into the murky interior, I half expected him to come back to the threshold with a shotgun. But after several seconds, he came back through the door, closing it most of the way behind himself. He came down and put a wad of doubled-over bills in my dad’s hand without a word.
“It’s not easy burying your son,” my dad said before Jeremiah turned toward his house. “There’s lots of bills,” he added to the hunched shoulders as Jeremiah plodded up the porch steps.
He probably kicked something or cussed to himself for a bit once he shut himself inside, but we had what we had come for. My dad had his money and I had my answer. Jeremiah told me clearly enough the bike hadn’t been damaged. I would have liked to have seen it, but that seemed impossible. So we got back into the rental car’s still-warm interior and headed to my dad’s house.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said as we waited at a stop sign.
He stared out his window without offering any response.
“Fine. Maybe you’re not crazy to think Aiden was killed. I sure can’t find a single piece of evidence that he was in a crash. But there’s also no evidence that he was killed. And it’s not like a guilty conscience is going to make someone step up and confess,” I said. I was exasperated by the illusory whorl of conjecture. “I’m supposed to fly out tomorrow. What should I do?”
His advice was usually worthless to me. On the rare occasions he offered some wisdom I could benefit from, I preferred to ignore him and learn on my own. Even when I had to learn the hard way, it meant I alone owned those lessons. So he surely grasped the significance of me asking him for guidance.
“You drink?” he asked. It wasn’t a question so much as a wish he was making out loud. “Well, I could use a drink about now.”
Chapter 7
We drove in silence a couple of blocks between the ranks of parked cars. The rental was immaculately quiet and braked softly as cotton balls.
“How old are you this year?” he asked.
He should have been able to figure that out any number of ways. Two years younger than Aiden. Twenty-five years younger than himself. But I replied matter-of-factly, “Twenty-three. Twenty-four in July.”
“I never bought you your first legal drink,” he said. “Of course, you weren’t around for it.”
Dear old dad. But I wouldn’t let him bait me. The shadows of the bare branches swept over me as I drove on. I let the car’s cocoon of silence do my talking for me.
“Right. So have a drink with your old man.”
I was coming up on the stop sign at 19th Street, so I braked and asked, “Where to?”
“Andy’s.”
There was no cross traffic, but I stayed at a complete stop.
“Where’s that?”
“Andy’s? Shit. I’ve been there a thousand times.”
I suppressed a sarcastic comeback. We didn’t need to explode into a scene like the day before. It wasn’t that I didn’t know the name of the place. I’d heard of it as often as he’d frequented it. But I had never been along. I don’t know that I ever imagined where it was.
“Left or right?” I said, feeling pressured as a flow of traffic was coming down the hill from the light at Mt. Vernon Road. We’d be trapped another minute if I didn’t get out in front of it.
“Left,” he said. His frustration bled through the word.
Such a typical exchange with my dad. Him expecting despite all past experiences to the contrary that I could read his mind, getting frustrated when I didn’t. What was new about our dynamic now was that I had no fear of him barking at me or backhanding me anymore. Not that he had become any more patient or developed any respect for me. I just wasn’t afraid of him anymore. And he could tell. He knew if he hit me he wouldn’t be hitting a child rendered incapable of retaliation by the stigma of respect for his parents. I don’t know if I would have intercepted his feeble swat and suspended his arm in mid-swing or if I would have
“It’s not easy burying your son,” my dad said before Jeremiah turned toward his house. “There’s lots of bills,” he added to the hunched shoulders as Jeremiah plodded up the porch steps.
He probably kicked something or cussed to himself for a bit once he shut himself inside, but we had what we had come for. My dad had his money and I had my answer. Jeremiah told me clearly enough the bike hadn’t been damaged. I would have liked to have seen it, but that seemed impossible. So we got back into the rental car’s still-warm interior and headed to my dad’s house.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said as we waited at a stop sign.
He stared out his window without offering any response.
“Fine. Maybe you’re not crazy to think Aiden was killed. I sure can’t find a single piece of evidence that he was in a crash. But there’s also no evidence that he was killed. And it’s not like a guilty conscience is going to make someone step up and confess,” I said. I was exasperated by the illusory whorl of conjecture. “I’m supposed to fly out tomorrow. What should I do?”
His advice was usually worthless to me. On the rare occasions he offered some wisdom I could benefit from, I preferred to ignore him and learn on my own. Even when I had to learn the hard way, it meant I alone owned those lessons. So he surely grasped the significance of me asking him for guidance.
“You drink?” he asked. It wasn’t a question so much as a wish he was making out loud. “Well, I could use a drink about now.”
Chapter 7
We drove in silence a couple of blocks between the ranks of parked cars. The rental was immaculately quiet and braked softly as cotton balls.
“How old are you this year?” he asked.
He should have been able to figure that out any number of ways. Two years younger than Aiden. Twenty-five years younger than himself. But I replied matter-of-factly, “Twenty-three. Twenty-four in July.”
“I never bought you your first legal drink,” he said. “Of course, you weren’t around for it.”
Dear old dad. But I wouldn’t let him bait me. The shadows of the bare branches swept over me as I drove on. I let the car’s cocoon of silence do my talking for me.
“Right. So have a drink with your old man.”
I was coming up on the stop sign at 19th Street, so I braked and asked, “Where to?”
“Andy’s.”
There was no cross traffic, but I stayed at a complete stop.
“Where’s that?”
“Andy’s? Shit. I’ve been there a thousand times.”
I suppressed a sarcastic comeback. We didn’t need to explode into a scene like the day before. It wasn’t that I didn’t know the name of the place. I’d heard of it as often as he’d frequented it. But I had never been along. I don’t know that I ever imagined where it was.
“Left or right?” I said, feeling pressured as a flow of traffic was coming down the hill from the light at Mt. Vernon Road. We’d be trapped another minute if I didn’t get out in front of it.
“Left,” he said. His frustration bled through the word.
Such a typical exchange with my dad. Him expecting despite all past experiences to the contrary that I could read his mind, getting frustrated when I didn’t. What was new about our dynamic now was that I had no fear of him barking at me or backhanding me anymore. Not that he had become any more patient or developed any respect for me. I just wasn’t afraid of him anymore. And he could tell. He knew if he hit me he wouldn’t be hitting a child rendered incapable of retaliation by the stigma of respect for his parents. I don’t know if I would have intercepted his feeble swat and suspended his arm in mid-swing or if I would have
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