucker in the face but restrained myself because that wouldn't suit my mother who preferred to project an image of familial harmony as false as that in reality was. Vi looked at me shaking her head knowingly. I wondered how many people would be told that lie. Lots, I decided. But two thousand miles and my new life would insulate me from caring better than a 2 x 6 wall.
I made another trip to the truck to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. I returned to the kitchen just in time to hear my mother explain to someone, “But Andrew would've been willing to help too if Junior hadn't been here.” She was in survival mode. Without the old man around to call the shots, now, she was stuck here with Andrew and had to tread softly.
I gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I'm ready to go ma,” I said.
“Oh, drive careful, Junior. And thank you again for everything you did.”
“It was nothing. I'm sure Handy Andy would've pitched in if I wasn't here.” I said that with a chuckle.
The self-satisfied smirk on Andrew's face faded fast.
