Read Online In the Lake of the Woods by Tim O’Brien - Free Book Online

course. Besides, you're my best pal." After dinner John would watch his father slip out to the garage. That was the worst part. The secret drinking that wasn't secret. But in the mirror, John would be there with him, and together they'd stand in the dim light, rakes and hoses and garage smells all around them, and his father would explain exactly what was happening and why it was happening. "One quickie," his father would say, "then we'll smash these goddamn bottles forever."
    "To smithereens," John would say, and his father would say, "Right. Smithereens."
    In all kinds of ways his father was a terrific man, even without the mirror. He was smart and funny. People enjoyed his company—John, too—and the neighborhood kids were always stopping by to toss around a football or listen to his father's stories and opinions and jokes. At school one day, when John was in sixth grade, the teacher made everyone stand up and give five-minute speeches about any topic under the sun, and a kid named Tommy Winn talked about John's father, what a neat guy he was, always friendly and full of pep and willing to spend time just shooting the breeze. At the end
of the speech Tommy Winn gave John a sad, accusing look that lasted way too long. "All I wish," Tommy said, "I wish he was
my
father."
    Except Tommy Winn didn't know some things.
    How in fourth grade, when John got a little chubby, his father used to call him Jiggling John. It was supposed to be funny. It was supposed to make John stop eating.
    At the dinner table, if things weren't silent, his father would wiggle his tongue and say, "Holy Christ, look at the kid stuff it in, old Jiggling John," then he'd glance over at John's mother, who would say, "Stop it, he's
husky,
he's not fat at
all,
" and John's father would laugh and say, "Husky my ass."
    Sometimes it would end there.
    Other times his father would jerk a thumb at the basement door. "That pansy magic crap. What's wrong with baseball, some regular exercise?" He'd shake his head. "Blubby little pansy."
    Â 
    In the late evenings, just before bedtime, John and Kathy often went out for walks around the neighborhood, holding hands and looking at the houses and talking about which one they would someday have as their own. Kathy had fallen in love with an old blue Victorian across from Edgewood Park. The place had white shutters and a white picket fence, a porch that wrapped around three sides, a yard full of ferns and flower beds and azalea bushes. She'd sometimes pause on the sidewalk, gazing up at the house, her lips moving as if to memorize all its details, and on those occasions John would feel an almost erotic awareness of his own good fortune, a fluttery rush in the valves of his heart. He wished he could make things happen faster. He wished there were some trick that might cause a blue Victorian to appear in their lives.
    After a time Kathy would sigh and give him a long sober stare. "Dare you to rob a bank," she'd say, which was only a way of saying that houses could wait, that love was enough, that nothing else really mattered.
    They would smile at this knowledge and walk around the park a couple of times before heading back to the apartment.
    Â 
    Sorcerer thought he could get away with murder. He believed it. After he'd shot PFC Weatherby—which was an accident, the purest reflex—he tricked himself into believing it hadn't happened the way it happened. He pretended he wasn't responsible; he pretended he couldn't have done it and therefore hadn't; he pretended it didn't matter much; he pretended that if the secret stayed inside him, with all the other secrets, he could fool the world and himself too.
    He was convincing. He had tears in his eyes, because it came from his heart. He loved PFC Weatherby like a brother.
    "Fucking VC," he said when the chopper took Weatherby away. "Fucking
animals.
"
    Â 
    In 1982, at the age of thirty-seven, John Wade was elected lieutenant governor. He and Kathy had problems, of