Here So Far Away(56)

“When we’re together, this big gap opens up between who I am and the person I wish I could be.”

I wouldn’t cry. He was being grown-up and reasonable and there was nothing to blub over. It wasn’t like the world hadn’t given us solid reasons to stay apart. But to hear him describe us as a wrong thing, saying he was ashamed of himself when he was with me and that I made him feel like he was failing, it more than hurt. It was humiliating.

“I know you don’t like yourself when you’re with me,” I said, looking up at the stars to keep the tears from rolling down. “But I like myself a lot better when I’m with you.”

He reached over and rested his hand on my thigh, his hand warm through the denim. “When we got together, I’d already made up my mind that I wasn’t staying. I would wait until your dad was confirmed to return to his position or not before giving my notice.”

“And go where?”

“Maybe nowhere. Maybe stay with Rupert, get the farm going again. And then they gave me the medal. . . .”

“And you realized that you might be police, after all.”

“No. What we’re doing is incompatible with wearing the badge.”

“But you saw that you could do it, right? Or you could if it weren’t for me.”

He nodded. “I could make a life here. I like waking up at the farm. It’s just . . . I’m still not sleeping. Can you understand?”

“What if you did the counseling they offered you. . . .”

“What good is counseling if you can’t talk about the most important person in your life?”

I took a second to absorb this.

“That’s you.”

“Yes.” The Bishop yes. I heard myself doing it all the time now.

“The fact is, we’ve crossed a line,” he said. “A new line.”

“I know.”

“I can’t be around you and not be with you, George. I end up prowling after you the way Rupert prowls after ‘stamps.’”

“I’m your hooch.”

“You’re my hooch.”

I thought he was going to tell me to quit my job at the farm, that I would lose not only him but any nearness to him. Somehow it hadn’t sunk in before that I might also have to give up polishing his shoes, his dirty teacups, his scent lingering in the hallway.

“So I guess it’s a good thing that you applied to the city schools,” he said, “because I don’t think I can end this on my own.”

He checked the rearview mirror to be sure no one was behind us before he took my hand and kissed it, holding it until the sharp left turn that would return us to town forced his hand back onto the wheel.





Twenty-Seven


In early March, Dad had a state-of-the-union meeting with his division commander, disability case manager, career adviser, and a whole bunch of other people who were monitoring his progress. I wondered whether he told them, after shuffling in with his walker, that napping had become his part-time job.

When he got home, he went straight to his recliner and fell asleep in front of cartoons.

“Dad?”

“Huh—what?”

“Sorry to wake you up.”

“No, I was reading.” He picked up the book on his chest. “Have you read this yet?”

It was his favorite, the history of the valley, with chapters on the logging industry and the Apple Harvest Parade and equally tedious subjects.

“No offense,” I said, “but I think I’ve had my fill of superexciting local history from superexcited local historians.”

“It wasn’t written by a historian. It was written by a guy who lives ten miles up the highway. Plumber by trade, insomniac by nature. He used to go down to his basement every night to write after his family went to bed.”

I’d never met an author before, never considered that people who wrote books might come from a place like the valley. I thought of Miss Aker with her suitcase full of rejection letters. Had to admire her for trying.

“Good. So, what did the team have to say?”

“Looks like I’m not getting into the history books, which I could have told them back in July. We’ll reassess in the fall, but it’s safe to say that the dream of having the first peg leg serving active duty is over.”

On the other side of the window Mum was furiously shoveling the walkway. She knew, I thought. That is why she took that job.

“So then what?” I said, trying to keep cool. “Do they kick you off the force?”

“No, then we’ll see if there’s another suitable position to be had. Could be civilian.”

“I know this isn’t the most important thing, but what does that mean for us, as far as . . .”

“Money-wise? It means we are unlikely to be eating squirrel next winter.”

How could he be so nonchalant about the fact that he’d sabotaged his big chance to do something important? All he’d had to do was follow the program they’d given him. When had he made up his mind that he wasn’t even going to try?

“Dad? Aren’t you disappointed?”

He let a breath out slowly. “Well, George, it’s like this. The job has certain requirements that I can’t fulfill. Nothing to get emotional over; I had a good couple of decades on the force and no regrets. When you get older, you’ll understand that none of us is entitled to any more than that.”