“If you kill me, I will come back like Marley’s ghost and haunt you.”
Harry sniggered. “You believe in ghosts?”
“No. I believe you’re alive and then you’re not. I will, however, not go gently into the good night if you kill me.” Dad looked both ways up and down the street. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Hell, yeah.” Harry made exaggerated movements as he adjusted his seat, messed with his rearview mirror, checked his wing mirrors, tugged on his seat belt. Okay, so that last bit was unnecessary, but really? Did Dad think he’d drive off without checking that the road was clear?
“What’s your evidence?”
“Too much crap that can’t be explained. Besides, I had that incident after Uncle Tom—” Shit, shit, shit.
Dad’s arm shot across him like the safety bar on a fairground ride. “What did you just say?”
“Mom told me to never tell you.”
Dad turned off the engine. “A bit late for that, wouldn’t you say?”
The mail guy stopped in front of them. Pulled down their mailbox, shoved in the mail, slapped the box shut. Drove on to Eudora’s house.
Harry opened his window, closed his window, opened it a crack. He clicked his teeth together in rhythms of four beats. Dad stared out of the windshield, waiting.
“The night Uncle Tom died,” Harry said, “I had some weird dream. Only it felt real, as if Uncle Tom were sitting on my bed, talking to me.”
“What did he say—in this dream?”
“‘I love you, Munchkin.’ Then he said . . .”
“Said what, Harry?”
“That life hadn’t been easy for you, and we should look after each other. That was it. Then it was morning. Mom was cooking blueberry pancakes and you were gone. She told me Uncle Tom had died, and I said that was wrong because I’d talked with him, and she swore me to secrecy. Mom said it would make you too sad. I’m sorry, Dad.”
Dad was right. He should try to focus more. Words spilled out without passing through his brain first. And now, because he’d screwed up and was worse than a slug, Dad looked ready to cry, right here in the car. And it was his fault. Like he’d stuck Dad with a blade. Mom always said, “Don’t mention Uncle Tom in front of Dad. It’s too painful for him.” So he didn’t. And now he had. Slug. Total slug. Or some other slimy life-form.
“Your mother was trying to protect me.” Dad shook his head slowly. “That’s what she does—she protects us—but sometimes I wish she wouldn’t.”
Yeah. Totally.
“That bit about life not being easy for you. He meant Grandfather, didn’t he?”
“Your grandfather had no patience and a great deal of rage, and I had various habits he deemed annoying.” Dad flicked at some invisible spot on his black jeans. “He attempted to discipline them out of me.”
“You mean habits like when you tap your palm.”
Dad snapped his head around and glared. “I used to make a little clearing noise with my throat, too.”
“You mean”—Harry hesitated—“a tic?”
“No, Harry, not a tic. A nervous habit.”
But how could Dad be sure? Hadn’t they always wondered about the genetic component? Hadn’t Mom and Dad said, in the early days, “But where did this come from?”
Dad scratched his hands through his hair like he was shaking out nits. Or demons. Then he reached over and turned the key. The engine juddered to life.
“You, however, will have to learn to control your tics while you’re driving. You must have absolute focus and two hands on the wheel. Can you manage that?”
Harry cleared his throat, clicked his tongue again—a nervous habit—and nodded.
“We’re going to do a loop around the neighborhood.” Dad adjusted his glasses. He did that a lot. Maybe it was a tic. From now on, Harry would watch everything Dad did. Every little gesture.