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John rolled the window all the way down and inhaled sharply. His eyes filled with tears. Home. He was going home. For the first time in – God, how long? It was Spring when he left for the Guild, more or less. The Yokohama mission took up all of his Summer and some of his Autumn. He postponed his homecoming for as long as he possibly could, even though, when he thought about it, he could have simply returned once the boss disappeared. He could have washed his hands of the entire thing, gone home, and tried to forget all about it, what he saw, what he did, what he learned. He could have – but he didn’t. Why, he still wasn’t sure. He had a feeling, deep within his tortured soul, that if he’d gone home too early, he would’ve only hurt his family, tainted them with his sin. It was better to wait. It was only once he realised that he might have gotten too used to waiting that he decided to go.
He was sad to have missed Christmas. He did buy his siblings gifts. They were all waiting in the back of his truck. If there was one thing that he was definitely excited for, it was the thought of seeing their delighted little faces. How much have they changed? Had Ruthie grown at all? How was Rosasharn’s baby? She was one month into her pregnancy by the time he left. She would’ve given birth… in November? Around the time of Twain’s birthday. That’s funny. He hoped that it would be the same day, though it was probably too late to name the baby after him.
John glanced at the passenger’s seat. Twain was fast asleep, snoring softly. Poor thing, he tired himself out with a game of “I spy with my little eye”. He was persistent with it. He kept it up for an hour before his eyes closed by themselves. Knowing that the other wouldn’t catch him, John sent Mark a loving look, deeply fond and appreciative. Twain was one of the reasons why he was afraid to go home. He was also the reason why ultimately he decided to do so anyway. It felt wrong to hide the details of his job from his family, sure, but he could imagine himself being vague without feeling dishonest. It was no reason to avoid his family. His Ma would tell him to only tell what he wants to, anyway. But the Twain thing, that was different. That he didn’t want to keep away from everyone. It wouldn’t be fair to him. It wouldn’t be fair to anybody. So he would tell. That’s what he decided.
The landscape passed in front of his eyes and to his sides. Gorgeous fields, gold, purple and green, shining in the sunlight. He was still a good few miles from reaching the town, but it already smelled like home. If he only asked, he could’ve been transported almost directly to his house, but he didn’t. He finally got Rocinante back after his terrible crash, and he wanted to let her roam the roads that she was meant for. This way, it also felt like he earned his homecoming. It was nice to drive, and even nicer with such a pleasant goal in mind. He wanted to really feel the weight of coming home after such a long and torturous exile.
He’d forgotten how gorgeous California was. He wasn’t sure how that was possible, but he forgot. And, with its forgiving beauty and sunlight, it welcomed him back. He could only hope that his own mother would embrace him just as happily.
John parked a short walk away from his house. Partially out of convenience, partially because he wanted to put as much distance between his house and sleeping Twain as possible, and finally, because he wasn’t sure how he was going to react once he saw it, and he wanted to be able to face it on his own.
He turned briefly towards Twain, sending him a final heartfelt look. I’ll come back for you. If I don’t forget to. Just kidding. Wait for me, all right?
Making sure not to make too much noise, he closed the door. With his hands in his pockets, he headed towards the house. His feet carried him on their own, he didn’t need to think at all about the directions. His body and soul were yearning for home.
He was spotted before he could even approach the house. A massive brownish smudge pounced at him out of nowhere, nearly knocking him off his feet. John’s hands instinctively found the right spots to pet and scratch. “Charley,” he whispered, trying to stifle the laughter that rose up in his throat, choking him up. Charley the poodle could recognise his master from any distance, that much was certain. He licked John’s face and pawed at him and stomped on his stomach and legs, no doubt leaving muddy paw prints on his clothes.
After what felt like an eternity – but what a pleasant way to spend it! - John managed to free himself from the hurricane of affection. Charley ran laps around him while he dusted himself off as best as he could. It must’ve been nice to have this much energy, he reckoned. “Let’s go home, old boy. I might take you for a walk later. How’s that sound?”
Charley twirled around so many times in a row, it was a wonder that he didn’t fall flat on his butt. Well, John did mention a “walk.” He proceeded forward, looking ahead with a twinkle in his eye. He already felt like he was halfway home, now that he had Charley by his side. Now he could believe that his family would welcome him home just as enthusiastically. He hopped over the fence and proceeded down the dirt road, towards the main building. If he timed this right, his family should just about be getting ready to sit down for dinner. Well, even if he was late, they wouldn’t let him go hungry.
John took a deep breath. He knocked on the door and took a step back, taking off his hat.
Raised voices came from inside the house. He couldn’t make out any of the words, but he could tell that his dear family was trying to decide who should open the door and check who it was that wanted something from them. John impatiently stomped his feet to warm up. California wasn’t exactly cold, even in February, but he hoped that he wouldn’t be made to stand outside for too long anyway.
Finally, the door opened. Whoever opened was considerably shorter than John – when he kept his head straight and looked ahead, all he could see was the lights inside the room. He tilted his head down slightly and lowered his line of sight. His eyes met a pair of hazel ones, staring back at him from a dirty face surrounded by messy hair. Winfield. Dear God, Winfield. The boy stared at him for a few seconds, as if he needed time to realise that he wasn’t seeing ghosts. It was John’s hand on Charley’s head that finally convinced him that his brother was real, and he turned his head towards the interior of the house. At the top of his lungs, he proclaimed: “Ma, John came home!”
Another wave of noise came from inside the house. Raised voices, more of them than before, all blending together as the entire Steinbeck family rushed towards the front door to confirm Winfield’s words. Ruthie peered out first and, shoving Winfield aside, rushed towards John, barefoot, and leapt into his arms without a word. Somewhere in the back he noticed Rosasharn, rosy and pink and delicate as ever, visibly no longer pregnant. Pa and Uncle John and his grandparents all came to see too, some laughing, some crying, some complaining that he hadn’t sent a letter or made a phone call to tell them that he’d finally be coming back. But when Ma came out of the house, all of them made way for her, falling silent.
She hadn’t aged a day. She aged ten years. Wrinkles of worry and greying hair – and the same keen eyes, looking him up and down to make sure that he was really her lost son, come home at last. Love and relief welled up in her chest and she embraced him, making sure to avoid crushing Ruthie who was still clinging onto him. She wasn’t a crier, and neither was John, but in that moment, their eyes were wet. Just a little. He buried his face in her hair and let a shiver run through his body. Home. Home. Motherly embrace. Home.
“Johnny,” Ma whispered, letting him go. She couldn’t let the moment go on for too long. “You’re home.” She ruffled his hair, like she’d done since he was a little boy. “You’re staying for dinner,” she half-asked half-stated, eyeing him curiously. It was just like her to ask for so little after he’d been gone for so long.
“I am,” he assured her, cradling Ruthie in his arms. “Maybe longer. I’m proper hungry. Proper tired too. I just need to go and do one thing. I got a fella in my truck. A good friend. Could he come stay for dinner too?”
Ma waved her hand impatiently. “What’re you waiting for? Come bring him! What’s one extra chair?” She laughed. “We set out your chair at the table every day in case you came. I knew you’d be back one day. Someone, grab a chair for the guest,” she instructed, directing the order towards the men. If she was this bossy, that meant everything was how it should be.
Winfield tugged her skirt. “Ma, can I go with him?”
“No,” Ma said immediately, pointing towards the house. “Better go wash your face. You can’t be walking around with mud on your face.” She hesitated. “You didn’t grab chocolate before dinner, did you?”
“No!” Winfield immediately headed towards the house before she could check.
“I’ll take Ruthie with me,” John said. “And Charley. I’ll be back in a minute or two. Just hope nobody stole him along the way. He was proper asleep.”
And so they parted ways. The Steinbeck rushed back into the house to prepare the feast, making sure that the guest got his own place. And John, with Ruthie on his back, headed towards Rocinante, with Charley running laps around him, almost knocking him over every time their routes converged.
“Who’s this fella?” Ruthie asked. She was always curious.
“He’s my childhood friend,” John answered, truthfully. “He knew you when you were a baby.”
“What? No way!” She accidentally tugged on his hair, exclaiming in disbelief. It wasn’t clear whether she didn’t belief that she was ever a baby, or that anyone could’ve known her back then. “Do you think he remembers me?”
John laughed, banging on the door. “Sure he does. I talk about you a lot so it’s not like he could forget.”
Ruthie gasped. “You talk about me? What did you tell him?”
“Sure I talk about you. Only good things,” he assured, and it technically wasn’t a lie. Inside the truck, Twain jumped in his seat, startled. John forcefully opened the door and leaned in. “Wake up, sleepyhead. We’re home. We’ve come to steal you away.”
Twain grumbled, struggling to crawl out of his seat. “You could’ve been more gentle, dammit,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. He blinked a few times to regain sharpness of vision. That was when he noticed Ruthie, staring at him curiously from over the top of John’s head. A pair of grey eyes watching his every move – waiting for a reaction. “Oh, hey! If it ain’t Ruthie! Been a while since I last saw you!”
Ruthie gasped, her eyes widening. She poked John’s temple. “He does remember!”
“I told you he would,” John said calmly, helping Twain get out of the truck. “C’mon, Twain. Dinner’s waiting.”
He didn’t have to tell him twice. The three of them hurried towards the house, trying not to trip over Charley. Twain made conversation with Ruthie, telling her about his and John’s childhood together. They seemed to get along well. That was a relief. Whenever he felt he could get away with it, he would let his hand brush against the other’s.
He set Ruthie down beside the table. After a short introduction, he was seated between Ruthie and Twain. Nobody questioned him when he insisted that the two of them were childhood friends. Some said they remembered him, and that he’d grown a lot since then. Only Rosasharn seemed slightly confused. She remembered – she was around their age. John prayed that she wouldn’t make any comments about it, such as I thought that was a girl.
The dinner went well. Mark’s leg brushed against his the entire time. The two of them avoided being asked any questions, mostly because everyone’s mouths were full. He knew that if they stayed for longer, curious mouths and prying eyes would eventually get to them. But that was all right. Maybe they wouldn’t have to. If only he could bring himself to come clean before everyone got up from the table.
Ruthie tried to talk him into giving her his dessert. If there was something that could make him feel at home, it was that.
“C’mon,” he said softly, putting his hand over the piece of pie. “Can I get just one dessert now that I’m home?”
She puffed out her cheeks. “Why should you get rewarded for leaving us for a year?”
“I guess I’ll be leaving again,” he said, sighing. “If nobody loves me here.”
Ma laughed. “Ruthie, you’ve been getting his desserts for a full year. Let the boy have one. Who knows when was the last time he ate a proper meal?”
John ate his pie. He noticed, with a certain sense of unease, that the family was starting to stir in their seats. It was now or never. He didn’t feel ready. He would never feel more ready. He stood up, clearing his throat.
“Sorry. I have something to say. Can I?”
Pa leaned back in his chair, laughing with the satisfaction only a man with a full stomach could muster. “Johnny, you’ve been gone a year! We’re all curious to hear from you. Anything you wanna share with us, we’ll listen. Right?” And he looked around the table.
While he seemed oblivious to John’s tenseness, Ma was perfectly aware of it. Curious, concerned, she looked directly at him. And she nodded. “Only tell us if you want to. Not if you feel you need to. We don’t want to know if it’d hurt you to have us know. All right.”
John felt love and gratitude towards his mother, so strong that it nearly made his knees buckle.
Winfield turned towards him. His face was already dirty again. “Did you see any dinosaurs?”
“Winfield! Let him talk!”
“Well, there’s a lot I’ll wanna tell you about – later, if you’ll still wanna have me. But I need to get this out first.” He reached for Twain’s hand. When he felt a squeeze, some tension finally left his body. “Mark here,” he said softly, “he’s a nice fella. He’s my best friend. We met when I was seven – remember? We met again out there. I’m glad I found him.” He smiled apologetically, right at his mother. “Ah, I’m rambling. Sorry. I guess I’m trying to put it off.” He took a deep breath. “I love him, Ma. I’ll stay with him. Forever, God willing. I don’t wanna leave you folks, but I came just to tell you. If you don’t want me here anymore, I’ll understand.”
He felt a small hand on his back. Ruthie. She was stroking his lower back. He needed that gesture more than he needed oxygen. He was sure that he would collapse without it, without Twain’s hand squeezing his. He’d never felt this weak before.
Pa and Uncle John exchanged glances. The grandparents seemed either asleep or otherwise disconnected from the scene. Winfield was picking his nose. Rosasharn sent curious glances Mark’s way, evaluating him. And Ma stared directly into John’s face, unmoving. She was thinking. Whatever she decided would be law, and he knew it. Pa wasn’t the head of the house, Ma was, even if he liked to think himself the leader.
Ma pushed her chair back slightly, as if she were to stand up. But instead, she nodded at him, patting her knee. “Johnny, come here. Don’t be scared.”
Ruthie withdrew her hand. Twain gave his hand one final squeeze before letting go as well. His eyes followed John, concerned and fearful, as he walked towards the other side of the table. He felt as though he were about to be executed. But once he sat in his mother’s lap, all his anxiety was gone. Her hand ruffled his hair, and he leaned into the touch. He felt like a little boy again. A little boy who might be in trouble, but might talk himself out of it.
“Johnny,” she whispered, holding his head. John felt small. “Tell Ma what’s in your heart. I won’t yell at you. I want to understand.” He nodded. “You’ll talk? That was a beautiful confession. I want to know that you mean it.”
John sniffled, clinging onto her. “I do. I do, I do. With my entire heart, I do.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I love him, Ma. I don’t know what I’d do without him. I almost went and did something stupid back there. He talked me out of it. And he loved me. And it wasn’t easy to love me, but he did. He does. I don’t wanna leave him alone again, Ma.”
Ma’s eyes narrowed at Mark as she continued to sift through John’s golden locks. “You, boy. Mark, is it?” she said calmly.
Mark perked up. His gaze was focused on what he could see of John’s face. “Yeah, that’s me.”
Her voice was hoarse, inquiring, but not forceful. “Do you love my son?”
“Yeah.” There was no hesitation in his voice. “Always did. He’s a good boy! He’s my boy.” He cracked a smile. “He plays mean tricks on me sometimes, but that’s part of the fun. And he hurts himself bad for no reason, so he needs me to slap sense into him sometimes, y’know?”
The children covered their mouths, stifling laughter. The corner of Ma’s mouth twitched. “All right. I can tell that you know what you’re talking about. You love a person, not an idea of a person. If you went and told me that he’s an angel sent from heaven, I’d be worried, but what you said… that feels real.”
Mark grinned. “Ain’t nobody perfect but me,” he said sincerely. Now the children couldn’t hold their laughter anymore.
“I see that,” Ma said. “Children, you have my blessing. I may come to regret it later, but I don’t have the heart to stand in your way. I’ll let you make your own mistakes.” She patted John’s back. “Mark, come get your boy. He’s all yours now. All I ask is you share him with us.”
Mark sprinted towards her seat and pulled John up into a hug. John felt limp in his arms, but instinctively returned the embrace.
Pa piped up. “Wait, don’t go making that call without me! Don’t you need the father’s approval?”
“No,” Ma insisted. “When asking for a girl’s hand, you talk to the father. I guess if you were asking for a boy’s hand, you’d ask the mother.”
“You have your logic,” Pa said diplomatically. “I won’t get in your way. Suppose we’re not getting grandkids out of that?”
“Shush, you.”
Mark grinned. “I mean, we can try for you!”
Ma burst out laughing. “Wild boy. Go take a bath now, or help Rosasharn with the dishes. I’ll make your,” she hesitated for a moment, “bed. Johnny’s bed stood untouched for a long time. I’ll refresh it.”
John, drunk with happiness and relief, leaned on Twain and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. A small hand tugged on his pants. He looked down. Ruthie. “Yeah?”
“I knew you were together. I knew,” she said proudly.
“Oh yeah? How’d you figure it out?” John asked, smirking.
“The way you held his hand when you helped him get out. You lingered on it a bit too long. You’d only do it if you were in love.”
John laughed. His hand found its way into Twain’s again. “Yeah. That’d do it,” he admitted.