But Huston obviously heard the underlying ache in the words—his eyes said that he had heard it—and he smiled too, and then both men remained silent for quite a while, two fathers smiling together at one son, both men painfully aware of the son who wasn’t there.
And it was during those silent moments that DeMarco understood the true difference between Huston and himself. It had nothing to do with money or position. Both were solitary men in their own way, though DeMarco lived alone and Huston did not. Both had several complicated relationships with others. But Huston conducted all of his relationships from a solid center, from within the stabilizing orbit of his family, always venturing out from and returning to family, with his every action and reaction synchronized with family first, family last, family always, whereas DeMarco, on the other hand, had no center. He ventured out to the other relationships from emptiness, and to emptiness he returned. Every action synchronized with nothing. Emptiness first, emptiness last, emptiness always.
Their final meeting took place the next morning, when Huston showed up at DeMarco’s door. He stood there grinning, holding a book in one hand, a cardboard carton in the other.
DeMarco said, “Do I smell chili dogs?”
“Ever try them for breakfast?”
“I’ve always wanted to. C’mon in.”
Huston handed him the carton, and DeMarco nodded toward the novel. “You going to read to me while I eat?”
“I’m going to eat while you eat.” He laid the book atop a small lamp table against the wall.
DeMarco read the cover. “The Desperate Summer?”
“I know you’ve already read it, or at least pretended to. But this is a first edition. I inscribed it for you. From what I hear, they’re going for about a thousand per right now.”
“Thank you,” DeMarco said. “I’ll put it up on eBay first thing tomorrow.”
Huston grinned and slapped him on the arm. “What’s a good breakfast drink with chili dogs?”
“There’s a pitcher of iced tea in the fridge. I’ll get the glasses and napkins.”
They sat on the back porch, side by side on the edge above the steps, the carton of chili dogs between them. They ate the first dogs in silence. Halfway through his second one, Huston nodded at the overgrown yard. “Who’s your lawn boy?” he asked.
“I ordered a goat from Amazon but it hasn’t arrived yet.”
Huston chuckled. “I like the path, though. If you need any help someday…”
“Yeah, well…” DeMarco finished his last hot dog, wiped his mouth with a napkin, took a sip of iced tea. “It’s sort of a project in limbo.”
“Waiting for more bricks?”
And that was enough, after ten seconds of silence, to open him up. It started with, “I haven’t worked on it since Laraine walked out. Same with the studio apartment I started in the garage out there.”
“That little barn across the alley?”
He nodded.
“She left you after your baby died?”
“A week after the funeral, my first day back to work. I came home and she was gone. Left her wedding ring on the kitchen counter.”
After that, DeMarco recounted the accident that took baby Ryan’s life and finished with, “She lives by herself now, up in Erie. Mostly by herself. I still see her once in a while but… She’ll let me in, but she won’t say a single word to me. I can talk myself blue, and she won’t say a single word.”
More silence passed. “You still wear your ring,” Huston said.
“Neither one of us has ever filed. Never even mentioned it.”
“So there’s still hope.”
The silence continued for a long time after that. Finally, DeMarco pushed himself to his feet. “You’re right about this yard. I need to break out the lawn mower.”
Now Huston stood. “Personally, I like the natural look.”
DeMarco smiled. He stared at the path awhile longer, then turned to Huston. “Thanks for the dogs and the book. Thanks for stopping by.”
DeMarco turned to face the porch, then bent down to fill his hands with the pitcher and empty glasses. “Just leave the carton there,” he said. “I keep my garbage can out in the garage.”
Huston leaned closer and, with the heel of his fist, laid a soft punch on DeMarco’s arm. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said.
“A stranger what?”
Huston smiled, then turned and crossed along the side of the house, out to the sidewalk and his car.
Only after DeMarco had washed out the pitcher and glasses and had crumpled up the hot dog carton and mashed it into the overflowing trash container under his sink did he retrieve Huston’s novel. He opened it to the title page.
To my new good friend Ryan DeMarco, Huston had written in blue ink, this small token of appreciation—not for the information you provided, which I could have found on the Internet, but for the pleasure of your company. May that sadness in your eyes soon melt away, my brother, and may our supply of junkyard dogs never diminish.
And now it was October, almost Halloween. Huston’s latest published book had been an international bestseller since the middle of September. The beautiful family now all lay on cold steel tables beneath cold white sheets. Huston was out there somewhere in the dark, tangled woods, and DeMarco had no stomach now for junkyard dogs or anything else.
Six