like he’s a muscled up man of twenty, drinking his craft beer and eating from Ilene’s kitchen every night where even the vegetables are cooked in butter and salt. I’m not sure how to fight cancer, but my gut tells me it involves a lifestyle based on less stress, healthy eating, and eight hours of sleep every night. All things Unc is not doing. Hell, things he’s probably never done!
“I’m doing what I want, same as always. No reason to fix something that ain’t broke. And to be clear, I ain’t broke.” This time, I lift one brow, mimicking the move he’s perfected. “I’m not,” he asserts. “I’m old, not done.”
I’m glad to hear that he hasn’t given up. His fight is strong, going so far as to fight the doctor and whatever weakness his body has succumbed to with the iron will he’s always had.
Relief grows inside my heart, even though nothing has really changed.
Unc still has cancer. But now we’re talking about it at least, and that is a change for good.
He’s still a stubborn old coot. But now I can call him out on being pig-headed and ornery.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you from the get-go, but I wanted to stay, wanted time with you. I still do,” I plead. “I’m sorry if I overstepped with the yardwork and office organizing.” I look around the room, gesturing to the file cabinet with drawers that actually close cleanly instead of getting stuck on stacks of crooked papers. “I really was trying to help without stepping on your toes.”
His boots wiggle on the desk. “These old boots protect my toes just fine, girl. Don’t you worry about dancing on them. If anything, I should be the one apologizing to you.”
I shake my head, and he does the eyebrow thing, freezing my tongue before I can argue.
He sits up straight, his feet on the floor once again as he leans forward over the desk. “You said your piece, now I’m gonna say mine. You’d best listen up, too, because I’m not doing this whole thing again.” He points from himself to me, like this conversation is the very definition of hell to him. Not because it’s me, but because words have power and he’s speaking out loud about something beyond his control, a scary prospect for anyone, but certainly for a man like Hank Davis.
I nod, zipping my lip and listening.
“One, nobody knows shit and I intend to keep it that way. The gossipy Guses of this town have enough ammunition to keep them busy six days a week and twice on Sunday, and I don’t need them gossiping about me, coming in to check on me, and sending over casseroles like I can’t cook my own damn dinner.”
He says the word ‘casserole’ with disgust, and a smile tries to bloom, but I press my lips together.
“Two, you’re a damn good worker and an even better bartender. I might have some days where I’d like to sit on my keister and catch a fish or two, so if that’s what I want to do, I’m gonna, if that’s good with you?”
He means the days he’s too tired or nauseous to come into work, but if he wants to call it ‘fishing’, I’ll happily oblige.
“Of course. Fishing is important. Relaxing on a boat in the sunshine sounds lovely.”
He looks toward the door, and I know he’s trying to escape this next part. But he digs down for courage and says what’s on his mind. “Third, there might be some days where I’d like you to go fishing with me, just sit on the boat by my side, you know? I promise not to be a grumpy asshole and throw screwdrivers around when you’re trying to help me . . . fish. Sorry about that. It was a bad day.”
Tears prick at my eyes, hot and burning, but I refuse to let them fall. If he can be this brave, so can I. “I would love to go fishing any time you’d like, Unc.”
He dips his chin once. “Thank you, Willow-girl. You’ve always had the sweetest spirit and you’ve already brought so much sunshine to my days.”
I smile at the kind compliment. Right up until he finishes . . .
“Now get out there and get to work. The lunch crowd ain’t gonna wait for you to get ready for them. They want their drinks and want them now.”
He’s not my kind uncle anymore, down because of a hard situation. Nope, he’s