The Unwilling(123)

“I am, yeah.”

He kept his hands on Gibby’s shoulders, but looked left. “Chance?”

Chance nodded, but kept his eyes down.

“I’m just glad you’re okay, the both of you.” French squeezed his son’s shoulders, a final touch, an assurance. “We can talk about it later, okay? There are things I need to understand, but those things can wait, so long as you’re okay. Tell me one more time. Not hurt? Not traumatized?”

“I’m good. We’re good.”

The worst of French’s tension subsided. He looked across the quarry, thinking of his sons, of all his sons. A quiet moment passed. “This is where Robert dove, isn’t it?”

“Right there. Jason did it, too.”

French leaned out, looking down in disbelief. “Is that right?”

“It was just a thing.” Jason shrugged as if the vacuum of that fall wasn’t trying to suck them all down. “Do you guys mind if I have a moment alone with Gibby?”



* * *



My father led Chance to the trailhead, and they sat at the forest’s edge, a hundred yards of stone between us. Jason looked from them to me, and when he smiled, I was surprised. It was not the normal smile; nor did it last. It was an eye blink of a smile, and it said a million things. “Let’s talk about the dive,” he said.

“What about it?”

He pointed. “That’s your spot, right?”

“More or less.”

He stepped to that spot. The stone was smooth, the cliff’s edge sharp. Jason leaned out and looked down. “How long have you been working up the nerve?”

“Two years, I guess.”

He dropped a rock, and watched it fall. “The world record is only fifteen feet higher. Did you know that?”

“You care about stuff like that?”

“I heard about it after I made the dive, but yeah. It’s pretty cool.” Jason stepped from the edge, his eyes very bright. “You know that cool is not enough reason to make this dive. You know that, right?”

“I guess.”

“You guess? Really? It’s four seconds, top to bottom. Hit wrong, and it may as well be concrete.” He was quiet, but intent. “You need a reason to make a dive like this. Robert, for instance. Robert was going to Vietnam, and wanted to believe he couldn’t die. He needed that. It’s why he dove, and for him, that reason was good enough.”

“I hear what you’re saying, but come on, Jason. You did it on a wager. You did it for a day out drinking beer.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“It’s what you said.”

“What I said.” He scoffed at the words, then looked away for long seconds. “Maybe I did it for a day out with my brother, for a chance to know the only one I have left. Did you ever consider that?”

I shook my head, wordless.

“Or maybe I’m the opposite of Robert,” he continued. “He needed to believe he couldn’t die. Maybe I needed to believe I was still alive, that my heart had room for something more than war and prison and regret. Maybe I had to make that dive.” He made a fist, and tapped me on the chest. “You feel me, little brother? You feel what I’m saying?”

I offered up a solemn nod.

“It’s the same with Vietnam,” he said. “Don’t go because I went, or Robert went. There’s no glory, no honor. You have nothing to prove to anyone but yourself. That mirror can get cloudy at times—you’re eighteen, I get it—but trust me when I tell you that war is no place to prove anything. Be a friend. Love the girl.”

I looked at Chance. I thought of Becky.

He tapped my chest again, and said, “Trust me on this.”

I told him I did trust him, and that I’d think about everything he’d said. When he turned to look across the quarry, I stood beside him, and we could see the forest and the water and the far, pale sun.

“I have to leave, you know.”

“Cops. I get it.”

“The Tyra thing—that’ll go away now. The guns, though?” He shrugged. “There’s only one thing here I’m sad to leave.”

The emotion was real.

I could feel it between us.

“Take this, all right?” He handed me a piece of paper. There was an address there. “Nova Scotia,” he said. “A little house on a black-pebble beach. I won’t be there for a while—a year, at least—but when I get there, I plan to stay. Maybe you’ll come see me sometime. It’s a good place, I think. It belongs to a guy I ran rivers with in the DMZ. His grandparents left it to him, but he has no interest. Stone walls, though. A fireplace. He tells me the ocean is black at sunrise and hazel at lunch, that the surf is loud and the wind is like a woman’s breath.”

“Sounds … poetic.”

“Yeah, well. My friend is a bit of a drinker.” Jason smiled, and it was a good one. “Will you come see me sometime?”

“I will.”

“Is that a promise?”

“It is.”





48


Chance watched from the tree line, and felt more distance than the hundred yards between them. Brothers, he thought. What could be closer? They would smile at times, and looked normal when nothing was normal. Jason. Detective French. It didn’t matter. People asked Chance if he was okay, and each time, he did the same thing. He nodded and said yes; but the sun was rising, and he was in the dark.