December Park(32)

“New neighbors’ moving van finally showed up,” I told my grandmother as I flitted by her on my way into the kitchen. She was perched on a chair near the window in the living room, knitting. The curtains were swept back; apparently she had been spying on the comings and goings next door as well.

“I haven’t caught sight of them yet,” she called to me. “Have you?”

“No.” I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and popped the tab, then joined my grandmother by the window. I strategically positioned myself behind her chair so she couldn’t see the bruises on my face. “But a couple of the boxes were full of comic books.”

“I’ve baked a fresh batch of oatmeal raisin cookies.”

“Great,” I said. “I’m starved.”

“I meant for you to take over.”

“To the new people? Do I have to?”

“Don’t be impolite, Angelo.”

“Okay. I’ll do it after dinner. Did you make extra?”

“Yes,” she said. “Save some for your dad and grandfather, though. And don’t eat too many and spoil your appetite.”

I went into the kitchen, snatched a handful of my grandmother’s fantastic cookies, then pounded up the stairs to my bedroom. My dad and grandfather were in the backyard cleaning wet leaves from the barbecue pit. I watched them through my bedroom window but didn’t want to alert them to my presence lest I’d be wrangled into their effort, not to mention I’d have to explain what happened to my face.

After I finished the cookies, I slipped a Bruce Springsteen cassette into the tape deck and picked up my acoustic guitar to strum along, keeping one eye on the window and the work being done in the yard.

When my grandmother called them both in for dinner, I shut off my music and darted into the upstairs bathroom to wash my face and hands. By the time my dad had come in through the back door, tired and breathing heavy, I had already dropped into my seat at the kitchen table, ready to face the inevitable.

“When’d you get home?” my father asked, peeling off his checkered flannel jacket and draping it over his chair. He went to the sink to wash his hands.

“Just a few minutes ago,” I lied, grateful that my grandmother was out of earshot.

When he came back to the table, he paused once he got a good look at me. “What happened to your face?”

“It was stupid,” I said. “We were playing baseball in the park, and someone hit a pop fly. I went to catch it, but the sun was in my eyes, and it hit me right in the face.”

“Ouch.” My father took my chin in his hand. He tilted my head to the side to examine my injuries. “One ball got you in the eye and the lip?”

In a small voice, I said, “I guess so.”

“Must’ve been some hit.” He smiled wearily at me. “I guess your friends had a good laugh at that one.”

“Yeah.”

“What park?”

“Huh?”

“What park were you playing at?” he said, sitting down across from me.

“Oh. December Park.”

“Hmmm.” He unfolded his napkin. “Do me a favor and stay out of that park, will you?”

“How come?”

“Just for a while. If you’re gonna go to a park, go to one closer to home.”

“Is it because of that girl? The dead girl?”

That weary smile reappeared but only for a second. “I’d just feel more comfortable if you stuck closer to home, Angie.”

“Okay. I will.”

As my grandparents filtered into the kitchen, I had to retell the phony story about taking a baseball to the face to each of them. My grandmother set the food on the table, and the four of us ate to the soundtrack of my grandfather’s intermittent proselytizing about the tragic state of the country—there was a new clerk at the cigar shop he frequented who didn’t speak English.

I thought about Scott’s request of me—that I should ask my father about the disappearances of the kids from town. I had no idea how to broach such a topic with him—he never spoke of his work to me or my grandparents—and I didn’t expect he’d even take my questions seriously if I did bring it up.

I supposed other guys my age would have fawned over the idea of their father being a police detective—it was no different than how my friends obsessed over the fact that there was a gun in my house—but I hardly ever gave it any thought. I had no clue if my father was good at his job or not (though I assumed he was), how he felt about the work he did, or how long he planned on doing it. I didn’t even know if he had ever shot anyone. I never asked and he never brought it up. To some degree, he had shared those things with Charles, but that had been in a different lifetime.

After the table was cleared and my grandparents retired to the den to watch television, my father remained at the table, sipping a glass of red wine and gazing absently out the window. I refilled his wineglass and was about to replace the bottle in the cupboard when he said, “Was this your first fight?”

For a second, I didn’t know what he was talking about. He had caught me with my guard down, as he so often did. There would be no use trying to convince him of the story about catching a pop fly with my face. “Uh, yeah, I guess. How’d you know?”

“You think I was never fifteen?”