Prophet (13 page)

So here was something else John was missing.
Carl, why are you crying? What’s that grief you’re feeling? Hey, I’m your old man—you can tell me.

John looked forward, down toward the floor, toward the red-and-gold carpet, not wanting to look at faces or anything else. For so many
years John had resigned himself to wondering about Carl and never knowing the answers. Carl, like Ruth, had become distant, faraway, a stranger. Ask him about the weather, about school, about LA, but don’t ask the big questions.

So Dad was gone. In a way Carl was gone too. So much for belonging. So much for family. So much for wealth.
O God, I can’t let this go on. Help me.

UNCLE ROGER AND
Aunt Marie’s house on 28th was one of those big, gabled, dormered structures built in the 1940s, when full-width, pillared front porches and bedroom dormers were popular and concrete was cheap. This was the big house John always remembered as the fun house, the hide-and-seek house, with all the cherrywood doors with the glass doorknobs that opened into rooms, halls, stairways, closets, and nooks in a teasing, mazelike sort of way. It was a perfect house for childhood chases in vast, meandering circles, through Aunt and Uncle’s bedroom, into the hall, into Cousin Tim’s room, through the bathroom, and back into Aunt and Uncle’s room again, then down the big stairway with the banister you could slide down but weren’t supposed to, down the hall, and through the kitchen and dining room where the moms and dads would finally yell at you and tell you not to run in the house.

Today some of the third generation, the youngest children of the children of Roger, Alice, Doris, Elizabeth, and Forrester, were running through the big house and being told not to by John’s cousins. The squeals and laughter of the children made the gathering sound like Christmas or a wedding or a birthday, but today, of course, the adults were more subdued, keeping the conversation quiet and reserved, the laughter confined to gentle, social chuckles.

Mom was the center of attention, but it was a delicate kind of attention. No big, heavy questions, nothing disturbing or burdensome. Just love, gentle embraces, and, for as much as Mom wanted to remember and reminisce, listening ears.

“He was ready to go,” John heard her saying to her sisters Doris and Elizabeth and Dad’s brother Roger. “I don’t know how I know—but we’ve paid off all the debts. He made sure of that. And he was talking
with our attorney just the other day. I think he wanted to set everything in order. I just know that somehow he knew.”

In the dining room Lindsey and Mandy, Dad’s sister Alice’s daughters, shared the table with Chuck, Trish, Mark, and Ben, Mom’s sister Elizabeth’s children, and talked about something—who could tell what?—while Mom’s brother Forrester’s son Clay stood between the dining room and living room with Alice’s other daughter Candice and her daughter Susan, while Debbie the daughter of Burt and Linda who was the daughter of Dad’s brother Roger rounded up Bobby and Jason the twins to feed them and put them down for a nap, while Lindy and Dori, daughters of Mom’s sister Doris and her husband, Marv, sat in the living room visiting with Brent and Michelle, children of Mom’s brother Forrester, as well as Mary and Jeff, who was the son of Roger, Dad’s brother, and Jeff’s younger brother Tom and his wife, Stephanie, who was trying to get their young son Tyler to eat some turkey off a paper plate, sitting next to Eddie and Jerry, the sons of Mandy the daughter of Alice, and James, Roger and Marie’s youngest son who was still single, and all the cousins were talking with each other while they and some of the second cousins were trying to get caught up while keeping up with their children who were still running through the house and slamming doors. And in the corner of the living room, with a faint, social smile on his face but no one to talk to, sat Carl.

John had his turkey dinner on a paper plate and a cup of coffee and knew that if he moved quickly enough he could grab that one folding chair next to Carl and say something to the boy. Everybody else in this house had a family, kids, stories about the kids, messes to clean up or behavior to correct, pride to show off, grandchildren to introduce, sons and daughters to encourage in pursuing their dreams, and doggone it, John had a family too . . . of sorts. It was sitting in that corner looking repulsive and, apart from answering polite social questions—“Whose boy are you? Where are you living now? Haven’t seen you lately; you get up this way often?”—was not really conversing with anyone.

John stepped from the dining room into the living room, carefully slipping between Clay, Candice, and Susan, who were still in the doorway. He caught Carl’s eye and said, “Hey!”

Carl smiled at him.

“Hey, John.” It was Roger, Dad’s brother. He looked a lot like Dad
across the eyes, and the graying hairline was sure the same. “Can we talk for a minute?”

“Sure . . .” They were still close to the huddle in the doorway. They moved into the center of the living room, surrounded on all sides by cousins and kids, and even had to step over a few of the smaller ones.

Roger moved close and spoke in a quiet voice that would be lost anywhere else in the room. “It looks like your dad and mom were ready for this. That’s a real comfort.”

“Mm-hm. Dad was thorough. He always liked everything in its place.”

“I understand you’ll be overseeing the estate, making sure Lil’s taken care of.”

John smiled. “Oh yeah. Mom and I already met with the attorney, and the papers all look good, and Mom’s got a real handle on it. She’ll need to get some accounts switched over, but that won’t be hard, and the way Dad budgeted everything out, she should be taken care of the rest of her life. Besides that, she’ll always have me around, if I can help it.”

“That’s great, John. But listen, if there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

“I’ve got something for you right now.”

“Shoot.”

“The plumbing warehouse is all Mom’s now, but we’ll have to get someone to run the business, do all the managing Dad used to do.”

Roger nodded. “Right. I’ll get some feelers out.”

“Buddy and Jimmie are manning the counter and keeping the place open, but the back office is dead in the water and falling behind.”

“Mm. I’ve got a good man, semi-retired, who could fill in for a short time until we get someone permanent. I’ll call him on Monday.”

“Great. Let me know.” John looked. Carl was still sitting there.

“Oh, one more thing,” said Roger.

“Yeah?”

“Do you have any feelings about the autopsy? Do you think . . . uh . . .”

John shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t know, Roger. There could be any number of explanations.”

“But . . . if some of John’s injuries didn’t come from the accident,
then . . .”

“Well, all the medical examiner said was that some of Dad’s injuries weren’t consistent with what the accident would have caused. But that isn’t a sure thing, and he hasn’t drawn any conclusions. So far the police haven’t said a thing.”

“Mmm . . . just makes me wonder, that’s all.”

John nodded. “I know what you mean. I just hope I’m seeing straight. The whole thing, Dad’s death, is just so unacceptable, so . . . pointless. I’m afraid maybe we’re trying to come up with a reason just so we can have one.”

Roger gave a quiet, sad chuckle. “Yeah. I think that could be it.” He turned to the huddle in the doorway. “Clay, what’s this I hear about you moving up in the world?”

John was free. Carl was still there. John let some youngsters scramble after a rubber ball while two mothers corrected, “Not in the house!” and then hurried over to that folding chair.

“This seat taken?”

“No.”

John sat down, carefully placing his paper plate in his lap and his coffee on the windowsill. “So how’re you doing?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Did your mother leave already?”

“No. She never came.”

“Oh.”

“She had to catch a plane back to LA, so she dropped me off. I’ve got all my stuff out on the porch.”

John didn’t mean to make a puzzled face, but this did seem rather odd. “Hmm . . . well, I’m sorry I missed her. We didn’t say more than two words to each other at the memorial service.”

Carl didn’t respond, but just looked into the center of the room. Now there was silence. Dead air. It made the broadcaster in John nervous.

Say something, John. Anything.

“I’ll be—” Carl and John said at the same time. Pause. John prompted, “Go ahead.”

“I’ll be in town for a while.”

John felt happy about that. It was good news. “Oh . . . no kidding.
You . . . uh . . . you have friends here? Business? What?”

Carl seemed a bit hesitant to answer. “Oh, both I guess. Got some painting I want to do . . . just . . . stuff.”

It was beginning to sound like a television interview, John asking, Carl answering, the clock ticking.

“So how is your mother?”

“Fine.”

“Still working at Wembley and Myerson?”

“Promoted. Head of the department now. She’s doing all right.”

“Well, that’s great. How about yourself? You heading back to school pretty soon?”

“Not for a while. I need to get out and explore a bit.”

“Mm . . . sure.” They both looked toward the center of the room for a moment, and John took the time to munch on some chicken and drink some coffee.

“Well,” John said finally, “it’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you again,” Carl returned.

It sounded like the conversation could end there, but John didn’t want it to. He got an idea. “Um . . . well, listen, if you’re going to be around for a while . . . why don’t you come by the station sometime? I can show you around, you can see where your old man works, and then we can go somewhere and grab some dinner.”

Carl’s face brightened noticeably. “Yeah . . . All right.”

“You going to be busy Monday?”

“No, I’m open Monday.”

“All right. Why don’t you come by the station about . . . oh, say, 5? I’ll show you around a bit and then you can watch me do the news. You have a way to get there?”

“I think I can borrow a car.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll clear it with the front desk and then give you a call with the details. Where are you staying?”

“Oh . . . a friend’s house.”

“Got a number there so I can call you?”

Carl hesitated. “Uh . . . no, not yet.”

“Well, okay.” John pulled out his wallet and produced a business card. “Here’s my number at home and at work. Give me a call Monday morning and I can let you know what to do, where to park, all that
stuff.”

“Okay.”

More dead air. The noise in the room was noise enough. Plenty of conversation, distraction, action. But what a lousy place to try to get some kind of conversation going with your son. Maybe Monday, at dinner. Then they’d be alone. They could work at it.

“Well, okay then,” said John, getting up. “See you Monday.”

“Monday,” said Carl, giving John a thumbs-up.

John found that simple little gesture encouraging. Perhaps some ice had melted.

CHAPTER 6

CLICK. TWO BARE
lightbulbs on the ceiling came to life, and Carl Barrett remained in the doorway of the building for a moment spellbound, almost afraid to go inside.

“This was your grandfather’s workshop,” said Mom Barrett, still wearing the pale blue dress. It was Saturday night. The memorial service and afternoon get-together were over. Now, at the Barrett home, it was just Mom and Carl. “When he wasn’t working at the warehouse it seemed he was always out here, he and your father.”

Carl, still in black, still wearing the chain across his cheek, went inside, walking slowly among the power tools that stood neatly arranged about the floor like a gray steel platoon: the band saw, the table saw, the power planer, the drill press, the radial arm saw, the power sander. The room smelled of sawdust and machine oil, wood and iron, paint and lacquer, but it was remarkably clean. The floors had been thoroughly swept, and though faint traces of sawdust were visible in the rafters, on the windowsills, and along the top edges of the tool racks, this place was no typical messy woodshop.

“It wasn’t always this clean,” Mom said. “Close to it maybe, but Dad took a lot of time out here just getting the place spick-and-span, just like everything else he did in the last few days. Everything taken care of, everything in its place.”

Carl looked down and watched his own feet taking steps across the worn boards.
This was where Grandpa walked
, he thought. This
was where he worked. He placed his hand on the knob of the drill press, the finish worn off long ago by repeated use.
This is your hand, Grandpa.
He gave the crank a little turn and watched the drill’s chuck drop toward the table. He could imagine the rumble of the machine, the chips flying out of the drilled wood.
My father used this machine too
, he thought. This was part of his world.

Along the entire far wall was a heavy-built, nicked, gouged, spilled-upon but kept clean workbench with heavy drawers beneath it and tools, tools, tools hanging on the wall above it, each one carefully traced on the wall with a black marker so the eye would immediately know if a tool was missing, not in its place. Right now no tool was missing. All had come home to stay.