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Authors: Rachel Phifer
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dad has to say about it.”
He placed his hand on the satchel. “Fair enough, Sierra. I’ll give your book to him this weekend.”
Chapter Ten
Sunday night, Nick drove to his father’s house. He killed the engine and stared at the house before getting out. Nick had just stepped onto the clean-swept porch when his old man came out. He had aged since last week. His shoulders sagged. The skin on his face hung slack.
“I’ve brought you something from Sierra Wright,” Nick said.
His father looked at the sketchbook without expression but put out his hands.
“May I come inside?” Nick kept the sketchbook against his side.
His father took his time to answer, as he so often did. “Of course,” he answered at last. “Come.”
There were only two chairs. The couch had given way years ago and had never been replaced. Nick didn’t like to come in here. The address might be the same, but it was a different house from the one he had grown up in. All of Mom’s feminine touches were gone now.
His father took a seat. Nick took the other chair.
Before he could tell the old man about Sierra’s book, his father stood and began pacing. He swung around to face Nick and let out a raspy breath. “They came to my house, Nicu. The police came inside and questioned me. Did you know of it?”
“They were being cautious, Dad. You see the crazy stories in the news. They were just trying to protect Sierra.”
“They came inside and questioned me,” his father repeated. “As if I were a criminal, they asked me what I did with her.” His voice cracked, and he stopped to calm himself. “I said I gave her a book to read and I read the poems she wrote for school. They laughed at me and told me that was not the sort of thing a man does with a pretty girl. They claimed I had done things to her.”
His father came close, way too close. He put his nose in Nick’s face and shoved a finger into Nick’s chest. “They threatened me with lies, your American police!”
Nick tried not to feel pushed into a corner, tried not to feel seventeen and castigated by his father yet again. He removed his father’s hand from his chest.
Dad turned away and made a noise that sounded too much like a sob. “They made me say I would not welcome her in my home. By using a packet of lies they made me do this. They are no better than the secret police. No better!”
Dad pounded a fist into the kitchen cabinet, and then did it again so hard Nick thought the Formica would splinter.
“No better, Nicu.”
He began shouting, striding back toward Nick. “Secret police! American police! What is the difference? Tell me! If the truth does not matter, they are all the same.”
Nick looked out the window, away from his old man’s tirade. The authorities would never have hurt his father. This was America, and however cold his father’s manner was, he was innocent. But he couldn’t push away the thought pinching his conscience. He should have known that the police, Child Services, or some authority might speak to his father. And he might have prevented it.
Nick looked at the scars on his father’s hands, a permanent record of what authorities meant to his father.
“I told them I would not see her again,” Dad said, breathless. “I told them what they wanted me to say to them. But it makes me ill. The girl believes I have turned her away?”
“She blames the school. Me.” Nick handed him the sketchbook. “I don’t think she blames you.”
His father held the book as if unsure he should open it. At last, he sat down, pulling the ribbon away. He turned page after page without stopping. He didn’t say anything, but his fingers slowed as he went on without finding anything. Nick himself felt a growing sense of alarm. What kind of message was a blank sketchbook?
But at last his old man turned to a portrait that was more eloquent than a journal full of writing. Dad studied it for a moment and closed the book, his face haunted. “Oh, Sierra,” he
He placed his hand on the satchel. “Fair enough, Sierra. I’ll give your book to him this weekend.”
Chapter Ten
Sunday night, Nick drove to his father’s house. He killed the engine and stared at the house before getting out. Nick had just stepped onto the clean-swept porch when his old man came out. He had aged since last week. His shoulders sagged. The skin on his face hung slack.
“I’ve brought you something from Sierra Wright,” Nick said.
His father looked at the sketchbook without expression but put out his hands.
“May I come inside?” Nick kept the sketchbook against his side.
His father took his time to answer, as he so often did. “Of course,” he answered at last. “Come.”
There were only two chairs. The couch had given way years ago and had never been replaced. Nick didn’t like to come in here. The address might be the same, but it was a different house from the one he had grown up in. All of Mom’s feminine touches were gone now.
His father took a seat. Nick took the other chair.
Before he could tell the old man about Sierra’s book, his father stood and began pacing. He swung around to face Nick and let out a raspy breath. “They came to my house, Nicu. The police came inside and questioned me. Did you know of it?”
“They were being cautious, Dad. You see the crazy stories in the news. They were just trying to protect Sierra.”
“They came inside and questioned me,” his father repeated. “As if I were a criminal, they asked me what I did with her.” His voice cracked, and he stopped to calm himself. “I said I gave her a book to read and I read the poems she wrote for school. They laughed at me and told me that was not the sort of thing a man does with a pretty girl. They claimed I had done things to her.”
His father came close, way too close. He put his nose in Nick’s face and shoved a finger into Nick’s chest. “They threatened me with lies, your American police!”
Nick tried not to feel pushed into a corner, tried not to feel seventeen and castigated by his father yet again. He removed his father’s hand from his chest.
Dad turned away and made a noise that sounded too much like a sob. “They made me say I would not welcome her in my home. By using a packet of lies they made me do this. They are no better than the secret police. No better!”
Dad pounded a fist into the kitchen cabinet, and then did it again so hard Nick thought the Formica would splinter.
“No better, Nicu.”
He began shouting, striding back toward Nick. “Secret police! American police! What is the difference? Tell me! If the truth does not matter, they are all the same.”
Nick looked out the window, away from his old man’s tirade. The authorities would never have hurt his father. This was America, and however cold his father’s manner was, he was innocent. But he couldn’t push away the thought pinching his conscience. He should have known that the police, Child Services, or some authority might speak to his father. And he might have prevented it.
Nick looked at the scars on his father’s hands, a permanent record of what authorities meant to his father.
“I told them I would not see her again,” Dad said, breathless. “I told them what they wanted me to say to them. But it makes me ill. The girl believes I have turned her away?”
“She blames the school. Me.” Nick handed him the sketchbook. “I don’t think she blames you.”
His father held the book as if unsure he should open it. At last, he sat down, pulling the ribbon away. He turned page after page without stopping. He didn’t say anything, but his fingers slowed as he went on without finding anything. Nick himself felt a growing sense of alarm. What kind of message was a blank sketchbook?
But at last his old man turned to a portrait that was more eloquent than a journal full of writing. Dad studied it for a moment and closed the book, his face haunted. “Oh, Sierra,” he
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