Fiction, drama
3 min
No More Safe Harbor
Jia Nan Jeng
Jia Nan Jeng
First Place Winner, Age 18+ Category | Fall into Fiction Short Story Contest 2023 | San José Public Library
Christmas dinner was a subdued affair. After a simple dish of spaghetti aglio e olio, Auntie Dores retired to her room, citing the soreness of her back. On my left was Gran and on my right was my great-uncle Matt. Grandpa had passed away fifteen months ago, but his portrait still remained on the piano. The half-light of the vintage Tiffany lamp cast an ominous shadow over a dessert of panna cotta and an espresso doppio for me.
"It's true, then," Uncle Matt remarked. "You're dating another woman?"
Gran muttered an invocation in Portuguese and crossed herself.
"Yes, Sir." I couldn't meet his gray eyes, troubled and uncomprehending. My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach and kept on dropping.
"Carly, me diga que isso não é verdade."
Uncle Matt translated. I stare at my hands, French manicured by my girlfriend, and set them on the checkered tablecloth. The silence spoke for me.
"How long have you been seeing her?"
"Since a little over a year ago."
"Você sempre foi uma boa menina," Gran said, killing me.
For times like these, I was glad we weren't directly related. Uncle Matt was Grandpa's brother and Gran Grandpa's second wife, my mother's stepmother. Only Grandpa, who had raised me after my mother died was spared from finding out. I wanted to return to simpler times, listening to the melancholy piano of Ludovico Einaudi. I wanted to be the old Carly in my room, embracing a pillow instead of a relationship that complicated my life.
I stood up and gathered the dishes. Walked them over to the sink. Flipped on the hot water. I could do chores. The chores I'd done for Travaglia's, my mother's restaurant. The bubbles rose. I scrubbed the dishes and placed them onto the rack.
"You'll damage those hands if you don't wear gloves."
I could've died. There was Pastor Conway under the doorframe, not in his usual clerical vestments, but a cashmere sweater, red, with white sleeves poking out three-quarters of an inch at the wrists. Like Mr. Rogers from the PBS show.
"You scared me, Pastor Conway."
"Caleb," he corrected.
"Pastor Conway," I insisted.
"You always did stand on formality, but I'm only twelve years older than you."
"Did my uncle call you here to talk to me?"
I strode into the living room, expecting to find Uncle Matt on the ratan chair, but he was gone. I pulled back the curtain, and his car was not in the driveway.
"I thought we'd go for a walk by the stream," Pastor Conway called. A cabinet shut. I pulled on Grandpa's army jacket and returned to the kitchen.
"What if it rains? You'll ruin your sweater."
"I'll bring an umbrella," he said.
We went out the back door, Pastor Conway a little ahead. It was only six and already dark, but I could hear the burble of the brook. Is he going to say something? I thought and decided to preempt him with a "Why are you here?"
"To see you."
"So my Uncle Matt—"
"Told me you were in town."
"Right," I said.
"Right," he confirmed.
The trail behind Gran's house was in dire need of upkeep. Someone to rake the leaves into a pile and burn them if that was still possible. But the ground was wet and there were more pressing chores waiting for me in the house. Meanwhile, my former pastor kept ambling toward the woods that marked the end of our small Oregon town.
"Things have changed since Tony passed," he said. "I used to go to Travaglia's once a week to draft my sermon."
"Sorry about that. I offered to stay here and manage the restaurant, but Grandpa said no."
"Are you enjoying university?"
"Somewhat. It's a lot sunnier in SoCal, even in winter."
"I'll bet."
Pastor Conway wasn't a tall man, maybe five-nine. He cut a slender figure. And he was waiting for me to broach the elephant in the metaphorical room.
"So about why you came here—"
"Your Aunt Dores isn't doing too well."
"What?" I said, taken aback.
"You've been away, what, fifteen months? There's been a pandemic and a lockdown in between. I mean, your Gran can only do so much for your aunt, but she's self-destructing. Living by the bottle day in and day out. She needs professional help."
"What are you trying to say, Pastor Conway?" By now, I was getting fed up.
"There's a sanatorium in upstate New York. I left some pamphlets in your kitchen cabinet. I'd like you to persuade your aunt to seek treatment for her alcoholism, but we have to be discreet."
"And you swear that your coming here today had nothing to do with anything else?"
"What do you mean?" Pastor Conway asked.
That was when it struck me, the poor man had no idea.
So I told him.
And it felt good.
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