It finally happened on a warm June Saturday. Blythe hadn't seen the signs. Or maybe she'd ignored them: Greg's silence, the way he'd stared at Phil, the way he'd flinched when John spoke to him, and called him "son."
She hadn't been ready, and when it happened, it hit at full force like a wave slamming against the breakwall, or a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky.
Her first warning came as she drove home from the store and saw a neighbor out on her porch looking toward their home, a worried look on her face that didn't let up when she saw Blythe driving down the street and into the driveway.
She turned off the engine and then she heard it. The shouts. The yells. The anger. John's voice and Greg's voice all tangled together. John's was louder. Demanding. Strident. It was all emotion. Even as she got out of the car and rushed to the door she couldn't make out the details. Only the anger. The rage.
"Son of a bitch!" she finally made out as she neared the door. "You don't know what you're talking about."
Greg's voice came back in an answer that was strong and certain, even if it wasn't as loud or as angry as John's. "I'm right," he said. "You know I'm right."
Blythe pushed open the door and saw the two of them standing in the middle of the living room, John using every inch of his height to loom over Greg, but Greg standing straight, not backing down, not giving in.
John's shoulders hitched slightly, his arm drew back.
"John!" she shouted.
He froze, but his right arm still there, held stiffly a few inches away from his body, his fingers curling into what looked like it was becoming a fist.
Blythe crossed the room in two quick steps, placed herself between them. "John," she said softer this time, and reached out toward him, taking his hand in hers. She felt muscle and tendons and bone beneath his skin, all drawn tight and hard. He seemed to fight her touch for a moment, then allowed her to ease his hand down.
"I'm right," Greg repeated.
Blythe felt the tightness muscle its way again to the surface in John's hand, and she turned to Greg. "Quiet," she said. She reached out for him with her other hand but he flinched away, took a step back from both her and John.
She looked from Greg to John and back. John was breathing hard, Greg staring into his face even though he'd finally put some distance between them. She knew he could see the same anger she did, but he didn't seem to care.
Blythe had seen them fight, had heard them yell, had played the referee more times than she could count. She'd never seen them like this.
"What's going on?" she asked.
John kept his gaze locked on Greg. "Ask him," he said. "He seems to know everything."
Blythe kept her eyes on John for a moment longer, seeing the hard set of his shoulders and the way the muscles in his jaw worked beneath the thin layer of skin. She took a tighter grip on his hand, but he didn't look at her.
She turned to Greg. He'd drawn back at John's words, tried to ease away from John – or from her.
"Tell me," she said.
Greg didn't look at her, stared at the floor instead. She reached out, grabbed his arm and turned him toward her before he could slip away. Wouldn't let him go. "Tell me," she repeated.
He finally shifted his gaze from the linoleum to her face. She could see an intensity in his eyes, a certainty that he was right, just as he'd said. She'd seen that look before – that power that seemed like a fire deep inside him. But then she saw something new. Some flash of an emotion she hadn't seen from him before. For a moment, she thought it looked like pity.
"Greg?" she asked, but he looked away again, wouldn't look at her even when she pulled him closer.
"You're so sure you're right, go ahead and say it," John said. His voice was low now. Not a shout. Not a yell. But Blythe sensed the fury beneath the quiet rumbling. "Say it to her." He nodded at Blythe.
Blythe turned back to Greg. He stood there silently for a few seconds, then shook his head and pulled his arm out of her grip.
"You're a liar, and a coward." John leaned forward and his voice got even quieter. "Maybe you think your life would be better if you weren't my son. Too bad for you that you're wrong."
Blythe felt her breath catch in her throat, and tightened her grip on John's hand – not to calm him down this time, but because the world was spinning out from beneath her. The room tilted to one side and she closed her eyes, reached out again to where Greg was, looking for another anchor, but felt nothing.
She heard footsteps and forced herself to breathe. Once. Twice. She held her breath again and recognized the sound of Greg's sneakers running down the hallway. She took another breath and finally opened her eyes when she heard his bedroom door slam shut.
She focused on the place where Greg had been until the room came back into focus. She turned to John, but he still wouldn't look at her, just pulled his hand away from hers and walked away. He slammed the front door on his way out, and left her standing all alone.