Not Today

By MC Lee

After the death of his older brother in Iraq, Emmett Callaghan’s mother cracked under the stress and abandoned the family—saddling sixteen-year-old Emmett with the care of a father suffering from worsening dementia. Poor in a town where the lines between the privileged and the struggling are sharp and unmovable, Emmett has nowhere to turn, and he cannot let the authorities know his mother is no longer in the picture.

Then a light shines into his bleak life with the arrival of Noah Davis. Mixed race, liberal, worldly, and openly gay, Noah is like no one else in conservative Whitmore—and like no one Emmett’s ever met. Emmett is helpless to keep Noah and the happiness and support he offers out of Emmett’s dark and hidden world. But when secrets start to surface, will the obstacles the two young men face be more than love and good intentions can overcome?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harmony Ink Press
• Release date: Feb 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640801844

Book preview

Table of Contents

Blurb

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

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Copyright

Not Today

By MC Lee

Sixteen-year-old Emmett Callaghan’s life fell apart eight months ago when his older brother was killed in Iraq and his distraught mother walked out, leaving Emmett to care for a father descending into dementia. Unable to get help for fear of alerting the authorities that he’s been abandoned, Emmett is slowly sinking under the weight of his responsibilities. It doesn’t help that he lives on the wrong side of the tracks in a town where rich and poor don’t mix—unless it’s on a football field.

When newcomer Noah Davis arrives, it’s like a breath of fresh air has blown through Emmett’s life. Not only does Noah’s mixed-race parentage make him unlike the other rich kids in town, he’s also openly gay and interested in Emmett, despite all the barriers Emmett has erected to keep prying eyes out of his life. Noah throws Emmett a lifeline when he needs it most—but does Noah really understand what he’s letting himself in for?

Chapter One

DAD, I’M home.

It wasn’t the most original greeting, but it had become a habit. Every day, as soon as school was out, I hit the road, barging past anybody who might stand in my way. I biked the mile to my house, fast enough to build up a slight wheeze and the beginning of a burn in my lungs. As I rounded the last bend and the house came into view, I breathed in sharply and my heart really started to pound. All day I’d tried to keep my mind where it belonged—on schoolwork and avoiding getting dragged into anybody else’s drama. But once I cleared that last bend, I couldn’t duck the inevitable.

I skidded to a halt and leaped off the bike, then vaulted the three steps up to the front porch. My heartbeat sounded loud in my ears as I fumbled my key into my sweating palm, unlocked the front door, and pushed it open. For a split second, I cocked my head, as though I could hear what was waiting for me, and then I raised my voice slightly and called, Dad, I’m home.

There was rarely any response, and even though it had been the same way for months, a sick feeling twisted in my gut. The house had once been alive with noise—my mom yelling back a greeting and reminding me to wipe my feet or hang my coat in the closet; my dad calling from the back room asking what was for dinner, even though we’d had a routine for years and all he needed to know was what day it was to know what would be on the table; and my older brother, Jamie, shouting friendly insults.

Now there was only silence.

I pushed open the living room door and found Dad sitting on the couch in front of the television, exactly as I’d left him this morning. He didn’t acknowledge my entrance, and for a brief moment, my heart stopped, wondering if today had been a bad day. Wondering worse but trying not to let that dread take hold.

Then he turned and our eyes met, and he nodded at me. I read real recognition in his expression and let out a long breath as my rigid muscles unclenched.

Jesus, is it that time already? Where the hell did the day go?

My gaze flickered to the TV, still programmed to the channel I’d left on this morning. Which made it very easy to see where his day had gone—talk shows, soap operas, commercials—a blueprint for a life slowly seeping away.

How are you, Dad? I asked.

The sandwich I’d left on the coffee table was gone, and there was a candy wrapper beside him on the couch, so I knew he’d eaten. I crossed the floor, careful not to snag my foot on the worn carpet, and I bent down, briefly dismayed when I noticed a puddle of liquid on the floor. But it was only the glass of water I’d left on the side table, toppled over and spilled.

I glanced down and, with a sigh of relief, confirmed the dryness in his lap. He had probably jarred the table when he got up to go to the bathroom. I picked up the now-empty glass and righted it before throwing the towel that was draped over the arm of the tattered sofa onto the floor, more or less covering the puddle of water.

Come on. Let’s get you to the bathroom.

Although he hadn’t had an accident, I didn’t know when he’d last been, and I’d learned the hard way that it didn’t pay to wait until he asked to go.

He looked up blankly, but then he nodded and started to struggle to his feet. I grabbed him by the arm and hoisted him up, trying not to notice how unhealthy he looked from being penned up inside too long. I guided him to the bathroom door and pushed him gently inside, pulling the door but not shutting it completely. Then I allowed myself a minute to breathe.

The mail was on the kitchen table, so Mrs. Sweeney must have been in at some time during the day. She lived down the street and dropped by most days to look in on Dad. Though she was half his size and probably had twenty-five years on him, she was one of the few people who’d ever been able to keep him in line. Like everybody in our neighborhood, she was tough, outspoken, and never backed down from an argument. She was one of the few people who knew what went on behind our closed doors, and I trusted her to keep our secrets. It was probably because of her that Dad had eaten his lunch. Without somebody to remind him, he sometimes forgot to eat.

I flicked through the mail, disregarding bills, piling up flyers to be thrown into the garbage, and flooded with relief when I found the envelope I was looking for. Without it I’d never have been able to look after Dad at home. Though I had mixed feelings about accepting this particular handout, I couldn’t afford to be picky. So I choked down my distaste and propped the envelope beside the phone on the kitchen counter before pulling open one of the cupboard doors.

When Dad came out of the bathroom, he wandered into the kitchen.

SpaghettiOs all right? I asked.

We usually ate better than this. I cooked a big pot of chili or made a tuna casserole on Sunday night, and we made a few decent meals of it throughout the week. Mrs. Sweeney helped us out with dinner when she could, even though she lived on a fixed income and didn’t have a lot to spare. I had stopped trying to reason with her about money—it was an argument I always lost.

But today was Thursday, and we had scraped the dregs of this week’s chili out of the pot last night. Now we were down to our last tin of fake pasta.

Isn’t Thursday pot roast?

I turned my head sharply, just in time to see a fleeting glimpse of my real old man staring at me from behind pale, watery eyes.

Used to be, I replied, watching for any sign of what he might be remembering. But the light suddenly faded from his eyes and the blankness returned.

I poured the contents of the tin into a saucepan and cranked the heat, and minutes later the weird orange sauce was bubbling. I filled two bowls and pushed one across the table to Dad. The last crust of bread sat forlornly in the bread bin, its edges dried and curling up. I shared it equally between us.

We ate in silence until Dad said, You think Jamie will be home soon?

I swallowed quickly, a lump of congealed SpaghettiO burning its way down my throat.

Not today.

Probably tomorrow, though?

I nodded. Sure. Probably tomorrow.

My father looked happy, with crumbs scattered down his sweater and orange sauce staining his lips.

And I decided to let him enjoy the illusion and left him that way.

LATER MRS. Sweeney came by with a loaf of homemade banana bread wrapped in a tea cloth. It was still warm from the oven and smelled so delicious my mouth immediately began to water and my stomach growled. Most nights she brought something over, but on Thursdays it was always really substantial, as if she knew how hungry we were by the time our money ran out.

I’ll make us a pot of tea, she said.

I stood in the doorway of the kitchen and watched her work, keeping half an eye on Dad, who was back in front of the TV. I’d changed the channel, and he was now watching the game. He sometimes forgot he was a lifelong sports nut, but whenever I turned the game on, his face lit up with real joy.

He had a good day today, Mrs. Sweeney said.

I grunted my agreement, my eyes drifting to the TV. A love of the Pirates was one of the few things my dad and I shared. Right now they were getting nailed by the Mets, but I didn’t really care. Dad seemed to be enjoying himself, and these days, that mattered more than the score.

Mrs. Sweeney poured boiling water into the teapot and started to slice the banana bread—big, thick slices that crumbled onto the plate. I was so hungry, my stomach actually hurt. She pushed the plate toward me and raised an eyebrow when I hesitated.

Go on, now, she instructed. What are you waiting for?

I picked up a piece and tried really hard not to just shove the whole thing into my mouth.

So, she continued, her eyes searching my face, we won’t be calling social services today.

It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway, my voice thick with warm banana bread. Or something. Not today.

I forced myself to look into her face and watch the way the thin line of her mouth softened.

Not today, she repeated gently. I was grateful she didn’t say anything else.

She went before the ninth inning, with nothing left of her gift but a few flat crumbs on the plate, and even those disappeared as soon as she closed the door behind her.

When the game was over, I helped Dad upstairs to the bathroom. He stood in front of the sink, looking bewildered at the toothbrush in his hand.

You want to brush your teeth? I asked.

He nodded but made no move to follow through. I gently pried the toothbrush from between his fingers and squeezed toothpaste onto the chewed bristles. When I handed it back to him, he continued to stare at it blankly.

Brush, Dad. Like this. I made the motion, and he slowly copied me, giving his teeth a perfunctory cleaning. I lathered soap onto a washcloth and pressed it into his hand, and tonight he seemed to have a better idea what to do with it. When he was finished, his cheeks were ruddy, though there was still a lick of orange SpaghettiO sauce on the side of his mouth. I wiped it away with my thumb as best I could.

He changed into a pair of worn pajamas, the top and bottoms not matching except for their shared shabbiness. It took an age for him to button the top, his fumbled movements slow and uncertain, and I had to fight the urge to push his hands aside and do it for him. When he was finally finished, the whole routine taking at least twenty minutes longer than it should have, he climbed into bed. Tucking him in was one of the many ways our roles had reversed in recent months, and it never lost its weirdness. I leaned over to turn off the light, but his hand came out to stop me. His bony fingers wrapped around my wrist, and he squeezed tight.

You’re a good boy, Emmett, he said. Your mother would be proud.

I was startled into silence, wondering all over again what was going through his head. Sometimes he was totally coherent, though at those times, he rarely mentioned my mother or Jamie. I didn’t know whether this was lucidity or just some random trace of memory.

You think Jamie will come home soon? he asked, unwittingly confirming his addled state of mind.

I dislodged his fingers and patted his hand. Maybe tomorrow, Dad.

He looked up, his eyes bright with hope. It will be good to see your brother again.

You bet.

I dredged up a wan smile and watched him settle down under the covers, and then I turned and left him to his dreams, hoping they were sweeter than his reality.

Chapter Two

IN SOME towns the wrong side of the tracks was figurative, meaning the run-down, deprived, ass-end of the place where all the losers lived. In Whitmore, Pennsylvania, the wrong side of the tracks was literal. It was still the run-down, deprived, ass-end of the town, but in our case there was actually a disused train track running smack through the center, dividing the haves and the have-nots.

Whitmore was once the meatpacking hub of the north, sometime after the slaughterhouses of Chicago gave way to gentrification. Herds of beef had traveled the railway lines on their way to the giant factory that squatted on the edge of town, long since abandoned and about to be torn down to make way for a mall.

Although the packing plant closed down six years ago, the tracks were never dismantled, and now they ran like a rusty river, snaking through town. I guess even back in the day, the rich had lived in the north end of town because all the decent housing and wide, tree-lined streets were above the train tracks, while all the decay and squalor were below.

Not that the north was anything close to what it had once been. When the plant closed, Whitmore started a slow, steady slide into decline. One by one, the small businesses closed, followed by an exodus of shopkeepers and restaurant owners and all the people who had serviced the well-paid management class. For several years, Whitmore seemed practically empty of anybody but the working class, though there was precious little work to earn them that name. There were a few store owners gamely clinging on to what was left of the town’s wealth, though they struggled to maintain their place.

And then the disused packing plant was sold to a conglomerate that wanted to erect a mall. About eighteen months ago, we started to see a change in Whitmore. Slowly, person-by-person, the town began to fill with consultants and middle management. They moved into the run-down houses north of the track and began to renovate, and once they arrived, services quickly followed. Better shops and restaurants began springing up: a beauty parlor, a whole-food supermarket, a dry cleaner with a sign in the window announcing it stored furs. Before long we started seeing new kids at school, and hard on their heels came better teachers, fresh paint, and a whole team to help the janitor keep the place neat and garbage-free.

The tracks that ran through the town also ran through our high school—only this time figuratively. The well-off new kids stuck together, and the original poor kids formed their own clique. I’m not sure which came first, the townies closing ranks against the newcomers, or the rich kids turning their collective back on the poorer ones. But in so many ways, big and small, we existed in two separate camps.

On Friday morning, I dragged my ass to school, trying to come up with a believable excuse why my calculus assignment wasn’t complete. I briefly considered the dog ate my homework defense, hoping I could at least put a smile on Mr. Adams’s face. But Adams was a notorious hardass, and he’d only see my feeble attempt at humor as insubordination. Maybe if I told him the real reason: Dad had one of his restless nights and I had to practically sit on him to keep him from straying. Or maybe not.

I absolutely could not deal with a detention. I could hardly trust Dad alone during school hours. There was no way I could add another forty-minute absence to my day. So, I had no choice but to wheedle last night’s assignment out of Cynthia Howard before class so I could copy her work. I hated to join the long line of asshats who took advantage of her sweet nature, but today I had no option.

You too, Emmett? she sighed when I sidled up to her.

I shrugged, feeling like shit but holding out my hand anyway. She gave me her math book, and I took it sheepishly and sat with my back against the wall of the bicycle shed. It didn’t take more than five minutes to copy the bits I hadn’t gotten to last night. She watched in silence while I scrawled her answers into my book and then returned her work. One of the football team jerkoffs was already waiting with his hand out, and Cynthia gave him her math book with another sigh.

Thanks, Cyn, I said, really meaning it. You’re a lifesaver. Let me know if I can return the favor someday. Not likely, since she had never skipped an assignment in her life, but she smiled anyway.

Mr. Adams gave me a hard stare when I handed in my work, almost as if he could tell it wasn’t all my own. But I plastered on my most innocent look, and short of calling me out, there wasn’t much he could do. I figured he knew half the class copied off Cynthia. We all got suspiciously similar questions wrong, and if Cyn got full marks, most of the rest of the class got them too. One day he’d throw down and we’d all be in the shit, but today he let it ride.

A mind-numbing forty minutes later, the bell rang and we all got to escape. We teemed out into the hallways and rotated into different classrooms, and we did that three more times before it was finally lunch break.

The cafeteria was already full when I arrived. I avoided the table filled with football players, even though I had once been one of them. I still had a few friends on the team, but things between us had become strained. They didn’t understand why I had walked off the team all those months ago, and I wasn’t about to tell them. So I gave them a half wave as I blew past, and I found my place at that table.

There’s always one. The table filled with the kids who don’t quite belong anywhere else. This isn’t a movie or a TV show, so we didn’t fit into any neat little boxes that could be defined with an easy label—the misfit, the loner, the outcast—it was actually a pretty eclectic group. Maybe the only thing we had in common was that we’d chosen to operate outside the mainstream. Or maybe that was just self-delusional bullshit because we were all misfits and loners and outcasts, and nobody else would give us the time of day.

My lunch usually consisted of leftovers, but even I wasn’t insane enough to bring day-old SpaghettiOs, so today I had what could pass as a sandwich, if two stale crackers stuck together with peanut butter could be defined as a sandwich.

I glanced around the table and noticed that some of the other kids weren’t doing much better than me on the food front. It might not need saying, but there wasn’t a single rich kid at the table, as though money insulated them from being isolated or weird as well as sparing them from hunger.

SPORT IS the great American equalizer. It was the only place in this school, anyway, where talent was all that mattered. Nobody cared if you were wearing gold-studded football boots or the ass was hanging out of your threadbare jeans. As long as you had what it took on the field or the ice or the track, nobody gave a damn if you were rich or poor.

It was one of the reasons I’d loved playing football so much. That, and the fact that it was the only time my old man actually treated me as well as Jamie. My brother had played too, of course. Quarterback, MVP, the whole nine yards. It was impossible to grow up male in the Callaghan household and not want to make it onto the football team. When Jamie shipped out, I was the only game in town, so Dad swallowed his indifference toward me and turned up for every match.

I used to watch him out of the corner of my eye as I ran onto the field with the rest of the team, feeling that strange mixture of pride that he was here for me and creeping anxiety in case he did something to show who he really was. Not that our people didn’t already know. Brendan Callaghan was like most of the neighborhood men watching from the sidelines—tough, independent operators who stuck together and supported each other through thick and thin. They were as proud of their Irish and Italian heritage as any of the recently arrived blue bloods who traced their families back to the Mayflower, and in their own way, just as powerful.

It was at times like that, seeing them

Reviews for Not Today

[Laura · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

This book was awfully and painfully disappointing. The ending was terrible.