“The woman who was . . .” I might have finished the sentence if Ethan hadn’t been standing there. The woman who was fatally stabbed in the park by the falls.
Even though I’d never finished the sentence, Mom knew where I was going. “That’s the one. She was Walden’s daughter. Anyway, Walden’s wife just died, too, poor man. He still works for the town, and he wanted to ask your father some questions about all these things that went on back when your father worked there. Don’t ask me what because I don’t know and I don’t care.” She looked at Ethan. “What’s with the face?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“You want a cookie?”
“No, thank you.”
“Come on,” I said to him. “Let’s go find Poppa.”
He was, as Mom had said, in the garage. It was a separate building in back of the house that was a second workshop for Dad. It was hard to keep it warm in the winter, so he’d set up a place to work in the basement, too. But when the weather was nice, he spent a lot of time out here puttering.
We found him standing at the workbench, sorting screws and dropping them into a drawer made up of dozens of small plastic cubicles. Dad was a good sorter.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hmm,” he said, barely acknowledging us. Ethan shot me a worried look, one that said, Maybe this isn’t a good time.
“Dad, you got a sec?”
He half turned to look at us, and I don’t know how this could be, but he looked older than when I’d seen him earlier in the day. I thought about his heart.
“What is it?” he asked.
I nudged Ethan’s shoulder.
“I have to tell you something,” my son said. “You promise not to get mad?”
My father eyed him curiously. “I know you haven’t wrecked my car. You can’t reach the pedals. There can’t be anything much worse than that. So, okay.”
“You know the fight I had with Carl Worthington?”
“Yup.”
“It was about your dad’s watch. The one you had in a box downstairs with other stuff.”
“Okay,” Dad said.
“I kind of took it from the box and took it to school to show people, and Carl took it and wouldn’t give it back, and I’m really sorry and I know I shouldn’t have done it and I should have asked you if I could take it to school, and I’ll pay you back.”
Dad’s eyes softened. “That’s what the fight was about.”
“I grabbed him to try to get it back but he kept it. And Dad went over there to get it back but Carl lied and said he didn’t have it.” He paused for a breath. “But I know that none of this would have happened if I hadn’t taken it in the first place.”
Dad said nothing for several seconds. Then: “Well, it didn’t keep time anyway. There’s people done worse things than what you did.”
He put his hand to Ethan’s cheek, held it there for a moment, then went back to sorting screws.
Ethan looked like a death row inmate who’d gotten a call from the governor at two minutes to midnight. I nodded toward the house, indicating he should take off. He did.
“Everything okay, Dad?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, his back to me.
“You let Ethan off pretty easy.”
“He’s a good boy,” Dad said. “He screwed up.” A pause. “We all do.”
“Mom said you met up with an old friend from work today.”
“Not really,” he said. “His dad was a friend of mine.”
“Was it good to see him?”
A shrug, his back still to me as he separated Robertsons from Phillips. “Yes and no. I don’t really keep up with folks I worked with. Say hello if I see them on the street is all, like Tate.”
I had no idea who Tate was.
Dad continued. “I’ve got enough to do without living in the past. It’s not good for you, dwelling on things that happened a long time ago that you can’t do a damn thing about.”
“What are we talking about here, Dad?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Absolutely nothing.”
An awkward silence ensued, but it wasn’t for lack of things to talk about. Marla and the baby and Rosemary Gaynor. I still couldn’t shake the image of that dead woman on the floor. As hard as I tried to mentally push it away, it kept coming back.
I figured even if I could block it out, it would be replaced with the image of a shotgun in my face.
I decided to go with something else to make conversation.
“I got offered a job today,” I said.
That prompted Dad to turn and face me. “Hey, that’s great news, son. That’s terrific.”
“I haven’t said yes. In fact, I’m not sure I want to say yes.”
He frowned. “What is it?”
“Remember Randall Finley?”
“Yeah, of course. Good man, Finley.”
“What?” That took me by surprise.
“Oh, yeah, he was a good mayor. You telling me he offered you a job?”
“Yeah. A kind of executive-assistant thing. Campaign manager, maybe. He’s thinking about running again, but he’s got his hands full overseeing his water-bottling company. Needs someone to do PR for him, deal with media, stuff like that.”
“Pay good?”
“Thousand a week.”
“What’s there to think about?” my father asked. “That’s good money.”