Rob’s eyes were on fire. He rubbed them with the heels of his hands. It made them burn more. He tried blinking several times, but that didn’t help either. He placed his arms on the table and lowered his head, hiding his eyes in the crook of his elbow. Maybe if he rested them for a while, it would help.

He hated playing the bars. The people were loud, obnoxious, and vulgar. They drank until they couldn’t stand upright. They smoked cigarettes, one right after the other, coughing and spitting. He’d never get used to the language they used, even though he heard some of the words come out of his father’s mouth before.

His ears were ringing, too. After a gig, he would lie awake most of the night because his ears rang so loud. It made him dizzy and gave him a headache. He tried earplugs, but that only drowned out the sounds of the house and made the ringing louder.

Rob hoped they would be playing the last set next. He was tired, and he had an Algebra exam in the morning.

His Algebra teacher wasn’t a big fan of his. He let Rob know he disapproved of his father taking young men into bars and to play music yet. He would be looking for a reason to fail him. And Algebra wasn’t Rob’s best subject. In truth, most of the classes weren’t his best subjects. He might as well admit it. He would be failing his junior year. And he would be failing as long as Dad insisted they play these bars until two a.m. five nights a week.

Shifting uncomfortably in the hard, wooden chair, he lifted his head. His eyes still burned, but there was nothing he could do. He watched the people around him and tried to take his mind off his raging eyes and ringing ears.

He missed his mother. She’d been gone almost eight months now. The hole she left in Rob's heart grew wider with each passing day. Every morning he would wake up and listen for the clattering of pots and pans from the kitchen. He would wait for his dad to yell for her to quiet down. His nose would wait for the smell of a hot breakfast to drift up the stairs.

But the house was silent. The smells of breakfast would no longer wake him. He felt like he was living in a tomb.

Rob's attention came back to the bar. Without realizing it, he had been holding his breath as he watched his dad. He was standing at the bar, flirting shamelessly with a woman who sat smiling up at him. The woman had a drink in one hand and another on the bar, waiting for its turn.

She seemed to be a little older than his dad. Her hair was a light brown with streaks of grey running through it, and she wore it short, curling just below her ears. Small pearl earrings dangled from her earlobes. Her eyes were beady, her smile thin. The skirt she wore, she had now pulled above her knees. She had crossed her legs and swung one leg back and forth. Each time she swung her leg, her sandaled foot seemed to get a little closer to Carl's leg.

Rob turned his gaze quickly away when the old man caught him staring at them. He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks, and he tried not to watch them but found himself observing them through lowered lashes. He was starting to feel a little sick and wished that his brothers saw this. But they were busy with their heads together, rehearsing their harmonies over the loud voices and clinking glasses. Rob wanted them to know. He wanted to show them what he was seeing, but he just couldn't bring himself to get their attention. He was afraid that they’d laugh at him, as they always did.

Now the woman was sliding off her stool, grabbing the drinks, one in each hand. His dad slipped his arm through hers and they left the bar and approached the boys. Rob spun around in his seat and pretended that he didn't see them. Please, Dad, please, don't bring her over here, he prayed silently.

But that's just what Dad was doing, all smiles as he led the woman to their table. "Hi, kids," he grinned as he approached them.

The brothers glanced up in surprise. They had been so involved in their singing they had not noticed their father. Rob saw their eyebrows raise in unison. At least now they noticed, and Rob gained a small bit of satisfaction from the looks on their faces.

"I want you boys to meet someone." He brought her around in front of him and placed his hands familiarly on her shoulders. "Greta, these are my boys. Caleb, Jacob, Luke, and Robbie. Boys, this is Greta, Miss Baker to the four of you."

All four boys were shocked into a motionless silence as they stared at the strange woman whom their father seemed to know all too well.

"Didn't I raise you better than that?" he asked, his voice rising above the crowded room. "Stand up in the presence of a lady, for Christ's sake."

Caleb was the first to stand and offer his hand. "Hi, nice to meet you, Greta-er-Miss Baker."

The others stood and shook the woman's hand.

"It's so nice to meet you, boys," she said. Her voice had a high-pitched, gravelly quality to it as if she had been a heavy smoker at one time. "I've heard so much about you."

"You have?" Caleb asked in surprise. "We haven't heard anything about you."

Their dad’s hand clapped Caleb across the ear.

"Ow!" Caleb exclaimed. "What'd you do that for, Dad?"

"You're rude. And the break is over."

Still rubbing his ear that was slowly turning a bright red, Caleb nodded to his brothers, and they rose and climbed to the stage. Their dad seated Ms. Baker at the table the boys had left and followed his sons.

He tapped the microphone, then cleared his throat. "Everybody," he said into the mic. "Excuse me, people." He tapped the mic again. When he still wasn't heard, he raised his voice. "I said, excuse me!" He shouted into the microphone.

The bar grew suddenly quiet. The people had turned to the stage.

"I have an announcement to make," he said, clearing his throat again. "And since I know most all of you here, I wanted to share this news with you." He motioned to Ms. Baker. "Stand up, sweetheart. I want to introduce you all to my future wife, Greta Baker."

***

He sat hunched down in the pew between his brothers. His tie was too tight, and the smell of the flowers that decorated the church made him nauseous. They reminded him of his mother's funeral. He wanted to cry. He wanted to throw up. This was wrong. He had no idea how much worse it would get.

A few of their dad’s relatives sat in the pews on the groom’s side of the church. Some of Mum’s kin sat there too.

But on the other side, the pews were empty.

There was no organist. The only sounds in the church were hushed whispers, coughing, the rustle of clothing. Parents warned their children to be still.

She wore a cream-colored suit with matching shoes. The suit was not new. It had been stored in mothballs in her attic for years. On her head, sat a large hat filled with yellow mums. She carried the same flowers in a small bouquet that she held close to her breast.

Greta's shoes squeaked as she walked up the aisle.

As she approached the altar, she passed the children and grinned. Her teeth were yellow and crooked, her smile indistinct.

Rob covered his eyes with the heels of his hands. He couldn't stand to look at her. How could his father marry so soon after Mum's death and to a woman as hideous as this?

"Oh, God," he groaned. It came out louder than he realized, and Caleb elbowed him in his side.

"Stop it," he whispered. "Dad's happy. Leave it at that."

"Dad's never been happy," Rob whispered back.

"He will be now," Caleb said. "She's loaded."

The wedding couldn't be over soon enough for Rob. But he still had to get through a small reception held at Greta's house. Not all the wedding guests came, and the ones that did ate nothing from the table where Greta had pulled leftovers from her refrigerator. Hot dogs that had been boiled for her supper, possibly days or weeks ago, and still in the same water she had cooked them, were placed on the table. The bread and buns were turning blue with mold on the edges. Pastries were stiff and had started to develop mold.

Some of the guests opted for water until they spied the oily dishwater in the sink where she washed her dishes.

Rob watched his dad. The old man sat at the table, heartily stuffing his face. Rob couldn't understand how he could eat this debris after all the savory dishes Mum had made when alive.

"Come on, kids." His father caught him staring. "Eat something. There's a lot of good food here. We don't want it to go to waste."

"Can we go home, Daddy?" Ruthie asked. "I'm tired."

"We are home, Sweetheart. This is our home now.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “But what about our house?”

“Well, we’ll be selling our house to a family that will be as happy there as we were.”

Did he really believe that? Rob thought.

“I want Mum,” Lizzy started to cry. “Mum’s at our house. I want to go home, too.”

His father lifted Lizzy from her chair and sat her in his lap. “Mum’s not there, Sweetheart.”

“Where did she go?” Lizzy wiped at the tears on her face.

“She went to Heaven.”

“Can I go there, too?”

“Not yet, Lizzy.”

“But when is she coming back?” Ruthie asked.

Rob waited for his dad’s answer, wondering what he would tell them.

He sat silent for a moment, his hand absently stroking Lizzy’s dark hair. He adjusted her on his knee and pulled her closer, and said, “I don’t know, Ruthie. Whenever she’s ready to come back, I suppose.”

“But when?” Lizzy cried and started to shake her head back and forth. “When, when, when?”

“Lizzy.” His father shook her gently. “Listen to me. Mum was very tired. She worked very hard cleaning the house and taking care of you kids. She got tired, so she had to go to Heaven to rest. Maybe once she’s rested, she’ll come home.”

Rob glared at his father.  Don’t lie to them!”

“But if we sell our house, how will she find us?” Ruthie sniffled.

“Everything will be fine.” A distant look clouded his father’s eyes. For a moment, Rob thought the old man disappeared. Then he blinked several times and looked at them. “Everything will be fine.”

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