I Will Find You(62)

“That’s a sign you’re lying, Ted,” Sarah said.

“It’s not foolproof, but it’s accurate more often than not. If you are really trying to access a memory, a right-handed person—”

“—eighty-five percent of us anyway—”

“—looks upwards and to the left.”

“And the darting eyes, Max.”

“Right, thanks, Sarah. This is kind of fascinating, Ted. I think you’ll like this. Your eyes dart around a lot when you lie. Not just you. That’s most people. Do you want to know why?”

Ted said nothing. Max continued.

“It’s a throwback, Ted. It’s a throwback to an era when humans felt trapped, maybe by another human, maybe by an animal or something, and so their eyes would dart around looking for an escape route.”

“Do you really buy that origin story, Max?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, no doubt about it—darting eyes usually indicates a lie. But if that’s the origin, I don’t know, but it’s a compelling story.”

“It is,” Sarah agreed.

“Darting eyes,” Ted Weston repeated, trying to look confident. “I don’t need to take this.”

Max looked back at Sarah.

Sarah nodded “Very manly, Ted.”

Weston stood. “You don’t have any proof I’m lying.”

“Sure we do,” Max said. “Do you really think we’d just rely on that eye thing?”

“He doesn’t know us, Max.”

“He doesn’t indeed, Sarah. Show him.”

Sarah slid the bank statement across the table. Ted Weston was still standing. He looked down at it. His face lost color.

“Sarah was kind enough to highlight the important part for us, Ted. Do you see that?”

“You should have asked for cash, Ted,” Sarah said.

“Yeah, but then where would he have put it? It’s nice they kept the amounts under ten grand. Figured no one would notice.”

“We did.”

“No we, Sarah. You. You noticed. How was Ted here to know you’re the best?”

“I’m going to blush, Max.”

Sarah’s phone buzzed. She stepped aside. Ted Weston collapsed back into his seat.

“Do you want to tell me what really happened,” Max asked him in a stage whisper, “or do you want to get thrown into general population and see how the other half lives?”

Ted kept staring at the bank statement.

“Max?”

It was Sarah. “What’s up?”

“Facial recognition may have gotten a hit on our boy.”

“Where?”

“Getting off a train in Revere Beach.”

*



“You can’t stay,” Aunt Sophie tells me. “The FBI was here this morning. They’ll be back.”

I nod. “Can I talk to him?”

She tilts her head to the side and looks sad. “He’s asleep. The morphine. You can see him, but I don’t think he’ll know you’re there. I’ll take you up.”

We pass the piano, the one with the lace top and all the old photographs on it. I notice that Cheryl and my wedding picture is still front and center. I don’t know what to make of that. Most of my friends in this neighborhood have at least two or three siblings, often a lot more. I was an only child. I never asked why, but I suspect that whatever caused my issue may have been hereditary, the worst kind of “like father like son,” which could have led, of course, to no son at all. But that’s speculation on my part.

I take the chair next to his bed—Dad’s old desk chair—look down at him. He’s sleeping, but his face is twisted up in a grimace. Aunt Sophie stands behind me. I love my father. He was the best father in the world. But I also don’t really know him. He didn’t believe in sharing his feelings. I have no idea what his hopes and dreams were. Maybe that’s best, I don’t know. We get a lot of grief nowadays about that, about men bottling up their feelings, about toxic masculinity. I don’t know if that was it or not. My dad fought in Vietnam. His dad fought in World War Two. My grandmother told me that the two men who came home were not the same as the ones who left. That’s obvious, of course, but my grandmother also said that it wasn’t that they had changed, but that whatever they had seen over there, whatever they had done and experienced, these men felt the need to keep it locked away. Not for their sake, but because they didn’t want to expose those they loved to those horrors. These men weren’t cruel or distant or even damaged. They were sentinels who wanted to protect those they loved, no matter what the cost to themselves. When Matthew was born, I tried to remember every single thing my father had done with me. I wanted to be that kind of dad. I wanted to make him feel safe and loved and strong. I wondered how my dad did it, like a child watching a master magician. I wanted to know his secrets so I could perform them for Matthew.

I love my dad. He would come home exhausted, change into a white T-shirt, and go outside to throw a ball with me. He took me to Kelly’s for a roast beef sandwich and a shake on Saturdays for lunch. He’d let me tag along to the dog track and explain about the favorites and the odds. I cheered him on when he pitched for the Revere Police softball team, especially when they had their annual game against the firefighters. He taught me how to tie a tie. He let me pretend-shave with him when I was seven, lathering up my face and giving me a razor with no blade in it. He took me to Fenway Park twice a year to watch the Red Sox. We would sit in the bleachers and I’d get a hot dog and Coke and he’d get a hot dog and beer and he’d buy me a pennant of the opposing team so I’d remember the game. We watched the Celtics over at Uncle Philip’s house—he had the big-screen TV. My dad never made me feel like a nuisance or burden. He valued his time with me, and I valued my time with him.