by Gail Bowen
I’m not in the mood for company. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He doesn’t answer. He just moves toward my desk and stands there, towering over me.
“Get out,” I say.
He locks eyes with me.
“Not until you hear what I have to say.” His voice is deep, gruff and commanding- a good voice for a politician.
“Make it fast,” I say. “I’m back on the air in fifteen seconds.”
“I was listening to your show when I was at Nighthawks. I’m pretty sure I know who loser1121 is.”
I open my talkback.
“Nova, Howard thinks he can identify…”
Nova is curt.
“He told us. I’ll keep playing music till you’re ready to go back on air.” She pauses. When she speaks again, I can feel her anxiety. “Charlie, don’t let your feelings about Howard get in the way. He’s all we’ve got.”
I turn to my father.
“Okay. Shoot.”
Without being asked, Howard takes the chair we use for guest experts.
“Is there any information you’re not making public?” he asks.
I open the email note from 1121. After my father reads it, I open the attachments- the picture of the carving knife and finally the blueprint with 1121’s route marked out. I turn to Howard.
“Does this fit what you know?”
“It fits.” My father picks up the newspaper I bought at the drugstore, folds it so he’s looking at the photo of the political Rising Star and his family. Howard’s hands are rough-the hands of a man who still likes to chop his own wood and maintain his own vehicles. His forefinger taps the picture of the boy staring down at the picnic table. “That’s 1121,” he says. “Josh James Kirkwood. I don’t know the girls’ names, but the mother’s name is Marion.” Howard moves his forefinger to the image of the Rising Star. “You’ll recognize this prick. He’s the man destiny has sent to save my party from itself-Josh Kirkwood.”
I take the newspaper from him and stare at the picture.
“How did you make the connection?”
My father massages the back of his neck. It’s the same thing I do when I’m tense.
“There was a meeting at Kirkwood’s house a couple of weeks ago,” he says. “I’ve been shooting off my mouth about how much I hate the direction the party’s going in, so I guess they were hoping to win me over. It didn’t work. Kirkwood is a self-righteous, condescending asshole. He was pissing me off, so I left. I was getting into my car when the kid came running after me and asked me if I was your father. I said I was, and the kid-Josh-said that I must be really proud of you.”
“What did you say?”
My father is used to answering tough questions, but this time, he hesitates.
“I said that I didn’t know you.”
I thought I was past being hurt by this man, but apparently not.
“At least you didn’t lie,” I say.
My father moves closer. I can smell his aftershave. In the days when he was drinking heavily, he used to drench himself in it. For a kid, it was overpowering, but tonight I find the scent surprisingly comforting.
“There’s more,” he says. “Josh said I should get to know you because you were a really great person.”
“So we know that Josh’s not much of a judge of character,” I say tightly.
My father pounds the table with his fist.
“God damn it, Charlie, this isn’t about you and me. This is about Josh.” He picks up the earphones on the desk in front of him and puts them on. “Turn on our mikes. Let’s do what we need to do.”
I flick on our microphones and lean into mine. My voice is tense.
“We have a guest-Howard Dowhanuik, a political legend in our time, and my father. Howard and I are going to talk about what it’s like for a boy to grow up in his father’s shadow.”
My father’s been staring at his hands, but when he hears my words, his massive head jerks up.
“Politics was just my job. I never made a big deal of who I was.”
“You didn’t have to,” I say. “There were people who did it for you. You were always surrounded by hangers-on, telling you how terrific you were, how brilliant your last speech was, how the country would fall apart if you didn’t win the next election. You were always away-righting wrongs and drying every tear.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” he says quietly. “I was around. Besides, you didn’t need me. You had a lot of friends.”
“They weren’t friends. They were kids who wanted to catch my act-see how high I’d go or how fast I’d drive or how many chances I’d take. Everybody noticed me except the one I wanted to notice me.”
Howard looks dumbfounded.
“Is that really what all that crazy behavior was about?”
I grab his arm.
“It wasn’t crazy behavior. I wanted you to pay attention. I wanted you to look at me. I wanted you to really see me. 1121, I hope you’re listening. This isn’t an act. This is the truth. I know how you feel. I know what it’s like to be lost in your father’s shadow.” My voice breaks. “I know what it’s like to have a father who’s larger than life.”
Howard’s eyes are hooded.
“I wasn’t larger than life. I was a scared Ukrainian kid who earned his way through university playing football. I ran hard because I was afraid that if I ever stopped running, people would see that I was nothing special.”
My father and I lock eyes. I wonder if this is the first time either of us has ever really seen the other. We both earn our living with words, but suddenly neither of us seems to have anything to say. More dead air.
Howard is the first to speak. “Do you remember the time I took you to see The Wizard of Oz? You were just a little guy. You got scared and crawled up on my knee.”
“I remember,” I say.
“You were scared of the Wizard because he was so powerful and he had such a big voice,” my father says. “But I told you to keep watching because Dorothy’s little dog was going to do something that would show you the Wizard wasn’t anything to be afraid of.”
“And I stayed on your knee and watched,” I say, remembering. “Toto pulled down the curtain, and I saw that the Wizard wasn’t really scary at all. He was just a little man doing tricks with a bunch of wheels and levers.”
I turn toward the control room. Nova and the cops are as motionless as figures in a wax museum. We’re all waiting. I move close to my microphone. I drop my voice to a whisper.
“Don’t be fooled, 1121. Don’t let your life be ruined by something that isn’t real.”
My father and I exchange a look. Then we both turn our eyes to the board with the lights that indicate the status of the phone lines. The board is still dark. We watch together, willing the call from Josh. Finally there’s a yellow-green flicker in the bottom light of line one. It’s a local call. The top light goes solid. Nova’s put up the line for me to take on air.
My father and I both reach for our earphones. We hear Josh’s voice, small and scared. “I don’t want people to know who I am,” he says.
The top button goes dark. “You’re off air now, Josh,” I say. “We can talk.”
“You know who I am,” he says. He sounds scared. “I don’t want anybody to find out what I was planning to do.”
“Nobody’s going to find out anything,” my father says. “Charlie and I will meet you whenever you want. Wherever you’ll feel safe.”
“I want to talk to you now,” he says. “Everyone’s sleeping. I can come down the back stairs and meet you in the alley behind our house.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be right there.”
“We’ll be right there,” my father says. “I’ve got my car here, and I know where Josh lives. It’s going to be all right, son,” he says. He reaches out and touches my arm. In that moment, I know that he’s speaking not just to Josh but to me.
“Could you do me a favor?” Josh asks.
“Name it,” I say.
/>
“Could you bring me a Big Gulp from 7-Eleven?”
“Coke?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Charlie.” His laugh is small and sad. “You always know what people need.”
CHAPTER TEN
When the police psychologist offers to come with us to meet Josh, she doesn’t have to ask twice. Howard and I have seen Josh’s blueprints. We know his demons are powerful and that we’ll need an ally.
Dr. Elizabeth Lu is a broad-faced woman with a calming manner and shrewd eyes. She knows my father and I are on edge, so she waits for us to open the conversation.
Howard still drives his old gasguzzling Buick. Dr. Lu takes the backseat, leaving me to ride shotgun. Behind us, an unmarked car carrying four of our city’s finest follows at a discreet distance. It’s a hot night, and the car doesn’t have air-conditioning, so we drive with the windows down, listening to the music Nova has chosen to finish the show.
The mood in the old Buick is tense. We are all focused on the same question. My father, always the man of action, poses it.
“How do we handle this?” he asks.
Dr. Lu’s answer is simple and sensible.
“Follow Josh’s lead,” she says.
As we turn onto Josh’s street, Nova comes on air for the sign-off. She has a beautiful voice for radio-warm and husky-but she doesn’t like being on air, so she stays on her side of the glass. We always end our show by talking about what, if anything, we’ve learned that night.
Nova follows the pattern.
“So what have we learned on our Father’s Day show?” she asks. As soon as I hear her voice, my pulse slows. “Maybe the one lesson we’ve learned is that in the end what matters is not who your father is but who you think he is. Charlie has a favorite quote. ‘Forgive yourself for being human.’ Maybe on this Father’s Day weekend, we should all try to forgive our dads for being human.”
When we turn into the alley behind Josh’s house, the air is fragrant with the scent of nicotiana. We park and walk toward the small figure waiting by the garage. Josh is wearing shorts and a T-shirt. He has a mop of dark hair. He looks very young and very fragile.
The light from the garage glints off the blade of the carving knife he has clasped in his hand. I’m holding the Big Gulp. My father doesn’t hesitate. He extends his hand palm up.
“You’ll need both hands to hold your drink, Josh,” he says.
Josh passes him the carving knife.
“Is it over?” Josh asks.
“This part of it is,” I say. “You’ve met my father. This is Doctor Lu. She’s here to help.”
Josh sips his drink, then looks up at Doctor Lu.
“My mum has wanted me to get help for a long time. She has a doctor lined up and everything.”
“Maybe that doctor and I can work together,” Doctor Lu says. Her voice is gentle and reassuring.
“Two of you and my mother and me. That’s four against one,” Josh says, and he sounds hopeful.
We stay with him until he finishes his Big Gulp. He puts the cup in the recycle bin in front of the garage and opens the gate. Dr. Lu follows him.
“I’d like to talk to your mum tonight. If that’s okay with you.”
“It’s okay,” he says, “but what if he tries to stop us?”
“We’ll make him understand,” Dr. Lu says. She points to the unmarked police car up the alley. “Josh, there are four officers in that car. Their job is to take care of your mum and us.”
Josh nods.
“That’s good,” he says. Then he and Dr. Lu cross the yard and move toward his house.
When he speaks, Howard’s voice is thick with emotion.
“Do you think Josh is going to make it?”
“I hope so,” I say. “His chances are better than they were when the night started.”
The unmarked police car pulls up behind the Buick. I go over and tell the officers that Doctor Lu has gone into the house with Josh and that he seems calm and optimistic. The constable behind the wheel thanks me. My father hands the constable the carving knife, and we walk to the car. For the first time that night, the tension that has been pressing down on me like a weight is lifted. Howard and I exchange a glance, and then, in unison, we exhale.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I call Nova from the car.
“Josh has just taken the first step,” I say. “He and Dr. Lu have gone into his house to talk to Josh’s mother. It’s a beginning.”
Nova’s voice is tight.
“It could have been an ending. Charlie, I was so scared.”
“Howard and I listened to you on the way over. You sounded great.”
Her laugh is strained.
“Fake it until you make it,” she says. “But I’m going to stick to the control room. I don’t have to fake it there.”
“You’re the best producer in the business,” I say.
“And I still have a job,” Nova says. “So do you. Henry Burgh called a few minutes ago. He made Evan an offer for CVOX that Evan couldn’t refuse. And guess who our new boss is? Misty de Vol. Henry is giving Misty CVOX as a wedding gift.”
I laugh. “Now that is kick-ass news. Howard and I are going for coffee. Want us to swing by and pick you up?”
“Thanks,” she says. “But I think your coffee date with Howard should be a father-son thing.”
“You’re probably right,” I say. “Howard and I have a lot of ground to cover.”
***
When we pull out of the alley, my father turns on the radio, and we hear “Cat’s in the Cradle” again. We listen to Harry Chapin’s sweet melodic voice without speaking.
When the song is over, Howard says, “That’s a good song. Did he write anything else?”
“Nothing anybody remembers,” I say. “He was killed in a car accident when he was thirty-eight years old.”
“We never know how much time we have, do we?” Howard says.
“No,” I say. “We never know.” And then I reach over and touch my father’s hand.
GAIL BOWEN
***
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