Sweat Read Online Free Page B

guest. Steve peeked behind the curtain, yanked the tarnished brass knob, and opened the door. Cold stares spoke volumes as the silent collision of the past and present soured the already somber atmosphere.
    â€œIt’s been a long time Peter,” Uncle Steve said.
    â€œYes it has, Steven.”
    The two men stood face-to-face through the half-opened door and Uncle Steve made no effort to invite the guest into the house.
    â€œJake mentioned he saw you at the memorial service. Awfully nice of you to come.”
    â€œI didn’t know that Susan had passed. I got a phone call in Hong Kong and caught the next plane out as soon as I heard,” Peter replied honestly.
    â€œStill the world traveler, eh?”
    â€œSome things never change.”
    â€œYou said it, not me,” Steve replied with bite.
    Miles Davis filled the void in conversation.
    â€œStill in the roofing business?” Peter asked.
    â€œWhen my body lets me. Bad back, worse knees. Some mornings I can barely get out of bed.”
    â€œLooks like your liver is still working,” Peter retorted, gesturing in the direction of the bottle in Steve’s hand.
    For a brief second it was just like old times, two brothers-in-law taking jabs at one another. But time has a way of making strangers out of even brothers, and another moment of awkward silence fell on the two.
    â€œCould we not do this today?” Peter asked. “I just stopped by to say that I‘m sorry for your loss. I know you and Susan were close.”
    â€œYes we were, but not as close as your son was to his mother.”
    â€œMay I come in?”
    Steve considered the request but didn’t move. It was a battle of wills between Uncle Steve, a blue-collar roofer with dirt under his nails, and Peter Winthrop, GQ magazine cover model with manicured nails.
    â€œJust for a minute. I won’t stay long.”
    â€œYou never did,” Steve replied. He took a swig of his beer, fully opened the door with his left hand, and motioned his ex-brother-in-law into his home.
    Peter advanced slowly through the living room, past an old upright piano littered with pictures of people he knew a lifetime before. Uncle Steve followed behind, observing Peter as he took in the ghosts of his past. Peter nodded to an elderly couple on the couch. The white haired husband and wife nodded back at the well-dressed stranger.
    Peter stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. Jake was at the back door, talking to a vaguely familiar face whose name Peter had long since forgotten. The crowd ripping through the hors d’oeuvres and working on food preparations took notice of the intruder, held their breaths, and exited the room as if someone had discovered a bomb in the refrigerator.
    Jake felt the vacuum created around him and turned toward the far doorway to the kitchen. As the whispers grew in the next room, father and son stood at opposite sides of the kitchen like heavyweights in their respective corners of the ring before a fight. Uncle Steve stepped back to give the two some privacy, while remaining close enough to intervene if they needed a referee.
    â€œHi son,” Peter offered first.
    â€œHi Dad,” Jake replied. It felt normal to call him Dad, but it was a title he used without any emotional attachment.
    â€œHow are you holding up?” Peter asked, out of his element in the role of a father.
    â€œBeen better.”
    â€œYeah, I guess so. Sorry to hear about your mother.”
    â€œI’m sorry too,” Jake replied. He wondered if his father was as uncomfortable as he was.
    A long pause interrupted the stalling conversation.
    â€œI wish there was something I could have done.”
    â€œYou could have stopped by and visited her. She was your wife at one point. And the mother of your only child.”
    â€œI didn’t think she wanted to see me.”
    â€œShe was dying, Dad. She wasn’t in the mood for a fight.”
    â€œWell if she