Читать книгу Here Lies a Father - Mckenzie Cassidy - Страница 14

CHAPTER 4

I STARED AT MARIE AS SHE SIPPED HER COFFEE. I Still hadn’t made up my mind about Carla’s story. I wanted to ask if it was all a lie, but my thoughts were conflicted. Although I was in the thick of it, I still didn’t give myself permission to rock the boat. Questioning my own world didn’t feel natural, and I was terrified of ripping the bandage off old wounds. Staying silent was much easier.

I didn’t doubt that a relationship of one sort or another had existed between Carla and Dad when they were younger, especially because of how emotional she was at his burial, yet whether it was to the extent she described was questionable. Either way, I felt it was unhealthy for her to have held on this long. The day some girl dumped me, which was bound to happen, I’d vanish from her life completely. Never would I permit it to be public knowledge that I was still pining for her, because it was nobody’s business. But maybe Carla couldn’t handle seeing Dad move on to a better woman like my mother, so she concocted a bogus story about bearing his illegitimate children to rip our lives apart? Anything was possible at that point.

The truth was, women loved Dad, which I never understood because he wasn’t particularly attractive. I assumed it was his confidence, his biting sense of humor, and the ability to appear like he had it all together even when inside it was all a mess. None of these traits had been passed down to me, unfortunately. I wasn’t confident. I wasn’t funny. And to make matters worse, I wasn’t good-looking. Girls didn’t particularly care for me. They’d describe me as a good friend, the sweet guy who could always be counted on to be there when they broke up with the guy who really drove them wild—but certainly I was not boyfriend material.

“This must be uncomfortable for the two of you,” said Marie, breaking the awkward silence that descended upon the living room. “I’m just going to say this once. I’m here, if either of you have any questions.”

“Why would we have questions about our father?” asked Catherine. “I knew him better than anyone else in …” She was wound up and itching for a fight, but each time she started to unleash the beast inside, she’d promptly remember how we were trapped at Marie’s house. She was already very uncomfortable and didn’t want it to get worse. “No, thank you,” she added, clearing her senses. “I don’t think we have any questions at this time.”

“Not all of us are so open. There was much damage done when your father left and some of us, even after all these years, are sore about it,” said Marie, pausing for a moment. “It sounds funny saying all of us, doesn’t it? I never thought it’d be this way.”

“What do you mean?” asked Catherine.

Marie began stumbling over her words. “Well, it’s just that Thomas, I mean your father, didn’t really want anything to do with us. He made no secret of that. He ran into some trouble before he left for Wellbourne, borrowed some money that he couldn’t pay back, and as for his family, we were as good as dead to him.”

Catherine sat up straight and looked into Marie’s face. “You know, we all have different memories and perspectives of him. He was my father and I want to remember him in my own way,” she said, in the same critical tone that drove Mom crazy. “He isn’t here to defend himself, is he? I don’t want you all bad-mouthing him just because he’s dead. So, if you don’t mind, let’s end this little walk down memory lane.”

Dad wasn’t there to give his side of the story, but I questioned why Catherine wanted to pretend like his past didn’t exist, like the only important memories were the ones he’d made with our family. Dad was so private, to everyone who crossed his path, but especially to me. Mom had probably known most of his secrets just by being married to him for so long, and he had slowly been filling Catherine’s ear with tidbits, yet I knew close to nothing. I craved stories about his life, about when he was a teenager or when he first met Mom, and I wanted to hear them whether they were good or bad. Catherine’s outbursts were making it difficult to get either. She was raising the drawbridge before we even had a chance to hear anything at all, meaning I’d have to corner some of these people on my own, which wasn’t exactly in my nature.

I had tried for so long to stay neutral and bite my tongue, but Catherine was getting on my nerves.

“One second …” I cut in. My throat constricted and it was hard to swallow. I spoke loudly, but in truth I was terrified and had no idea what I was going to say until it came out of my mouth. “Catherine, wouldn’t you like to hear about Dad’s life before us? I mean, he never told me anything so it might be interesting to hear.”

I noticed Marie smirk from one side of her mouth. My sister’s eyes opened wide and then closed into two furious slits.

Catherine had a dark side, a way of cutting the legs out from under me. Speaking up had caused catastrophic damage to our united front and she’d make me pay for each and every word. I wouldn’t be forgiven until I demonstrated full contrition. I regretted taking a stand against her, but I couldn’t see how it wasn’t in our best interests to learn more about Dad. Then guilt set in. I remembered nights she made me dinner when Mom worked late, or when she said I could tag along with her and her girlfriends to the movies. When the screaming and threats between Mom and Dad grew too intense to ignore, she’d bring me into her room to play with dolls and listen to cassette tapes. What a selfish asshole I had become. Now I understood why people didn’t like me. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

“Fine!” she snapped. “That’s your choice, but from now on leave me out of it.”

The room blurred and the center of my chest seized up. I wanted to punch myself in the face for what I’d said, use the pain to atone for my mistake. I was no better than a spoiled, petulant child.

“That’s not fair,” I replied, softly.

Marie recognized the painful expression on my face and had pity on me. “Catherine, listen,” she said, “I understand he was your father and we aren’t here to cast a dark shadow on him. I apologize. Let’s change the subject.”

Uncle Neil had remained quiet, except for an occasional grunt of agreement or violent cough to loosen the thick phlegm in his throat. His decision to finally open his mouth had more to do with his intentions to leave than to take a side for or against Dad. “Well, ladies and gentleman, I have to hit the road,” he said. “Some of us have got to work for a living.”

Marie studied her brother. She peered outside and noticed it was dark. “Work? Where? There’s no school tomorrow. Whose bus are you driving?”

“Christ, Marie. I do a hell of a lot more than just drive the bus.”

She stood up and snatched Uncle Neil’s empty coffee mug from his hand, shuffling into the kitchen to rinse it out in the sink.

“Got a few maintenance pickups in the morning,” he groaned.

“Fine, be gone with you,” Marie replied, turning to Catherine and me. “Let me show you two where you’ll be sleeping tonight.”

“Okay, great,” I said, standing up.

Uncle Neil tore out of the house. The door latched behind him and Marie commented snidely about how his drive home would undoubtedly include a detour to the Corner Pocket Lounge, a pool hall in New Brimfield where he played on a league. She used the word league loosely, describing it as more of an assembly of tipsy men who drank more highballs than they sank. I was burned out and couldn’t wait to be alone with my thoughts. I could tell Catherine was exhausted, but she wouldn’t admit it. After yelling at me she had been staring into space. She reacted to Marie’s words as if a switch had been flicked and she nodded flatly.

What we all needed was a good night’s sleep.

“Thanks for putting us up,” I said.

“It’s not a problem. Besides, you’re family,” Marie said, trying the word on for size. She explained how she had originally promised Carla the spare bedroom, which held a twin-sized bed, but at the last minute Carla decided to bunk with one of her girlfriends across town.

The mention of her name still irked Catherine, but getting the spare bedroom with the comfortable bed counteracted the poison. I was assigned to Marie’s living room couch, the very same blue sectional we had been sitting on, a relic of the mideighties, wrapped around two adjacent walls. Marie set fresh white sheets and an old afghan blanket on the couch for me and told Catherine that the room was already made up for her. Catherine walked away without saying a word.

“Ian, if you get cold tonight just go into the hallway closet and grab yourself an extra blanket,” Marie said.

“That’s fine, it’s fine. I’ll be all right.”

“The light switch is here. The bathroom is at the end of the hallway if you need it. Everything good?”

“Sure, thanks. You can turn out the light now. I’m pretty tired. I think I’m going to pass right out,” I said.

Marie cracked a smile and flicked off the switch. She disappeared down the hallway to her bedroom. I told Marie I was exhausted, but that was a lie. My body was technically fatigued, slow and achy, but my mind was firing like a pinball machine. I couldn’t stop ruminating. The man I knew as my father no longer existed. He was dead. His body was ash in the ground. Accepting that I’d never see him again was difficult enough, but now there was a very strong possibility that all my memories of him had been manufactured to avoid a bitter truth.

What made the story about the others so improbable was that Dad lived seemingly unaffected by any of it. If it had been true, I could only imagine that the guilt would be crippling. How could any father in his right mind live a normal existence knowing that his children, the ones he barely knew, were just out there in limbo? I closed my eyes and attempted to will myself to sleep, but it was no use. No matter how many times I shifted positions and attempted to ease myself with deep breaths or tranquil thoughts, my restlessness never subsided.

To make matters worse, I didn’t want to fall asleep around all these strangers because of my night terrors. They hadn’t returned in a long time but could be reignited in stressful situations. Our family doctor told Mom it was fairly common for boys my age with active imaginations and I would grow out of it eventually. He also recommended a prescription—I don’t remember what it was called—but Mom refused. The conversation in the examination room had grown rather heated as she rejected the notion of putting her only son on any drug that could alter his mind. She claimed the problem would resolve itself, as the doctor had said, and that she’d rather I not be exposed to foreign substances.

I considered jerking off to calm my senses. The slightest tingling anticipation in my groin meant it would’ve been so easy to reach down and release all my troubles with a few tugs. I had the perfect visual picked out too, the new girl at school, a redhead named Eveline Ryan. Honestly, she got on my nerves, but she had nice legs, and after what happened I couldn’t forget her even if I tried.

* * *

When I first met Eveline she had wandered into Mrs. Garrett’s American literature class after the bell. She was new to Wellbourne High like me, and the front office had kept her too long signing paperwork, stroking her delicate sensibilities. We were novelties in a place that rarely encountered change.

Mrs. Garrett had presented two piles of dog-eared paperback books to the class. Students slid one book from the top of the pile and passed the rest back, like programmed machines on a factory conveyor belt. She didn’t introduce the book until every student received his or her copy. The book’s cover was dark blue with a small pair of eyes and rosy lips set in the middle, and my copy had been shoved inside so many backpacks over the years it no longer stayed closed. On the inside cover someone had written a giant 15 in black permanent marker for record-keeping purposes. Lines stamped under BOOK 15 held the names of every student who ever had it, one I recognized from Catherine’s graduating class. I scanned the classroom. Students opened their paperback copies; some ran their fists down the spines to further bend them open, and each carefully wrote their names on the empty lines.

The door opened and a girl with the reddest hair I had ever seen stepped inside. Everyone was relieved because it took Mrs. Garrett’s attention away from lecturing the class. The girl closed the door gently behind her, seemingly terrified of slamming it, and marched up to Mrs. Garrett with her head down like she was in trouble, a folded piece of paper in her hand and an artsy Bohemian purse bouncing on her thigh. She whispered something into Mrs. Garrett’s ear.

“Oh yes, Eveline, thank you,” she said, checking the class roster attached to a cracked clipboard.

Mrs. Garrett had long curly blond hair with strands of silver, which she kept tied out of her face, an understanding face, and the kind that didn’t frighten you when you asked a question. Her classroom was bare except for vintage posters of book jackets from the works of famous authors like Steinbeck, Hemingway, and Whitman. For an English teacher like Mrs. Garrett, an expressive girl such as Eveline Ryan was just the type of student she dreamed about.

“Please have a seat. Everyone, this is Eveline Ryan,” said Mrs. Garrett. “Yes, she’s late today and this is an example of what not to do, but she’s new to town and we’ll save the public beheading for another day.”

A couple of girls in the back rolled their eyes. They saw her black combat boots, her frayed jean shorts with blue leggings, her long eclectic necklaces, and they didn’t understand her—nor did they want to. Eveline got on my last nerve too and she’d been in the room for less than five minutes, yet what I felt toward her wasn’t disdain like the girls in the back. I wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but her presence made me nervous. My heart beat vigorously and my palms got sweaty. I don’t know what it was about her, but she got me all worked up.

Eveline searched the classroom for an empty desk without really looking at anybody and the only free spot was next to me. She took off her olive-green coat with fur around the hood. Underneath she wore this white blouse that reminded me of peasants in a Renaissance festival. Her skin looked soft, smooth, and fair in a way that reminded me of cream. She set herself down gently into the plastic seat beside me and slid her small, round behind into the grooved crease. A subtle trail of freckles spread across her cheeks and nose. Fluorescent light from above slipped across the curves of her neck like one of those famous marble sculptures. Her deep red hair, like a tree burning in the night, was draped across one shoulder but kept within a loose braid that allowed thin strands to slide across her face.

Mrs. Garrett droned on about the book she had passed out, how it was a classic story about love lost and yearning to be someone else in life. The truth was, I’d stopped listening. Her voice transformed into this mechanical thrumming and blended with the sound of the ticking radiator. My eyelids drooped heavily downward and the thought of sleep was more desirable than anything I had ever wanted. My neck loosened and my head shifted back and forth; not even an explosion would’ve roused me. Nothing held my attention for very long, and besides my poor marks in school, my inability to focus may have been the reason why teachers hated me. Teachers loved Catherine, and it was because they expected me to be more like her that they were irritated when I turned out to be such a disappointment.

Someone tapped my arm at just the moment when consciousness surrendered to dream. I jerked upward and my eyes bulged open. Eveline. Her fingertips were on my forearm. I looked at her questioningly. Her blue eyes were hypnotic, spellbinding, and reminded me of reflections of the ocean on a sunny day. I twisted forward in my seat. She thought she was helping me, but now I was aggravated about being woken up.

Are you okay? she mouthed at me, flashing an amused grin.

And I just nodded.

Her smooth thighs, pressed against that plastic chair, were all I thought about on Marie’s living room couch. In the dark I sat up and glanced out the living room window; a crescent moon partially lit up the forest around the house. I thought again about that morning we met. Never had I expected she’d be more to me than a girl I once sat next to in class. Thinking about her was the safest thing to do. In fact, it’s all I could do after she had vanished from school. After what had happened the night of that awful party, I couldn’t fault her for leaving town, yet I wished I’d known where she went. Most of all, I hoped that she was okay and not just one more person in my life to whom I never got to say goodbye.

I sat back on Marie’s couch and stared up at her off-white ceiling. Another memory came to mind, one I had avoided as long as I could—the day when Catherine called and told me Dad had died.