by Susan Perabo
They’d heard nothing from Sonny since the brief phone call the night after Paul’s return. For ten days his absence had filled the house on Willow Lane like the proverbial elephant in the middle of the living room, but with each day the elephant was becoming increasingly manageable, even cooperative. He made little noise, required no tending, did not attempt to shuffle into their path when they made the wide berth around him.
“When I first moved here,” Laura said as she scoured the wheels, “they still used sand on the streets, instead of salt. I couldn’t believe it. I thought I’d traveled back in time.”
Paul fixed his thumb over the nozzle, sprayed the hood of the car; streams of gray rained onto the driveway. “Did it work?”
“Better than salt,” she said. She flung her braid behind her shoulder. “But the glop on the streets, all spring . . . it was pretty bad.”
“How’d they get rid of it?”
She looked up at him, squinted against the sun, an answer on her lips. He saw something pass over her face then, a strange expression of recognition and grief, as if she’d heard the distinctive bark of a childhood dog, long dead.
He turned the hose toward the ground, alarmed. “What?” he asked.
She smiled, shook her head. “You looked like your father there for a minute. Standing there with that hose.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s a garden hose, Mom.”
“I know,” she said, blushing slightly. “Just, for a second there I —”
“Is that a good thing?” he asked. “Lookin’ like Dad?”
She hesitated, turned back to the filthy hubcap, raised her sponge. “It’s not a bad thing,” she finally said.
It was Friday and Paul was taking the long way home from school, planning a stop by Dewey’s for a fat bag of sunflower seeds in preparation for a mild weekend that promised to be filled with hours of muddy football. He had made his apologies to Carson and Joe and they had accepted them without question, wanting — Paul imagined — no complicated explanations but only for things to be like they had been before. And that was what he wanted too. The change in weather — a familiar event — had reminded him of all things familiar, all things that were part of his old life, an easier life, a life he desperately wanted to return to.
Nearing Dewey Drugs he passed across the street from the fire station and glanced over purely out of habit. There, on a beat-up lawn chair in the driveway, sat his father. He was talking to Black Phil. Paul ducked down behind a parked pickup truck, for what reason he wasn’t entirely certain, and peered through the smudged windows of the truck across the street at them. His father wore jeans and a black Casey FD sweatshirt. He was smoking a cigarette. He had cut his hair and was clean-shaven. He and Phil were talking casually.
Paul slunk into Dewey’s and wandered around aimlessly for a half hour — flipping through comic books, comparing the trigger action on cap guns — passing stealthily by the front window every few minutes to see if his father was still there. Perhaps he’d come home just today, Paul told himself. Perhaps his things were already in the house, his bags already unpacked. Perhaps he had just stopped by the fire station for a visit, knowing Paul and Laura wouldn’t be home until late afternoon. But why wouldn’t he have called to tell them he was coming? If he was home, truly home, he surely would have let them know. He passed by the front window once again and his father was gone; Black Phil sat alone, paging through The Casey Weekly. Paul paid old Mr. Dewey for the sunflower seeds and meandered across the street. Phil saw him coming and closed the paper, laid it in his lap. Paul sat down beside him, in the chair that was still warm from his father’s weight.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Phil said. “School out already?”
“Yep. I was over at Dewey’s.” Paul held up the bag of seeds. “Want some?”
“Sure. I’ll have a handful.”
Paul poured a small pile into Phil’s open hand and Phil picked and cracked one seed at a time, the sure sign of a novice.
“Long time no see,” he said. “How was your trip?”
“It was okay.”
“Meet any movie stars?”
“Depends what you call movie stars,” Paul said.
Phil spat a splintered seed at his feet. “How’s your mom doin’?”
“She’s okay.”
“We’ll have to have a barbecue one of these days,” he said. “Once the weather gets nice and holds. Be just like old times. Your mom can make that potato salad everybody loves so much.”
“Sure,” Paul said.
“She’s ruined all other potato salad for me, you know that? That stuff they sell at the Eagle, I can’t even take a bite of it.”
He fell silent. Paul spat out a mouthful of shells.
“Is my dad here?” he asked.
Phil didn’t say anything for a minute, just sucked on his seed. Then he said: “I ’spect you saw him, huh? ’Spect that’s why you’re sittin’ here now.”
“Maybe,” Paul said, siphoning another handful of seeds into his mouth. “Or maybe I’m just sittin’ here to be sittin’ here.”
Phil smiled. “He’s been here a couple days. Been sleeping upstairs.”
“How come?”
Phil raised his thick eyebrows. “Maybe you should ask him that, eh?”
“I don’t guess he wants to talk to me,” Paul said. “Otherwise I guess he would’ve come home. Is he hiding or something?”
Phil considered. “Came here a couple nights ago,” he finally said. “Showed up out of the blue and crashed on a cot. I just thought he didn’t want to wake you all in the middle of the night, but he’s been here two days now, sleeping mostly, piddlin’ around the station a little.”
“Does Ben know he’s here?”
“He’s been off last few days,” Phil said. “So I don’t guess he does.”
“What’ve you guys been talking about?”
Phil was quiet. He rubbed his chin and crossed and recrossed his legs.
“Phil?”
“I’ve known your father a long damn time,” he said. “Long as just about anybody in this town, I guess. I met him my first day at the station here. He was seven years old, came to about here on me, stomped around in boots two sizes too big. He was the one who showed me around the place, showed me where to put my stuff, showed me where my gear was, opened up the fridge and told me what food was offlimits. Captain Sam had his things, see, stuff nobody but him got to eat. He made Jell-O with those little sour oranges in it, ate that stuff morning, noon, and night. He saw anybody else take a dip into it and that guy’d be scrubbing the toilet for a week.”
He paused, remembering.
“Phil,” Paul said. “What about my dad?”
“Known him longer than anybody,” he began again. “Saw him grow up, go away, come back, get married, have a boy of his own. I’ve seen him through a lot of things.”
He took the bag of sunflower seeds from Paul’s lap and dumped what was left of his back in, wiped his hands on his pants. “Guess I don’t like those too much. No offense.”
Paul shrugged. “None taken.”
“He told me what happened,” Phil said, gazing across the street. “Told me about what the boy did, cutting off his own foot, gettin’ them both out of the house.”
“He told you?”
“He told me.” He paused, turned to Paul. “Now I’m gonna tell you something, something you might not know. What happened to Sonny . . . something like that happens to every one of us, every guy who wears the gear. Different circumstances, different outcome every time, but the same type of thing. Losing your nerve the moment you need it most. Blowin’ the save. Just usually it don’t happen when the whole world’s watching. Usually you screw up and you learn to live with it, and nobody much knows or cares but you. You don’t have it in your face all the time.”
“I don’t even care that he freaked out down there,” Paul said. “I just don’t know why he lied about it to everybody.”
“Don’t you?”
Phil asked, surprised. He thought for a moment. “Let me ask you something. You ever feel like you got something to live up to? You ever feel like you gotta prove yourself to somebody?”
“Sure. My dad. At least I used to.”
“Okay, then. You know who your dad has to prove himself to?”
“His dad?”
“That’s right. And you know who else?”
Paul thought. “The other guys?”
“That’s right. And you know who else?”
“No.”
“Your mom. And you.”
“He doesn’t have to prove himself to me,” Paul protested. “I don’t think —”
“This doesn’t have squat to do with what you think. Right now it’s all about what he thinks. Who else?”
“I don’t know.”
Phil pointed. “See that guy across the street there? Him. And that lady in the truck. And Harold Dewey at the drugstore. And the counter girl at the DQ. And that squirrelly kid who sells papers at the corner. And maybe all the cats in town.”
Paul smiled. “Okay,” he said. “I get it.”
“No,” Phil said. “Not yet. You know who else, most of all?”
Well, who else was there? God? Nah . . . too distant, too slippery. Gramaw Tucker? He had barely known her. Then Paul thought of the day at Neidermeyers’, how he’d been tempted to turn around once he reached the house, but how he’d pushed his bike up that dusty drive, drawn forward. Why? Not for his friends. Not even for his father.
“Himself,” Paul said.
Phil nodded. “You got it. Spent his whole life trying to prove himself to himself. Spent his whole life dreaming of being a hero. Then along comes his chance and he blows it. Thirty years waiting for the big day and he loses his nerve. Maybe ’cause he waited so long. I don’t know.”
“But why’d he come here?”
“ ’Cause this is his home.”
“No,” Paul said. “His home’s at home. With my mom. And me.”
“Not anymore,” Phil said. “When you get scared, you wind up at your real home. You wind up at the place where you feel like no more bad will happen to you. That’s what he’s doing. He’s just holing up.”
“For how long?”
“Why don’t you go on up and ask him that yourself? I’m bettin’ he’d like to see you.”
“Really?” Paul doubted this. He wanted to believe it, but he couldn’t, not quite. After everything that had happened, all bets were off.
“Worth a try, ain’t it?”
Paul went into the station, climbed the steep stairs to the sleeping quarters, opened the door softly. There was no one inside but his father, and he was asleep. He lay on the cot on his side. Paul sat down on the floor, at eye level with him. If his father really loved him, he told himself, he’d wake up. If everything was really okay, he would know that this was the moment to open his eyes. But instead of opening, his father’s eyes fluttered with dreams. Dreams of what? Paul wondered. Of being a hero? Of beginning again, that morning, but this time with the knowledge of what was to come? Of the ax, steady in his hand? Of Ian, steady in his grip?
“Dad?” Paul whispered.
Sonny didn’t stir. And Paul did not have the heart to wake him, to steal him from those dreams.
Earlier that day he’d been at the Casey Public Library with his English class. They were doing research papers on the maneuvers of Confederate troops in the area prior to the battle of Gettysburg. Amongst the research section, Paul had stumbled across a test prep book for the GED. The librarian had eyed him suspiciously when he’d checked it out and tucked it away in his backpack. Now, his father asleep at the station and he in no hurry to face his mother, to keep yet another secret, he decided to go to Ian’s to drop off the book. He’d been busy with school, with friends, hadn’t seen Ian since the Sunday before when he’d worked on his tattoo.
The Finches’ yard was muddy from the melting snow. The lowest branches of the lone tree in the front yard drooped nearly to the ground. Paul reached the porch and wiped his feet on the mat, pulled the book from his backpack and rapped on the door. It was Kally who opened it.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey. Ian around?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she peered curiously at the thick book under Paul’s arm. “What’s that?”
“A book.”
“Ha-ha. What book?”
“It’s for Ian.” He held it out for her to see and she took it from him, then gazed at the cover, the beginnings of a smile on her lips.
“GED?”
“Yeah,” Paul said. “I found it at the library. I thought he could use it to study.”
Her eyebrows made a V. “Study what?”
“For his test. He’s gonna do the GED, get his diploma. He’s probably gonna go to vet school. This book has all the stuff that’s on the test.”
She handed the book back to him. “He told you that? About vet school?”
“He said he was thinking about it.”
“He says a lot of things,” she said. “Two years ago he said he was going to fix my Rollerblades and they’re still broken.” She leaned against the door frame, rubbed her tongue along the top row of her braces.
“Listen,” Paul said. “Just go get him, okay?”
“Ain’t here.”
“Where is he?”
“How should I know? He’s hardly been around the last week or so.”
“He’s probably out studying,” Paul said. “Probably been at the library or something.”
She smirked. In smirking she looked vaguely like Ian, although on a girl, and a girl of thirteen, the smirk wasn’t a bit scary, not any more scary than if she’d been wearing a Halloween mask.
“You don’t know him very well, do you?” she asked.
“I know him better than you.”
“If that were true you wouldn’t be looking for him here,” Kally said. “And you wouldn’t’ve bothered getting that book. You really think he’s gonna take that test? Be a veterinarian? How old are you?”
Paul felt his cheeks redden. What did she know of Ian? Stupid slut, thirteen years old and already fucking a blue streak through town. She thought she was so smart. It had never occurred to her that her brother might be a hero.
“He’s probably with his friends,” she said. “Kevin and Charlie and whoever. Probably hanging out with them somewhere.”
“He’s not friends with those guys anymore,” Paul said. “He doesn’t even like ’em. He told me that himself, just last week.”
“So?” she said. “Last week was last week. And anyways, just because he doesn’t like ’em doesn’t mean they aren’t his friends.”
He shook his head. “You’re crazy.”
“I feel kinda sorry for you,” she said, but he was already walking away.
Late that night he was awakened by the jingling of leashes. He looked at his clock — 3:15 — and stumbled sleepily to the living room. In the dark he saw his mother by the front hall closet clipping leashes on the dogs. June was stretched out, sound asleep, at her feet; Hester was sitting but yawning widely.
“Mom?”
She gasped, put her hand over her heart.
“Sorry,” he said. “Whatcha doing?”
There wasn’t a hint of sleep in her face; but for the bathrobe under her heavy coat and her long hair loose around her shoulders, it may as well have been three-fifteen in the afternoon. She nodded to the dogs. “They were antsy,” she said. “I thought I’d walk them around the block.” She tugged on one of the leashes and June rose with a lengthy sigh, thumping her tail in aggravation.
“Kinda late, isn’t it? Or early?”
She smiled, guilty. “Come with me?”
He put on his coat and boots and took Hester’s leash from her hand. The night was windy but cool instead of cold; he could only see wisps of his breath as they crossed the front yard and turned right for the trek down Willow Lane.
“It’s funny bein’ out so late,”
he said, looking at the dark houses that lined the street, indistinguishable in the moonless night.
“I like it,” she said. “It’s peaceful, isn’t it?”
“Or creepy,” he said, and she laughed.
“I used to do this all the time before you were born. I’d get up almost every night your father was at work and walk the dogs all over town. Did I ever tell you that?”
“No,” Paul said. “Dad did, but I didn’t believe him.”
She sighed. “I was such a wreck those first months. Up all night and then having to teach in the morning. I don’t think I did anybody much good that year.”
“Up all night how come?” he asked. “Were you scared?”
“Foolish was more like it,” she said wryly. “I’d spend all night making up all sorts of things in my head, awful things, things that might happen to him. Isn’t that silly?”
“I do that,” Paul said. “All the time.”
She stopped walking. “You do?” She seemed genuinely surprised, as if she thought fear and worry were traits to be found only in people she didn’t like. And now, here was her own flesh and blood, admitting to this greatest of all weaknesses.
“My knees get cold,” he said. “When I hear sirens. Sometimes I feel like I might throw up.”
They were at the foot of the Bakers’ lawn. June trotted to a drooping snowman and sniffed around its base, then peed on it. Both dogs were wide awake now; invigorated by the night air, they strained at their leashes toward the next scent.
“But it doesn’t make sense,” Laura said, moving forward again. “To feel that way, I mean. This little town . . . what could happen? If we lived in a city, if he were going out on a hundred calls a week, if he —”
“I don’t think sense has a whole lot to do with it,” Paul said. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark and he saw her frown, dissatisfied, in response to his words. The wind whistled low in the bare trees.
“Some nights I thought I’d go right out of my mind,” she said. “I wondered why he couldn’t just be something else, anything else.”
“How’d you get used to it?”
She smiled self-consciously. “Really want to know?”
“Sure,” he said.
“I just went ahead and made him something else. I decided — pretended — that he worked at the tollbooth on the turnpike exit, sat out there with a transistor radio and a long book and made change for people. I got it all set in my mind. If someone got on in Philadelphia the charge would be $6.40; I imagined most people would give him a ten and he’d peel off three ones, then slide two quarters and a dime out of the tray. I’d make myself picture it as I walked along this street, shiny quarters glinting in the light, a dull dime. And he’d smile and say ‘have a nice night’ and they’d be on their way.”