“One cleaned-off slug at your service,” Paulo says, handing me a small plastic bag with an old copper-jacketed bullet. “You know the rules, Cal—it’s your dad’s property, but if the cops come asking . . .”
“Send ’em my way,” I say, squinting hard at the contents of the bag. The single bullet is squatty, with shallow grooves that twist left along the bottom half. I don’t recognize the make and model, but it’s definitely got a unique shape. Won’t be hard to find out.
“When he came in, I could touch his stomach and feel the bullet right under his skin,” Paulo points out. “But when I made the incision—and this is with no pain medication, just some anesthetic by the wound—but even as I tweezed it out, your dad grunted once, but never cried in pain.”
“All those years in prison. He’s lived through worse,” I say.
Roosevelt stares me down. So does the doctor. It’s so damn easy to judge. But as Paulo knows from his niece, no matter how much you want someone back in your life, sometimes it’s the letting-them-back-in part that hurts the most.
“So how long you keeping him for?” I ask.
“Keeping him?” Paulo asks. “You watch too many cop shows. I sliced it out, gave him his grand total of five stitches, and let him borrow some hospital scrubs so he wouldn’t have to wear his own blood home. You should be careful, though—he’s overweight, high blood pressure, and although he won’t admit to any chest pains, he’s got the beginnings of myocardial ischemia. Wherever he’s going next, he needs to watch his heart. Otherwise, he’s yours.”
Just behind the doctor’s shoulder, there’s a hushed electric whoosh. But it’s not until he steps aside that I spot the tall man with the grassy green eyes and the twisted Irish nose. Dressed in a fresh pair of blue hospital scrubs, my father climbs out of his required wheelchair ride. And shuffles directly toward us.
8
Roosevelt cuts in front of me and motions back to the yellow sheet in my hand. I stuff it back in my dad’s shoe and cover it up with his bloody silk shirt and pants.
Like kids watching fireworks, Roosevelt and I crane our necks up. My dad’s six foot two. In all the carrying and rushing from the ambulance, this is the first moment he looks it. He’s got a face that reminds me of an egg, made wider at the bottom by his gray-speckled beard, which is trimmed and neat. For a second, it looks like the pain in his side is too much. But when he sees us watching, he takes a deep breath, brushes his fine gray hair from his forehead, and squares his shoulders into a near perfect stance. No question, appearances still matter.
“Cal, I’m inside if you need anything,” Paulo says, and quickly excuses himself.
Roosevelt stays right where he is. By my side.
My father clears his throat, taking a long look at Roo-sevelt, but Roosevelt doesn’t take the hint. I expect my dad to get annoyed . . . maybe even lose his temper the way he used to. But all he does is glance back toward the emergency room and scratch his knuckles against his beard. By his side, his left hand is clenched in a tight fist. Whatever he’s holding in, he’s fighting hard with it.
“I’ll be fine,” I whisper to Roosevelt, motioning him inside. There’s no mentoring with this one.
“I . . . uh . . . I’ll be inside pretending to get coffee,” Roosevelt announces as he heads back through the sliding doors.
We stand silently outside the emergency room entrance. On both sides of the overhang, the rain continues its prickly tap dance. My father lowers himself onto a metal bench and looks my way. I’ve practiced this moment for years. How, depending on the mood I was in, I’d tell him off, or ask him questions, or even embrace him in the inevitable swell of tears and regret that would follow my ruthless verbal assault. But as I sit down next to him, the only thing I notice is the gold U.S. Navy military ring on his right hand. As far as I know, he was never in the military. And as much as I try to make eye contact, he won’t stop staring at the pile of designer clothes and shoes I’m still holding.
“Calvin—”
“Cal,” I correct him. “I go by Cal now.”
“Yeah . . . no . . . I . . . Here’s the thing, Cal—” He cuts himself off. “I’m glad you’re the one who found me.”
It’s a perfect line, delivered with as much polish and determination as my own preplanned speech. The only problem is, it doesn’t answer the only question that matters.
“Where the hell have you been?” I blurt.
“Y’mean with the park? I told you: I was at the bar, then got jumped . . .” He studies me, reading my anger all too well. “Ah. You mean for the past few years.”
“Yes, Lloyd. For the past nineteen years. You left me, remember? And when you went to prison—” My voice cracks, and I curse myself for the weakness. But I’ve earned this answer. “Why didn’t you come back for me?”
Staring over my shoulder, my dad anxiously studies both ends of the U-shaped driveway, then scans the empty sidewalk that runs in front of the hospital. Like he’s worried someone’s watching. “Calvin, is there anything I can possibly say to satisfy that question?”
“That’s not the point. Y-You missed everything in my—” I shake my head. “You missed Aunt Rosey’s funeral.”
I wait for his excuse. He’s too smart to make one. He knows there’s no changing the past. And the way he keeps checking the area, he’s far more worried about the future.
“The doctor told me you drive around and pick up homeless people,” he offers, eyeing the parking garage on our right. “Good for you.”
“Why’s that good for me?” I challenge.
“This isn’t a fight, Calvin—”
“Cal.”
“—I just think it’s nice that you help people,” he adds, rechecking the street.
“Oh, so now you like helping people?”
“I’m just saying . . . it’s good to help people.”
“Are you asking me for help, Lloyd?”
For the first time, my father looks directly at me. I know he’s a truck driver. I know about the delivery slip. And I know that whatever it is he’s picking up at the port, he’s not getting that shipment unless he has someone remove the hold notice, a favor that wouldn’t take me more than a single phone call.
“Thank you, but I’m fine,” he tells me, standing slowly from his seat. He’s clearly aching. But as he grips the armrest, I can’t help but stare at his fingers, which are marked by hairy knuckles and crooked pinkies. Just like mine. “Calvin, can we please have the rest of this argument later? With all this pain medication, it’s like everyone’s talking in slow motion.”
I just stare as he limps away. Paulo said he hadn’t given him any pain medication. Just a shot of anesthetic by the wound.
“Hey, Lloyd—you never told me what you do these days. You still painting restaurants?”
“For sure. Lots of painting,” he says, his back still to me.
“That’s great. And you can do it full-time? No odd jobs or anything else to make the rent?”
My father stands up straight and looks back. But in his eyes . . . all I see is panic. Real panic. My father spent eight years in prison. If he’s scared, it’s for something that’s worth being scared about. “Business is really great,” he insists.
“I’m sure it is if you can afford this nice shirt and shoes,” I say, still holding his belongings.
His mouth is open, like he’s ready to say something. It’s as if I have a grip on his scab and I’m slowly pulling it off. That’s it, Lloyd. Tell me what you’re really here for. But instead, he shakes his head slightly, like he’s begging, pleading for me to stay away.
“I—I can handle my own problems, Calvin. Please. . . .”