The Contradiction of Solitude(7)

But for some reason I didn’t care.

Because I knew I’d see her again next time.

And that was payment enough.





The person I became was born in the normal way with a mother who wanted and loved me and a father who provided for my every need. I was doted on. I was adored. I was dolled up in pretty dresses with bows in my hair.

It was a perfect life created from perfectly horrible lies.

My mother loved in an oblivious way. Unable to see fault in her life or her husband. Her glasses were always rose and she refused to see the nightmare she had unwittingly built a home with.

But those rose-colored frames didn’t extend to me. As I grew older she saw in me the things she wouldn’t see in Daddy.

Bad things.

Horrible things.

My father was…different.

He loved in the only way that he could. Stern. Hard. But with an undercurrent of gentle tenderness that made what came later so hard to bear. Because my father was a broken man. Splintered and fractured with few discernable pieces left of the person he may have once been.

And for that reason he became the center of my young, complicated heart.

He wasn’t a man you’d pay much attention to. He owned a hardware store in the middle of town but otherwise kept to himself. He didn’t have friends. He didn’t go bowling or have lunch with the rotary club. He found idle chitchat meaningless and unnecessary.

But he talked to me. He would tell me stories. Tales that kept me close to a man I loved and struggled to know.

He’d often leave us for a week or so at a time to go fishing, his one passion. I never thought to question these trips because as a child, I only cared about the day he came back.

Not why he was gone.



“Do you want to come with me to get some ice cream for after dinner?” my father asked. He had just gotten back from a fishing trip. He was gone longer this time and I had missed him.

My mother hadn’t questioned why he came home on Monday instead of Saturday like he said he would. She had smiled and made sure to make him his favorite dinner. She only ever gave him those smiles. They were reserved for him alone. There was love and devotion in those smiles that in my mind I wanted for myself. We were all happier when Daddy was around. Life was better. The grass was greener. The air just a little bit clearer.

We were planets revolving around his sun.

I was playing with my little brother, Matthew, or Matty for short, out in the front yard. It was getting dark but we wouldn’t come in until we were made to. I liked the dark. I wasn’t scared of the shadows. Even when Matty would cry and beg me to go inside, I’d refuse. I’d stay outside until I couldn’t see and even then I’d remain.

Daddy understood. Better than anyone.

“Yeah!” I yelled, running to my daddy’s pretty, blue car.

“I wanna come!” Matty cried out, following me, his black curls bouncing as he ran.

Daddy chuckled and rustled his hair. “Not this time, buddy. Mom needs your help to set the table.” I was already climbing into my booster seat in the back of the sedan. I stuck my tongue out at Matthew, pleased that I got to go somewhere with Daddy that he didn’t. His company was a treat better than any toy or ice cream cone.

“That’s not fair,” Matty whined.

“Next time, Matty, I promise,” Daddy said, and of course we believed him. Daddy never made a promise he didn’t keep. He was our constant. We had yet to discover the ability to doubt him.



Sometimes when I closed my eyes I couldn’t see my father’s face. I felt cheated by my brain’s refusal to cooperate. I could see his broad shoulders. I could envision the soft, blue cotton shirt he wore that night he took me to get ice cream. I could even recall the shape of his hands. Large and calloused but gentle at the same time.

But it seemed when I tried to conjure his face, it remained obscured. It was a blur. A non-descript blob above his neck.

And then I’d see the pictures and I’d remember. It would be a relief. And then it would become a burden.

Because I wished I could forget everything the way I could forget his face. Conveniently.

My childhood had been a happy one. I had had a comfortable existence that was now, with the haze of hindsight, marred and ruined.

I remembered birthday presents and Christmas dinners. Hide and seek with Matthew and movie nights on the couch. My father used to make origami cranes and leave them on my windowsill before he would go on his fishing trips. Special secrets between the two of us that I never shared with anyone.

There were flashes of pure happiness that almost eradicated the foundation of pain.

Joy. Contentment.

Normalcy.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

Then it became tears and whispers and ugly suspicions.

The truth killed my childhood.

It became an invention created by a troubled mind.

I remembered walking home from school one day after my daddy went away. I was only eleven, barely old enough to understand the gravity of who my father was and what he had done.

Schoolmates had pelted me with vicious words and horrible taunts. They hurled the knives of accusation that had cut my skin. They had told me in their cruel, juvenile way, what my daddy was now known as.

The Nautical Killer.

The name, I would come to learn, was taken from the nautical star tattoo on the inside of his left wrist.