Write Your Own Song

Chapter 35

Bobby cradled the phone on his shoulder, slamming the door to his office shut with his foot, muffling the loud music pounding in the club.

"Hey, Ma," he said, once he was sure he could be heard over the "Bow chick wow wow" stripper music the chick on stage loved to use. Bobby told her it was cliché as fuck and her argument was to wave her stack of dollar bills in his face. She won that round.

"How's my oldest?" Evelyn asked and Bobby shrugged.

"The usual." He sat down, propping his feet up on his desk, settling in just in case it turned into one of those long calls Evelyn liked to have. It was his own damn fault for not calling for months at a time. They had a lot of ground to cover. Even though he never told her everything, somehow Evelyn wound up being his confessor, his priest that he used when he felt the need lessen the burden of his sins from his shoulders. Even if most of the shit he did stayed in between the lines of the "I'm fines" and "Same old, same olds", to Bobby it still counted as a confession and he was going to take what he could get.

"How's my favorite mom?" he asked, cringing at the cheesy line, but he knew she ate that shit up, even if she knew how much it pained him to say that kind of crap.

"Your favorite mom is just fine, though she misses you."

He closed his eyes and sighed. Every year, like clockwork, it was the same phone call. Holidays always brought out the hopeful side to Evelyn.

"I miss you too, Ma." Wasn't a lie – he missed her like crazy. She was his rock. She made him feel like someone normal, someone worth caring about, even if he didn't know how to care back.

"It's lonely here," she admitted and he felt a knife twist in his gut.

"Jackie…" he started and she interrupted.

"Is in New York with his band. He said was he was going to try to come home," she chuckled softly. "I hope that boy doesn't play poker, because he'd never win a hand. I could hear the lie in his voice all the way clear to Michigan."

Bobby laughed at that. "Yeah, well, let's just say Jackiepoo's money has lined many pockets in Detroit."

There was a pause and he could picture her, trying to find a way to say the thing she'd been waiting to say since she'd picked up the phone and dialed. "There's plenty of room at Jerry's table. You're more than welcome," she said, hopeful and cheery, though it sounded slightly forced.

Bobby had to glance at the Playboy calendar behind him to figure out what holiday she was even talking about. Thanksgiving. One of the few holidays that he enjoyed – his mom's cooking and Turkey Cup. Any holiday that combined pumpkin pie with beating the shit out some neighborhood guys out on the ice was okay in his book.

He was very tempted to go home – so tempted that he almost told her yes right then and there. He hadn't been home in years. The familiar smell of the house was fading from his memory, like it needed to be recharged. There were times, when the people who worked for him mentioned their families, that he'd almost forgotten he had one. That he came from somewhere, that he wasn't just adrift in this whole fucking thing on his own.

He opened his mouth, the word forming, just a breath away from jumping back into his old life head first, when she interrupted him. "It's okay, honey. I know how hard it is for you to come back." He could see her smile in his mind, sad and wistful. "Can't blame a mom for trying."

Clearing his throat, he said, "Nah, can't blame her."

"Do me a favor, at least make yourself a turkey TV dinner and say a prayer or two. Humor me?"

"You got it, Ma," he said. He was about to hang up when he stopped and said, "Ma, will you do me a favor? Maybe say a prayer for me?"

"Oh, Bobby," she laughed. "Always."