She laughs some more and my dad starts laughing too. Their laughter grows louder and louder, until I realized it was not their laughter anymore. The TV had finished its spell of dead air. The happy family was back, and I was awake.
I opened my eyes and remembered where I was, what I was doing. My dad was still asleep on the couch, his back now facing me. So far in my life, I had never seen any markings on either of his arms, but I wondered if I looked now, when the world was asleep, if I might see something different. If his skin might be indented where he once etched a tree.
I waited for the TV people to laugh before I took each step. When I was finally standing over the couch, I paused and stared at my dad, sleeping in the television’s glow. I studied his dirty blond hair, darker than Chris’s and shaggy around the ears; his tan body, thin with muscle all over. He looked like a taller, thicker version of my brother, but with a mustache.
I waited for more laughter from the TV, but it didn’t come. The sitcom was having its serious moment. A family was healing itself, a rift was resolved. I reached out anyway and touched my dad’s naked chest. It was warm like a golf cart seat in the sun. He turned over on his back, but his eyes remained shut. I stepped back. When his breathing settled, I closed in and peered at his other arm. Near the shoulder was a small circle of pockmarks. I ran my finger over his skin. I smiled.
“What are you still doing here?” my dad said.
I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I felt like he was waiting for an answer, for me to say something. “What is that?” I said, pointing to his arm.
My dad rubbed his eyes, put a hand down his pants and scratched. “What is what?”
I touched the pocked spot. It was weirdly soft. “That. Is that a tree?”
“A what?” he said. “No, it’s a scar. From a shot I got when I was a kid. Never went away.”
“Oh,” I said, and we both went silent. My dad squinted his eyes open. I didn’t know what he was expecting, but he seemed surprised, or confused, seeing me, his youngest son, in the living room with him, up when I shouldn’t have been. His brow furrowed.
“You should be in bed,” he said. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me near him. He smelled of beer and other things I didn’t know. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“I…”
“Explain yourself.”
“I wanted to watch the rest of the movie?”
“The movie’s in my room. You’re not allowed in my room. You know that. Try again.”
Afterward, when I was back in bed with my brother, I thought of a million different lies I could have told my dad. I had to use the bathroom. I was thirsty. You looked cold. But with his hand tight around me, I panicked, and told a truth.
“We made a new friend,” I said. “At the pool.”
Behind me, the TV went to a loud commercial, something about knives that could cut through marble. My dad sat up, releasing my wrist, and turned the TV down.
“What did you say? Who?” He rubbed his forehead like he had Chris’s brain pain, pinching the gulf between his brows.
“His name is Chris,” I said.
My dad sank back into the couch. “Oh,” he said. “Great. That’s great. And that’s why you’re up?”
I thought of the dream, pictured myself explaining about the tree, my theory about the world’s secrets. “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess.”
“OK,” my dad said, “but you can tell me more tomorrow. Go back to bed.” He pulled me down to him and kissed me on the head.
Something familiar caught my nose. “You smell like strawberries,” I said.
He laughed. “Thank you. Now I’ll see you in the morning.”
I said good night, and my dad closed his eyes. A few seconds later he was breathing heavily.
On the way to the basement door, I stopped by the TV. A man was taking turns slicing through sheet metal and tomatoes. A pretty blond woman stood at his side, her face amazed. She was blown away by the man, his knives, and kept shaking her head in disbelief. But the man played it cool. He didn’t glance up to smile or wink at the camera. He cut through one thing after another, only pausing to hold up the halved material. To show the whole world what he had done.
three
A SECRET, CHRIS SAID, is worth keeping. A secret has the potential to hurt. That’s why you can’t tell everyone everything. That’s why some things must be locked up inside you, he said, touching my brother over his heart. Right here, the only place that is truly safe.
We learned the secret to secrets after our mother picked us up the next morning. After my dad made us eggs and burned us stacks of toast with jelly and apple butter. My brother and I had already been up for hours watching cartoons, waiting for my dad to wake and take the stairs slowly to the kitchen. When he came down, he still wasn’t wearing a shirt. Some days I think my dad tried to see how long he could go without a shirt. I think this was a game he played. Today was Sunday, though, and I knew that by the time my mother knocked on the front door, my dad would be wearing his favorite yellow softball tank top, faded and full of holes.
After eggs and between shows my brother and I changed into our church clothes. I wore blue corduroy pants and a striped polo given to my mother by a military wife who golfed at my mother’s work, and who pitied her. It was a terrible outfit. So was my brother’s. But I paid attention to his, because I knew I would be wearing the same thing in twenty-two months, when the clothes were handed down. Thus, on Sundays, more than any other day, I looked at my brother like he was the future me. The compliments he got from strangers I got, and I felt bad when he said something mean to my mother, or when he was slapped on his knee for not paying attention in church. Every moment, I hoped for him to do great things.
When my mother rang the doorbell, my brother ran to get his bag from the basement. My dad did not get off the couch. And when I opened the door with a smile, my mother did not step inside. She looked down at where a doormat should have been.
“Do you want to come in for a second, Ag?” my dad called from the couch. Ag was for Aggie, which was for Agatha. “Made some eggs. I ran out of milk, so they’re kind of bush league.”
“No thanks,” my mother said. She took a few steps and stood awkwardly in the entryway. “Already late for church. What’s that smell?”
She smells the strawberries, I thought. I could still smell them too.
“Apple butter,” my dad said.
My mother looked unconvinced, but she came into the living room anyway. She looked around at the blank walls, the low lighting. “How’s the Chief?”
“Still at it,” my dad said.
“Of course he is.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
My mother’s nose was still at work, wiggling at the smell. She seemed to realize something and she blinked a long disappointed blink. “It means some people don’t know how to quit.”
My dad coated his eggs with ketchup, pushed them around with his fork. “I think he’s almost ready.”
“You’ve been saying that for years.”
“Aggie…,” my dad started. The rhythm of their speech reminded me of my dream, except here my dad wasn’t as quick with his answers.
My brother returned from the basement and turned off the television. My dad stood up. “Same thing next weekend, then?”
“Mm-hm,” my mother said. We hugged our dad.
“Bye, Dad,” my brother said.
“Bye, sons.”
Our mother pushed us out the door.
* * *
We were quiet the drive home. My brother rode up front in our minivan, a purple-and-gray Ford Aerostar. It was the last big purchase we made as a family. I sat in back in silence, staring out the window, imagining myself a serious thinker, but really I just watched the city pass by with no deep thoughts.