by Brad Meltzer
I look over at Harry, then back to Nora. Her head’s down and she’s kicking at a few pebbles in the dirt. She’s still hesitating. Afraid to open herself up. Every other time, that’s when she’s been burned. And with everything going on . . . the way we’re tied together . . . she’s risking it all just by being here. But she still came.
Even as I move toward her, I know Trey would tell me to walk away. He’s wrong. There’re some things you have to fight for—even if it means losing it all. No matter what anyone says, there’s no easy anything.
Slowly, I lift her chin. “I’m glad you’re here.”
She can’t help but smile. “So you’re really going to see your dad?”
I nod.
“Can I meet him?”
“I-I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
She pauses at my reaction. “Why not?”
“Because . . . Why would you want to meet him anyway?”
“He’s your dad, isn’t he?”
She says it so quick, like there’s no other answer. But that doesn’t mean she’s getting in.
“If you don’t want me to, I’d understand.”
I’m sure she would—she wrote the book, the prequel, and the sequel on this stuff. And maybe that’s part of the problem. Once again, we’re back to fear. And loyalty. I can’t ask for it if I don’t give it. “So you don’t care that he’s—”
“He’s your father,” she says. “You don’t have to hide him.”
“I’m not hiding him.”
“I want to meet him, Michael.”
It’s a hard one to refuse. “Okay, but only if you—”
“Harry, I’m riding with Michael,” she calls out. Before I can say a word, she dashes for my car and hops inside.
“Sorry about your bumper,” Harry says to me as he heads back to his Suburban. “I have a budget to pay for that if you want.”
I’m talking to Harry, but still staring at Nora. “I guess . . . whatever . . . yeah.”
As he opens his door, I ask, “You don’t still have to watch her, do you?”
“I won’t come in, Michael, but I do have to follow.”
“That’s fine as long as you know one thing. When it comes to my dad, you should steer a little clear. He doesn’t like cops.”
• • •
Pulling off at the Ashland exit, it doesn’t take long for us to hit horse country. One minute we’re tracing the double-yellow lines of Route One; a left turn later we’re riding up and down the peaks and valleys of Virginia’s most picturesque rolling roads. Traffic lights become green trees and yellow stalks. Parking lots become lush open fields. The sky’s still cloudy, but the sweet smell of the outdoors . . . it’s suddenly the sunniest of days.
“Not to be an ingrate, but where the hell is this place?” Nora asks.
I don’t answer. I want her to see for herself.
Up ahead, the grounds of the facility are located next to a family-owned farm. It wasn’t the farmer’s first choice for neighbors, but the possibilities for cheap labor quickly changed his mind. When we pass the farm and its corn-stalk-covered fields, I make a sharp left through the gate in an unmarked log fence. The car bounces along a dirt road that weaves its way to the front entrance.
As we pull to a stop, I half expect Nora to race out of the car. Instead, she stays where she is. “You ready?” I ask.
She nods.
Somewhat satisfied, I get out of the car and slam the door. For perhaps the first time in her life, Nora follows.
The facility is a one-story 1950s ranch house with a propped-open screen door. So much for security. Inside, it’s a normal house, except for the walls, where fire escape routes and state licenses are posted right as you walk in. In the kitchen, a heavy, nappy-haired man is leaning forward on the counter, newspaper stretched out in front of him. “Michael, Michael, Michael,” he sings in his deep Cajun accent.
“The world-famous Marlon.”
“Momma only made but one.” He takes a quick look at Nora, then does an immediate double-take. He’s too smart for the baseball cap. Here we go.
“Mmmm-mmm—lookit dat. What you doing this far south?”
“Same thing that Creole accent’s doing this far north,” she shoots back with a grin.
Marlon lets out a thundering laugh. “Good for you, sister. ’Bout time someone didn’t say it was Cajun.”
I clear my throat, begging for attention. “Um . . . about my father . . .”
“Been asking about you all morning,” Marlon says. “And just so you know, I been lookin’ out since you called, but there’s nothing to worry about. Whole place hasn’t had a visitor since Thursday.”
“Who came on Thur—”
“Let it go,” Nora says, leaning in over my shoulder. “Just for a few hours.”
She’s right. Today’s supposed to be for family.
“He’s waiting for you,” Marlon adds. “In his room.”
Nora takes the first step. “All set?” she asks.
My fists are clenched and I’m frozen. I shouldn’t have let her come.
“It’s okay,” she says. Prying my fingers open, she takes me by the hand.
“You don’t know him. He isn’t . . .”
“Stop worrying about it,” she adds as she lifts my chin. “I’m going to love him. Really.”
Warmed by the confidence in her voice, I hesitantly head for the door.
CHAPTER 17
Knock, knock,” I announce as I enter the small room. There’s a bed on my left and a single dresser on my right. My dad’s sitting at a desk along the far wall. “Anyone here?”
“Mikey!” my dad shouts with a smile that’s all teeth. Jumping out of his seat, he knocks a can of Magic Markers from his desk. It doesn’t even register. All he sees is me.
He grabs me in a tight bear hug and tries to lift me off the ground.
“Careful, Dad. I’m heavier now.”
“Never too heavy for . . . this!” He picks me up and spins around, planting me in the center of the room. “You are heavy,” he says with a slight nasal slur. “Tired-looking too.”
With his back to the door, he doesn’t see Nora standing on the threshold. I bend over and start picking up the markers from the floor. Noticing the newspaper on his desk, I ask, “What’re you working on?”
“Crossword puzzle.”
“Really? Let me see.” He picks up the paper and hands it to me. My dad’s version of a finished crossword puzzle—he’s colored every blank square a different color.
“What d’you think?”
“Great,” I tell him, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Your best one yet.”
“For real?” he asks, unleashing his smile. It’s a bright white grin that lights up the room. With all five fingers extended, he hooks the space between his thumb and pointer finger behind his ear, then folds the top of his ear down and lets it flap up again. When I was little, it reminded me of a cat giving itself a bath. I loved it.
“Will you put in letters?” he asks.
“Not now, Dad,” I interrupt. Patting him on the back, I tuck in the tag of his shirt. Over his shoulder, I read the look on Nora’s face. She’s finally starting to get the picture. Now she knows where my childhood ends. “Dad, there’s someone I want you to meet.” Pointing to the door, I add, “This is my friend Nora.”
He turns around and they check each other out. At fifty-seven years old, he’s got the permanent smile of a ten-year-old, but he’s still extremely handsome, with a messy swath of gray hair barely receding at the temples. He’s wearing his favorite T-shirt—the one with the Heinz ketchup logo on it—and his always present khaki shorts, which are pulled too high around his stomach. Down low, he’s got white sneakers and black socks. Watching Nora, he starts rocking on the balls of his feet. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
I can see the surprise on her face. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Garrick,” she says, removing her baseball cap. It’s the first time she’s done that
in public. No more hiding.
“Do you know who she is?” I ask, suddenly enjoying myself.
“He’s my baby boy,” he tells Nora, proudly putting his arm around me. As he says the words, he looks away from both of us. His always wide eyes go straight to the corner of the room and his shoulders slump awkwardly forward.
“Dad, I asked you a question. Do you know who she is?”
His mouth hangs open as he turns to her with a long sideways glance. Confused, he says, “Pretty girl with small breasts?”
“Dad!”
“She’s not?” he asks sheepishly, his eyes darting away.
“Actually, that’s just a nickname,” she says, extending a hand. “I’m Nora.”
“Frank,” he blurts with a grin. “Frank Garrick.” He wipes his hand against his stomach and offers it to Nora.
I know what she’s thinking. The way his mouth gapes open; the way he’s always staring in the distance—it’s not what she expected. His teeth buck slightly forward, his neck cranes upward. He’s an adult, but he looks more like an oversized kid—who happens to have really poor fashion sense.
“Dad, why’re you still wearing those black socks? I told you they look terrible with sneakers.”
“They stay up better,” he says, pulling up each sock to its height limit. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“There sure isn’t,” Nora says. “I think you look handsome.”
“She says I look handsome,” he repeats, rocking back and forth. As I watch the two of them, he stands right next to her—completely invading her personal space—but Nora never steps back.
I grin at Nora, but she turns away to check out the room. Above my dad’s bed is a framed picture from Michigan’s Special Olympics. It’s an aerial shot of a young man competing in the long jump. On the opposite wall is the framed collage I made for him when he moved into the group home. Built with pictures from the last thirty years, it lets him know I’m always there.
“Is this you?” Nora asks, examining the collage.
“Which one?” I ask.
“Bowl haircut and the pink oxford shirt. The little prepster.”
“That’s Mikey in his big-boy shirt,” my dad says proudly. “Off to school, off to school.”
In the corner, she glances at the rows of empty Heinz ketchup bottles that line the bookshelves, and the windowsills, and the side table next to the bed, and every other free space in the room. Following her glance, my dad beams. I shoot him a look. He can show her the ketchup bottles later. Not now.
Next to the bookcase, his bed is made, but his desk’s a mess. On top of the clutter is a framed wedding photo. Nora goes right to it.
Right away, my dad starts flicking his middle finger against his thumb. Flick, flick, flick, flick. “She’s my wife. Philly. Phyllis. Phyllis,” he repeats as Nora picks up the frame. Decked out in their respective tux and wedding dress, my dad looks young and slender; my mom shy and overweight.
“She’s very pretty,” Nora says.
“She’s beautiful. I’m handsome,” he says. Flick, flick, flick. “Here’s Michael with the President. The real one.” Reaching over, he hands Nora a photograph of me and her dad.
“Wow,” she says. “And Michael gave this to you?”
“I told you—he’s my boy.”
• • •
After a quick game of Connect Four, we head to the backyard for lunch. Polishing off the remains of our turkey and ketchup sandwiches, the three of us are sitting at an old wooden picnic table. “Want a surprise for dessert?” my dad asks as soon as he’s done eating.
“I do,” Nora says immediately.
“Michael, what about . . .”
“Sure,” I add.
“You got it! Wait right here.” He shoots up out of his seat, almost knocking over his plate.
“Where’re you going?” I ask as he heads away from the house.
“Next door,” he explains without turning around.
My eyes are locked on him as he waddles toward the log fence that separates the two properties. “Be careful,” I shout.
He waves back at me, his arm flailing through the air.
“You really get crazy about him, don’t you?” Nora asks.
I rip a piece of crust from my bread and crumble it in my hand. “I can’t help it. Ever since that photographer took my picture . . . If they’re that interested, you know they’re going to come out here eventually.”
“And what’s so terrible about that?”
She thinks I’m embarrassed of him. Even if I am, I wish it were that simple. “Don’t tell me there’s no reason to worry.”
“Maybe it’s just a mind game. Maybe it’s Simon’s way of telling you to keep quiet.”
“And what if it’s not? What if the press already knows about this guy Vaughn—?”
“I told you before, don’t play what-if. You’re meeting with Vaughn on Monday—you’ll find out soon enough. Until then, we’ll talk to Marlon and tell him to keep a close watch.”
“But what if . . .” I catch myself. “Maybe I should bring him back to the city. He can stay with me.”
“That’s a crap idea and you know it.”
“You have anything better?”
“I’m going to ask the Service to keep tabs on him out here.”
“They’d do that?”
“They’re the Secret Service. They’d suck bullets from a tommy gun if they thought it’d keep us safe.”
“You mean, if it’d keep you safe.”
“The benefit cup runneth over,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “If something suspicious happens to my friends, I’m supposed to report it. They’ll open a file and look into it. That should be more than enough to keep him safe.”
I push the crumbs on my plate into a small, neat pile. Time for some order. “Thank you, Nora. That’d be great.” Looking up, I notice that she still hasn’t put on her baseball cap. “That’d really mean a lot to us.”
All she does is nod. Standing from her seat, she picks up her empty plate and starts to clean up.
“Leave it,” I tell her. “Marlon likes my dad to do it himself. The group home’s goal is self-sufficiency.”
“But doesn’t he—” Nora cuts herself off.
“What?”
“No, nothing. I just—” Once again, she interrupts herself. She’s lived her whole life on the receiving end of this one. Fascination with dad. It’s killing her to pry.
“He’s mentally retarded,” I offer. “And don’t worry, I don’t mind you asking.”
She looks away, but her face is flushed red. She’s blushing. So that’s what it takes to rattle her. “How long has he suffered with it?” she asks.
“He doesn’t ‘suffer,’” I explain. “He was just born with a slower ability to learn—which means he takes a little longer with logic and other complex reasoning. The upside, though, is that he’ll never lie about his emotions. It’s the charm of openness. He means what he says.”
“Does that mean I have small breasts?”
I laugh. “Sorry about that one. It sometimes takes its toll on some of his social skills.”
“So is your mom . . . ?”
There it is—the first question everyone asks. “No, my mom was normal. At least, by my standards.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Take another look at the wedding photo. She was a full-figured nurse with inch-thick glasses—the kind of sad, heavyset woman you never see out, because she never goes out. She just sat home and read books. Tons of books. All of them fantasies. When my dad went to the hospital with a bladder infection, she took care of him. Penis jokes aside, he adored her—couldn’t get enough—kept hitting the call button on his bed so she’d come and visit. His ‘butterfly’ he called her. That was all she needed. For the first time, someone said she was beautiful and meant it.”
“Some people would call that true love.”
“No, I agree. My mom loved him for everything he was, and he loved
her right back. It was never one way—slow learner doesn’t mean brain dead. He’s a loving, caring person and she was the one he picked. At the same time, she saw him unobscured by his disability. And the fact that she could take care of him—it’s the same thing he did for her—after all those years alone . . . well, everyone wants to be wanted.”
“So I guess she’s the one who raised you.”
Nora’s careful the way she says that. What she really wants to know is: How’d I turn out so normal? “However she felt about herself, my mom always found her outlet in me. When I started reading early and asked her if we could subscribe to a newspaper, she did everything in her power to keep me going. She just couldn’t believe she and my dad produced . . .” I pause. “She was so shy, she was afraid to talk to the cashier at a Kmart, but she couldn’t have possibly loved—or supported me—more.”
“And she did it all by herself?”
“I know you’re thinking it’s impossible, but it happens all the time. Didn’t you see the New York Times Magazine a few weeks back? They did a whole piece on kids with mentally retarded parents. When I was younger, we had a support group of six people we met with twice a week—now they have comprehensive therapeutic programs. Other than that, we got some help from my mom’s aunts and uncles, who were some Ohio wealthy-types. Too bad for us, every one of them was a jerk-off—including the ones who live around here. They tried to get her to divorce my dad, but she told them to go scratch themselves. Hearing that, they told her the same. It’s one of the biggest things I respect her for. Born with everything, she went for nothing.”
“And what’s your twist? Born with nothing, you now want everything?”
“It’s better than nothing.”
She takes a long look at me, studying my features. Her short fingernails are picking at the edge of her paper plate. I have no idea what she’s thinking, but I refuse to say anything. I’ve always believed people connect in silence. Mental digestion, someone once called it. What happens between words.
Eventually, Nora stops picking at the plate. Something clicked.
“You alright?” I ask.
