by L. Wilder
“What kind of paperwork?”
“Your father’s will.
“His will? What about it?”
“You’re in it. You and your sister inherited the house, the land, and all of your father’s savings.”
As soon as the words came out of my mouth, he jolted up out of his seat and shouted, “I don't want it! Any of it,” and started walking towards the front door. He opened it, letting me know it was time for me to go, and said, “I’ve got shit to do.”
I imagined that he would take the news hard, but I hadn’t expected him to be so angry. I quickly tried to gather up all the papers and put them back in my briefcase. Once I was done, I stood up and started walking towards him, at the same time trying to convey the importance of his father's will. “It's not that easy, but we really need to talk about all of this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. He made his choice fifteen years ago. I didn’t want his money then, and I sure as hell don’t want it now.”
“But… it’s not just the money. You’re talking about your legacy. This property has been in your family for generations. Are you really willing to give that all up?”
“Absolutely,” he clipped. “That farm was my father’s legacy, not mine. He made sure of that a long time ago. We haven’t even spoken since the day I left, and I can’t imagine why he’d changed his mind after all this time. Just draw up the papers and give everything he left to me to my sister. I’ll sign them as soon as they are done.”
“But why? Why would you just toss that all away?”
His eyes grew fierce, and I immediately regretted questioning him. I hurried for the door but stopped just before I stepped outside. I reached into my bag and pulled out two white envelopes containing letters his father had written him. They’d been placed in Mr. Abrams’ file with the hope that they would be delivered at the time of his death. Not wanting him to regret his choice one day, I gave Smokey a pleading look and offered him the letters. “Before you make any final decisions, I think you should consider reading these.”
He studied them for a moment, and I could see a flitter of remembrance when he saw the postmark on the first letter. It had been sent to him seven years ago, but Smokey returned it to his father unopened. There was also a second letter in Mr. Abrams’ file, one that was to be delivered at the time of his death. I had no idea what was written inside either letter, but I prayed that it might change his mind about giving up everything his father wanted him to have.
I continued to hold out the long, white envelopes, and when he only remained there staring at them, I said, “I don’t know what happened between you and your father, but from the look on your face, I’d guess it was pretty bad. But whatever it was, you’ve got to remember that he was your father. It wouldn’t hurt to see what he had to say.”
“That’s just the thing. If he had something to say, he could have come to me and said it. He didn’t have to be a damned coward and write it in some stupid letter.”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure he had his reasons. Maybe it’s like my mom used to say, ‘You can’t judge a man until you’ve walked in his shoes,’” I recited. “But you’ll never know what they were unless you read the letters, Smokey.”
He reached out and gently took the letters from my hand. He looked at the handwritten address on the envelope. He studied the curves and loops of writing with a penetrating stare, like he almost expected them to reveal what was written inside. There was such pain hidden behind those dark blue eyes, and as much as I wanted to go over to him and wrap my arms around him, I knew I couldn’t.
Instead, I stepped out of the house and onto the porch and said, “I left my card on your kitchen table, so if you need anything, just give me a call. Even if you just want to talk about it.”
I turned to leave, and just as I opened my car door, he said, “It was good to see you again… even if it was under these circumstances.”
“You too,” I replied, then got in my car.
I pulled out of the driveway and the entire way to work, my mind was bombarded with thoughts of Smokey. The look of anguish on his face when he spoke about his father haunted me, making me wonder what had happened between them. Whatever it was, there was no doubt he was still hurt by it. I couldn’t help but wonder how much of that pain had shaped the man he was today.
Chapter 5
Smokey
I was doing alright. I thought my life was good, but nonetheless, as I held my father’s letters in my hand, I found myself doubting the choices I’d made. I ran my fingers over the letters of my name and wondered just how differently things might have been if I had followed another path. My parents were older when they’d had me and my sister. They were in their late thirties when Mom had me, and almost forty when they had Emily. I never really understood why they ever even wanted kids. My Dad’s world was wrapped up in the farm, and my mother spent her entire life putting him before anyone else. They were okay parents, but I always felt irrelevant, like I didn’t really matter to either of them. Sure, they’d always made certain we both had clothes on our backs, name brands and all that, and there was always a warm dinner on the table, but it was just so mechanical. My father was obsessed with the crop, and my mother was always right there beside him, doing whatever she could to make him happy. I just couldn’t compete with the harvest, and I was left feeling unimportant to either of them.
There was nothing worse than being at one of my football games, standing on the field and looking over only to see that no one was there cheering me on. I remember the day we won the state playoffs. I was just a freshman at the time and was excited that’d I’d made the winning touchdown. When I got home, everyone was already in bed, so I waited until morning and rushed out to the barn to tell my father the news. When I walked in, the apple sizer was running wide open, sorting and cleaning the apples as it passed through all the different rows as it checked for any bad ones.
My dad was busy working on one of the apple presses, so I walked over to him and proudly said, “Hey, Pop, we won the game last night.”
“Uh huh,” he mumbled without even looking up.
“I made some really great plays. Even made the winning touchdown. Coach says I’ve got a lot of potential.”
Like he hadn’t even heard what I said, he ordered, “Bring me one of those empty barrels, then run out to the back and tell Wes that I need him. The backyard needs mowing. Be sure to take care of that before dinner.”
“Yes, sir,” I told him, trying to hide my disappointment.
“There’s lots of work that needs to get done around here, son. Already behind.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When you’re finished with that, check with Wes and see if he needs a hand with picking today. Earl called in sick.”
“Yes, sir.”
His reaction wasn’t surprising, but it still hurt nonetheless. I just needed some kind of acknowledgement. A good job, son or well done. But, as usual, I got nothing from him. I brought him the barrel, and after talking to Wes, I thought I might try to tell Mom the news. I walked into the kitchen, and she was busy talking on the phone to someone about a late delivery that my dad had been expecting for days. I tried to wait her out, give her the time she needed to finish talking because I knew it was important to her, but after a half-hour of trying to be patient, I gave up. I knew it was pointless. Neither of them had time for me.
It had been like that with my friends, with school, with sports—anything that was important to me just didn’t matter to them. Even when Danny, the neighbor’s kid and one of my closest friends, was killed in a car wreck, I got nothing from them. The two of us were inseparable, and it fucking broke me when he died, but they were too busy to care. They never even mentioned his name, and they sure as hell didn’t come to the funeral. His death wasn’t even on their radar, much less how hurt I was. That was when I just gave up, so by the time I graduated, I wasn’t the least bit surprised that neither of them were there to see me get my diploma. I
’d learned long ago that nothing was more important than the harvest.
For reasons I’d never understood, my dad had it set in his head that I was going to take over the family orchard and make a home for myself in the small town of Sequim, Washington. He expected me to go to college, get a business degree, and follow in his footsteps. Unfortunately for him, I had no interest in taking over the business, and by the time I was eighteen, I’d had enough of the apple orchard. I wanted something more. I wanted an adventure, a life filled with unexpected twists and turns, danger, and intrigue.
So I started to venture out, to explore the neighboring town, searching for the life I truly wanted. In order to get away, I’d told my dad that I was checking out colleges, but I spent the long weekends checking out jobs, doing a little drinking and partying, and finally, when I was just about to start home, I ran into Clutch. I stopped for lunch at a local diner just outside of Clallam County, a few miles from Sequim, and he was sitting in the booth next to me. We struck up a conversation about bikes and the best places to ride and ended up talking for hours. When I asked him about his cut, he could see that I was interested and offered to take me by the club and show me around. As soon as Clutch introduced me to the brothers of Satan’s Fury, I knew I’d found what I was looking for. Within a few weeks, I was prospecting for the club.
Then came the day I decided to pack my bags and leave. Summer break was over, and I finally broke the news to my dad that I had no intention of going off to college like he’d expected me to. With my bag full of clothes, I headed out of the house with my dad following close behind. As soon as I walked out of the back door, he started shouting, “You’re making a mistake, son.”
“I don’t see it that way, Dad. This is what I want.”
“What about the farm?”
“What about it? That’s all you care about, isn’t it?” I shouted.
“This farm is what puts food on the table and clothes on your back.”
I shrugged. “Did you ever think about asking me if I wanted to take over the farm? Did you even care if I wanted it?”
“I thought you loved it like I did,” he said softly, almost sounding wounded by my response.
“You were wrong. I don’t love it like you do. This farm has taken over your life. Every second is wrapped up in this place, and I don’t want that. I have other plans.”
“This club—Is that your plan?” His voice was filled with anger.
“It is,” I snapped.
He stepped in front of me, blocking my path as he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Think about this, Evan. These people aren’t like us. They are criminals! They are thugs that know nothing about honor.” I could see the anguish in his eyes, the pain that my actions were causing, but it just didn’t matter. I’d made my choice. I wasn’t going to let him change my mind, because over all the years, he’d never given in on one of our arguments—and I wasn’t about to either.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I argued.
“This is a small county, son. There’s talk, lots of it. I’ve heard what people say about those men. They don’t work for what they want… they just take it. They take and take without even thinking about the people they are hurting in the process… and that’s just the beginning. These biker friends of yours kill innocent people. You have to know that these are bad guys. They have no ethics… no pride. That’s not who I raised you to be.”
“You’ve got it all wrong, but you’ll never see it any other way. It’s always your way or the highway. You never listen, so what’s the point in even talking about it?”
“Evan… don’t,” he pleaded. “This is the rest of your life we’re talking about.”
“Exactly, this is my life, and I can make my own decisions!” I shouted.
“Yes, you can make your own decisions.” He took a step back and his eyes lit up with anger as he said, “But just know… if you leave… if you choose to join that godforsaken club, then consider yourself cut off. No more handouts. No more rescues. I’m done. There will be no coming back.”
I threw my hands up in the air and shouted, “Why would I want to come back here? All you’ve ever cared about or ever will care about is that damn crop. Period. Nothing I’ve ever done has ever mattered to you, so I don’t see why this should be any different. Just go tend to your harvest and forget about me. I’m done.”
I tossed my backpack in the passenger seat and got behind the wheel. As I started the engine, I noticed my sister standing on the front porch. Tears rolled down her face as she watched me pull out of the driveway, but I was too angry to give her a second thought. I just wanted to get out of there. I didn’t stop to think how she’d feel about me leaving, much less my mother. I knew she’d beg me to stay and try to convince me that my father loved me and just wanted the best for me. I didn’t want to hear it, any of it. He’d fucked it all up.
Later, I’d tried to mend what was broken between us. I’d tried going by the farm to see him, but he’d turned me away. I tried calling, but he said I’d made my choice. He would remind me that I was not the son he’d raised, and I was throwing my life away running with lowlife thugs and criminals. Disappointment constantly dripped from every word, until I finally gave up trying.
He should’ve tried to see things my way, talked to me, worked it out, but he was just too damn stubborn. He stuck to his word and cut me off in every way possible. Mom did what she could. She’d call from time to time or meet me for a quick lunch. She tried to make the best of it, but I could see that it was hurting her that Dad and I weren’t speaking. When she stopped coming to see me, I figured that she’d gotten busy with the farm, or Dad was making things hard on her. It wasn’t until later that I found out she’d gotten sick—very sick. Her heart was giving out on her. I had no idea it was as bad as it was. When I managed to get a call in to her, she’d tell me she was getting better. I had my doubts, but I couldn’t make myself believe that she was dying. I’d managed to convince myself it wasn’t the end, until the day Emily called to tell me that she’d died. Despite my denial, I would’ve been there if I’d known. I would’ve told her I loved her. I would’ve told her goodbye. My father had stolen that chance from me, and I’d never be able to forgive him for that.
I looked down at the postmark, seeing that it was sent a year before my mother died, and I wondered what in the hell he’d have to say to me after so much time. Didn’t he know there was nothing he could say that would change what had happened? I almost tore it into shreds, but the longer I sat there staring at it, the more curious I became. I finally ripped it open and unfolded the letter. I sat there staring at it for several minutes before I actually read the words. Finally, I let the letters blend into words, and read what my father had written me seven years ago.
Evan,
Your mom isn’t doing well. I know I’ve contributed to that by driving her son away. Your being gone has taken its toll on her, and I know that is my fault. All of it. The very thought that I might lose her makes me realize the true depth of losing you. My son. My own flesh and blood. It’s hard to accept the fact that I’ve been such a selfish, domineering father and husband, but I have. I know that. I know I haven’t been one to listen. I know that I’ve always wanted things my way and haven’t been one to budge. I was a stubborn, old fool. I want to change. I want to make things better for both of you.
Come home. Give me another chance. I will listen this time. I give you my word. Do it for your mother.
Dad
I sat there holding that letter in my hand for over an hour. I couldn’t stop staring at it. He’d done it. He’d tried to fix things between us, but I wouldn’t let him. I’d just assumed that the letter would be another jab, another condescending mountain of words telling me I’d screwed up. I was wrong. I let my own fucking pride ruin the one chance we had to make things right. I looked at the other letter lying on the counter, and I just didn’t have it in me to read it—not yet. I needed time to clear my head, to so
rt through the shit storm that was raging through my mind.
I grabbed my cut, put the unopened envelope in the side pocket, and headed out to my bike, knowing that being out on the open road was the only thing that was going to get me through this. As soon as I started up the engine, I pushed the throttle back and rode out to Cape Flattery. It was almost noon when I pulled up to an old secluded trail I’d ridden a thousand times before. When I got to the end of the wooded path, I parked my bike and walked out to the cliff overlooking the ocean. I watched in fascination as the sun flickered across the water, and the huge vastness of the ocean made my problems with my father seem small and almost insignificant. My father had made his mistakes, both of us had. And even though I didn’t regret my choice to become a brother of Satan’s Fury, I did regret not opening my father’s letter sooner. I had fucked up.
After mulling over everything for several hours, I had an unexpected need to just go to the house. I needed to be there, to be in the last place my father was alive. I knew it wouldn’t change anything, but I needed to feel some kind of connection. I turned the bike around and headed back to the place where I grew up, hoping to find some kind of resolve before I opened that second letter. As I drove down the long, gravel driveway that led to my parent’s house, I was overcome with memories of my sister and I playing in the orchard, the smell of pie floating through the air, and all the nights we’d sat out on the porch together.
I was lost in my thoughts when I finally made it up to the house and was totally taken off-guard when I found my sister standing on the porch. She was cradling her newborn son in her arms, and Shelby, her three-year-old daughter, sat in one of the old rocking chairs with her little feet dangling over the edge. It had been a while since I’d seen Emily—months, in fact—and by the expression on her face and the tears in her eyes, I could see that she was having a hard time dealing with Dad’s death.