But he was an old man in an old car—that, too.
She said, “You tried to hit Michael.”
Willis exhaled and butted out the cigarette in the door tray. “He went running to Mommy—is that it?”
“I asked him about it.”
“You ask him anything else about it?”
“No… should I?”
“Maybe. For instance maybe you ought to ask him what he was doing up in those hills this afternoon.”
There was no way to avoid this anymore. She cleared her throat and said, “Daddy, I know what he was doing.”
Willis looked at her once, startled… then turned away. His big hands gripped the steering wheel. He said after a time, “I used to think you were different. But you’re not, are you? You’re just like the other two.”
It made her want to yell. I am, she wanted to say, I am different, you made me different! I’m what you wanted—Christ, look at me! But she forced away the thought and took a deep, deliberate breath. “I tried to bring Michael up to be normal. I really did. But he can’t be forever what he’s not.”
“Well, what is he, then? Have you given any thought to that?”
No, she hadn’t, but… “That’s why we came here. To find out what Michael is. And what we are.”
Willis just shook his head bitterly. “He threatened me. Did he tell you that? He threatened to drop me down a hole into Hell. And I…”
He seemed to stall in the recollection.
Karen said, “You believed him?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Daddy, you scared him.”
“He’s like your brother. He’s about as respectful. Less. Oh yeah… you did a great job on him, all right.”
She said, “But I never hit him.” “Well, you should have.”
No, Karen thought. I’m a grown-up woman now. I know better. “Maybe Tim was right,” she said.
Willis regarded her angrily.
Karen said, “Maybe we should have hated you. Maybe the problem is we never did. You beat us and we loved you anyway. It was like loving a rock, but we did. Laura did, even though she won’t admit it. Maybe even Tim did. At least when he was little. But you know what? If I had a neighbor who treated his kids the way you treated us, you know what I’d do? I’d call the police.”
She was saying this and thinking it at the same time; it surprised her as much as it seemed to surprise Willis. He said, “You came here to tell me that?”
“I came here to save Michael’s life!”
He frowned.
Karen said, “Daddy, the Gray Man almost took him. And there was a little girl killed.”
Willis winced. “Christ Jesus.” He shook his head. “You never told me …”
Karen said, “Who was Ben Williams? Who were our parents? Daddy, do you know?”
But he didn’t speak. He stared at her and then he reached over and took a second pack of Camels from the glove compartment. He crumpled the cellophane and dropped it into the shadows at his feet, drew out a cigarette from the package, struck a match, and inhaled deeply. He held the smoke a moment and then said, with a meekness she did not recognize at all, “Your mother told you about this?”
Karen nodded.
“Well, shit,” Willis said.
“But not the important parts. Daddy, we need to know.”
He was silent for another long while. He smoked his cigarette down to the filter. Karen was about to give up and go back to the house when Willis suddenly opened his door. The overhead light flashed on in the car and the glare was sudden and harsh. He stepped out onto the concrete.
He stood hitching up his denims in the light of the garage. “You come with me,” he said.
He took her up to the bedroom he shared with Mama.
It was a private place; Karen had not been in here even to help change the sheets. But she recognized the old oak dresser, the yellowing muslin curtains, the sailing-ship picture on the wall. They had owned these things forever. Daddy bent over the bottom drawer of the dresser, rummaged a moment, and then came up with a brown, ancient photograph, one that had not been included in Mama’s shoe box.
Karen took it from him with a dawning sense of wonder. It was a church picnic photo. Men in shirt sleeves and hats, women in billowing sundresses, all lined up stiffly for the camera.
“That’s him,” Willis said. “Second man in the back row. That’s Ben Williams.”
Karen inspected this faint, small image of her natural father.
Ben Williams was a tall man with wide, bewildered eyes. His skin was pale and his hair was long and tousled. He held a leather Bible absently in one hand.
“The woman next to him,” Willis said tonelessly, “is his wife. That blond one, there—you can’t see her too well. The babies were off in the grass.”
The babies, Karen thought. Me and Laura and Tim. We were there on this day—before everything changed.
Karen regarded the sad eyes of the man in the photograph. “Did he die?” “Yes. He died.” She thought about it. “Tell me,” she said.
Willis said, “Are you certain you want that?” She was not certain at all. But she nodded her head yes.
“All right, then,” Willis said.
Well, Willis said, we always knew they were strange.
They had a look about them. We took them for DPs because of their accent and all. Reverend Dahlquist told them there was a Greek Orthodox church downtown in Burleigh—he thought that must be more along their line. But they said no, the Assembly was what they wanted. They were friendly and they joined the church and they tried to fit in, and after a while nobody thought much about it.
Not until that night.
(Karen, open the window. Your mother hates it when I smoke in here. But right now I need to.)
You understand, I wasn’t there for the beginning of it. I heard some of this from Reverend Dahlquist. What happened is that Mrs. Williams came by the parsonage one night with her three children in tow— this was well after dark. She knocked for five minutes until the Reverend came down in his nightshirt and opened the door for her. Here, Reverend, she says, please keep these children safe, just for a little while, just for the night—please? Reverend Dahlquist said how come, but Mrs. Williams wouldn’t say. Reverend Dahlquist wasn’t pleased. But he told me later he took the children because he feared for them; Mrs. Williams was obviously scared half to death. He guessed Ben had maybe gone on some kind of rampage or was drunk or something. Not what you would have expected from Ben, but it was not too uncommon in that place. The Reverend fed the kids a late dinner and bedded them down. Might have gone to bed himself but he kept thinking of Mrs. Williams’s face, how scared she had looked, and finally he started to worry that something might happen to her, maybe if Ben was that badly off he would hurt her in some way. So he telephoned a few of the church men and suggested we should drive out by the Williams place to have a look.
It was late to be driving but Charlie Dagostino and Curt Bloedell came by in Charlie’s big Packard and picked me up. The three of us rode out there in the dark. Curt Bloedell had a little.22 caliber squirrel rifle with him, but I don’t think he ever expected to use it. In fact, he didn’t, not seriously—though maybe he should have.
We got to the Williams house at something past midnight. The house was dark.
Charlie argued that we should head back home.
Obviously nothing was wrong. I agreed with him, but Curt Bloedell wanted to knock and find out for certain —Curt always did love poking his nose in other people’s business. We argued and finally Charlie said okay, we’ll knock for Christ’s sake, I want to go home and get in bed. And so we three went up the slatboard front walk together.