The Unwilling(11)

“Gibby is not a favorite son. He’s just young.”

“Same age as Robert when he was drafted.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s not a bit different. And you know the tragedy of it all, the inside joke?” Another slug of whiskey. “Gibby was the toughest of us all, back in the day. Thirteen years old, and he could keep up with us both: hiking and dirt bikes, hunting, fighting. The kid was unflinching. And what is he now?” Jason pointed with the cigarette. “It’s pitiful, what you’ve done to him.”

“That is patently unfair.”

Jason sighed as if suddenly bored. “What do you want, Dad? You want me to fuck off or leave town or stay away from my only brother? If that’s it, then say it and leave. Nothing good will come of it, but at least we’ll understand each other.”

French struggled for a response, but was out of simple answers. He loved the boy, but didn’t know him. “Tomorrow, then? Brotherly things?”

“Gibby was supposed to tell you.”

French nodded. He had nothing else. “Bring him home safe, all right? Nothing stupid or dangerous or criminal.”

“Roger that, Detective.”

Jason drank again, and French wanted so much, just then. He wanted to slap the anger from his son, to pull him up and squeeze him so hard there’d be no question of favorites or history or love. He wanted to say, You’re my son, goddamn it, and I don’t care what you’ve done or what you are or even that you hate me. He wanted to hold his boy until his heart was flooded and the sun rose and his arms hurt. Instead, he nodded again and walked away.





4


I was awake when my father came home, and knew from long experience how clumsily he’d try to be quiet. With all the late nights and long cases, I’d expect him to know every loose floorboard in the house. He didn’t. I heard a creak in the hall, and a rattle of ice as he stood for long seconds outside my door. When I was younger, he’d wake me up to talk, usually on the bad days when a case went sideways or someone particularly innocent was hurt or killed. He never talked about the details, but even at twelve or thirteen, I understood that he wanted to speak of normal things, to see his own children tucked away and safe. Nights like that came more often when Robert went to war, and ended abruptly when his body returned. Now it was like this: my father in the hall, the rattle of ice.

When he left, my thoughts returned to Jason and the cliff.

No hesitation.

He didn’t even look.

Turning on a lamp, I opened a shoebox filled with pictures of Robert, some taken when he was a boy, and others he’d sent from Vietnam. I studied those the most on nights like this. He looked frightened in a few and, in others, mostly lost. Not everyone would see that, of course. They’d see the good looks, the half smile. But I’d known Robert better than most, better even than Jason. He’d taught me how to study hard and play hard, to find my place in the world. Every year, though, it was harder to remember him, so I looked more and more at the pictures. It’s what I saw of him when I closed my eyes: Robert in the jungle and looking left, or standing with other men by the edge of a burned field. Even the day he dove from Devil’s Ledge was blurring in my mind. I saw Jason instead, and felt the pull of him, too. What did he want from me? Why was he home? I knew what Robert would say, if I could ask him about tomorrow.

Live large, Gibby, but be smart.

You hear what I’m saying?

You feel me?

I stared at the darkness for a long time, then pulled on jeans, took a cigarette from my mother’s purse, and slipped outside to the porch. The stars were pale, the air cool. I lit the smoke and felt something like a war inside. Be like Robert or Jason. Be a good son. A bad one. I thought of stealing whiskey, but did not.

I’d be drinking soon enough.

And lying, too, it seemed.



* * *



It happened on the same porch—nine in the morning, my father close behind as I tried and failed to slip away unseen.

“Gibby, Gibby. Wait.”

He tried to keep the cop off his face, but it was hard for him, trusting. “Yeah, Dad?”

He was barefoot beneath jeans and a T-shirt. I’d been avoiding him. “Where are you going?”

“Just out.” A half lie.

“Back to the quarry?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Hanging with Chance?”

“Yeah, maybe. I guess.”

My father frowned, and looked at my car in the driveway. It was a Mustang convertible, kind of old. I’d bought it used. It had a few dents, the big engine.

“Listen,” he said. “I spoke to Jason last night.”

Shit …

“You did?”

“He told me about today.” I expected more of the cop eyes, but that’s not how it was. The old man looked open and understanding, and … I don’t know … younger. “Your mother doesn’t need to know about it, okay? Let’s keep it between us.”

I looked for the trap; didn’t see it.

“I’ve been thinking about it, is all. He’s the only brother you have left. Good or bad, that’ll never change.”

“But don’t tell Mom?”

“Just be smart,” he said. “You feel me?”