The Insurance

Parenthood was hard. Ryan heard that often enough growing up -- mostly when he got in trouble or hurt, which was more often than he cared to remember.

That's why Ryan decided never to become a parent.

Ryan liked easy. He had no one to answer to other than himself, no responsibilities outside a thriving freelance photography business, a goldfish, and one plastic plant.

Easy. Perfect.

So, when Jen asked him to be his new nephew's godfather, he'd looked at her, down at the sleeping newborn wrapped in an equally new, blue blanket and back. "If I agree, you have to promise not to die." He'd grinned.

"If I don't?" Jennifer's eyes danced as she returned his tease.

"Then you can find yourself another guy, of course." He'd smiled and touched the baby's cheek.

"Then I won't die. Neither will Cliff. We'll live to be a hundred years old, minimum. How's that?"

He'd agreed. Jen never lied. She'd never broken a promise to him.

Until she did. Eleven years later, she and Cliff were both gone and, suddenly, life wasn't easy anymore.

Ryan felt the sorrow of a brother who'd lost his only sibling. He felt astonishment that, in less than one minute, two souls could leave the Earth. He felt afraid. Dean was his to raise.

They'd never spent much time together without the boy's parents, and then Ryan was more focused on the adults than the child. That seemed to suit Dean just fine; he spent most of his time down the road at friend's houses when his uncle made a rare dip into his family's lives.

Ryan hung up the phone after talking to the middle school principal for what felt like the 900th time. He looked out the farmhouse window. It had seemed kinder and easier to uproot his life than the boy's, so he'd left his apartment in the city to return to the farm. He glanced at the goldfish. "What was I thinking?"

He could remember sitting out in that same field, knowing his mom was talking to the school for his own misdeeds.

He sighed. What he wouldn't give for her now. But she'd lost a battle with breast cancer four years ago and Dad had passed the month before Jen. It was just him and Dean now. Him and Dean and the farm.

Dean stood out in the orchard, furtively glancing at the house. Oh, yeah. He'd known this call was coming.

Ryan figured he ought to be glad the boy had at least come home. The last time this kind of call came in, Dean had disappeared for a couple of days, holed up at John Masterson's house, hiding under the bed except when John snuck food to him. God knew what Billy and Kate Masterson thought of him. They had to be shaking their heads, wondering what in the world Jen had been thinking to make him, the community's most famous Peter Pan, responsible for her child.

For all the trouble he'd gotten into as a kid, he'd never put his father through this kind of crap.

But then, his father never got mashed into a million bits and pieces by an 18-wheeler.

Ryan sighed, pulled his slides onto his bare feet, and padded outside. "Talk for a minute?" he called to his nephew.

Dean looked up, a dozen expressions warring for a spot on his face. "I guess."

Ryan kept his own face set, no anger leeching through his intentionally calm expression. It was a battle this time. "Hey, I got a call from Mr. Faircloth just now."

"Uh-huh..." Dean kicked at a clump of grass. "What'd he want? Did I win a medal or something like that?"

Ryan paused. He could feel his blood pressure rising, felt his face flush, and the tingle in his ears that always alerted him that he was about to lose his temper. He pushed it back and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "He figured since he and I spend so much time on the phone these days, we ought to go see the new Marvel movie together on Saturday."

Dean's head jerked upward, his eyes round, his mouth opened in a slight 'ooo'. Then, seeing his uncle's face, he looked back down. "Yeah, right."

Ryan put his hand against an old, gnarled pear tree. "Look... I'd love to say I know what you're going through, that I can help. But I don't know what you're going through and I don't know how to help."

"At least you're honest. Not much else, but honest is something."

"Not much else?" Ryan let his voice trail. He'd given up everything for this kid. It wasn't what he'd signed up for, not what he'd planned when he saw his future.

Dean looked up again. "I gotcha." He spat the words, fully aware of what flashed through Ryan's eyes and mind. "You hate it here, you hate this life, you hate me! Well, I'm with you, Uncle Ryan! I hate it here now! And I hate you, too!" His voice broke. "I want to be with my mom and dad. This was our home. It was our life! Being here with you ... sucks."

The boy kicked the pear tree, hitting the old bark with the toe of his shoe. He tried to walk away, limping, but only made it three or four steps before he allowed his body to slump to the ground. He pulled his knees up, hugged them with his long arms, and planted his face in the soft flesh they provided.

Ryan stared down. Had he been that much of a jerk to the kid? That clueless? He'd tried to stuff everything he'd thought and felt into a place he couldn't access, tried to support Dean's fragile heart without resenting him. But he'd obviously done a piss-poor job of it.

He knelt beside Dean and waited. The words stung, but he refused to react. He'd been a 12-year-old boy once, too.

Dean finally raised his head and made eye contact. "How much trouble am I in?"

"For pushing another kid and calling Mrs. Clark a fat windbag? Some. A lot. I don't know... I'm still working on it."

"Yeah." Dean nodded. "But she really is a fat, old windbag."

"Hey! Language! Watch your language. Anyone who'd teach you deserves a medal, not your mouth." Ryan smiled to soften the words. He paused. "You called her 'old', too? Mr. Faircloth didn't tell me that."

Dean nodded again.

Ryan felt the corners of his mouth twitch. "I had her, too, you know. Homeroom."

"No way! But you were my age ..."

"I know. A hundred thousand years ago. And she was old then."

A small chuckle escaped Dean. He nodded. "You might be old, but at least you're not fat or a windbag."

"Thanks, I think. And, language."

The boy watched a flock of birds, as black as tar, dip into the field near them, studying them with apparent interest. "I don't hate you," he finally whispered.

"I don't hate you, either."

They sat together like that for a few minutes without talking. Dean returned his head to his folded arms and Ryan studied the area around them. He'd grown up here, but it felt alien now. He wondered, not for the first time if he'd made a mistake moving here instead of taking Dean to the city with him. Who knew?

His eyes caught a scar in the old pear tree. It had been there since before he was born. He studied the heart and initials. "Look there," he said and the boy lifted his head, glanced at him, and then looked where his uncle indicated."Those initials are your grandparents'."

Dean squinted to make out the characters. "MDS and RS," he read.

"Yep. Mineola Dodd Swanzey and Rupert Swanzey."

"I've seen it. Mom showed me," he muttered. He looked at Ryan. "Those are some crazy names. Glad I wasn't named after them."

Ryan smiled gently."You're lucky. Your mom was crazy about that story, how Mom and Dad would meet down at the creek after school and stay until their parents hollered for them. Dad told me he took plenty of heat for that, you know, for ignoring his chores, but he said it was the best trouble he ever got in. She was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. Your mom looked a lot like her." He sighed. "Jen loved to tell that story. She was such a romantic. I'm surprised she didn't carve her and your dad's initials right under there."

"She was going to." Dean picked a piece of sweet grass and put the tip in his mouth. "But Dad told her they needed their own tree. It's over there." He pointed but didn't take his eyes off the old tree near them.

"You know," Ryan said, "these old wild pear trees can live as much as 50 years, not like those pampered ones we plant. This one hasn't made it quite that long, but," he reached over to touch it again, "it's near the end of its days. It didn't quite make it to 50, but I guess 42 isn't so bad. I've thought about cutting it down; I just can't bear doing it. I've even come out here with an ax, but... I just can't."

Dean eyed the tree. "It's pretty dead already, Uncle Ryan."

A crow screeched at them from across the field. They both ignored it.

"You know when your Gramps carved those initials there?"

"When he and Granny Swanzey got married?"

Ryan shook his head. "Nah. It wouldn't have lived this long. No, he did that the day Ama told him they were having a baby."

Dean squinted against the early evening sun and looked at Ryan. "You?"

"Not me. My older brother, your Uncle Michael. You never knew him. He was lots older than me and Jen."

"He died in a war, right?"

Ryan nodded. "Do you know why Gramps carved it then?"

"No."

"He said Michael insured the future. He ensured all Gramps worked for. Michael, me, Jen... We were his insurance. And here I am. Still sitting in his field, thinking about this old pear tree. Me. And now, you."

Dean silently stared at the tree. "He's gone." The boy's words were barely audible. "He's gone. Gran is gone. Uncle Michael... Mom and Dad are gone."

"And we're still here." The words fell from Ryan's mouth like gentle rain. "I'm your insurance. You're mine. Because of us, there's still a future."

After some consideration, Dean nodded in agreement but said, "That sounded really dumb, Uncle Ryan. I think you meant to sound smart or pronouned or something but you missed."

Ryan burst out with a laugh that scared the crows into flight. "Pronouned? You mean profound?"

"Yeah." Dean tried to keep the smile from polluting his somber face but the muscles of his mouth turned upward and he gave in to their whim.

"So, why are you acting out at school?" Ryan reached out and touched the boy's arm.

Dean looked at the hand for a minute and then raised his eyes to meet his uncle's. "Losing Mom and Dad was so ... horrible. I feel all alone. I'm mad all the time. I guess I didn't know I had... You know, insurance."

Ryan lifted his eyebrows. "I guess I didn't know, either."

Dean nodded, rose, and reached a hand down to help his uncle up. "Now you do."

Ryan clasped the boy's hand and allowed himself to be dragged to his feet. "Now you do," he repeated.

Together, they walked back toward the farmhouse.