For a brief moment I glimpsed a flicker of pain behind those eyes. A memory he thought forgotten had come back to him.
"But she did," I said. "And then she left. Tell me what happened."
"I don't need to tell you anything," he snapped suddenly, the beer sloshing liquid onto his bathrobe.
"It's thirty years ago. It's over."
"It's not over," I said, my voice quivering. "Your son was found dead in a seedy apartment this week. It's not over. You were the boy's father. I know it meant nothing to you, but it damn sure meant something to him, and to
Helen Gaines. And it damn sure means something to me."
"What?" he said, lurching out of his chair, knocking the bottle flying. I recognized that look. The look of rage, the look that said he didn't owe anybody anything.
"What does it mean to you? You never knew him. I never knew him. He's a fucking stranger. What, just because you share some, like, microscopic strand of
DNA in common all of a sudden this matters to you?
Please. Spare me, Henry. Go back to New York. Go back to your big city and do whatever you do there." He pointed at Amanda. "And take this…whatever… with you."
"This is Amanda," I said. "And she's given me more in just a few years than you have in a lifetime."
"Are you finished?" he asked, sitting back down.
"Because I have a league game tonight and I bowl like crap when I'm not prepared."
"Right," I said. "Your bowling league. You cared more about those pins than you did us."
"Pins don't talk back," he said. "Pins don't waste your hard-earned money on books that don't put food on the table. Speaking of that, will you be joining us for dinner?"
"I'd rather break bread with Bin Laden," I said.
"How long were you sleeping with Helen Gaines while you were with Mom?"
James sighed, leaned back, searched his memory. He spoke as though this was a mere trifle to him, like I'd asked what he had for lunch yesterday.
"Must have been about a year. Maybe a little more.
Who keeps track of these things?" he said. Who keeps track of these things. Like it was a bowling score from a few years ago.
Without warning, my father stood up, cracked his back and went up the rickety stairs. Amanda and I sat there unsure what to do. We heard some rummaging around, and soon after, my father came back down. He held something in his hand I couldn't see. Then he gave it to me.
It was a photograph of a young woman. It was worn, faded, kept somewhere it was not removed from often.
The woman in the photo had pale skin, curly brown hair and luminous green eyes. She was sitting on a grassy hill, a blouse covering her knees. Her mouth was open in a smile, the shot taken in the middle of a laugh.
Despite her young age she had deep laugh lines. She looked like the kind of woman it would be easy to fall in love with.
"You kept this?" I said. "Why?"
"I'm not keen on throwing things out. Never know when you might need them."
"Didn't you worry Mom would find it?"
"She hasn't yet."
I handed the photo back to him. He hesitated, then took it, slipping it into his pocket.
"You didn't care that you were married?" I asked.
His glare told me he didn't.
"When did you first learn about Stephen? That you had a son?"
"When Helen was about four months along. She told me she wouldn't have sex anymore. And that was the reason. I thought she was going to get an abortion. That's what we both wanted, I thought. Then her belly keeps getting bigger and bigger and…" James looked down at his hands. "Then one day he's there. This little kid."
"What then?"
"She wanted to know where we stood. Whether she was going to raise the boy on her own. I told her I already had a wife, and she wanted her own kids. And that I didn't have the time or money for two families."
"And then?"
"And then she left. One day she's living a few streets over, the next Helen's moved out, packed up her stuff, sold her crappy house and disappeared forever."
"Forever," I said. "You were never curious to see how your other son was doing?"
"Didn't much care how the son who lived with us was doing, ungrateful as he was."
Point made.
"When was the last you heard from Helen?" I asked.
My father looked down. His eyes twitched for a moment. I tried to look past them, tried to see just what this man was holding on to.
Then he said, "The day before she disappeared.
That's all I know. That mother of his never took care of
Stephen. Maybe if she'd made some different choices he'd still be alive."
"By different choices, do you mean never shacking up with you?"
"Don't get smart," he said. "I guess that's one of those whaddaya callems, rhetorical statements."
I bristled. "What do you mean, different choices?"
"She was always one of those wild women, doing things to her mind and body. Tough to find a woman who drinks more than you do. And that's all I know. I don't wish the boy died. I'm not some monster. But he's no more my son than I was his father. Blood's only as thick as you make it."
"Don't I know it," I said. Then I stood up. Amanda did as well.
"I'd like to say it's been a good visit, Dad, but there's been enough lying in this family. The buck's gotta stop somewhere. Say hi to Mom for me."
"I will," he said, and I actually believed him. As I left to go, all of a sudden Amanda spoke.
"Are you sorry?" she asked. She was staring right into his eyes, not letting him go. In that moment I knew just how strong this woman was.
James sat there, silent, for what must have been several minutes. He looked back at her. She wouldn't turn away.
"No," he finally said. And oddly enough, I didn't believe him.
I reached for the door. Took Amanda's arm. Nodded toward my father.
And just as I was about to turn the knob, there came a loud knock at the door.
At first I thought it was my mother, but she wouldn't have bothered or needed to make that much noise.
"James Parker?" came the male voice from outside.
My father stood up. Approached the door. He looked through the peephole, then stepped back. A look of concern and fear crossed his face.
"What is it?" I said. "Dad?"
"Sir, open up," the voice said.
My father unlocked the bottom latch and opened the door.
Three police officers-two men and one woman- were standing on the front porch. One of them held a piece of paper. The others held their hands at their hips.
Specifically by their guns.
Clearly, they were worried they might need to use them.
"James Parker?" the lead officer said.
"Yuh…yes?"
The officer stepped forward through the doorway.
He grabbed my father, spun him around until his chest hit the wall with a thud. The other two cops swarmed in, and within seconds my father was in handcuffs. I saw his eyes go wide, this proud, arrogant man. And in those eyes I saw emotion I'd never seen before in nearly thirty years.
My father was afraid.
"What the hell is going on?" I shouted.
"James Parker," the cop said, "You're under arrest for the murder of Stephen Gaines."
8
Amanda and I sat on a small wooden bench in the lobby of the Bend police department. After they'd taken my father away in handcuffs, pressing his head down as he climbed into the backseat of the car like some common thug you'd see on COPS, we followed practi cally bumper to bumper in our rental car.
Upon arriving at the station, I didn't have a chance to talk to my father before they led him into booking.
The City of Bend Police Department had two sections: a two-level structure that sat next to a taller tower, both with sloped, tiled roofs. The sign outside read City of