Danny takes his crutches from Linda and looks at the press of people all trying to leave Mass at the same time. When there's a break in the crowd, he's going to make a run—well, hobble—for it.
His dad whispers to Linda, and he takes that opportunity to hoist himself to his feet and get out of the pew. His dad's security detail has disappeared as silently as they came, and the nice gap between people has been replaced by a group of 10- or 11- year-olds, all eager for after-Mass donuts.
Today seems like a day they should have skipped the donuts, even if is the second Sunday of the month…
He inches forward, putting less and less weight on his left ankle. It's killing him. If anyone says the word "psychosomatic" to him, he's going to knock them down with one of his crutches.
The kids are jostling and shoving both in front of and behind him, and he regrets his plan to make a run for it.
He's trapped.
The door might as well be a football field away.
A hand on his shoulder makes him jump. "Come on, we'll go out the side door."
It's Linda, and he relaxes just a fraction, until she says, "Your dad is looking forward to seeing you at dinner."
He shakes his head. "Please, let's just go home. Let the boys go to dinner, and…please take me home."
She doesn't say anything, just guides him toward the door, trying to be a buffer against the crowd.
He's sweated through his dress shirt by the time they get to the car.
Linda turns the A/C on full blast, and he turns the vents toward him, leans his head back and closes his eyes.
Her hand rubs his shoulder, which is aching from the strain of using the crutches. "Your dad said, quote, 'Tell Danny I'm looking forward to seeing him at family dinner. There have been too many empty chairs lately. We're having barbecue."
That meant they'd ordered from the barbecue place that gave 25% of its proceeds to the families of first responders who died on 9/11. He doesn't think he can keep anything down…
"Dad?" a voice says, and he opens his eyes to see Sean looking at him worriedly.
"What's up, kiddo?"
Sean shrugs, and hugs him tightly. "I'm proud of you," the pre-teen—he'll be 13 in less than a month—says.
He clears his throat. "Thanks, Sean-o. Where's your brother?"
"He went with Uncle Jamie to pick up the barbecue—Mom said it was okay."
He nods, and ruffles his son's hair before returning the hug. "Go on, get in, we don't want to keep Grandpa waiting."
"So you're going?" Linda asks in a whisper as Sean gets in the back, and Danny nods.
"I was glad to see you at Mass," his dad says after saying grace.
"Yeah—shouldn't you be off the crutches by now? It's been two months," Erin says before he can reply.
"Tomorrow will be 9 weeks," Linda says tartly. "But just because it's been that long, doesn't mean he's fully healed."
He reaches under the table to squeeze her hand. "Yeah. I…I would've been, but I sprained it a couple weeks ago. I go back to PT tomorrow." He sighs. Physical therapy with Nate and therapy-therapy with Doc…it's gonna be a great day.
"That was a good sermon Father gave," Jamie says.
His dad visibly flinches.
Danny pushes his plate away.
"How's school going, boys?" Jamie asks, apparently trying to make up for his slip.
The boys start talking over each other, and Danny picks up a piece of cucumber with his fingers and eats it.
He manages one barbecue pork sandwich and a little bit of salad, passes on the dessert—apple pie from their favorite bakery. "The most American dessert there is," his grandfather says.
He nods, and takes one bite of vanilla ice cream Linda offers him.
He needs to get his act together or someone's going to say something.
"I'm glad you came," his dad says again when they're alone in the kitchen, and takes a sip of his whiskey.
Danny nods and leans back against the kitchen counter. He should not be standing—his ankle is protesting all 50% of his weight—but if his ankle's throbbing, then he can't think about that horrible day and week and month fifteen years ago.
He takes a sip of his ginger ale and swallows his pain pill with it. "I…wasn't thinking, Dad. About what today was. I'm sorry."
"Sorry? What do you have to be sorry for, Danny?"
"For coming. For…being alive when John McKenna isn't."
His dad holds a hand up. "Danny…stop. John was my partner and my friend—but you're my son. I was glad to have you and Linda and the boys in the pew with us. And, Danny…look at me."
He takes another sip of ginger ale, looks at his father, startled by the pain and love and hurt in the eyes of a man who never shows those emotions—not like this.
"Never apologize to me for being alive—never again. Do you understand me?"
He nods. "Yeah. I…I hear you, Dad," he says, and startles a little when the older Reagan moves to him and wraps him in a bear hug he hasn't felt since Joe died.
His dad's hand cards through his hair—another long-forgotten gesture, one he hasn't felt since grade school, and he relaxes into the hug. "'M sorry about…earlier. At church."
"It's okay, Danny. I had a tear or two in my eye, also."
He scoffs. "Yeah? You didn't break down crying in the middle of the whole d*** church."
A hand cuffs his ear—a rebuke for using a curse-word in reference to a church. "You've had a lot going on, Danny. I think it's to be expected that you're a little more emotional than usual—both from the song, and the weight of the day, and the pain meds you're on, and the pain you're in. Nothing wrong with being human."
He wants to remind his dad of the "Reagans don't do that" mantra he heard his whole life, but he's too tired, and he needs to get off his foot; so when his dad offers to help him get to the car—so he can get a break from crutches—he accepts with alacrity.
Maybe once the boys have finished their homework, he and Linda can take a soak in the tub.