December Park(126)

That morning, I luxuriated over a breakfast of sausage links, scrambled eggs, paprika-salted potato wedges, and a tall glass of orange juice prepared by my grandmother. Callibaugh had closed the thrift shop for the holiday, so I had nothing to do except hang out with my friends and enjoy an evening of fireworks, hot dogs, and cotton candy at Market Square.

When my father came down, he was dressed in a suit and tie. Not stopping for breakfast, he filled up his travel thermos with coffee, then dug a book of matches out of the junk drawer. His expression was grim.

“You have to work today?” I said.

“No rest for the wicked,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

His grim expression turned into a weary smile. “Everyone’s just on high alert, that’s all.” He sipped some coffee. “What are your plans for tonight?”

“Me and the guys are gonna go down to Market Square and watch the fireworks.”

“I know the city curfew has been lifted for tonight, but I’d still like you in by nine.”

I set my fork down. “But the fireworks don’t even start until a quarter till. I’ll miss the whole thing.”

“There’s plenty to do down there without staying for the fireworks.”

It was blasphemous. “It’s the Fourth of July. All my friends had their curfews lifted for tonight. Everyone else will be staying out later.”

“Ah. That old ‘everyone else’ defense.” My dad patted down his jacket pockets, presumably for cigarettes.

“At least give me till ten,” I bargained.

“This isn’t up for debate. I’ve got enough on my plate without worrying about my kid in the process.”

“You won’t have to worry about me. I’ll be with the guys.”

“No good.”

“What if I’m just hanging out at someone’s house? This way we—”

“Damn it, Angelo, I said no. If you don’t like it, you can stay in all goddamn day.”

“It’s not fair,” I yelled.

My father looked at me. The vertical crease between his eyebrows deepened. “That’s right. The world’s not fair, is it? I can give you a list of everything that’s not fair about it.”

My grandfather came in, a fat greenish-white cantaloupe in each hand. He set them on the table and narrowed his eyes at me. “Strange to have planted a bunch of squash only to find cantaloupes in my garden.”

I kicked my chair back and stomped across the kitchen where I dumped my plate into the sink.

“Don’t cop an attitude,” my dad said, jabbing a finger at me.

Under my breath, I grumbled, “What do you care? You’re never around.”

Like a bull, his nostrils flared as he exhaled. “Yeah, I’m out there playing. I’m out there having a wonderful goddamn time.”

“You just don’t trust me.”

“This has nothing to do with me trusting you.”

“It does. You were never like this with Charles. It’s only me.”

My father said nothing. I could no longer read what was going on behind his eyes. Since Charles’s death, we had built a wall that prohibited us from using my brother as a weapon in our battles. My words had just obliterated that wall, and there was nothing but naked vulnerability on the other side of it.

My father walked out of the room.

I was still staring at the spot he had been standing when I heard the front door slam and, a moment after that, his car start up. As he backed out of the driveway, I glanced at my grandfather, who stood beside the table, each hand resting on a cantaloupe. He looked away from the windows and at me.

I cleared the table, dumping the dirty glassware into the sink and putting the milk and orange juice containers into the refrigerator. I felt his eyes on me as I rinsed the dirty dishes, then filed them away into the dishwasher. As my face began to burn and my vision blurred, I struggled to maintain my composure. Yet when I eventually faced him, I saw that he, too, had gone.

Upstairs, I showered and dressed quickly. The game plan was to meet at Echo Base, where Scott had salted away a bag of firecrackers we intended on letting off this evening, then head over to the Quickman for a bite before footing it down to Market Square. Following the discovery of Jason Hughes’s dirt bike, we had spent the past week taking turns riding out to the depot—in pairs, of course—to keep an eye on it. If it had once been one of the Piper’s hangouts, there was no sign of him that week.

As for Mr. Mattingly, I felt an overwhelming embarrassment for what we had done to him. The discovery of Jason Hughes’s bike pretty much solidified the fact that he had been the Piper’s first victim back in June of ’93. Since Mr. Mattingly and his wife hadn’t moved into the neighborhood until August, that ruled him out as the killer. Even though Mr. Mattingly had no possible reason for assuming I had been involved in depositing that letter on his doorstep, I feared he would be able to read the guilt in my eyes the next time we crossed paths.

Intending to light up a cigarette, I went out the back door instead of the front but was startled by the presence of my grandfather. He was leaning back in one of the wicker chairs smoking a pipe.

“Hey,” I said, realizing I had my cigarette tucked behind my ear. I snatched it and stuffed it into the pocket of my shorts.

“Gorgeous day for the parade,” he commented, looking out across the backyard.