“Hi, Karissa. I don’t want to disturb you, but I called and you didn’t call back.”
She didn’t answer.
Brock glanced at the children. “That was incredible. I didn’t know deaf people sang.”
“Yes, they sing, Brock.” She drew her arms across her chest.
“I need to talk to you.”
“I can’t right now.” She hesitated, then took a step closer. “Even if I could, there’s nothing we need to talk about that can’t be communicated via e-mail.”
Brock glanced at Karissa’s students again. “You’ve transformed them. It’s mesmerizing.”
“Thanks.” Karissa gave a grim smile. “I need you to leave.”
Brock gazed at her, trying to tell her with his eyes what he couldn’t with his words. “I never knew you wanted to do something like this. Why couldn’t I see it?”
A look passed over her face as if she accepted the fact he wouldn’t leave without speaking to him.
“I don’t know, Brock. It would have been nice if you did.”
“I’m stunned at what you’ve accomplished.”
“They are amazing.”
“You’re amazing. The way you must have worked with them. The way you’ve taken kids who can’t hear and turned them into a choir that sings with a beauty I’ve never imagined.”
“Thanks, Brock. I appreciate it.” She shoved her hands in her pockets. “And I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls. It’s been busy. What can I do for you?”
“I don’t want to bore you with the details, but I’m having a kind of amnesia, and there are a lot of things I can’t remember.”
“Amnesia? Since when?” She frowned, then glanced back at her students. Her aide gave them instructions, and they came down off the riser and walked toward a collection of backpacks.
“I’m forgetting things, Karissa. Important things.”
“Did you have an accident? Hit your head?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“But you can’t remember things.”
“That’s right.”
“Like what?”
“I remember most things, but there are some major holes missing. I asked Beth about one of them, and she said I should hear it from you.”
“I like her, how is she?”
Karissa knew Beth? “Doing well.”
Karissa took a light-blue coat off the wall where it hung on a wooden peg, pointed to the door, and walked toward it. “I need to be at another appointment, can we walk while we talk? Annalisa will take care of them from here.”
“Sure. Of course.”
Brock waited till they’d walked twenty paces and were out of earshot of Karissa’s assistant. “Where’s Tyson?”
“What?” She turned with a confused look.
“Where’s our son?”
“You don’t remember where Tyson is?”
“No. Where is he?”
“Do we have to get into that right now?”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t understand. How can you not know that?”
“I told you, major holes.”
Karissa hitched up her jeans and picked up her pace. She reached the door to the outside and shoved it open. A blast of cool air washed over them and Karissa zipped up her coat.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“You really don’t remember?” She stopped and turned to him.
Brock opened his arms wide in surrender and shook his head.
Karissa sighed and resumed walking.
“Before I tell you, you need to know it wasn’t your fault.”
“What wasn’t my fault?”
“What is wrong with you?”
“Just tell me.”
“Tell you what?” She scowled. “That Tyson killed a man in a barroom brawl but he didn’t mean to? That the fight the two of you had sent him to that bar?”
“I didn’t have a fight with him.”
“Yes, you had a fight. Yes, you told him to go drown his head in whatever would set it straight, but you didn’t force him to go there, didn’t force him to start drinking, and didn’t force him to react like a junior-high kid when the other guy provoked him.”
“Killed? Tyson murdered him?”
“Manslaughter isn’t murder.”
“How long?” Brock’s breathing came in quick gasps. “How long has he been in? How long till he gets out?”
“When he went in, his lawyer said because of his age and the circumstances, that good behavior could get him out in as little as three years. Maybe less.”
“So how long to go?”
Darkness fell on Karissa’s face. “His behavior in there can’t be described as good.”
Brock tried to stop the panic sliding across his chest.
Karissa glared at him. “I’m still having a hard time believing you’ve forgotten this.”
He started to speak but before he could, she continued. “At the same time, if I were you and was going to forget something, this would be near the top of the list.”
“What happened inside? What’s the bad behavior?”
Karissa’s eyes watered and she swallowed hard. “He murdered another inmate. He’s not getting out of there for a very, very long time.”
Brock slumped forward and almost went to his knees. “My fault. It’s my fault.”
“No, Brock. No.” For the first time since they started talking, he saw a hint of compassion on her face. “Like I said, it was not your fault, Brock. He wasn’t a child. He was twenty-one years old. He had a choice to go into that bar. He had a choice.”
“But if I hadn’t argued with him, if I’d put down my own pride, he might not have gone. I have to go see him.”
Karissa sighed.
“What?”
“Tyson agrees with you.”
“That it was my fault?”
Karissa nodded.
“What are you saying?”
“You go down there all the time.” Again the look of compassion. “But he rarely agrees to see you.”
“I have to try.”
Chapter 32
MAY 26, 2015
Aguard who likely weighed in at over three hundred pounds motioned Brock to the window in the King County Jail. Brock handed over a slip of paper with Tyson’s name and cell number. The clerk took it without looking up, scribbled the date and something else Brock couldn’t make out, and handed it back.
“How long till we’ll be taken inside?”
The guard looked up at Brock, then shifted his focus to the book in Brock’s hand. “You can’t take anything in there.”
“Nothing?”
“Doesn’t anyone read anymore?” the guard muttered. He pointed at a sign on the wall next to Brock. “What does that say?”
Brock looked at the sign. “ ‘No phones, no cameras, no money.’ Basically nothing.”
“That’s basically right.”
“What about this book?”
The guard’s expression transitioned from boredom to exasperation. “Is that book something?”
“I suppose.”
“So it’s not nothing?”
“True.”
“What do you think that means, then?”
“That I can’t bring it in.”
“Bingo.”
“He needs it.”
“Uh-huh.”
The guard extended his hand. Brock hesitated, handed the book over, then sat with several other people on the long hard bench along the wall to the right. Everything in the waiting room was a shade of brown that looked like it was shipped in from the 1930s. The air was cool, almost cold, but taking breaths felt like being in a sauna. And the walls. Ugh. They weren’t closing in on him. That’s what his eyes said, but his brain disagreed. Odds were, Tyson’s quarters were worse. Imagining Tyson living here—no, not living, existing—roiled his stomach.
A few minutes later a guard called for all those in the waiting room to join him at the elevator. Brock glanced from face
to face. None of them carried any hope. He supposed his face looked the same. The elevator was crowded and smelled like a heavy antiseptic had been sprayed in a futile attempt to cover up the odor of wet rags. He stood behind a thin woman who sang to herself, not loud enough to make out the words. Next to him was a man with eyes like dark marbles and a pinched face that was too tan.
When they reached Tyson’s floor, all of them went through security one by one. As Brock waited, he felt like he was on a river shooting him toward Tyson, and now that the moment was here, a large part of him wanted to head for the shoreline.
A few minutes later, Brock sat at the end of a gray, cafeteria-style table and fixed his eyes on the door the guard said Tyson would come through. A few minutes later, a stream of inmates meandered through the door. Only a few of them looked like they wanted to be there.
And then in a flash, Tyson stood on the other side of the table staring down at him. “Long time no see, Dad.”
“Tyson.” Brock stood, stepped around the table, and reached out to take Tyson in his arms, but his son yanked himself out of Brock’s grip.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Tyson scowled at him.
His voice was strained and matched the look in his eyes. Tyson’s face was gaunt, and it didn’t look like his gray jumpsuit had been washed in a week. A smattering of three-day growth lined his chin and upper lip, and his hair was long and matted.
“I’m going to get you out of here. I’m going to fix this.”
“Oh you are, huh?” Tyson leaned forward and scoffed. “You and what army?”
“I promise you—”
“What are you doing here?” Tyson squinted at him. “Why’d you come?”
“I had to see you.”
“Why?” Tyson glanced around the room as if looking for a way to escape.
Brock stared at his son and tried to imagine the type of father he must have been in this time line. Part of him wanted to rail against the thought that he could have ignored his son. But the truth won, and Brock admitted there were dark places inside of him capable of even worse things.
“Talk to me. Tell me what you’re going through.”
“Why do you care?”
“Please?”
Tyson shrugged and sat down. He picked at a stain on the table top. “I’m making it. I’m meeting all kinds of interesting people. Good mix of inmates, you know? Lots of experience here. Different crimes, different ages, races. It’s a fascinating microcosm of society.”
His son glanced up, and for a moment Brock saw pain in his eyes, but then Tyson’s mask slid back on and he focused again on the table.
“The thing about having killed someone is it gave me respect when I arrived. But the part that blows is every metalhead in here wants to test it. See if I’m really as tough as the rumors say.” He unbuttoned his cuff and pulled up his sleeve. “This is my best souvenir so far.”
A deep red scar ran from Tyson’s wrist up past his bicep. Brock sucked in a quick breath.
“Impressive, huh?” His son flexed his arm and the scar turned white. “You like it?”
Brock swallowed and tried to speak.
“No?” He pulled his shirt back over the scar. “Can’t move the arm so good, but the doctor says in another six months I should get eighty percent mobility back.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
“The fight. The things I said.”
“Don’t sweat it.” Tyson’s words didn’t match the rancor on his face.
“I pushed you. If I hadn’t—”
“I said don’t sweat it. I’m learning lots of stuff in here, know what I mean? Mad skills.” Tyson gave a mirthless sideways grin that told Brock more than he wanted to know.
“You can’t let this place take you over.”
“Sorry, already done.” Tyson made a check mark on the table.
If the eyes were the window to the soul, then lights had gone out inside of his son.
“You have to fight it.”
“Fight what?”
“What do you mean fight what?” Brock motioned at the room. “This place is suffocating.”
“Oh really?” Tyson gave a mocking smile.
“They allow you a Bible in here, right?”
“Grow up, Dad. Kind of done with fantasyland.”
“I can’t explain this in any way that is rational, but I’m going to change this.”
“Shut up about fixing things. You fixed it that night. You destroyed my life.” Tyson smacked his hands on the table and leaned forward close enough for Brock to smell his rancid breath. “And killing a guy in here earned me unlimited nights in my six-by-six mansion. I don’t need you to try to make me think about the outside world or give me stupid promises about fixing things. Got it?”
Brock tried to mute the sorrow that welled up inside. Karissa was right, he and Tyson had no relationship.
“Do you ever see your mom?”
“She drops by, yeah.” Tyson stared at his hands. Dirt was wedged under his fingernails.
“How is she doing?”
“Ask her yourself.”
“I saw her, but she’s not exactly forthcoming about her life.” Brock stared at his hands. “I’m not her favorite person.”
“Just admit it’s time to ram a Sherlock hat down on your head, Dad.”
“What?”
“Hello? Follow the clues.” Tyson gave him the wide-eyed why-are-you-so-stupid look, then drew out each word. “Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to you because she hates you. After what you’ve done to her, can you blame her?”
Despair like a boulder pressed down on Brock.
“I love you, Tyson.”
Tyson’s eyes widened, and then he started laughing. The mocking peals from his throat grew louder and louder and didn’t stop till the guard called out, “Times up! Let’s go!”
As Brock left the jail he knew what his next stop needed to be. Ron’s house. It couldn’t be worse than his encounter with Tyson. But something in his stomach said it would be.
Chapter 33
When Ron’s wife Shelly answered the door that afternoon, the look on her face said she didn’t want him there.
“Hello, Brock.”
“Is he here, Shelly?”
Shelly stepped onto the patio and shut the door behind her. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to talk to him right now.”
“Why?”
“What do you need to tell him?”
A breeze came up and the wind chimes sounded, as if to announce Brock’s request.
“I need to find out what happened between Ron and me.”
She studied his face as if trying to understand and fighting against an anger just below the surface.
“Is he here?”
“You’re not going away, are you?” She pulled her arms across her chest.
“Not till I talk to him.”
“Call him.”
“I’ve been trying.”
She opened the front door and nodded, as if accepting the fact he wouldn’t leave till he talked to his brother.
“He’s out on the dock fishing.”
She walked through the house and he followed.
“Fishing? I thought for sure you’d say putting green.”
The same confused look rose to her face, this time definitely laced with anger. She pushed through the French doors onto the deck overlooking Ron’s large lawn, which gently sloped down to the lake. Shelly glanced over the deck to the right and then glared at Brock.
He looked down on the spot where Ron had once built his three-tiered putting green dotted with eight flags. It was Brock’s turn to feel confused. The flags were gone, and the grass had grown so thick it was hard to tell where the green used to be. Weeds filled the green, along with brown splotches that made the green look like a mutated cow. It was the same with the three par-three holes Ron had built. The pristine mini-course had become a pasture.
“What happened to the green
and the golf holes?”
Once more, Shelly glared at him, then turned and strode away. “Whatever you have to say, get it over with fast.”
Brock eased down the steps, onto the lawn, and toward his brother. When he reached the long dock Ron sat at the end of, Brock took one step onto the walkway and stopped. Not that taking another minute would help him find a perfect intro to discovering the accident Beth had told him about, but it might help him craft a better opening sentence than, “Hey, bro, did I do something bad?”
When he was halfway down the dock his brother turned, glanced at Brock, then turned back to the lake. At least his brother didn’t tell him to leave. Brock eased up next to him and waited a minute before speaking.
“I didn’t think I’d find you here.” Brock glanced behind him. “Why’d you let the putting green grow over and the par-threes go to seed?”
“If that’s your attempt at humor it’s not even close to working.”
Ron cast with his left hand. His right hand was stuffed into the pocket of his windbreaker.
“Can we talk?”
“About what?”
“Making peace with whatever war is going on between us.”
Brock stuck out his hand—hoping it could be the start of a goodwill offering—but the scorn on Ron’s face told him his brother’s hand wouldn’t be offered in return.
“Are you drunk? Returned to hitting the bottle on a regular basis?”
“What?” Brock jerked his head back. He’d been drunk twice in his life. Once in college and once in his early thirties. He continued to hold his hand out to Ron. “I don’t drink.”
Ron glanced at Brock’s hand, then into his eyes. There was venom in his brother’s gaze. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Brock lowered his hand. “Nothing. I was just—”
“You’re sick, you know that?” Ron gave a disgusted shake of his head. “Peace? You go after peace with a grenade?”
“I’m only trying to—”
“What? Tick me off even more? Drive the rift between us deeper? We still have to at least pretend to work together.”
Brock’s temperature rose. “Knock it off, Ron. I was just offering to shake your hand.”
The Five Times I Met Myself Page 17
