by Jeff Zentner
Less than a week, as it turned out.
“I changed my mind,” Dill said. “I’m calling Dr. Blankenship and telling him I’m not going.”
His mother wore her cleaning uniform, ready to leave for work. They stood in their living room. “You will not. You’ll go. It’s almost Christmas and your father is expecting you. You haven’t been to see him since the end of summer.”
“I hate visiting there.”
“He’s your father. You go.”
“Every time I go, he’s weirder and weirder. I hate seeing him that way. I’m not going.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed and she drew near him. “You hate seeing him that way? Maybe you deserve to feel uncomfortable seeing as how you put him there.”
His mother had implied this many times. But she had never outright said it until then.
Dill struggled for words. “What do you mean, I put him there? Huh? What are you saying?”
“I’m saying your father’s lawyer gets up and makes every single police officer and TBI agent admit that this porn shows young girls. All of them admit that your father has a teenage son. All of them say that they don’t know if you have access to the computer. All of them admit it’s possible you did it. All of them admit they can’t tell exactly who downloaded it. And you get up and testify against your father.”
Dill paced. His voice rose. “The state called me to testify. What could I do? Refuse? The judge would’ve thrown me in jail.”
His mother pointed in his face. “You could’ve testified it was yours. The DA wasn’t about to prosecute a juvenile. Your father would be a free man right now if you hadn’t done what you did.”
Dill was aghast. His heart ached like it was trying to beat around a screwdriver. “So lie? I took an oath to tell the truth. I swore on the Bible to tell the truth. All I said was that it wasn’t mine. I didn’t say it was Dad’s. I didn’t testify against him. I testified for myself.”
“I didn’t say to lie,” his mother said quietly, looking away.
Dill grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. “What do you mean?” he whispered. “What did you mean by that? Do you think I could’ve testified truthfully that that sick shit was mine? Do you think—”
She slapped him. “Don’t you curse in this house.”
His face felt singed where her hand hit. Don’t let her see you cry. Don’t let her see you cry. “Is that what you’ve thought this whole time? That I downloaded that crap and got up and lied and let Dad take the blame? That’s what you think of me?” Don’t cry.
Her eyes seared, ferocious and condemning. “I think we’re all sinners. We wouldn’t need Jesus if we weren’t. But the serpents never lied. If your father hadn’t been pure of spirit, he wouldn’t be in jail now—he’d be dead. The serpents would’ve taken him. Or the poison. But you never passed that test. You never took up the serpent. So you ask me, between you and your father, who I think Lucifer ensnared? God has given me that answer. I don’t need to guess.”
Dill couldn’t get enough air. Nausea gripped his stomach. “So what about Kaylie Williams, huh?” he screamed. “What about her? When she testified that Dad got her alone after church one night and wanted to talk about sex with her? Was she lying too? She was eleven years old. Her family moved away because of it. Her brother was my friend.”
“Teaching a member of your flock about sex before she gets herself into trouble is no crime, and that’s why the state never charged your father with anything over it. You and I both know that Kaylie was a fast girl. She needed guidance or she’d have gotten pregnant in high school like—”
“Like who?”
His mother turned to leave. “You helped put your father in prison. If it weren’t for that, he’d still be here. If it weren’t for that, I’d never have had the accident coming home from visiting him there and my back and neck wouldn’t hurt all the time. And then you have the gall to talk about prancing off to college and leaving me with the mess you made. I’m through discussing this with you. You will visit your father. You will give him comfort for what you’ve done. You owe him and you owe me. You’ve got your own debts.”
“This has destroyed my life. Even having to deny that it was mine destroyed my life. It made me look guilty. I’ve lived with this. Nobody will let me forget it.”
His mother glared at him. Grim, unblinking. “You keep forgetting that this life is nothing. The next is the only one that matters. I wish you’d remember that.” And she left.
Dill collapsed onto the sofa, running his fingers through his hair. He wanted to vomit. The tears he had been restraining broke out and poured down his cheeks in a torrent. He screamed. It felt good. He did it again. He punched the sofa. Again. Again. Again. He grabbed the lamp off the table, and cocked his arm as if to throw it and smash it against the wall. Only the realization that he used that lamp for songwriting during long winter nights stopped him. He set it on the table, lay in the middle of the floor in the fetal position, and cried, with the reek of their musty carpet in his nostrils.
By God’s own grace, Dr. Blankenship proved no more punctual than his daughter, which gave Dill a solid twenty minutes to compose himself and wash his face, and for the redness and puffiness to mostly subside from his eyes. He didn’t look great, but he was more “didn’t sleep much last night” than “had a screaming fight with my mother wherein she accused me of being a sexual deviant and putting my own father in prison.”
Dr. Blankenship arrived in the Prius that had replaced the one he gave Lydia. Dill got in. Christmas music blared on the stereo.
“Thanks, Dr. Blankenship. If this is any inconvenience at all, it’s totally okay if we don’t go.”
“Please, call me Denny. Even though I’ve told you that lots of times and you never do. And it’s no inconvenience whatsoever.”
“Don’t be afraid to say so. If it’s even a little bit.”
“No problem at all.”
He didn’t get it.
The leafless branches of the trees surrounding the prison were skeletal against the iron-hued December sky. They looked as barren and lifeless as Dill felt.
Dr. Blankenship dropped off Dill with instructions to call when he finished. Into the prison. Through security. Into the visiting room. Waiting.
Dill tried to smile as his father approached. “Hey, Dad. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you.” Dill’s father had more new ink. Tattoos of snakes that spiraled around both of his forearms ended in snake heads in each palm. They covered and wove in and out of several sets of snakebite scars on his arms. The sign of faith wasn’t that the snakes never bit you—it was that as sick as you became, you didn’t die from it.
“You got some more new tattoos.” But at least we never want for an icebreaker as long as you keep getting them.
Dill’s father quickly opened and closed both hands, one finger at a time, making the serpents on his forearms ripple and writhe. “Ecclesiastes tells us there is nothing new under the sun.”
“Yeah, but—anyway, Mom put some money on your books instead of buying you Christmas presents. She figured you could get what you wanted at the commissary.” Not my fifty dollars, though. My fifty dollars is safe and sound.
“Are you working hard and helping your mother pay off our debts?”
“Yep.” I’m doing great; thanks for asking. Love our visits.
“Good.”
His father seemed more alien every time he came here. But then again, maybe that foreignness had an upside. Maybe his father had changed, diverged from his mother. Maybe prison had given him some new perspective. Dill had a sudden inspiration. “Speaking of paying off debts. I had an idea. What if I were to go to college so that I could get a better job and help pay off your debts faster?”
Dill’s father regarded him with cold skepticism. “College? Is that where you mean to learn true discipleship?”
“No sir, just learn what I need to get a good job.”
He drew his face close
to Dill’s. “College will teach you that God is dead. But God is not dead. He is alive and he shows himself to those whose faith shows signs of life.”
“I wouldn’t believe that God is dead.”
Dill’s father laughed curtly. “Your faith was weak. Your faith failed you on the hour it was given you to take up the deadly serpent. You were as Peter, trying to walk on the waves of the Sea of Galilee, but sinking. You need instruction and learning, but not the sort college provides.”
“I have faith.”
“What sign proves it?”
“I played in the school talent competition. That took faith.”
His father leaned back, the slightest glimmer of pleasure on his face. “Did you? Did you preach the gospel through song?”
“No.”
The glimmer of pleasure faded. “What did you sing about?”
“Loving someone.”
“Oh. ‘Loving someone,’ ” Dill’s father repeated back, mockingly. “Did you risk death for Jesus’s name at this talent show?”
“No.”
“What did you risk?”
“Ridicule. Humiliation.”
“The true Christian risks that every day. We are fools for Christ. You risked nothing but your pride. I have inmates in my ministry whose faith is stronger than my own son’s. Thieves. Murderers. Rapists. You have my name. Not my faith.”
Dill felt fury building in him. “If my faith is weak, maybe it’s because of you. You’re one to talk about faith. Where was your faith when it came time to resist temptation?”
His father bent in and spoke in a hiss. “Your faith was weak even before Satan’s work destroyed our signs ministry.”
“Satan’s work? How come you didn’t tell the jury that? Why didn’t you tell them that Satan came down our chimney and downloaded kiddie porn? How come you told them it was my fault?”
His father gave him a cautioning scowl. “Satan is no joking matter. Satan has no body. He works with weak flesh.”
Dill stabbed his finger at him, his voice faltering. “Your weak flesh. Yours. Not mine. You and I both know it. And God does too.”
His father exhaled slowly, as though waiting for a wave of rage to subside. He spoke in measured tones. “Do you not see God’s hand in guiding me here to minister among the imprisoned?”
“No. I don’t see that. I see a man who’s let my mother think I got her husband locked up. I see a man who tried to save himself by destroying his own son’s reputation. I see a man who seems to be doing fine in here while Mom and I work our asses off to repay your debts.”
His father’s eyes darkened. “Watch your tongue. Our debts. Did you not eat at our table? Did you not live under our roof?”
“Your debts. And now I’m paying for your sins by watching the world move on without me. I can’t go to college like my friends because of you.”
Dill’s father pointed, his face a mask of contempt, and spoke with a perilous hush, his voice trembling with bile. “You are no savior of mine. Do not make yourself a Christ. Christ made me free. You made me a prisoner.”
Dill jumped as his father slammed his hand on the table, a sharp crack in the still room, and stood. “Goodbye, Junior. Give your mother my love.” He waved to the guards, who had tensed up at the noise. “I’m done here.”
He left without a backward glance.
Dill thought—incorrectly, as it turned out—that his exchange with his mother that morning had somehow inoculated him against more pain. He sat in the parking lot, his head in his hands, feeling as gray as the sky. Dr. Blankenship pulled up. “Hey, Dill,” he said with a cheery smile. “Candy cane truffle?”
Dill forced a smile in return. “No, thank you.”
They drove for a while before saying any more.
“I’m sorry I’m not talking, Dr. Blankenship. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“I understand. Don’t worry about it.”
More miles passed. They listened to a Christmas mix on Dr. Blankenship’s iPod.
Dill fought for composure. He assumed that he had a finite reserve of tears that he had already exhausted for the day. Wrong on that count too. He could feel a welling inside him that he couldn’t contain much longer.
“So…um.” He started to lose his grip. He choked back the tears until his throat ached the way it did right after he gulped a glass of ice water. “Things aren’t so hot with me and my dad.” And then he broke completely. He felt naked and ashamed. Adam in the Garden of Eden. But he couldn’t control it anymore.
Dr. Blankenship glanced over at him, his brow furrowed. “Hey,” he said gently. “Hey.” He pulled the car over to the side of the road. Dill had his head against the passenger window, sobs racking his shaking body.
“Hey.” Dr. Blankenship placed his hand on Dill’s shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
And out of nowhere (at least as far as Dill was concerned), he fell onto Dr. Blankenship’s shoulder. Dr. Blankenship hugged Dill while he cried. Dr. Blankenship smelled like warm cashmere, sage, and dryer sheets. Dill pulled himself together as quickly as he could, which took several minutes.
Dill drew a shuddering breath. He was a mess. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m keeping you from getting home. This probably isn’t what you expected when you offered to give me a ride.”
Dr. Blankenship rummaged around for a travel pack of tissues. “Actually, it’s sort of exactly what I expected, which is why I offered you the ride. You want to talk about it?”
Dill wiped his eyes with his palms and accepted a tissue. “Not really.”
“Okay.”
But then he did anyway. “My mom and dad both think I’m responsible for putting my dad in prison because I wouldn’t lie for him. And because he’s in prison, we have all these debts, and because of all these debts, I can’t do a lot of stuff. And my dad thinks my faith is too weak to do anything anyway. I feel trapped. I think God is punishing me.”
Dr. Blankenship sighed. “Let’s take these one at a time. First off, I’m sorry, but your dad’s predicament is not your fault in the slightest. I followed your dad’s trial. I understand why you had to testify. The jury believed you and didn’t believe him. End of story. That’s not on you. That’s on him. And if he tries to put it on you, screw him.”
Dill rested his head in his hands.
Dr. Blankenship rubbed his thumb on the steering wheel, looking uncomfortable. “Sorry. I’m not meaning to be rough on your dad.”
“It’s okay.”
“I get mad when people say that kind of stuff to kids who have their whole life in front of them. Make them doubt themselves. Your faith is plenty strong to do anything you want to do. You think God wants anything for you but your happiness? No way. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Your dad doesn’t have license to crush your spirit just because he’s your dad.”
Dill sniffled and wiped his nose. Another shuddering breath. “Please don’t tell Lydia about…this.”
Dr. Blankenship patted his shoulder. “If I know my daughter, there’s no way she’d tease you for this. She’d give you the hugs I’m here to give you.”
“Yeah.” Dill paused. “That’s another thing. I’ll really miss Lydia. Like a lot. So I guess that’s another thing that sucks.” His throat constricted.
Dr. Blankenship’s eyes welled with tears. “Aw man, Dill. Look what you did. I’m right there with you, buddy.” His voice quavered. “I’ll miss her too. That sucks for both of us.”
Dill handed him a tissue. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Lydia about…this.”
Dr. Blankenship dabbed his eyes. “Funny thing is, she wouldn’t tease either of us for crying individually. But the two of us, sitting by the side of the road, both crying simultaneously? Over her, no less? We’d never hear the end of it.”
“This can never leave this car,” Dill said.
“Hell no.”
They sat for a moment, composing themselves.
“I officially declare this meeting of the L
ydia Fan Club adjourned,” Dr. Blankenship said. “Let’s hit the road. You better grab that whole bag of candy cane truffles from the backseat. I think we need them in our emotionally fragile state.”
“You won’t lose your dentist license for encouraging me to eat candy?”
“This’ll be another of our secrets.”
They drove in the winter gloaming. Here and there, a house off the side of the highway lit up in a glowing motley of Christmas lights. Dill withdrew into his thoughts. It felt like wrapping himself in a wet wool blanket. Did you see your dad? Did you see what he’s becoming? You better start performing your own mental and physical inventory of sanity more frequently and consciously. Madness seems to sneak right up on the Early men. You can never let down your guard. You can never stop being vigilant. You’re never safe from yourself. Your own blood will poison you.
Dill glimpsed a billboard with a father and son on it as it flashed past. He spoke before his preoccupied brain could stop his mouth. “I really wish you were my dad.”
Dr. Blankenship was quiet for a moment and then glanced over at Dill. “I would be proud if you were my son.”
“When are you guys telling me where we’re heading?” Travis asked.
“Nashville. The rest is a surprise,” Lydia said, exchanging a knowing glance and smile with Dill.
“But my birthday was weeks ago. Christmas too.”
“Irrelevant,” Lydia said.
“What’s in Nashville?”
“Non-Christmas, nonbirthday surprise.”
“Give me a hint.”
“Dill, help me here. What’s something wizardy that will shut him up?”
“Oh man. Asking the wrong person. Uh…hey, Travis, if you keep asking questions…you’ll break some sort of important spell. And you’ll spend the rest of your life diarrheaing yourself.”