The Between Years

as he was careful, he could speak with him, and try and reassure him that he wanted to be a family unit again more than anything in the world.

    Whether or not Kenny would believe him was the real question, he knew. He finally admitted to himself that he'd given Kenny little reason to give him the benefit of the doubt. Seeing was believing, after all. Any child would begin to doubt someone who didn't produce, and Randy wanted to believe that Kenny was much more perceptive than an average child. Therefore, he knew he must produce!

    If he were lucky, he would have very little trouble mending fences with Carol. He knew she would be royally pissed at him right now (and for good reason, he supposed), but she would never have phoned him up-or phoned him back after he'd hung up on her-if she didn't meant to get back together. Therefore, Randy figured the chips were on his side.

    He might need a day or two to let her cool her jets, that was all. But he wouldn't wait too long, because Kenny knew all and the boy had expectations that were much taller than an expensive Christmas gift. But what Randy knew, at the very least, was that Kenny would return to him. After two nights, he had little reason to doubt it, even if the exchange wasn't as pleasant as he'd hoped.

    When he saw Kenny tonight, he knew what he should expect and he felt relieved to have some idea of what to say to the boy. First, he would assure him that he needed just another day or two, but that he promised to bring his mom to him. Nevertheless, he also told himself that he'd kept a demanding boy waiting, that he'd had his time and the clock was ticking. And he also reminded himself that Kenny's age could accelerate again and he could miss out on yet another handful of years.

    What the hell would he do then?

    What if that was the case? He asked himself. Kenny could grow up to be an old man before he knew it . . . or before he could do anything about it. If he could do anything to stop the aging, Randy was determined to find out how, but he knew he must first find out where Kenny was going to do the aging.

    Never before had Randy been forced to make such a decision and the sensitive time constraints compounded it. He remembered how he'd thought he was Kenny's prisoner, but now he realized he was a prisoner of Kenny and his mother.

CHAPTER 18
    I had an idea of what a funeral director should look like: cold, pale, tall, maybe a little morbid and definitely creepy. But the man we met at the funeral home threw me off. Randy and I met Roland Davis at the funeral home several days after Kenny died, once the roads were cleared of snow and debris, and the power was restored. By that point, the shock had worn off and the reality had sunk in. The trade off was about equal for anyone that wants to know.

    For the first few days, Randy and I discussed nothing of practical matters or funerals, we simply had an appointment at Davis and Sons funeral home, and that was it. As it turns out, that had been a smart move since we needed time to lick our wounds. We'd both cried a lot over those few days and my eyes felt like they'd been filled with sand. Randy complained about the resulting headaches. Through it all, neither of us did anything stupid. We were as strong as the proverbial rock.

    Of course, the phone rang off the hook once the power was restored. My parents and Randy's parents all phoned us in tears, and they later called at the house. Aunts, uncles, cousins and friends all phoned with clichés like “What a shame!” and “The Lord took him from us way too soon!”

    We arrived bright and early on a Wednesday morning for our appointment with Roland Davis. From the moment we strolled through the door, I felt tremendous reassurance. The place boasted a fireplace with several plush couches, a hardwood floor, and a coffee urn. From the window, we were invited to a view of the adjacent woods. The doors to what I had assumed were viewing rooms were closed, but if they were anything like the lounge, I could conclude that the place was very tasteful.

    A man with brown hair, a moustache, tinted glasses and a carefully knotted tie appeared in the far doorway and advanced to greet us. Later I told Randy I thought the man looked more like a hotel manager than an undertaker. He shook our hands, told us that his name was Roland Davis and that he was very sorry for our loss. I'd heard that so many times over those few days that it somehow made me feel worse, nauseous. Still,