Things are Complicated

Chapter 19: Cajun Spice and a Whirlwind of Bad News

The Marciano home sat eight blocks east of the hospital, on a rather noisy intersection that either led to Downtown or the freeway. Due to the close proximity to the hospital the streets were always busy and frequently had ambulances wailing down them night and day. It is probably due to this reason that they were able to move back into their house after they put it up for sale and moved away.

D’Angelo took Mrs. Marciano’s spot as my anchor and helped me up the six cement steps, off street level and onto their slushy brown lawn. The spicy scent of Cajun sauce and chicken beckoned me up the last four steps of their porch and into the front hallway of the one-level home.

“Need help?” D nodded down at my shoes.

I gave a brief jerk of my head and leaned against the coats hanging on the wall. He knelt down and quickly began to undo the laces as Leah pivoted from following Jett into the living room and waiting for me.

Although Jett’s house had only three bedrooms and one bathroom, it felt anything but small. Most of their square footage was the living room and kitchen, which were open and have tall ceilings. The holidays at the Marciano’s were loud, filled with food and laughter. Cousins, aunts, uncles and all sorts of relatives piled into house, playing jokes on one another and encouraging all the little kids to be naughty and mischievous.

Biting my lip, I closed my eyes and prayed for the millionth time for this to all be a dream.

“Bring her in Leah,” Mrs. Marciano called from the kitchen.

“Who?” Mr. Marciano asked, giving his wife a swift kiss before flipping the chicken.

“Jed,” She whispered as I dragged my sorry self across the wood floors.

Mr. Marciano jerked around, eyes cutting around the room and finding me. He’s had the grayest eyes I’ve ever seen, reminds me of chrome sometimes when he’s laughing. Since he’s worked and owned several vehicle repair shops in the town and ones in neighboring towns, he’s always had a rough demeanor. Wrinkled forehead, leather hands, dark black hair with patches of gray and a short beard. Two years later and he still smells like oil and WD40.

“Jed Truman, it’s been awhile.” He nodded once and I felt his eyes on my face. “What happened to your face?”

I shot a glare at Jett, Father like son, I guess. These buggards ask the same damn questions. “I got in a fight with my brothers and Steve accidently shoved me into a wall.”

A grin tugged at Mr. Marciano’s lips. “A fight you say? Hmm… How do the others look?”

“Ahh…I don't remember.” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to recall everything I did.

“She kicked Butch in nuts, broke Frank’s nose and gave him two black eyes. Steve has a swollen chin the size of a soft ball and some pretty gnarly bruises on his ribs from falling down the stairs. I think, Brien just has four stitches from where the picture frame cut his cheek.” D scratched his head as he rattled off the list of injuries.

A burst of laughter erupted from Mr. Marciano’s mouth before he clapped a hand over it. “What?” He raised an eyebrow at his wife. “Just imagine it, little Jed swinging her fists at her four older brothers.” He let out a snort. “Those brats strut around like peacocks, all proud and whatnot. It's about time someone took them down a few knotches.”

“I don’t think violence is funny at all,” Mrs. Marciano crossed her arms and frowned at him until he wiped his grin off his face.

“Sorry dear,” He offered her a spoonful of the Cajun mix as a peace offering.