My dad was a tall man and I always thought remarkable, like somewhere a stained glass window was missing its center. He was like that, centered, responsible to a fault.
He was only forty-nine that summer, but his forehead seemed older, like it was recycled from some centenarian who had lived a hundred devastating years. The wrinkles were long, seemingly circling all the way around as an unofficial equator. The only thing longer were his fingers, which were tall and grasslike when his hands were up. Perhaps that’s why his palms were always a bit moist. They were the wetlands and his fingers the bulrushes that grew at the edges of them.
Him being an attorney meant tailored suits, always three-piece for him so he could tuck his tie into a vest.
“That way,” he’d say, “it’ll never catch on a branch and play noose.”
Even when he wasn’t working, he was formal. He wasn’t the kind for jeans with, say, a ball cap and tennis shoes. It was always ironed trousers, gleaming cuff links, and polished oxfords.
I always thought he had too demanding a job for someone like him. We are all sensitive to a degree when it comes to the great terrible things in the world, but he was torn apart by them.
Some cases affected him more than others, like the one with the little girl who was beaten to death by her addict parents. He’d stare at those bloody crime photos over and over again, long after he put the parents away. Then one day he said he was going out.
He drove a few miles outside of Breathed to a roadside bar and said the types of things you should never say to a biker gang. He was bedridden for six weeks. When I asked him why he did it, he used his one good hand to write I wanted to see for myself on a pad of paper because his mouth was wired shut.
His jaw would heal, as would his swollen eyes, cracked ribs, and broken kneecap. The bruises would go on their way, the blood would stop lifting to the surface, and his arm would eventually come out of that cast. But he’d still have the scar at his hairline where the beer bottle had been broken. He never tried to hide this scar. He’d brush his thick brown hair back so there’d be no chance of not seeing it. He did just this as he strolled between me and the boy.
“I feel like someone forgot to tell me just how hot it was to be today.” He removed his suit jacket and draped it over his arm. He kept his back to us as he looked toward the house. “And who, may I ask, are you?”
The boy didn’t answer, so Dad turned to see why, his blue eyes squinted.
“He’s the devil, Dad.”
“Now, Fielding, it isn’t polite to call someone the devil without just cause.”
“I’m callin’ him the devil ’cause he is the devil. Or so he says. Go on, tell ’im.” I gave the boy a gentle push toward Dad.
The boy stood there a moment, digging his dirty toe into the ground before confirming in a washed-out voice, “It is true. I am the devil.”
The grasses at Dad’s palms fluttered as he tried to recall ever seeing the boy before. “Where are you from, son?”
“Originally, I am from the above. But now, well, now I’m from the below. Fallen there.”
“Fallen? Salinero v. Pon, is it?”
“What’s that?” the boy asked, not used to Dad and his court case references.
“Oh, Salinero v. Pon? Well, it was a case where a man fell from a window, and all because weight was removed. Will you argue like him, I wonder?” he asked the boy in all seriousness. “That the reason you fell is because someone removed your weight?”
“I wish my defense could be so easy,” the boy answered in the same seriousness.
“Mmm-hmm.” Dad thrust his hands on his hips. “I’m going to tell you right now, son, I am prepared to believe you, no matter how outrageous it may seem. I am the one who wrote an invitation to the devil in the first place. It would be lousy of me not to believe my invitation has indeed been answered. I did think I had prepared myself for every devil imaginable. Not one of my imaginings looked like you, though.”
We all three turned to the back porch, where Mom was hollering for Dad.
“What’s goin’ on, Autopsy? Who’s that boy?” She hovered her foot over the porch steps but would never take them.
“You boys stay here.” Dad shook his head and muttered about the heat as he left.
Meanwhile, the boy hadn’t stopped staring at Mom. “What’s her name?”
“Stella. If you wanna see her, you’ll have to go to her. Porch is the farthest she’ll come.”
“Why?”
“She’s afraid of the rain.”
“It’s not raining.”
“Naw, but it might start.”
He looked up at the blue sky, knowing it would not rain.
“What’s the date?” He dropped his eyes back to the porch, where Mom and Dad stood talking.
“June twenty-third. Why?”
“The days … they’ve been blurring together.”