The Shortest Way Home (25 page)

“Indeed.”

“What did you do?”

She took a breath and let it out slowly. “I told him the truth.”

“Which was . . . ?”

“That he was worthless and weak, and didn’t deserve to be a father.”

Sean felt the blow as if he’d received it himself. “And he believed you,” he breathed. “
Jesus,
Vivian.”

A mirthless smile rose on her face. “Yes, well, he had the last laugh, didn’t he?”

“He never came back,” said Sean. “And you were stuck with us.”

CHAPTER 29

I
n the morning, Chrissy came over for another dog training session, and Sean could feel the difference immediately. She was trying. It was not the Chrissy he was used to, always so sure of herself and her place at the fine-grain top of the social sediment. She’d only ever needed to smile or to breathe to confirm her status, and others had always smiled back, hoping to be anointed—at least until the end of lunch period—by the high priestess at the altar of popularity.

“So, Kevin,” she said. “How do you feel it’s going?” Kevin shrugged, of course, so Chrissy pressed further. “Come on,” she said, “you’re a pretty astute guy. I know you’ve seen some things George could improve on.” Sean noticed the subtle shift toward George as the student, rather than Kevin.

“Well, she’s pretty good at letting me be the boss. But she gets kinda mad when other dogs walk by. She growls and tugs at the leash like she’s ready for a smack-down.”

“Wow.” Chrissy nodded as if he’d just identified a previously unnoticed geological fault line. “I am so glad you pointed that out. We’ll definitely need to work on that one, won’t we?” She asked further questions about exactly how far the other dogs were when George started to growl and what kinds of dogs, and the like, treating Kevin like an expert witness.

“Okay, so this is a perfect example of what I call a Broken Window. Did you ever hear of the Broken Window Theory?” Kevin shook his head, but his gaze locked on hers waiting for her explanation. She told him how little things like broken windows or graffiti in a neighborhood often led to bigger crimes, because criminals could see that the residents didn’t care enough to maintain things. “So we’ve got to fix any of George’s broken windows before they turn into vandalism and car theft. Get it?”

Kevin nodded solemnly. The image of George joyriding behind the wheel of a stolen Beemer almost made Sean laugh out loud, but he was able to maintain a veneer of seriousness.

Chrissy’s eyes shifted toward Sean. “I do this with my girls all the time. They start to whine about something, or get sloppy about keeping their rooms clean, and I’m on them like a lightning strike!” She snapped her fingers. She turned back to Kevin. “Let’s take George where you’ve seen other dog walkers, and help her learn to control herself a little more, okay?” She gave Sean a quick sparkle of a smile and set off with Kevin and George.

Sean was giving the porch a much-needed good hard sweep when they returned, and he could hear Chrissy explaining to Kevin, “She growls because she’s so protective—that’s in her nature, and we don’t want to change who she
is
. We just want her to know that not everything is a threat. She’ll actually be happier knowing that you can take care of your
self
most of the time.”

Kevin nodded, and Sean could see him thinking this through. The boy might not be able to be less fearful for his own benefit, Sean considered, but he might be able to do it for the dog he now loved. It was an odd motivator, but it just might work, and he felt his gratitude and affection for Chrissy rising in response.

When the dog training session ended and Kevin went inside to get George some water, Chrissy said, “So . . . um . . . are you hungry? I was going to get some lunch before the girls get home from field hockey camp.”

Milano was her favorite restaurant, and they sat at a little round café table draped in pale green damask cloth and ate their sandwiches filled with high-end deli meat, thickly sliced cheese, and condiments like pesto and roasted red peppers. Chrissy chatted about her girls and her gym schedule and her occasional struggles with Rick, her ex-husband.

“He just doesn’t
get
me anymore,” she said. “He used to understand me like on this sort of cellular level? But now when I say something as simple as . . . I don’t know . . . the accountant says you have too many write-offs and you’re going to get audited again—he looks at me like I’m speaking Swahili or something.”

“Actually, I’m not sure there’s a translation for that in Swahili,” said Sean.

She grinned. “Like you speak Swahili.”

“Well, I lived in Africa—couple years in Kenya, couple in Democratic Republic of Congo—so, yeah, I really do.”

“Say something, then.”

He thought for a minute. At first he was going to tell her that she had a little drip of red pepper juice on her chin, but considered she might not take it kindly.
“Wewe ni mrembo.”

“Which means?”

“You’re beautiful.”

Her smile filled with buttery satisfaction. She made him say it several more times so she could repeat it to her daughters. One in particular was having a little self-esteem problem.

As they walked back out to the parking lot, she slid her hand into his, and it felt smooth and warm, a strangely new experience. Sex was one thing, but hand-holding was something else entirely. It indicated an attachment, and done publicly it was practically a blinking neon sign:
WE ARE TOGETHER.
Sean had always avoided it more assiduously than exposure to tuberculosis.

But it felt kind of good—as did the kiss she gave him when she dropped him off. In a funny way both felt weirdly more intimate than sex, and the thought that two such apparently innocent acts could start to seem like a contract of some kind tumbled around in his brain.

* * *

A
t eleven that night, the phone rang. It was Da. “Will you see me?” he asked.

“So much for giving me some time to think about it.”

“I gave you a whole day.”

Sean chuckled. “A whole day,” he said drily. “Generous after being gone for almost thirty years. And how come you keep calling so late at night?”

“Because I don’t want to talk to your aunt, and I remember she favors an early bedtime.”

“You seem to remember a lot.”

“Too much,” he said. “I remember everything.”

There was a silence then, the two of them listening to each other breathe into their respective receivers, like animals circling, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

“Have you told Hugh and Deirdre?” Da asked finally.

There was a momentary temptation to say,
Hugh’s dead and you nearly killed Deirdre.
But the seesaw of anger and longing tipped toward the latter. “No,” he said. “I haven’t.”

“You’re still very protective of them. I’m glad of that.”

“Someone had to be.”

The older man was silent. Then he said, “I don’t like the phone.”

“Neither do I.” They’d both spent the majority of their lives beyond the reach of a phone line, Sean realized. But he certainly wasn’t going to dwell on their similarities.

“Will you meet me then, and I can beg your forgiveness in person?”

Sean felt the succubus again. He did not want to be begged for anything. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Where are you?”

“The Comfort Inn.”

“The Comfort Inn
where
?”

“On Route 9.”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—he was three minutes away! “Did you drive by the house a couple of days ago?”

“I saw you up on the veranda. That’s how I knew you still lived there.”

Sean felt woozy and thought he might faint. In three minutes, he could see his da. And then what? Weep? Punch him? Tell him one of his children is dead?

“I can’t . . . I don’t . . .”

“Shall I give you more time?”

“Yeah,” Sean said, his throat feeling tight and painful.

“I’ll give you the telephone number of the hotel. You can call when you’re ready.”

After the call, Sean sat in the kitchen. The rain had stopped, and the silence was punctuated by moisture dripping out of the downspouts. More time. Would it help? Would there ever be enough of it to sort out nearly thirty years of absence? Did he even feel like trying?

* * *

“U
ncle Sean.” There was pressure at his shoulder, and pain in his back. He felt sticky and hot, the sheets clinging to him like cellophane. He fluttered his eyes against the brightness in the room. “Uncle Sean.” Another poke at his shoulder.

“For the love of God,
what
?”

“I think I’ll stay home.”

Sean lifted his face off the pillow. “What are you talking about?”

“Boy Scout camp. I think I won’t go.”

Sean twisted and groaned, hoisting himself up to a sitting position. “And you’re telling me at such an ungodly hour, why?”

“It’s nine-thirty. You have to call Mr. Quentzer as soon as possible, since it starts tomorrow.”

Sean scrubbed his hands over his face. He’d had a beer last night after the phone call from his father. Okay, maybe two or three. He hadn’t been able to sleep, and couldn’t stop his brain from spinning around and around on this problem of what to do about Martin Doran, ghost father, recently come to life at the Comfort freaking Inn on Route freaking 9.

“Wait a minute. Back up. Why aren’t you going to Boy Scout camp?”

The sleep-blur was starting to clear from his eyes, and Sean saw Kevin biting at the inside of his cheek. “I can’t do it. I’m too worried.”

“What are you worried about?”

“What if it’s not good? What if there’s a ton of kids there, and it’s like middle school?”

“I told you, I’ll come get you.”

Kevin looked away and muttered, “What if I
cry
?”

“Kev, you gotta go. You can’t not do stuff because of a bunch of what-ifs.”

“That’s easy for
you
. You don’t cry.”

Hard to argue with that one. Sean scratched his neck and thought for a moment. “Hey, did I tell you I got a tape player? My friend Becky had one. Now you can play your tape.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Maybe if you still like it, you could bring it to camp.”

Sean threw on some shorts and a T-shirt while Kevin got the tape from his room. He put the headphones on and adjusted the volume. Sean watched the boy’s face pass through a range of expressions: the inner cheek biting stopped, and his eyebrows unfurrowed. His lips parted slightly as a look of recognition spread across his features. Then his eyes rested on Sean. He nodded slowly. “I remember him.”

“Remember . . . ?”

“My dad. I didn’t think I remembered him, but I do.”

Sean didn’t know what to say.

“He kinda looked like you, right?” said Kevin. “But his eyes were different.”

“They were green. Like yours.”

“Yeah!” Kevin nodded. “Like mine . . . I remember.” He studied Sean for a moment. “You remember him, too, right?”

“Yeah, Kev,” he said, gazing at the boy with his brother’s eyes. “I do.”

* * *

I
t took all day and several trips to REI, the Scout Store, and Target to get Kevin packed. There always seemed to be one more thing he needed—mosquito netting and sunscreen, hiking boots and official scout socks. They decided that Rebecca’s tape player was too big and heavy and bought a compact version.

Kevin’s tape was called
Sounds of Acadia
. It was a series of instrumental pieces put out by Acadia National Park that incorporated the calls of birds and rush of streams, breaking waves and horses’ hoof steps. Sean vaguely remembered Hugh talking about camping there once. The tape was old, and Sean worried that it would break in the not-too-distant future. He used Deirdre’s laptop to locate the Acadia Web site and called to order another, just in case.

“I’m sorry,” said the clerk at the park gift shop. “Your credit card has been declined.”

Declined? Sean told her he’d call back and called the credit card company. Apparently he’d maxed out his very low credit limit; all that camping stuff had cost more than he’d realized.

“We can easily raise your limit, Mr. Doran,” said the overly helpful customer service rep.

Sean hesitated. The limit was low on purpose—if it was stolen while he was overseas, thieves wouldn’t be able to rack up much in charges. But if he didn’t raise the limit, he’d have to wait until another payment cleared before he could make any further purchases—including a backup for the all-important
Sounds of Acadia
tape.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “But not too high.”

The customer service rep laughed a little longer than necessary about this. “My goodness!” she said. “Most people want it as high as they can possibly get it!”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Sean responded drily.

* * *

T
he next morning Sean made a breakfast of eggs, sausages, and thick slices of toast with jelly. “Are you sure you had enough?” he asked when Kevin laid his fork and knife down.

“Yeah, I’m stuffed.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to get hungry.”

“I’m pretty sure they have food at camp, Uncle Sean. And if they don’t, another slice of toast isn’t going to help.”

Sean laughed. “Stop hovering, is what you’re telling me.”

“Yeah.” Kevin grinned. “Pretty much.”

They loaded Kevin’s duffel bag into the car, and Kevin said good-bye to Auntie Vivvy and George. He squatted down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “Be good,” he told her. “Uncle Sean is the vice prime minister, so let him be the boss.” He stood up and addressed Sean. “You’ll walk her every day, right?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“You’re not a scout.”

“Okay, uncle’s honor.”

Kevin squinted skeptically.

“I’ll walk the dog, Kev, I promise!”

They drove over to the Scout House. The parking lot swarmed with boys. Kevin started to chew the inside of his cheek.

“I think it’s going to be okay,” Sean told him. “You’ve got your tape, and there are some good guys here. If you have a problem, talk to Mr. Quentzer.”

When they got out of the car, Ivan ran over to show Kevin his new jackknife. Sean hauled the duffel over to the growing pile by Frank Quentzer’s SUV. He caught Frank’s eye.