The Unwilling(45)

“Well, shit…”

Jason lowered the weapon, and showed his hands.

It seemed his father knew him after all.





16


I learned about the arrest at three that morning. “Dad?” The word escaped before I even registered the noise that stirred me from the sofa: a hum and a rattle, the garage door going up and then back down. Rising, I reached the back hall as he entered the house.

“Not now, Gibby.”

He showed me his palm, but I trailed him to the kitchen. “Where’s Jason?”

“It’s late, son.”

“You followed me. You used me.”

He stopped, at last. “Because you lied to me. You left me no choice.”

“That is bullshit.” He sighed; I hated that. “Did you arrest him?”

“I need to speak with your mother.” I blocked his way, and thought, at first, he would argue. Instead, he said, “I’m sorry, son. I truly am.”

That’s when I knew for sure.



* * *



As the sun rose hours later, I heard my father leave the house. For some time after that, I lay in bed thinking of Sunday mornings and church and how it used to be. For all my childhood, we’d attended as a family, but that ended when Robert was killed, and we sank into this strange half life without smiles, vacations, or Sunday service. Today, that bothered me, so I showered and gave myself a rare shave. I dressed with exceptional care, and went to church on my own, arriving a few minutes after the start of the early service, and slipping into a pew at the back, all of it so familiar: the dark wood and the people, the organ and the colored glass. I opened a hymnal, but didn’t sing along. Afterward, there were readings that made sense to me, but then the minister took the podium to speak of war and sacrifice and salvation for all people. With one brother dead and the other arrested, I found his words so hollow that I almost left. I actually rose to my feet, but then I spotted Becky Collins four rows down, seated across the aisle with Dana White’s family. Her hair was up—which I’d never seen before—and the curve of her neck struck me as the most vulnerable thing, pale as it was, and fringed by a spill of small, soft hairs. She must have felt me staring, for she turned and saw me and blushed. Dana’s father turned as well. He stared at me for long seconds, then stood and squeezed past his family, working his way into the aisle. A large man with wide, rough hands, he was a foreman at the Freightliner factory, a man used to telling others what to do and how to do it.

“Gibby.” He slid into the pew beside me.

“Mr. White.”

“How are you, son?”

He spoke with gentle concern, and I smelled hair tonic and aftershave. I’d met him only once, on a Friday evening last year, a football game at home, halftime at the concession stand with Dana tucked against his side. He’d been pleasant then, and even now his eyes were kind. I nodded to his question, but didn’t really answer. People were watching. Not all of them, but enough.

“Listen,” he said. “I know about your brother.” He raised a hand, as if I might interrupt. “No need to speak of innocence or guilt—I’m sure you would say all the right things—but, at this moment, I’m responsible for Becky’s well-being. She’s a guest of my family. That means I must act in her interests, almost as a father. Do you understand that, son?”

“Listen, sir—”

“Please don’t sir me. I know you snuck into my daughter’s room last night. I won’t pass judgment on that alone—perhaps you felt justified, somehow—but it does speak to your character.” I felt heat in my neck, a sudden dryness in my throat. “What matters most is this: I can’t have you speaking to Becky today, not in church and not afterward, not until I return her to her own father. Do you understand?” He leaned closer, his arm along the back of the pew. “I’m not judging you, son, not on this mur der business, and not on the actions of your brother, but this is a difficult thing whose full meanings are not yet known. Work with me, okay? Do the right thing, today of all days and here of all places.”

He gave my shoulders a squeeze, then slid out of the pew to rejoin his family. Becky looked my way, but I was burning too hotly to meet her eyes. Instead, I stared at the woman in front of me, at the lacquered hair and the floral dress. I thought everyone in church had heard what Dana’s father had said, and could see the shame he’d put inside me, this thing that was a flame. Pride alone kept me from leaving before the service ended, and even then, I kept my seat, watching to see who nodded or spoke or simply stared. Becky was the only one I cared about, so I rose as she entered the stream of people and found a place on my side of the aisle. Dana’s father was watching from behind, so she kept her eyes straight ahead, and said nothing at all to me, choosing instead to press her church bulletin into my hand as she passed. I waited until the church was empty, then looked down to see four fine words in Becky’s lovely hand.

Five o’clock.

The quarry.



* * *



The rest of the day was a lifetime. I met Chance, and we played pinball at the 7-Eleven, then sat on the curb and ate sandwiches sold cold for twenty-five cents.

“What’d you get?”

“Pimento cheese. You?”

“Egg salad.”