Sunday, November 8th, 2009

 

    

     Now I fully understand the expression about ‘ignoring the elephant in the living room.’  Clarice uses it sometimes in reference to one of her brothers. She says Jacques has the ability to “ignore the elephant in the living room, even when it’s stampeding.”  Since Jacques has ten kids, twenty-two grandchildren, and a bossy wife, I’ve always figured the only way the poor guy could keep his sanity is by ignoring almost everything that happens in his house.

 

My father and I don’t have the excuses Jacques does though, and both of us, by nature, are usually pretty vocal when it comes to something that’s bothering us.  But this time, Papa and I have been ignoring the elephant in our living room, too, which I’ve discovered is a heck of a lot more uncomfortable than just acknowledging the elephant’s presenc,e and figuring out what to do about him.

 

     Like I knew he would be, Pops was home when I came in from Dylan and Dalton’s Halloween party. I couldn’t take my mind off the upset over Scott Monroe, so as far as the party went, I wasn’t much fun to be around.  Kylee asked me twice if I was sick, and I finally said I had a headache, just so I didn’t have to explain to her, or to anyone else, why I was so quiet. She offered to have me take her home when it was only eight o’clock, but I told her no, and stuck it out until the party ended at ten.

 

     After I got home, I stood in the laundry room stalling as long as I could while taking off my shoes and coat. I heard the sound of the TV coming from the great room. I shuffled from foot to foot, took a deep breath, counted to ten, took another deep breath, and then opened the door. I stepped into the kitchen. Without moving my head, I slid my eyes to the right. Papa was sitting in his recliner. His gaze didn’t shift from the   television screen, nor did he tell me hi, or ask me how the party was. 

 

     I walked to the fridge and pulled out a carton. I wasn’t thirsty, but the act of drinking a glass of orange juice allowed me to delay my entry into the great room for a few seconds longer.

 

     When my glass was empty, I put it in the dishwasher.  At that point, I had no choice but to turn around and face my father.

 

     Papa looked up when I stopped a few feet from his chair. I figured he had a lot to say to me, and figured most of it would be said loudly.  Therefore, I was surprised when his sentence was short and spoken in an even, neutral tone.

 

“How was the party?”

 

     “O...okay,” I stammered, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

     “You got Kylee home all right?”

 

     “Ye...yeah.”

 

     “Better get to bed. It’s late.”

 

     “I...I know.  Did you...what’d you and Carl do?”

 

     “Helped Jason move into his apartment, then ate dinner at Marie’s.” 

 

     Marie is one of Clarice’s sisters, and Jason’s grandmother.  I took an educated guess and figured when Papa arrived at Carl’s, Carl was leaving to help with the move. Since Carl’s family celebrates even the most minor of occasions with a big meal, I assumed Nana Marie invited all the movers to her place for supper.

 

     “Oh. Did things...did things go okay?”

 

     “Yep.”

 

     “Was...was Nana Marie’s dinner good?”

 

     “Always is.”

 

     And that was the end of our discussion. Papa never brought up Scott Monroe, and though I wanted to so badly that the man’s name was almost searing the tip of my tongue, I followed my father’s lead and acted like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred between us that day.

 

     “I...I guess I’ll go to bed.”

 

     “ ‘Night.”

 

     I hesitated a moment.  Papa’s attention appeared to be focused on the TV, but since I was certain he’d seen that particular episode of MASH at least a dozen times, I couldn’t imagine what was so riveting about it, beyond the fact that it allowed him to ‘ignore the elephant.’

 

     I finally gave in and ignored the elephant, too.

 

     “Good...good night, Papa.”

 

     I stood there a few seconds longer, but when Papa didn’t say anything else to me, I trudged up the stairs, entered my room, and shut the door.  I came out just long enough to brush my teeth and put my costume in the hamper.  The sound of the television drifted to me when I crossed back from the bathroom to my bedroom. I shut off the light, nudged the door closed with my right heel, climbed in bed, and then tossed and turned until midnight. I don’t know what time Papa finally went to bed.  He didn’t come upstairs while I was awake, and if he came up after I’d fallen asleep, his movements didn’t disturb me.

 

     Pops had cereal boxes on the table and bread toasting when I got downstairs the next morning.  We hurried through breakfast, like we always do when I have to get to school, and Pops has to get to work.  I didn’t say a word while I ate a bowl of Cheerios.  I thought if I kept my mouth shut, maybe Papa would say...I didn’t know what, but something about Monroe.  I thought maybe he’d finally tell me what my punishment was for contacting the L.A. Times, or I thought maybe he’d lecture me on respecting his privacy, or I thought maybe...just maybe, he’d clear the air and tell me exactly why Uncle Roy had blamed him for Scott Monroe shooting Chris.  None of those things happened; however, and we ate in silence until I had four spoonfuls of cereal left.  I glanced through my eyelashes when I saw Papa push his empty cereal bowl aside.  I could feel him staring at me, and wondered what was coming. I figured it was one of two possibilities - being grounded, or the lecture on respecting his privacy.

 

     “Trevor, in May you’ll be eighteen.”

 

     We’d established that the previous day, but since the look on Papa’s face told me a wisecrack wouldn’t go over well, I gave a small, wary nod of my head.  For a brief second, I wondered if I’d upset my father to the point he was about to kick me out of the house.  I’d heard of that happening to other teenagers, and I admit, my heart began pounding until my common sense kicked in and reminded me that my father would never tell me to pack up and leave, unless I’d done something pretty horrible. To be honest, I couldn’t think of any misdeed so horrible it would actually cost me my father’s loyalty and love, and despite all that’s happened in the days since, I still haven’t come up with one.

 

     “Because of that...because you’re a lot closer to being a man, than you are to being a boy, I’m gonna ask something of you man to man.”

 

     “Man to man?”

 

     “Yeah. Which is different from me asking something of you father to son. You understand?”

 

     I thought a moment, trying to figure out what Papa was getting at.  I had no clue where the conversation was leading, but I did think I knew what he meant by ‘man to man’ versus ‘father to son.’

 

     “I...I guess if you ask me father to son, then it’s like you’re telling me to do something that I’ve got no choice about, or say so in. Where as if you ask me something man to man, then I do have a say so. Is that right?”

 

     “Yeah,” Papa nodded. “That’s right.”

 

     “So what is it?  Whatta ya’ wanna ask me?”

 

     “I...Trev, I’m asking you...man to man I’m asking you not to work on that book any more.”

 

     My spoon clattered against my bowl, causing droplets of milk to splatter the table.

 

     “What!”

 

     “I’m asking you not to work on that book any more.”

 

     “I heard you the first time. You mean you’re forbidding me to work on it?”

 

     “No. If I was forbidding it, I wouldn’t have made this request man to man.”

 

     “But it’s my school assignment.”

 

     “I realize that, but you’ve still got time to pick another plot. The due date is five months away yet.”

 

     “But I’ve worked so hard on it!”

 

     “I know, and I’m sorry but--”

 

     “This sucks!” I shot to my feet. “This totally sucks!”

 

     “Watch your mouth, young man!”

 

     “No! You said this was man to man, so as one man to another, I’m tellin’ you it sucks!  It’s not fair.  You can’t ask me to change my plot now. I’ve put so much time and work into this!  I’ve never worked so hard on a school assignment in my life! Never!  And it’s good!  Damn it, Papa, it’s good!  The book is good.  Even Mom says so!”

 

     “I’m sure it is good, but--”  

 

     “How would you know?  You haven’t read it! You won’t even look at a single page of it for me.  The book is about you, and what a hero you were, and what you did for Jennifer and Libby, but you haven’t even asked me if you can read it.  You haven’t shown any interest in it, and now--”

 

     “I asked you not to write it.”

 

     “But then you said I could!  You changed your mind and said I could! I followed all your stipulations. I got permission from everyone, and I changed all the names, and I changed all the locations...I did everything you wanted me to. For you to ask me to do this now...well it isn’t fair!”

 

     His voice was quiet when he said, “Sometimes life isn’t, Trev.”

 

     “No! Don’t call me ‘Trev’ like that makes everything okay between us.  Like that changes what you’ve just asked me to do.”

 

     “Trevor, I’m sorry. I really am. But you were the one who looked up that information on Monroe.  If you hadn’t, then maybe I’d still be okay with all of this. Maybe I wouldn’t be asking you to--” 

 

     I was furious with my father, but even more furious with myself, because there were tears running down my face like I was some kind of five-year-old crybaby.  The last thing I wanted to do at that moment was cry in front of Papa, and it wouldn’t be until much later, after I’d had a chance to calm down, that I realized those tears showed just how important that book was to me.

 

     “What are you so afraid of, Papa?”

 

     I could feel my father retreat a bit, and I knew his, “Huh?” was Papa’s way of stalling when it came to giving me an answer.  After all, I’d learned that method from him.

 

     “What the hell are you so afraid of? That I’ll find out you’re not perfect?”

 

     Papa stared up at me a moment before answering.

 

“You’re seventeen, not seven. I assume you know by now that I’m not perfect.”

 

     “Yeah, I do,” I acknowledged, though if the truth were told, I’d never thought of my father as less than perfect until that moment. “And I guess that means you screwed up the night Chris was shot, huh?  I guess that means you could have prevented it, but you didn’t.” 

 

I was so angry that I didn’t think about what I was saying, or whether or not I even had any facts to support my suppositions. I just wanted to lash out and hurt my father as much as he’d hurt me.

 

“I guess that means you deserved Uncle Roy’s anger!  I guess that means he did the right thing when he refused to be your friend any more.”

 

Papa’s voice was quiet and distant. “Maybe so.”     

 

     “Maybe the biggest mistake he made was deciding to be your friend again! Maybe...maybe you’ll end up pulling the rug out from under his feet again someday when it comes to something that matters, just like you’ve done to me!  Now I finally see what it’s all about.” 

 

     “What what’s all about?”

 

     “No one can count on you! That’s it, isn’t it?  Uncle Roy couldn’t count on you to keep Chris safe. My mom couldn’t count on you to be the kind of man she needed you to be. And now I can’t count on you to help me with my book...a book you said I could write!”

 

     “Trev--”

 

     Papa stood and started to come around the table, but I gave my chair a violent shove and ran for the stairs.  I charged to my room, grabbed my backpack, and charged to the main floor again.  I gave Papa a push when he reached for me as I rushed through the kitchen.  I slammed the door between the kitchen and laundry room, shoved my feet in my tennis shoes, and grabbed my letterman’s jacket from the closet.  I didn’t bother to put the coat on, or fix the backs of my shoes so they fit over my heels, as I ran out the door to my truck.

 

     I was crying so hard I couldn’t see, but that didn’t stop me from flying down our driveway. Gravel sprayed up behind me and the tires squealed against the pavement as I wheeled the truck onto the road a lot faster than I should have.

 

     I’ve never skipped school in my life, but that day I did.  I drove to the airport and parked my truck in the small lot south of Gus’s office.  I put my coat on, used my thumbs to fix the backs of my shoes so they fit correctly, wiped my wet eyes and lashes with my right sleeve, then climbed out of the vehicle.  Gus walked toward me with a puzzled look on his face. When I didn’t say anything, but instead started toward the hanger, he asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

 

     “Not goin’ ta’ school today.”

 

     “Why not?”

 

     “Just not goin’.”

 

     “Trev, is everything all right?”

 

I turned to look at his face.  It’s a face with character, like my grandfather’s  - a face that practically tells Gus’s life story just by studying the lines that have taken up residence in his forehead and cheeks. He has a permanent squint from all his years of flying and being subjected to the bright sunlight, and a shock of thick, white hair on his head, with a few strands of rust yet, that indicate Gus’s hair was red in his younger days.    

 

“It’s just that...” I dropped my eyes, shoved my hands in my coat pockets, and kept walking. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Everything’s fine.  You got something for me ta’ do?”

 

I think even if there had been no work for me, Gus would have found some. He probably figured he’d better keep close tabs on me, and he probably knew I’d get in a lot less trouble working for him, as opposed to being left on my own to wander wherever my truck took me.

 

“Yeah...yeah, sure. I’ve got something for ya’ ta’ do.  The helicopter’s engine needs an overhaul. I was gonna work on that today.  You can help me.”

 

We arrived at the big hanger. I exchanged my coat for a pair of denim coveralls.  “You don’t have to pay me,” I said, as I zipped the coveralls up.

 

“I’ll pay you.”

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

“You already said that.”

 

“I know, but--”

 

“Look, workin’ on this chopper is a two-man job, and I woulda’ had you helping me with it come Saturday. Whether we put in a full day on it today, or whether we wait until Saturday, makes no difference to me.  So, whatta ya’ say?”

 

“Okay,” I agreed. “Today’s good.”

I looked up at the old Bell 206 helicopter Gus owns, that’s primarily used to transport seriously injured or ill patients from Eagle Harbor to the trauma hospital in Juneau.  As Gus says, it’s our own Flight for Life without the fancy name, and without much money to keep her in the air.

 

“I’ve never worked on this before, though.”

 

Gus shrugged. “So it’s time you learn.”

 

“Is it a lot different from working on an airplane?”

 

“An engine’s an engine, my boy, no matter what it powers – go cart, car, eighteen-wheeler, airplane, helicopter, or space shuttle.”

 

I thought Gus was exaggerating quite a bit when he threw in the space shuttle, but my only response was,  “If you say so.”

 

“I do.”

 

I was a little nervous about the idea of working on the chopper. I know its history by heart, because Gus never tires of telling me about it.  First assembled in 1963, the Bell 206B was originally manufactured for use by the Army. It’s designed to fly in every type of climate from the artic to the jungles, to the hottest deserts of the worlds. The 206 has accomplished more missions, flown more hours, and has set and broken more industry records than any other aircraft in the world.  

 

Gus bought the old chopper in 1988, with the purpose in mind at that time to use it for tourist flights over Eagle Harbor and the National Forest. Gus treats the chopper like it’s his baby.  I think a large part of the reason behind that is because the chopper’s now used as an air ambulance.  Gus always wants it in the best possible working condition.  If I’ve heard him say once, I’ve heard him say a thousand times, “There’s even less room for mistakes when you’re transporting injured people to the hospital, along with a paramedic or two, than there is otherwise. If it’s just me I’m responsible for...well, of course I wanna make it home safely, but I’m tellin’ ya’, Trev, I don’t want it to be my fault if this baby goes down with other people on board.”

 

We rolled the ten-drawer tool chest toward the helicopter. As Gus took the key from the pocket of his coveralls that unlocked the chest, he said, “Ya’ know, Trev, I was real proud the day your pops came to me and asked me about usin’ old Bessie here as an air-ambulance. The fire department never had such a thing before your pops arrived.  Maybe if it had, my brother would still be alive.”

 

I nodded. Gus’s brother had owned a fishing boat that was hit by a freighter. The accident happened ten years before Papa moved to Eagle Harbor, but everyone still talks about it because the entire crew on the fishing boat died.  Most of the men drowned, while four others, including Gus’s brother, Harlan, survived until help arrived.  All four men died as a result of their injuries before they reached the hospital in Juneau.  The only way to get there before the inception of the air ambulance was by ferry.  That was okay for minor injuries like broken arms and sprained ankles, but not the best method of transportation for internal injuries, severed limbs, and major head trauma - all of which were suffered by the men on the fishing boat.

 

“I thought you called her Margaret.”

 

“Who?

 

“The chopper. I thought her name was Margaret.”

 

“Oh...Margaret, Bessie...what’s the difference? As long as she gets everyone to the hospital and back with no mishaps, that’s all that counts, right?”

 

“Right.”

 

We worked for thirty minutes, when suddenly, Gus had to go to his office.

 

“You keep workin’,” he told me as he laid a wrench on top of the tool chest. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Need to check on something in the office.”

 

I watched Gus walk out of the hanger with the stiff gait he now has he blames on arthritis. I shrugged my shoulders after he was out of sight, and went back to work.  Fifteen minutes later, he returned.  He picked up his wrench and started helping me again.  Another fifteen minutes passed before he confessed, “I just want ya’ to know that when I went to the office, I called your pops.”

 

My eyes slid to Gus, but I didn’t stop working, nor did I say anything.

 

“I don’t know what happened to cause ya’ to skip school, Trev, but that’s not like you.”

 

“My father knows what happened.”

 

“That may be so. He didn’t say.  But you know the school’ll call your pops to find out where you are when the attendance rolls get to the office. I didn’t want him worryin’ about you.”

 

Gus is on the school board, so although his four daughters have been out of Eagle Harbor High School for close to thirty years, he knows that a parent is expected to call his kid in as ‘absent’ if the kid isn’t going to be in school that day.  Mrs. Shipman, Jake’s mom, is the principal’s secretary. She calls the parents of any kid who doesn’t show up at school, and wasn’t phoned in as ‘absent’ by eight-thirty.

 

“If Papa’s worried, it’s his own fault.”

 

I could feel Gus looking at me, but I kept my eyes on the nut I was loosening. When I didn’t offer an explanation for my words, Gus said, “Well...either way, things are fine. Your pops knows where you are, and he said you could stay and work for me today.”

 

“Did he say that man to man, or father to son?”

 

“Huh?”

 

I shook my head. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

 

Gus allowed a long silence to linger between us before he spoke again.

 

“Me and Evelyn have four daughters, Trevor, so I don’t have any experience when it comes to raising a son. I always wanted one, though – a son, that is. Figured it would be nice to have a friend when my boy was raised, the way my own father and I were friends after I was grown and out on my own.”

 

“I’ll never be friends with my father,” I declared. “Never.”

 

“Trev--”

 

“Look, I came here to work, not to talk about things you...or anyone else, can’t fix. Now are we gonna get this job done, or am I gonna leave?”

 

“Sometimes you’re too stubborn for your own good, Trevor Gage, but have it your way. We’ll work.”

 

“Glad ta’ hear it.”

 

Nothing else was said between Gus and I that had to do with fathers and sons.  We worked until noon, then Gus invited me to his house for lunch.  He must not have wanted to let me out of his sight, or maybe Papa had asked him keep an eye on me.  I’m still not certain which it was, though I suspect Papa had something to do with it.  Gus’s wife, Evelyn, didn’t act surprised to see me, so I knew after Gus had called Papa, he must have called Evelyn, too.  The kitchen table was set for three when we walked in the door, and there was plenty of food for all of us - two more indications that Gus had phoned ahead about my presence. 

 

We stayed at Gus’s house an hour. When we got up to return to the airport in his pickup truck, I thanked Evelyn for lunch.  She said, “Your welcome, sweetheart. Come again any time,” which was nice of her, considering she wasn’t expecting an extra mouth to feed when her husband left for work that morning.

 

When we got back to the airport, a white van was sitting in the parking lot.  I knew it belonged to Mike Matterson, a guy who sells Gus airplane parts. I spotted Mike coming out of the hanger as Gus parked the truck.  He must have been looking for Gus. When Mike saw us, he grinned and waved. 

 

If Mike was wondering why I wasn’t in school, he didn’t ask.  But then, he’s from Ketchikan, so he doesn’t know me on any other level but as Gus’s employee, and he might think I graduated last year.

 

Gus and Mike like to gab, which made me wonder how long it would be before we’d start working on the helicopter again. They were already jabbering as they headed for Gus’s office. Gus must have suddenly remembered I was there, because he paused and turned around.

 

“Trev, go ahead and get to work on the chopper again. I’ll be there in a little while.”

 

“You sure?” I questioned, not having nearly as much confidence in my abilities as Gus did.

 

“Yeah.  You’ll be fine. If you have any questions, just come and get me.”

 

“Okay.”

 

I walked to the hanger, while Mike and Gus walked to the office. I exchanged my coat for coveralls once again, and then started working. An hour and twenty minutes later, I heard Mike’s van start, and thirty seconds after that, Gus joined me.

 

“Boy, that Mike sure likes to yak.”

 

I turned away so Gus wouldn’t see my smile.  When it comes to the gift of gab, Gus can keep up with the best of them.  He can even out-talk my pops and me.

 

Gus and I didn’t finished overhauling the helicopter’s engine until five-thirty. I took my time putting the tools away. I didn’t want to risk running into Clarice at the house, and having to answer a bunch of questions regarding my whereabouts during the day. Considering Jake’s mom is married to one of Clarice’s nephews, the chances are good that Clarice would know Mrs. Shipman had to call Papa to find out why I wasn’t in school.

 

Since I wasn’t in any hurry to get home, I asked Gus if we could take the helicopter up to hear how she sounded.

 

“Not tonight. The Missus and I have bingo down at the church, so I need to get home for a shower and supper. Dirk’s got the day off tomorrow, so he’ll probably be out here a while.  He and I’ll take her up then...when you’re in school.”

 

The way Gus emphasized the last part of his sentence, gave me the hint he wouldn’t allow me to work for him again on Tuesday. Dirk is Dirk Chambers. He’s married to Gus’s oldest daughter, Susan. Dirk flew an Apache helicopter in the Gulf War, and then again in the Iraq War.  Now that he’s retired from the Army, he works in Juneau as an aeronautical engineer.  Dirk is Gus’s backup air ambulance pilot when Gus isn’t available because he’s out of town, or on vacation, or in some other way tied up.  

 

     When Gus left the airport at six, I had no choice but to leave, too.

 

     “You goin’ home?” 

 

     Gus tried to sound nonchalant when he asked that question, but I still picked up on his concern.

 

     “Yeah,” I nodded. “Yeah, I’m goin’ home.”

 

     “Good boy.  Trev, whatever’s goin’ on between you and your pops, you’ll get it worked out.”

 

     I gave a shrug that was meant to broadcast indifference, thanked Gus for letting me work with him all day, then climbed in my truck. 

 

Despite what I’d told Gus, I didn’t go directly home. Instead, I went to Kylee’s house to find out what our class assignments had been that day. She was surprised to see me on the front steps after Chandler, who had answered the door, ran and got her.

 

     “I thought you were sick.”

 

     Evidently, no one knew I’d skipped school.  Because of that, I assumed after Gus had called my father, Papa called the school and reported me as absent, without giving an explanation as to why I wouldn’t be there.

 

     “I...yeah...yeah, I am...was. I’m feeling a little better now.”

 

     “You should have left the party early last night like I wanted you to.”

 

     “I know. Listen, I just came by to find out what assignments we had today. I need to get ho...back home and start working on ‘em.”

 

     Kylee had me step into the living room. Fortunately, she was home alone with Chandler, so I didn’t have to make small talk with her parents. Mr. Bonnette was still at work, and Mrs. Bonnette was at the dime store getting some art supplies Chandler needed for a school project he had spread across the kitchen table.

 

     I stayed in the living room while Kylee walked down the hall to her bedroom. She was back a few minutes later with a piece of notebook paper in her hand. 

 

     “Here you go.”

 

     I took the paper and glanced at it. Kylee had written our assignments on it; from what pages we were to read in various text books, to what day the next test would be in history, to what pages I was supposed to study in my psychology book that would be discussed the next day in Sociology Class. A couple of the assignments I couldn’t do until I saw my teachers and got the necessary worksheets, but most of them I could complete that night.

 

     I folded the paper and shoved it in the right front pocket of my blue jeans. “Thanks.”

 

     “You’re welcome. You’ll have to make up the history test we had.”

 

     “I know.  I’ve got a hockey game after school tomorrow, so I’ll have to see if Mrs. Leonards will let me take it during lunch.”

 

     “She probably will. She’s cool.”

 

     “Yeah.”

 

     Kylee stared up at me. “Trev, are you sure you’re okay?  You look...”

 

     When Kylee didn’t finish her sentence, I asked, “I look what?”

 

     “Upset.”

 

     “I’m fine.”

 

     “You’re not mad at me for something, are you?”

 

     I smiled and bent to kiss her. “No,” I said softly as we parted, “I’m not mad at you.”

 

     Kylee smiled in return. 

 

     “I’d better go. Thanks for the assignments.  I’ll call you later if I get time.  Otherwise, I’ll see you in school tomorrow.”

 

     “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

 

     I said goodbye to Chandler, then left before either of Kylee’s parents got home.

 

     I could see lights shining from the great room and kitchen when I pulled in our driveway.  Clarice’s vehicle was gone, but Papa’s was home.  Because the dogs didn’t run to greet me, I knew my father had done chores and locked the barn.

 

     I parked my truck outside the garage, grabbed my backpack, and headed for the house. I had no idea what to expect when I walked through the door when it came to the punishment I’d receive for skipping school, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t care. 

 

     I walked into the laundry room and flipped on the light. I could smell the spaghetti casserole warming that we hadn’t gotten around to eating yet.  I took off my shoes, hung up my coat, locked the door, shut off the light, and entered the kitchen.  The table was set, and Papa was taking garlic bread out of the microwave.  He glanced at me, but then returned his attention to what he was doing.

 

     “Get washed up. Supper’s ready.”

 

     I didn’t answer Papa, but then, he didn’t seem to be expecting an answer.  I went upstairs, set my backpack on my bed, then crossed the hall to the bathroom.  Five minutes later, I was back in the kitchen.  I sat down at the table. Papa sat in his usual place across from me. 

 

His, “How was your day?” was spoken in a neutral tone that didn’t give me a clue as to what he was thinking.

     I glanced at him, but couldn’t read his face any better than I was able to pick up on his mood from his voice.

 

     “Fine.”

 

     “You and Gus get a lot done?”

 

     “Ye...yeah.”

 

     “When you go to school tomorrow...and you will go to school, I expect you to see Mr. Hammond before classes start. Tell him where you were today, and then accept whatever punishment he dishes out.”

 

     Mr. Hammond is our principal, and the punishment for skipping would be a two-hour detention after school on Friday, along with extra assignments from all my teachers that I’d get no credit for completing.

 

     I couldn’t resist being a smart aleck. “Is that a man to man request, or a father to son request?”

 

     I got a dark glare.

 

“It’s not a request. It’s your father telling you how things are gonna be tomorrow, like it or not.”

 

     I didn’t argue with Papa. For one thing, I figured I was getting off easy by not getting yelled at and then grounded, and for another, none of it mattered to me anyway.  It was then that I realized how important my book was to me. Without the promise of what I could further discover about those characters I’d created that had grown to seem like old and trusted friends, I felt like a part of my soul had been ripped out.

 

     Neither Papa nor I said anything else throughout supper.  When we finished eating and stood to clean the kitchen, he said, “Do you know what assignments you missed today?”

 

     I nodded.  “I stopped at Kylee’s and got ‘em.”

 

     “Then get upstairs and start working on them.”

 

     I didn’t answer Papa as I left the kitchen. Being sent to my room was hardly a punishment, since I didn’t feel like being around him.

 

     I shut my bedroom door, turned on the light, and took the assignment sheet Kylee had given me out of my pocket.  I grabbed my backpack and went to my desk.  I spent the next hour and a half doing what homework I could, then sat and stared at the dark computer monitor. I finally turned the computer on.  When it had powered up, I clicked on Word, then opened the file I still had labeled as ‘Trevor’s book,’ since I hadn’t thought of a title for the book yet.

 

     I used the ‘page down’ key to slowly scroll through all I’d written since August.  I read various passages, and each time the spark would ignite within me that made me want to start writing, I’d stop and think of the man to man request my father had made of me.           

 

Having something requested of you man to man sucks royally.  If Papa had forbidden me to write my book, then no matter how mad I was at him, I’d have to obey. But what he did, in essence, was give me a choice. I can choose to quit writing the book and pick another plot like he asked of me, or I can choose to ignore his request and continue with the book.  But if I choose to ignore Papa’s request, then it’s like I’m saying that all he’s ever been to me...father, mentor, teacher, and yeah...hero, has meant nothing and never will.

 

Like I said, this sucks. Almost a week has passed since Papa first made that man-to-man request, and I haven’t reached a decision yet regarding what I’m going to do.  Or maybe I have, and I just don’t want to acknowledge it.  I haven’t worked on my book during the past six days; so that pretty much says it all, doesn’t it?

    

     Papa hasn’t once asked me if I’m still writing the book, or if I’ve picked another plot, and I haven’t brought the subject up either.  I guess in six short days, we’ve both gotten good at ignoring the elephant in the living room...and ignoring each other while we’re at it.

 

 

Saturday, November 28th, 2009

(Thanksgiving Weekend)

 

    

     I don’t know if it’s a good thing, or a bad thing, that Uncle Roy and Aunt Joanne didn’t visit us this Thanksgiving. They talked to Papa about doing so when we were at their house in July. They didn’t think anyone else could come other than Libby, but Papa said that didn’t matter. 

 

     “You guys have an open invitation any time,” Papa assured them over dinner one night. “I don’t care if it’s Thanksgiving, Christmas, or Chinese New Year’s. Come up whenever you can.  Me and Trevor don’t mind, do we, Trev?”

 

     Of course I said no. Would any kid in his right mind refuse to spend time with people who spoil the heck out of him? Aside from that, I’d never turn down a visit from Libby. We always have a lot of fun together. I was looking forward to introducing Libs to Kylee, and then to the three of us doing things during the holiday weekend. Kylee knows Libby and I are just good friends, so I wasn’t worried that she’d be jealous.  Based on their personalities, I was pretty sure they’d hit it off.

 

     Despite some initial plans, the Thanksgiving visit didn’t materialize.  John and his wife, Shawna, are forest rangers at Yellowstone Park. They found out in mid-October that they have to work the weeks of Christmas and New Year’s, so were able to schedule Thanksgiving week off.  John called his folks to tell them he, Shawna, and their three little girls, would fly into LAX from Wyoming on Wednesday morning.  Because of that, Aunt Joanne and Uncle Roy decided to hold their family Christmas celebration over this Thanksgiving weekend. 

 

I was disappointed when I found this out, and I’m sure Papa was, too, but now I think it was for the best. Papa and I having to play ‘hosts’ right now could have made for a bad weekend for all of us.  Things are still tense between my father and me. We’re still ignoring the elephant in the living room, and not talking to one another much while we’re at it.  Or at least I’m not talking to Papa very much. He’s trying hard to act like nothing happened, but I’m not buying it.  Uncle Roy, Aunt Joanne, and Libby would have noticed something was going on. Since I don’t feel like talking to anyone about my book and Papa’s request regarding it – not even Libby, I’m kind of glad they didn’t come. Even an innocent question of, “Hey, Trev, how’s the book writing coming along?” gets on my nerves these days. I grit my teeth, say, “Fine,” and change the subject.

 

     If the DeSotos had visited us this weekend, then the one good thing about it is Papa and I would have had an excuse to be away from one another. I’d have been busy doing things with Libby and Kylee, while Pops would have been busy entertaining Uncle Roy and Aunt Joanne.  As it was, we were stuck with one another from the time Papa got home from work on Wednesday evening, until this morning when he left for the station to start a forty-eight hour shift.  Phil worked Thanksgiving Day and Friday, in exchange for Papa working this weekend.  His wife had family coming in from out of town for a belated Thanksgiving dinner, so she wanted Phil at home to help entertain them. I heard Papa tell Carl that Phil said he’d rather work than spend the weekend with his wife’s obnoxious brother, but if he wanted harmony at home, he’d have to grin and bear it while hoping Monday came quickly.

 

     As far as what Papa and I did for Thanksgiving - we went to Clarice and Carl’s at noon. If I could have gotten out of it, I would have. I figured there was no use to try, though, because I knew the answer would be “Absolutely not,” before I even finished asking if I could stay home. 

 

Tables were spread from Carl’s kitchen, through the dining room, and into the living room.  I don’t know how many people were there. I stopped counting when I reached fifty.  I spotted Jake as soon as I walked in the door, so immediately abandoned my father and spent the rest of the day with Jake and all the other cousins in our age group. 

 

     It was during Thanksgiving dinner that I had to grit my teeth and say, “Fine,” when Carl asked me how my book was coming along. I stole a glance at Papa, but he wouldn’t look at me. I have no idea if he thinks I’m still working on the book, or if he thinks I’ve picked a different plot and have started on a new book, or if he knows I haven’t written a single word in a book on any subject since his man to man request of me almost four weeks ago now.  He hasn’t asked, so I haven’t offered. It’s that elephant thing again.

 

     Speaking of my book, I didn’t get in nearly as much trouble for skipping school as Papa probably thinks I should have. I saw Mr. Hammond before school on the Tuesday after I’d worked for Gus, just like Pops said I had to.  I guess being a model student all these years was to my benefit. Mr. Hammond’s lecture was pretty short, as lectures go.

 

     “I’m surprised at you, Trevor,” Mr. Hammond said after I’d confessed to skipping. “What made you do such a thing?”

 

     I had no desire to tell the principal what had transpired between my father and me over Mrs. St. Claire’s assignment. The last thing I needed was to have her involved in this, too. I know how women are, and how they try to make everything right. I didn’t want Mrs. St. Claire talking to Papa.  Even though I’m mad at him, I realize how personal the plot of my book is to Pops, and I know if Mrs. St. Claire gets in the middle of the ‘man to man’ request Papa made of me, it will only make things worse than they already are.  However this is resolved, I’m the one who has to decide what to do. No one else can make the decision for me.  Not a teacher. Not a good friend like Libby. Not someone like Carl or Uncle Roy. And most especially, not my father.  

 

     I bluffed my way through Mr. Hammond’s questions.  I told him I’d been anxious to help Gus rebuild the helicopter’s engine.

 

     “I guess I made the wrong choice.”

 

     “I guess you did,” Mr. Hammond agreed. “Your classmates look up to you, Trevor.  You’re the editor of the newspaper, captain of the hockey team, and senior class president. Now are you going to lead by example, or make foolish choices that will land you in trouble?”

 

     I said exactly what I knew the man expected me to.

 

“Lead by example.”

 

     “Glad to hear it.”  Mr. Hammond smiled and tossed me a wink. “I know senior year is often hard to get through, although I usually don’t have boys in my office who are suffering from senioritis until the first warm day of spring.”

 

     I gave the man a smile in return, again, just because I knew he expected me to. There’re always a few senior boys, and sometimes a few senior girls, as well, who skip school the first day the sun shines and the temperatures hit sixty degrees each May.  Considering how small our town and school are; it’s kind of a dumb thing to do.  It’s not as though you aren’t going to get caught, that’s for sure. 

 

     “So, let’s just say you’ve gotten your senioritis out of your system, understand?”

 

     I knew Mr. Hammond meant I’d better not skip school again for the rest of the year.

 

     “I understand.”

 

     “Good. Despite your excellent record up until this point where infractions of school rules are concerned, I have no choice but to give you a detention.”

 

     I nodded.

 

     “You’ll report to my office when the dismissal bell rings on Friday. I’ll have assignments from your teachers that I’m sure will keep you busy until five o’clock.”

 

     I nodded again, said, “Thanks, Mr. Hammond,” because I was grateful he hadn’t spent a half hour lecturing me before probing to find out why I’d really skipped school, and then headed for my locker.

 

     As far as Kylee and my friends know, I was sick on that Monday.  My teachers know I skipped school, of course, but the only one who said anything to me about it was Mrs. St. Clair. She caught me alone after class on Thursday, and said she was surprised at my behavior.  I shrugged, told her it wouldn’t happen again, mumbled something about having made a “bad decision,” just to get her off my back, and then said, “Yeah, everything’s fine,” when she asked if I was okay in a concerned tone of voice. 

 

     Kylee had to work after school on the Friday I served detention, so she didn’t have time to stick around while I stalled by my locker. She thought I was headed to work at Gus’s, and I didn’t tell her differently. Dylan had to work, too, so he and Kylee left the building together.  Dalton and Jake hung around waiting for me to fill my backpack. I made an excuse about having left my Calculus book in Mr. Thain’s classroom, then told them to leave.

 

     “I need to get to Gus’s anyway.  You guys go on.”

 

     Dalton and Jake told me goodbye, and headed for the school’s main doors. I turned and made it look like I was going to Mr. Thain’s room, waited until the building was empty of students, and then hurried to Mr. Hammond’s office.  Since it was Friday, no extra curricular activities were held.  There was a basketball game scheduled for seven that Dalton was playing in, but it was at the high school in Juneau.

 

     I served my detention, then left when Mr. Hammond dismissed me.  I gave him the assignments I’d completed; though since I didn’t earn credit for them, I’m pretty sure the only thing he did was glance through the papers I handed him and then throw them away. Seems like a waste of two hours that could have been better spent if you ask me, but like I said, I know I got off easy, so I’m not complaining.

 

     Since I haven’t been working on my book, I’ve become a lot more intense at school. I don’t know why, except to say that now it’s more important to me than ever to be class valedictorian. I don’t know how I’ll achieve that if I don’t turn a book into Mrs. St. Claire, but for now, I’m not worrying about it. Every paper I hand is nothing less than perfect; I do extra credit work whenever it’s offered; and Mr. Ivanov, my hockey coach, says he likes the new drive I’ve suddenly got.

 

     “Gage, whatever it is you’re doin’ that’s got you playing like you’ve been in the NHL for the last five years, keep it up.”

 

     I didn’t tell Coach that my sudden drive comes from fighting with my father, and being forced to decide if I stop working on a book that means a lot to me.

 

     While my teachers and hockey coach seem to like my new- found intensity, Kylee isn’t too thrilled with it. She keeps asking me what’s wrong, and why I’m so serious lately, and why I never laugh any more, and why I seem upset all the time. I know I should confide in Ky for her own peace of mind, but I just can’t. I don’t feel like talking about the book for one thing, and for another, like Mrs. St. Claire, Kylee will spend weeks trying to figure out how to make things right between Papa and me.  That might not be so bad, except Kylee will insist she and I ‘talk’ about it every time she comes up with an idea, and like I said, talking about the book just isn’t what I’m in the mood for right now. It’s hard enough to hear my classmates discussing their books at school, or to have to sit through Mrs. St. Claire’s class when the subject of the books comes up.

 

     My mom is the other person who’s been asking about my book recently. Fortunately, she’s easier to put off than just about anyone else.  Part of the reason for that is because she lives so far away, and the other part is because she’s so busy with her career.  She has a lot of things to focus on each day that are far more important than a book her seventeen-year-old is writing for school. What the Eagle Harbor High School seniors are doing for their English class isn’t exactly big news in New York City, the way it is here in small town Alaska.

 

     I have thought about telling Mom what’s going on a few times since she’s given me so much help, but I’m afraid she’ll call Papa and fight with him over it, so it’s better if I keep my mouth shut.  Mom asked me about the book in an e-mail she sent on Monday.  I didn’t answer her until Thanksgiving night, and all I said in my return e-mail was, ‘I’m working on it. I’ve been really busy with school and my job at Gus’s, so it might be a few weeks before I have another chapter to send you.’

 

     I worked for Gus on Friday, and again today. The annual holiday parade the fire department sponsors was last night. Papa wanted to take me to dinner and a movie after the parade was over since Kylee was working, but I told him no, and that, “I have better things to do than go to a stupid parade.”

 

     I know that was a mean thing to say, especially since Papa puts a lot of time and effort into that parade, but right now, it’s hard not to feel mean when I talk to my father. The ‘better things’ I had to do involved sitting in my room with the door closed and writing my next editorial for the school paper.   

 

     Papa ended up making plans to meet Carl at Donna’s Diner after the parade.  As he was getting ready to leave the house, he stopped in my room and invited me one last time.

 

     “You don’t have to go to the parade, but at least meet me and Carl for supper. The parade’ll be over about eight.  We should be at the diner around eight-thirty or so. How about it?”

 

Even though Pops was being nicer to me than he should have been considering how I was treating him, I refused to answer. When Papa pressured me for an answer by saying, “Trevor, I asked you a question,” I responded with, “Unless that’s a father to son request, then no, I don’t wanna go.”

 

     I heard Papa sigh, and I got the impression he was beginning to regret this whole man-to-man versus father-to-son thing. But it’s his own fault if he does, so if he thinks I’ve got any sympathy for him, he’s got another think coming.

 

     Clarice was here when I got home from Gus’s at five-thirty this evening.  It’s fifteen degrees outside, and snow is coming down in swirling spurts whipped around by powerful gusts of wind.  We usually have winters with mild temperatures in the 20s and 30s, and very little snow, but sometimes we experience winters where the temperatures are below normal and we get a lot of snow - or at least a lot of snow for Eagle Harbor.  We don’t get nearly as much snow as the interior of Alaska does because of our location on the Pacific Ocean.

 

     After I got chores done, I huddled into my coat, pulled the collar up around my ears, hurried to the house, and took a hot shower.  Clarice had a pot of chicken and dumplings simmering on the stove. When I came downstairs after my shower, she asked if I was taking supper to my father.  I made a big production of looking outside. The three floodlights that line our driveway allowed me to see the snow falling despite the darkness.

 

     “Snow’s coming down pretty hard.  I’d better stay home.”

 

     I could feel Clarice staring at my back.  Though she probably thought I was making a wise choice considering the weather, she also probably thought I was making an odd choice considering I own a four wheel drive truck, and have never been concerned about the weather before. I’m a teenage boy.  It’s a well-known fact that teenage boys love to drive every chance they get.

 

     “If you think so.”

 

     “I do.”

 

     “You’d better call your papa then, and let him know he won’t be seeing you tonight.”

 

     I shrugged. “He’ll figure it out.”

 

     Clarice studied me a moment when I turned around, then began ladling food onto plates for the two of us. This was the third time in recent weeks I’d given her an excuse about why I couldn’t take supper to my father. I wasn’t so stupid as to think she was still buying those excuses, but that didn’t mean I was going to tell her the reason behind them.

 

     “Trevor, is there something going on between you and your father?”

 

     I was proud of how innocent I looked and sounded.

 

“No. What makes you ask that?”

 

     Clarice didn’t answer me right away. I thought she was going to push the issue, but for some reason, she didn’t. Maybe she believed me, or maybe she thought I was too old now for her to be prying in to my business. Or, the most likely reason she didn’t pressure me to say more, was because she hadn’t figured out how to approach me yet. Usually, Clarice can get me to talk about whatever’s bothering me, but not this time. This time, I don’t feel like confiding in anyone, because like I’d said to Gus, no one can fix this.

 

     “Things just seem...tense, between you and your papa lately.”

 

     I gave her a reassuring smile. “Things are fine between us. I’ve just been busy.  I’ve had a lot of homework, so Pops and me haven’t had much time to talk lately.”

 

     “Oh. I see,” Clarice said in a way that told me she knew I was spouting a line of bull. “Well, you should.”

 

     “Should what?”

 

“Take the time to talk. The two of you should take the time to talk.”

 

“Yeah, I guess,” was all I said as we sat down at the table.

 

Before Clarice could say anything else, I changed the subject.  I started asking her questions about the Christmas program the Women’s Guild was planning for church, even though I really didn’t care about it one way or another. I was an attentive listener and asked questions in all the right places, because that was better than being grilled about what was going on between Papa and me.

 

I guess I didn’t fool Clarice one bit, though, because after we finished eating and had cleaned up the kitchen, she said, “Now, go call your father and get whatever it is that’s going on between you resolved.”

 

I stood my ground. “I already told you there’s nothing going on between us.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“There’s not.”

 

“If you insist. But, Trevor, never left unsaid today, what may not be able to be said tomorrow.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Clarice gave my right cheek a soft pat. 

 

“Think about it for a while. You’re a smart young man. You’ll figure it out.”

 

I didn’t have a response for Clarice, but then, she didn’t seem to be expecting one. She parted the curtains covering the bay window, looked outside, and shivered.

 

“This is the kind of night I just want to curl up under my comforter and read a good book, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do.  I’ll see you in the morning, sweetheart.”

 

I kissed her cheek. “Good night.”

 

I watched as Clarice disappeared down the hall behind the dining room.  A few seconds later, I heard her bedroom door shut.

 

It was only seven-thirty. On any other Saturday night, I would have gone to the station to see my father, and from there; headed to Kylee’s. But tonight, I didn’t feel like doing either.  I shut off the kitchen light, turned the light on over the sink, and went to the great room. I sat in the recliner I consider to be mine, and paged through the TV Guide.  Before I could decide what I wanted to watch, the phone rang. I pushed myself from the chair and ran to Papa’s office. I flipped the light on as I passed the wall switch, then reached for the phone on his desk. 

 

I assumed the caller would be my father.  I figured he was calling to tell me to stay off the roads, which had been really slick when I drove home from Gus’s.  Instead of Papa’s voice, though, it was Kylee’s.

 

“Hi, Trev.”

 

“Oh...hi.”

 

“You...you sound disappointed that it’s me.”

 

I could tell Kylee’s feelings were hurt, and quickly tried to make things right between us.

 

“No...no. No, I’m not. I’m sorry. I was expecting my pops to call.”

 

“Do you need to get off the phone?”

 

“No. He’ll call back later if he gets a busy signal.”

 

“So, what are ya’ doing tonight?”

 

“Just finished eatin’ supper with Clarice.” I walked around the desk and sat in my father’s chair. “I was trying to decide what to watch on TV.”

 

“I thought you were going to call me. You said on Thursday that we’d do something tonight.”

 

“Uh...yeah, I know.  But I figured with the snow and all, we probably shouldn’t be on the roads.”

 

I don’t know if Kylee believed that excuse or not. I hadn’t seen her since Thursday night. I’d driven my truck to Carl’s house for Thanksgiving dinner, rather than ride with Papa, because I’d been invited to Kylee’s for turkey sandwiches and leftover pie at seven. 

 

“The roads are bad,” Kylee agreed. “There must have been an accident or something, because I just heard sirens going by.”

 

“Oh,” was all I said, while thinking of how much my father would hate being on a call in the cold and snow.  Despite my anger at Papa, for his sake I hoped the call didn’t keep him out in the bad weather for long.

 

“Listen, Trev, I’ve got great news. Because of the snow and bad roads, my folks said if you can safely make it this far, you can come here this evening so we can watch movies. Then you can spend the night.”

 

“Spend the night?”

 

“In Chandler’s room. He said he’ll clean the bottom bunk off for you. He’s got it piled with toys.”

 

At any other time I would have jumped at the chance to sleep in the same house with Kylee, even if we were going to be in separate rooms. But ever since the man-to-man request Papa had made of me regarding my book, I just haven’t felt like being sociable.

 

“Oh. Well...uh...tell Chandler thanks, but I don’t think my pops will let me do that.”

 

“But you’ll be in Chandler’s room.  You know my father won’t let you near my room.  Besides, my parents will be here all night, too.”

 

“I know.  It’s not that. I meant ‘cause of the roads and all. I don’t think my pops will let me drive into town tonight.”

 

“Well...could you at least call and ask him?”

 

“I could, but you said you heard sirens, so he’s probably not at the station.”

 

“Couldn’t you at least call and see if he is?” 

 

“I...there’s really no point to it, Ky. If you heard sirens, then he’s not there.”

 

“But I didn’t look outside. It might have been police cars going by, and not the rescue squad.”

 

“With the weather the way it is, whatever happened probably has the squad out of the station, too.”

 

“You don’t wanna come over here, do you.”

 

“No...I mean, yeah, sure I do. I really do.  It’s just that I know Papa won’t let me, so there’s no use in me tryin’ to get in touch with him.”

 

“O...okay.”

 

I could tell she was hurt, and it sounded like she was on the verge of crying.

 

“Kylee, are you all right?”

 

“Yes,” she said just above a whisper.  “I’m...I’m okay.”

 

“Listen, I’m sorry, but I know my father will say no,

so--”

 

“That’s not it.”

 

“What’s not it?”

 

“That’s not why I’m upset.”

 

“Then why are you upset?”

 

Kylee didn’t respond to my question, so I asked it again.

 

“Kylee, why’re you upset?  What’s wrong?”

 

She hesitated a moment longer, then said, “Things...things just don’t seem the same between us lately, Trevor.”

 

“Things are the same.”

 

“No. No, they’re not.  You seem...”

 

“I seem what?”

 

“Distant. Distracted. Preoccupied. Is there...is there someone else?”

 

“Someone else who?”

 

“Someone...another girl you’ve met that you like better than me?”

 

“No! No, of course not. Never! Never in a million years.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes, I’m sure. Honest, Ky. I wouldn’t lie to you about this.  There’s no other girl in my life. You’re the only one for me.”

 

“Promise?”

I could tell she was smiling just a little now.

 

“Promise.”

 

“Then what’s been bothering you lately?”

 

“Nothing.  It’s just...you know, between homework, the school paper, the hockey team, student council, my job at the airport...it’s just all gets kinda overwhelming sometimes.”

 

“I know what you mean.”

 

“So, listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you think I’ve met another girl or something like that.”

 

“You’re forgiven.”

 

Now it was my turn to smile. “Thanks.”

 

“I’d better get off the phone. My folks are holding off on starting a movie until they know if you’re coming over or not, and Chandler’s getting antsy. He wants Papa to make popcorn.”

 

“Okay. I’ll see you in church tomorrow if the snow has stopped by then. If...if you want to, I’ll take you out to lunch afterwards.”

 

“That would be nice.”

 

“Great. You pick the place.”

 

“Wow. I have my choice between Mr. Ochlou’s and Donna’s, huh?”

 

I laughed. “Something like that.”

 

Eagle Harbor has more restaurants than just Donna’s Diner and Ochlou’s Pizza Parlor, but for a teenager on a tight budget, they’re the most affordable places to eat.

 

“I...I love you, Trev.”

 

Kylee hesitated when she said that, as though she wasn’t sure what my response would be.  I made sure to respond quickly, and with the right words.

 

“Love you too.”

 

We said goodbye and hung up. I shut off the light and walked back into the great room. I watched TV for thirty minutes, then came to my room. Papa hasn’t called to say goodnight, so I figure the bad weather is keeping him busy. There’re always a lot of fender benders, as Carl calls them, when the roads get slick. Added to that, it’s Saturday night and people are mixing drinking with their driving.

 

     I turned on my computer, opened my book file, and stared at the pages for a while. Once again, my fingertips were burning with the desire to continue the story where I left off four weeks ago. I’ve had so many ideas for the book since then, and even wrote them down on a piece of paper, but that’s all I’ve done.  It’s like I’m fighting some kind of internal war with myself each time I try to make a decision about the book.  Do I do what I want to and continue with it, or do I respect what my father wants and forget the whole thing?

 

     Though I’ll never tell Papa this, I know he was right when he said I still have time to write another book before the due date.  I’ve thought a lot about this during the past month, and yeah, I know I can do it, especially if I choose to write a non-fiction book about my grandfather, like I had first considered in June.  It would be a fairly easy book to write, I think, and Grandpa could give me plenty of information, so it’s not like I’d have to do much additional research.  If I tell Papa this is what I’ve decided to do, I have no doubt he’ll let me take a week off of school, buy me a plane ticket, and send me to Montana in order to interview Grandpa.

 

     The trouble is, I have no desire to do that. I love my grandpa, and sure, it would be great to write about his life experiences. But I...well, I love my father too, and this book...my book, is supposed to be about him.  It’s supposed to be for him. Why doesn’t he understand that? Why doesn’t he understand that, despite all the hard times, it’s a tribute to the friendship that runs so deep between him and Roy DeSoto? 

 

     Thick, heavy snow is pelting my window. The last time I remember it snowing this hard in Eagle Harbor was on a Friday night five years ago, when I was twelve.  Papa was off duty for the weekend, and before the storm got too bad we went and picked up the Tierman twins and Jake, and brought them back to our house.  They stayed until the roads were clear again on Sunday afternoon.  We built a huge snow fort, went tobogganing on the hills in the National Forest that border the east side of our property, had snowball fights, and in-between all that, Papa pulled us around on inner tubes behind the snowmobile. The whole weekend was a blast. The twins and Jake still talk about it, and about how much fun we had with my father.

 

     Gus said that he always wanted a son because, through a son, he’d have a friend when his boy was raised.  When I was twelve, I thought the same thing about fathers and sons.  That through the father/son relationship, a boy was automatically guaranteed one of the best friends he could have once he was grown and considered to be an equal to his father.  I hate to tell Gus this, but sometimes, it just doesn’t work out that way.

 

 

Monday, November 30th, 2009

 

     Carl’s dead.

 

Jake’s in critical condition, and might not pull through.

 

Gus’s son-in-law, Dirk, has a fractured pelvis, two broken ankles, and a broken arm.

 

And Papa...Papa’s trying to be so strong for me, but when he thinks I’m not looking, I see him staring out at the snow while wondering what more he could have done. And it’s my fault.

 

Oh God, it’s all my fault.     

   

 

Friday, December 4th, 2009

    

     Carl was buried today in a plot beside his father at the Eagle Harbor Cemetery. Just writing that makes tears come to my eyes. He’s been gone six days now, and I still can’t believe he won’t be at the station the next time I take supper to my father, or won’t show up here to play basketball, or won’t be making any more football bets with Papa that he has no hope of winning.

 

     Every resident of Eagle Harbor who was able to, attended Carl’s funeral. Classes were canceled for today at the grade school and high school in honor of Carl’s memory. Most of the businesses closed, too, during the hour time period his service was held, so shop owners and their employees could attend. If Carl were here, he’d wonder what all the fuss was about.  I can hear him laughing and then saying, “I sure don’t know what the big deal is.  I’m just a small town cop. That shindig you guys threw for me would make a person think the president had kicked off or something. But, hey, I bet the kids will remember me as bein’ a pretty great guy, considering they closed the schools because of me, huh, Trev?  There’s nothing like gettin’ off school for a day to make a kid happy.”

 

      I can hear Carl say all of that as though he’s standing right next to me.  Then I can hear him laugh again, only I don’t want to think about Carl’s laugh, or how his whole body shook when he was happy, or how his eyes twinkled when he and my father were up to no good, because if I start to cry, I won’t be able to type this entry, and I have to type this entry.  I don’t have anyone else to talk to but this journal.  I can’t burden Papa with my guilt, and Clarice...Clarice says her faith will get her through, but I can tell Carl’s death is breaking her heart. The weight of her grief seems to have aged her ten years this week, and when I look at her, all I see is a devastated old woman who’s wondering what she has to live for now that she’s buried her only child next to her deceased husband.

    

     Clarice has six brothers and nineteen nephews, but the man she chose as her source of strength throughout the wake on Thursday evening, and then the funeral today, was my father. Despite the bandage on the right side of his forehead, and the fact that his back hurts a lot worse than he’s letting on, Papa stood by the coffin with Clarice throughout the entire six hours of the wake. He shook hands, accepted hugs, and thanked people for coming.  Whenever Clarice cried; it was Papa who held her. When he thought she needed to take a break for a few minutes in order to get something to eat, or to drink, or to just sit down for a while away from the crowd, it was Papa who insisted she do so. He’d remain by the coffin and continue greeting person after person until their faces must have blurred together in his mind. The long line of those who came to pay their respects snaked out the funeral home’s door, and reached far back into the rear of the parking lot.  I never heard one person complain about the length of the wait, or the frigid temperature outside. That’s how loved Carl was.

 

Papa and I were among the six men Clarice chose to be pallbearers. I dropped my head to hide my tears when she made that request of me in my bedroom on Wednesday afternoon. I went willing into her arms, and allowed her to stroke the back of my head while she murmured, “Carl would want you to do this, love.  He’d want you to be one of the men who takes him...takes him to his place beside his father.”

 

“But...but if only I’d convinced Jake to stay here. If only...”

 

“Shush. I won’t allow any ‘if only’s’.”

 

“But--”    

 

She gently pushed me away from her then, and held me at arm’s length.  “Trevor, have you talked to your papa about how you’re feeling?”

 

I swiped a shirtsleeve across my wet eyes. “No. I...no, I can’t.  He...Clarice, he’s trying so hard not to show it, but I know this is tearing him apart. I can’t...I can’t talk to him right now.”

 

“You need to, love.  You need to tell him what you’re thinking...how you’re feeling inside.”

 

I don’t know how Clarice knew what I was thinking and feeling. I haven’t said a word to her about the guilt that’s so overwhelming I can’t rise above it.  Somehow, she knows it exists within me, though, even without comprehending the reasons behind it. I suppose that’s because through all of these years she has, in so many ways, been the only mother I’ve had in my life on a daily basis.

 

“I can’t, Clarice,” I almost begged. “I just can’t. Not...not right now.  I...you weren’t there.  You didn’t see Papa...his determination despite his own injuries. How hard he worked to take care of all of us.  To reassure us everything was gonna be okay. How he looked when he knew Carl had...he didn’t tell me Carl was...was gone...but his face, Clarice. His face told me. He...I just know he’s dealing with all he can right now.” 

 

“No matter how much your papa is dealing with, Trevor, he’ll always want you to come to him if something is bothering you that he can help with.”

 

I straightened, sounding firm and confident when I spoke. The last thing I wanted Clarice doing was worrying about me, nor did I want her talking to my father at a time when I knew he didn’t need more concerns dumped on his shoulders.  Not only was he helping Clarice with the funeral arrangements, he was recovering from injuries that were causing him more pain than he was revealing to anyone, and in addition to that, with Carl gone, everyone at the police station is looking upon Papa as the leader they’re now lacking, even though his area of expertise isn’t law enforcement.

 

“I’m fine. I’m okay,” I assured Clarice. “I’ll talk to Papa in few days. When things are...quieter, and he’s had a chance to get some rest.”

 

“Promise me that?”

 

“Yeah, I promise.”

 

 

“Trevor, listen to me.  If Carl were here he’d be the first to assure you that neither you nor Jake did anything wrong.  You boys weren’t in the wrong.  The person who did wrong...well, he’s gone too, now, and as my mother used to say, leave the dead to their sleep. They’ll have to answer for their misdeeds when Judgment Day comes.”

 

 

“I...I don’t know how you can say that after what...what happened.  How you can be so...generous? So forgiving.”

 

 

“My faith, Trevor,” Clarice said, while laying a hand over her heart. “My faith allows me to be both of those things.”

 

 

I gave a slow nod, because to do anything but that would have caused Clarice to doubt I was handling things as well as I wanted her to believe. Which in turn, would have prompted her to talk to my father regarding her concerns.

 

 

“Let your faith allow you to forgive, as well, sweetheart.”

 

 

I marveled at Clarice’s inner strength, while at the same time resisting the urge to ask her how I went about forgiving myself for being instrumental in the death of her son; a man I had grown up loving like a kid loves a favorite uncle. A man who would have raised me, if anything had happened to Papa prior to my eighteenth birthday.  A man who was adored by an entire town, and was one of my father’s closest friends.

 

 

The service was held in the high school’s gymnasium; the only place in Eagle Harbor that had enough seating for everyone who attended.  Not only were the bleachers on both sides of the gym filled, but so were all the rows of folding chairs that had been set up by my classmates after school on Thursday.  Police officers from towns and cities all across Alaska came to honor one of their own who had died in the line of duty. After the service, they lined the streets and saluted Carl as the hearse made its way to the cemetery.

 

 

Clarice sat on Papa’s left throughout the funeral service today, while I sat on his right. I stared straight ahead at the closed casket, and willed myself not to cry while Pastor Tom spoke on the rewards of an eternal life in Heaven, before turning the gym’s stage over to my father, who gave the eulogy. 

 

 

Other than the tears that came to my eyes when Clarice was in my room on Wednesday afternoon, I haven’t grieved for Carl with anyone else who loved him. Whatever Papa’s feeling, he’s keeping inside, so I think it’s best if I do the same.  He doesn’t need me leaning on him, too. He’s got an entire town looking to him for guidance and leadership. He doesn’t need me doing the same right now.

 

 

After the funeral we went to the station, where the Fire and Police Commission had a catered meal waiting for Carl’s family, friends, and co-workers.  It was easy to disappear amongst the crowd.  I stood against a far wall, picking at the food I’d put on my plate.  I’ve barely eaten since Sunday, and even a meal catered by the Seaside Inn, the best restaurant in Eagle Harbor, couldn’t entice my appetite to return.

 

 

Two hours after we’d arrived at the station, Papa was finally able to break away from the steady stream of people who’d come at him from all directions since we’d walked in the door.  He looked around. I knew he was searching for me.  I didn’t attempt to gain his attention, but remained where I was – a solitary figure leaning silently against the wall. When Papa spotted me, he threaded his way through the crowd, heading in my direction.

 

 

Papa had taken off his black suit coat and hung it up in his office almost as soon as we’d entered the building.  With no coat to cover his white dress shirt and black trousers, I could tell my father hasn’t been eating any more than I’ve been in recent days.  He looked tired, and his face was drawn and pale. A square patch of white bandage was high on the right side of his forehead, and covered the eight stitches he has there.  He tried to hide the limp that’s a result of a lower back injury he’s doing his best to ignore.  He’s been on his feet almost non-stop since Carl’s death, and as far as I know, hasn’t done anything the doctor has told him to – like rest, take the anti-inflammatory that was prescribed for him, take the muscle relaxant that was prescribed for him, and put ice packs on his back for twenty minutes out of every hour.

 

 

I kept my eyes on my black dress shoes, wiggling my toes to ease the discomfort of being in hard-soled footwear. Papa must have seen what I was doing.

 

 

“Why don’t you sit down for a while, kiddo.”

 

 

I shook my head. “I’m fine.”

 

 

I could feel him studying me. He bent a little and tried to make eye contact with me, like he used to do when I was a kid and would hang my head and pout over something I was upset about.  I heard his sharp intake of air and looked up.  The grimace that crossed his face was fleeting, but I saw it before he had time to hide the evidence of the pain.

 

 

“Maybe you should be the one sitting down.”

 

 

He smiled a little at my tone, which was serious, yet light and with a hint of teasing. 

 

 

“Maybe we should both sit down. Wanna go to my office for a while?”

 

 

“No. Clarice might need us.”

 

 

Papa looked across the room to where Clarice sat surrounded by her family.

 

 

“It’ll be okay. I can tell her where we’ll be.”

 

 

“No,” I shook my head, not wanting to be alone with Papa for fear if we talked about Carl, I’d start crying.  “I just wanna stay here.”

 

 

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

 

 

“I am.”

 

 

“You feel all right?”

 

 

I have a bandage on my head too, though this one covers three times as many stitches as Papa has. 

 

 

“I’m fine.”

 

 

Papa’s eyes slid to my full plate that was setting on the counter next to us.  “You didn’t eat much.”

 

 

“I ate some.”

 

 

“Some, but not enough.”

 

 

“I’ll eat something when we get home.”

 

 

“Make sure you do.”

 

 

“I will,” I said, because it was easier to make false promises than it was to argue.

 

 

“You could have asked Kylee to come here for lunch.”

 

 

I shrugged. “Didn’t think of it.” 

 

 

Actually, I had briefly thought of asking Kylee to come to the station for lunch, but I don’t want to talk to her about Carl any more than I wanted to talk to Papa about him.  What Kylee knows about Carl’s death is based on what she’s read in the newspaper, and heard around town. The few times I’ve talked to her since Sunday, she pressures me to fill her in on the details. It’s almost as if she knows what I’m hiding, and thinks that if only I’ll confess it all to her, she can somehow absolve me of my guilt.

 

 

I dropped my eyes to my shoes again, and after a moment, felt my father’s hand lightly cup the back of my head.  I swallowed hard, and fought against the need to collapse against his chest and sob, while begging his forgiveness for Carl’s death.

 

 

My voice was hoarse and quiet when I asked without making eye contact, “Pa...Papa?”

 

 

“Yeah, Trev?”

 

 

“If...if I hadn’t been hurt, too, would...”

 

 

Before I could finish my sentence, one of the members of the Police and Fire Commission called Papa’s name.  He turned and held up a finger, indicating he’d be there in just a minute.  I glanced up as Papa returned his attention to me.

 

 

“Would what, Trevor?”

 

 

“Noth...nothing.  You’d better go. Mr. Montgomery needs you.”

 

 

“If you need me, that’s more important than anything Mr. Montgomery has to say.”

 

 

“I don’t need you. I’m okay.”

 

 

“Trev--”

 

 

I straightened, trying to sound firm, while at the same time, trying not to look as forlorn as I felt.  I even smiled as I gave him a gentle shove, being mindful of his back.

 

 

“Go on.  Mr. Montgomery signs your paycheck. You’d better see what he wants.”

 

 

“You sure?”

 

 

“I’m sure.”

 

 

Pops kissed the top of my head. For the first time since I was ten, I didn’t mind that he did so in a room full of people.  He walked away, and was barely able to conceal the limp that weariness from the long day was bringing on.  

 

 

We didn’t leave the station until five-thirty, when we hugged Clarice goodbye. She’s spending the week at Nana Marie’s. She plans to return to her home on Sunday, and then when things calm down a bit, Clarice will have to decide where she’s going to live. The house she currently lives in belongs to the police department, and was supplied to Carl as part of his pay.  The home Carl grew up in that Clarice and her husband owned; had been sold three years after the man’s death, when Carl convinced Clarice to move in with him. I overheard Clarice tell Papa that she’d probably rent an apartment in Eagle Harbor, and in return, Papa told her not to let anyone rush her into making a decision.

 

 

“I shouldn’t stay in the house too long, though, John. I know when they replace Car...” she paused, swallowed hard, and then continued. “When they hire a new police chief, the home will be his, and should be vacant so he can move right in. Tell the commission members I’ll do my best to be out of it in two months.”

 

 

“You stay there as long as you need to,” Papa countered. “Take the time to find the apartment you want. I’ll handle things with the commission. If anyone pressures you into making a decision before you’re ready, you tell me about it. I’ll take care of it. And don’t forget, the offer I made the other day still stands.  You can live with Trevor and me until you know what you wanna do.”

 

 

Clarice started crying again, then hugged Papa for a long time.  He didn’t cry, but he squeezed his eyes shut so I think he was trying hard not to. When Clarice pulled away she told Papa she’d be back to work at our house next week. He started to tell her that wasn’t necessary, but she cut him off with a firm protest of, “Yes, I’ll be there Monday to do some cleaning and cooking,” and then all Papa did was say, “Okay, if that’s what you want.”

 

 

“It’s what I want. It’s what I need right now, John.”

 

 

Papa nodded, and even I understood that Clarice was saying she needed to keep busy, even if keeping busy meant cleaning, cooking, and running errands for Eagle Harbor’s fire chief.

 

 

We left with two grocery bags filled with platefuls of food Clarice’s sisters had insisted on putting together for us.  We set the bags in the cargo hold of the Land Rover, and then Papa handed me the keys. 

 

 

“You drive tonight, kiddo.”

 

 

I paused a second, shocked that Papa was letting me drive his vehicle. Although I’d learned to drive using the Land Rover with Papa beside me, he’d purchased my truck for my sixteenth birthday, and had never offered to let me drive the Rover after that. It’s an expensive vehicle, so not exactly what you want to give your teenager free use of.

 

 

I almost expressed my shock, but then I saw how exhausted Papa was, and realized he didn’t trust himself to drive.  He laid his head back against the passenger seat and closed his eyes as soon as we had our seatbelts on.

 

 

I thought Papa had fallen asleep on the drive home, because he never opened his eyes, and never said anything.  But when I pulled in our driveway he lifted his head and looked out of the windshield at the mounds of drifted snow.

 

 

His voice was so quiet when he finally spoke, I could barely hear him.

 

 

“They say it was the worst storm in thirty years.” 

 

 

“Yeah,” I agreed, in a tone just as soft as the one he was using. “That’s what I heard on the news.”

 

 

“They’re right, you know.”

 

 

“About what?” I asked, as I hit the button on the remote control that was clipped to the visor above the steering wheel.  The garage door slowly rose, and I drove the Land Rover inside.

 

 

“The storm.” Papa unbuckled his seat belt.  “They’re right.  It was bad. So...so damn bad.  They say the cleanup is costing the town a lot of money because of overtime pay for the road crews. Can you believe that?  Carl’s dead, and they’re worried about how much they’ll pay out in overtime.”

 

 

Papa climbed out of the vehicle.  “That storm cost us something all right, and most of them don’t have a clue yet as to how much.”

 

 

I sat as still as a statue while Papa opened the cargo door and grabbed the two bags of food.  He shut the door, then asked, “You coming inside, Trev?”

 

“Ye...” I swallowed in an effort to get rid of the tears welling up in my throat. That had been the first time Papa expressed any sentiments to me about Carl’s passing.  “Yeah. Be there in a minute.  I just...I’ll make sure the animals are taken care of.”

 

 

“Okay.  Don’t be too long.  I’ll warm some of this food up in the microwave. Supper’ll ready by the time you get in.”

    

 

“All right.”

 

 

Because of our injuries, and then how busy Papa has been helping Clarice, Dylan and Dalton volunteered to do the chores for us this week.  They’ve been dropping my homework off each afternoon too, since Doctor Benson said I can’t return to school until Monday.

 

 

I slipped into the barn, knowing full well the twins had taken care of the dogs, cats, and horses as promised.  I just needed a few minutes to pull myself together.  I hid my face in Tasha’s thick coat while wrapping my right arm around Nadia, and my left around Zhavago. I felt all three dogs nuzzle my skin, as though they sensed I needed comforting. When I stood, I wiped the sleeve of my black wool dress coat across my eyes, something I seemed to be doing a lot of lately – wiping sleeves across my eyes, that is.

 

 

I must have looked okay when I got in the house, because Papa didn’t say anything other than, “Supper’s ready, Trev.”

 

 

I didn’t feel like eating anything, but I knew if I didn’t Papa would take me to see Doctor Benson tomorrow.  Because of that, I choked down what I could, and watched my father try to do more than pick at his food, too.

 

 

I helped Papa cleanup the kitchen, which didn’t take long considering we’d eaten off Chinet plates. Before I could escape to my room, Papa gingerly turned to face me. 

 

 

“Trev, about what you were saying at the station this afternoon.  You started to ask me something before Dave Montgomery interrup--”

 

 

The phone rang, cutting Papa off in mid-sentence.  Usually, he has me answer it, because ninety percent of the phone calls have been for me since I entered high school.  But this week, most of the calls have been for my father, so he picked up the portable receiver.  I stood there until I determined the caller wanted to speak with Papa and not me, than came up to my room.  Papa had just hung up the phone and called my name, when it rang again.  He talked twenty minutes, had just enough time to put the receiver back in its base, before the phone rang another time.  I felt sorry for Papa. I knew he was exhausted and needed to be in bed far more than he needed to be everyone’s sounding board, decision maker, and shoulder to cry on.

 

 

I had my light off when Papa came upstairs an hour and a half later.  He knocked on my door, but I didn’t answer, and feigned sleep when he peered into my room. I could feel him standing over me. A hand lightly ran through my hair a few times.  I heard his footsteps on the carpeting, then heard the soft click of the latch as my door was gently closed.  I tracked Papa’s movements to his bedroom, and back down the hall to the bathroom.  The next thing I heard made me spring out of bed. I threw open my door, ran across the hall, and pounded on the closed bathroom door.

 

 

“Papa! Pops, are you all right?”  When he didn’t answer me, I yelled again, “Papa!”

 

 

When he finally came to the door, his face had no more color than the white T-shirt he was now wearing over a pair of burgundy pajama pants. He was wiping his face with a damp towel. I saw the fine tremor of his right hand, and thought he seemed unsteady on his feet. 

 

 

“I’m fine, Trev. Go back to bed.”

 

 

“But you were throwing up. I heard you. You have a head injury. Maybe I should call the squad and--”

 

 

“I took a couple of the Motrin Mark prescribed. They’ve just upset my stomach, that’s all.”

 

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yeah, I’m sure.  Now go back to sleep.  Sorry I woke you.”

 

 

I didn’t bother to tell Papa I hadn’t been sleeping in the first place. 

 

 

“You’re okay?” I asked one last time. “Really?”

 

 

He tried his best to give me a reassuring smile. “Really. I’m okay.”

 

 

“If...if something happens and you need me...”

 

 

“Don’t worry, I know where to find you.”

 

 

I smiled a little in return before going back to my room.  I waited until I heard Papa’s bedroom door close, then got up, turned on my light, and started typing this journal entry.  When I went downstairs a little while ago for a glass of apple juice, Papa’s light was out and his room silent.  I spotted his prescription bottle of Motrin setting next to the toaster – the same place it’s been setting since I got home from the hospital on Monday afternoon.  I picked up the bottle and studied it.  The clear, plastic seal was still intact around the white lid, meaning Papa hadn’t taken any of the pills he’d blamed his vomiting on. 

 

 

I put the bottle back where I found it, and wondered at the source of his queasy stomach.  Was his head injury more severe than anyone realized, or was the long week finally taking its toll on him? I thought a moment, looked up at the clock, and saw it was a few minutes after ten. That meant it was a few minutes after eleven in California.  Usually, Uncle Roy stays up until eleven watching the news, so I thought I could catch him before he went to bed. 

 

 

I picked up the receiver, punched in Uncle Roy’s number, and then moved to sit at the table. I lifted my bare feet off the cold, hardwood floor.  I was regretting that I hadn’t put my robe on over my t-shirt and pajama bottoms, or slipped on a pair of socks, when the phone on the other end of the line was answered. I forgot about the chill in the kitchen when I heard his voice say, “Hello?” in a tone that told me he wondered who was disturbing his household at such a late hour.

 

 

“Uncle Roy, it’s Trevor. I...I’m sorry for calling so late.  Were you in bed?”

 

 

“Not yet. Was just headed that way.”

 

 

Uncle Roy must have thought I was calling with a question about my book, or something trivial like that, because his tone was light when he asked, “What can I do for you, Trev?”

 

 

“I...Uncle Roy...Carl...Carl’s dead.”

 

 

“What?” I heard the shock in Uncle Roy’s voice. “What did you just say?”

 

 

“Carl...he’s dead. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need you to do me a favor for Papa’s sake.”

 

 

“Anything, Trevor. Anything.”

 

 

“Can you call here tomorrow? I think...I think Papa needs someone to talk to - a friend who doesn’t live in Eagle Harbor.  They’re...they mean well, but they’re putting a lot of pressure on him right now, and he’s being pulled in a hundred different directions, and he’s taking on all kinds of responsibilities he shouldn’t have to, and he’s helping Clarice too, and he was injured, and now he says he’s throwing up because he took some Motrin, only he didn’t take any, and I need you to find out what’s going on, because he won’t tell me anything but that he’s fine.”

 

 

Now that I think about it, I’m amazed Uncle Roy could follow all I said, since I barely paused to take a breath. But on the other hand, he is used to my father conversing in the same manner when he’s upset or excited.

 

 

Uncle Roy must have been able to tell I was barely holding it together, because he didn’t once ask me what happened to Carl. Instead, in a calm, quiet voice that in turn calmed me down, he requested, “Tell me about your father’s injuries, Trev.”

 

 

I detailed what I knew, which involved the head wound and the back trauma. 

 

 

“Was he hospitalized?”

 

 

“No,” I said, without mentioning that I was the one who had been hospitalized for a day and a half because of my own head injury.

 

 

“Where is he now?”

 

 

“In his room. I’m pretty sure he’s finally asleep. He’s hardly slept all week, and he’s not eating much either.”

 

 

“And you said this happened last Saturday night?”

 

 

“Yeah.”

 

 

“All right.  Well, I doubt that he’s sick now as a result of the head wound you described.  It sounds more like the strain from this week has finally caught up with him.  You keep an eye on him, Trev, and if he gets sick again tonight, or complains about being dizzy, or acts disoriented, call the rescue squad. Otherwise, I’ll call about nine your time tomorrow morning.  Will he be at the house?”

 

    

     “I think so. At least through lunchtime.  I heard Papa tell Phil, his deputy chief, that he’ll probably be at the station for a while tomorrow afternoon, but otherwise, he’s scheduled off this weekend.”

 

    

     “Okay. I’ll call your house in the morning then.”

 

 

     “Just...just don’t tell Papa I called you, okay?  I’ll have to tell him before he gets the phone bill, but right now...well, I think he’ll talk to you more...freely, if he thinks you just called by chance.”

 

 

     “I think he will, too. Don’t worry, I won’t tell him you called.”

 

 

     “Thanks.”

 

 

     “Trev?”

 

 

     “Yeah?”

 

 

     “How’re you doing? I know you were close to Carl.  I’m really sorry to hear about this. I know you’ll miss him.”

 

 

     “I’m fine,” I lied.  “You don’t need to worry about me.  I’m okay.” Before Uncle Roy could ask any more questions, I said, “I’d better get off the phone. Thanks for everything. I really appreciate this.”

 

 

     “Don’t give it a second thought, Junior.”

 

 

     I smiled a little at that. I knew Uncle Roy had occasionally called my father ‘Junior’ when they were partners, and now he occasionally calls me that. 

 

 

     I said goodbye, heard Uncle Roy’s, “Goodbye,” and “You get some sleep, Trev,” in return, and then I disconnected the call. 

 

 

     I shut off the kitchen light and came back upstairs.  All was silent. This time it was my turn to quietly peer inside a dark bedroom.  I could hear the soft, regular rhythm of my father’s breathing as I slipped into the room. I left the door open part way so I could use the light shining from the hall to see by. I got as close to the bed as I dared, and just stood there a few minutes. Papa seemed all right to me, though any time he shifted position he grimaced with pain.  I didn’t think it was pain from his head wound, though. I think it was pain from his back, because even in sleep, it seemed like his movements were cautious and calculated.

 

 

     I stayed a moment longer, then whispered, “I’m so sorry, Papa,” before leaving the room as quietly as I’d entered it.

 

 

     I’m afraid to sleep now. What if something happens and Papa needs me, only I don’t hear him calling?  I’m going to stay up all night. I’ll do this for as many nights as I have to until I know Papa is okay. Carl’s death was caused by my negligence.  I’ll willingly take my own life before I allow someone else I love to die as a result of my incompetence.

 

 

     It’s hard to believe that just last week my biggest concern was whether or not to change the plot of my book. Now I could care less about the book. If life were really based on a work of fiction, I’d go back and rewrite everything that’s happened this past week.

 

 

     Dear God, how I wish I could rewrite everything that’s happened.

 

 

 

Saturday, December 5th, 2009

 

 

 

     Papa went to the station this afternoon. He didn’t want to leave me here alone, but I finally convinced him I’d be fine, and promised I wouldn’t do anything more strenuous than homework. 

 

 

     “You can bring your homework to the station and do it there,” Papa said. “When I’m ready to leave, we can go to Mr. Ochlou’s for pizza.”

 

 

     I was sitting at my desk with my books spread out in front of me. I turned to face Pops, who was standing in my bedroom doorway. I smiled at his concern, then suggested,  “How about if you bring a pizza home for us when you’re done.”

 

 

     “You’re a stubborn cuss, ya’ know that?”

 

 

     “I’m told I inherited that trait from my father.”

 

 

     “Oh yeah?” Papa challenged with a teasing lilt to his voice. “Who told you that?”

 

 

     I counted off on my fingers.  “Let’s see.  Grandpa. Aunt Reah. Grandma Marietta. Mom. Clarice. Uncle Roy. Dixie. Car--”

 

 

     I bit my lower lip and turned back to my books.  I couldn’t bring myself to say “Carl.” It didn’t seem right to include his name, considering we were teasing one another.  I feel like it’s wrong to smile and mention Carl in the same sentence. If I do, it’s as though I’m not honoring his memory like I should. He’s been gone just seven days, and I’d give anything to be able to bring him back to life.

 

 

     A hand rested on each side of my neck. Papa gently kneaded my shoulders, and I suddenly wanted to feel as free to give into my grief, as I would have if I were seven, and not seventeen. I resisted the urge to turn and throw my arms around my father’s waist and cry into his shirt.  Instead, I blinked fast and furiously, trying to keep my tears from falling. 

 

 

     “Trev, it’s okay to talk about Carl.”

 

 

     I nodded, but couldn’t answer him because of the lump in my throat.  How can it be okay to talk about Carl?  As soon as his name is brought up, Papa gets this far away look on his face as though he’s reliving last Saturday night, and then a regret so deep I can feel it cloud his features. It’s not fair that Papa is forced to shoulder so many burdens, both external, and then the internal ones he keeps hidden, because of what I did.  He says it’s okay to talk about Carl, but I know what it’s doing to his insides just to think about Carl, because I heard him throwing up again this morning after breakfast.

 

 

     He stood there close to a minute, but when I didn’t say anything, he finally bent and kissed the crown of my head.

 

 

     “I’ll be back around five-thirty. I’m gonna stop by Marie’s before I head home and make sure there’s nothing Clarice needs.”

 

 

     “Okay.”

 

 

     I doubted Clarice needed anything given how close she is to her siblings, and I suspect Papa doubted it too. I’m sure his desire to offer assistance comes more from his feeling that helping her is the only thing he can now do for Carl, than from concern that Clarice is lacking people to give her a hand.

 

 

     “Tell her I said hi.”

 

 

     “I will. If you need me for any reason while I’m gone...any reason at all, call me on my cell phone.”

 

 

     I nodded again, but still wouldn’t turn to face him. When he asked, “Are you sure you’re okay?” I managed to make my, “Yeah. I’m fine,” sound normal.

 

 

     I think he was trying to gauge just how normal I was, because he lingered behind me.

 

 

     “You wanna call Kylee and see if she’s free tonight?  I can pick her up after I get the pizza. Or she can drive out here if she can use her mom’s car.”

 

 

     “Nah. She probably has to work.”

 

 

     “She might not.”

 

 

     “She probably does.”

 

 

     “You only saw her once this week,” Papa reminded, while at the same time not adding, “at Carl’s funeral.”

 

 

     “I know.” I kept my eyes on my schoolbooks; meaning Papa was having this conversation with the back of my head. “But I’ll see her at school on Monday.”

 

 

     “Is everything okay between the two of you?”

 

 

     “Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”

 

 

     “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

 

 

     “Things are fine. It’s just been a...different sort of week, ya’ know?”

 

 

     Papa didn’t answer me right away. When his answer did come, it was a quiet and brief, “Yeah...it has been.”

 

 

     I could sense Papa’s worry for me as he continued to stand there.  Since the last thing I wanted to do was add to the growing list of concerns he was dealing with, I said, “I’ll call Kylee tomorrow. Maybe she can come over for a while in the afternoon.”

 

 

     “Okay. Good idea.  And if she wants ta’ stay for supper, she’s welcome to. We’ve got enough food to feed an army.”

 

 

     I nodded. The food Clarice’s sisters sent home from the funeral luncheon would feed us for at least a week. Maybe longer, considering our small appetites right now.

 

 

     “Or, I can get us take-out from somewhere. Or, take the two of you for dinner in Juneau, if you wanna go.”

 

 

     I recognized how hard Papa was trying to get me to emerge from the place of deep private grief I’ve retreated to.  Despite that, I wasn’t able to give him more than, “I’ll call her, then we can see what happens from there.”

 

 

     “All right,” Papa agreed. I picked up on the relief in his tone, and knew I’d alleviated some of his worry about me. “I’m gonna head out now. If you need me--”

 

 

     “I know, I know. Call you on your cell phone.”

 

 

     He lightly ruffled my hair, said, “See ya’ later, kiddo,” and left the room.

 

 

Since Wednesday, I’ve been feeling a little better each day. Because of that, I don’t think Papa was worried about leaving me alone, nearly as much as he was concerned over the fact that this is the first time I’ve been alone since Carl’s death. 

 

 

When Papa went with Clarice to make the funeral arrangements on Tuesday, he waited until school was out and had Dylan and Dalton stay in the house with me.  In part, that was because I had a headache so bad it made me dizzy to stand up, and in part, just so I’d have the companionship of two good friends during such a rough time. Papa didn’t say that, of course. About the companionship of friends, I mean. But it was pretty easy to figure out. 

 

 

Other than for those three hours while Papa was helping Clarice, he and I have been here together ever since I got home from the hospital.  He’s taken a ton of phone calls regarding work – both fire department and police department business, but he’s made me his first priority.  I heard him tell Mr. Montgomery over the phone on Wednesday, “My son comes first, Dave. I know we have a lot ta’ sort out about how the commission is gonna replace Carl, but I can’t be a part of any meetings this week.  If you wanna hold off until next week, that’s fine. If things continue as they are with Trevor’s health, then he’ll be back in school on Monday.  Otherwise, if you’re in a hurry to get something settled before next week, you guys are gonna have to make those decisions without me.”

 

 

I could tell by Papa’s end of the conversation, that Mr. Montgomery told him no decisions would be made without him, and any meetings could wait until after I’d returned to school.

 

 

My father hadn’t been gone more than an hour this afternoon, when the phone rang.  I left my room, jogged down the hall, and picked up the extension in his bedroom. I figured it was Papa calling to check up on me, so I didn’t even say hello when I answered.

 

 

“Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

 

 

It wasn’t my father’s voice that answered me, but rather, my mother’s.

 

 

“I’m glad to hear that, honey.”

 

 

“Oh...Mom. Hi.  I thought you were Papa calling to check up on me.”

 

 

“Why? Do you need checking up on?”

 

 

“No. I’m okay.”

 

 

I hadn’t talked to my mother since before the accident. Papa had told me he’d called Mom on Sunday evening to let her know I was in the hospital. He’d assured her I was doing okay, and would be released Monday if nothing changed regarding my condition.

 

 

“I would have called you sooner,” Mom said, “but your father thought you needed a few days to rest.”

 

 

Though I didn’t admit it to Mom, I had needed a few days to rest. I’d felt like crap after Papa brought me home Monday, and Tuesday wasn’t much better. I stayed in bed until Dylan and Dalton came over that afternoon. Even then, all I could do was lay on the couch with my eyes closed while they watched one of my favorite movies, Braveheart. I know they picked it out of the cabinet just for me, but trying to follow the action on the screen made me dizzy, which in turn made me nauseous.  I never told Papa how rotten I felt, though, because I didn’t want to be taken back to the hospital. It wasn’t until Wednesday that I felt good enough to shower, get dressed, and be somewhere in the house besides my bed.

 

 

“I’m fine,” was all I said to Mom as I sat on the edge of my father’s mattress.

 

 

“A concussion as severe as the one you had can take a lot out of a person. How are you feeling now?” 

 

 

“Like I said, fine. Aspirin is finally helping with the headache, and I’m not as tired as I was earlier in the week.”

 

 

“Good.” She paused after that word, then said, “Trevor, I’m so sorry to hear about your friend Carl.”

 

 

“Thanks. He was Papa’s friend, too. One of his best friends.”

 

 

“Oh...oh, I didn’t know that. Your father didn’t say anything about it. I thought he was a friend of yours from school.”

    

 

“No. He was the police chief. I’ve told you about him.  He’s Clarice’s...he was Clarice’s son.”

 

 

Though my mom has never met Clarice, she knows Clarice has been our housekeeper ever since we moved here. She’s heard me mention Carl over the years too, but maybe I’ve never said he was Clarice’s son, or maybe if I did Mom wasn’t paying attention, or maybe since she’s never been to Eagle Harbor, the names of the people I’ve grown up around mean little to her.

 

 

“Oh, I see. That’s very sad. Please extend my sympathies to Clarice.”

 

 

“You’ve never met her.”

 

 

“Pardon?”

 

 

“Clarice. You’ve never met her. Or Carl either.  You’ve never been to Eagle Harbor.”

 

 

I don’t know why I was being such a shit to Mom, other than to say I wanted to talk to her about Carl, and resented the fact that I couldn’t.  It’s kind of hard to pour your heart out to your mother about a man who was like a second father to you, when she thinks he’s some kid you sat next to in English class.

 

 

I’ve got to hand it to Mom. She didn’t get on my case about my tone of voice, or about my attitude. But then, she rarely does. She leaves the discipline issues up to Papa.

 

 

“I know I’ve never been to Eagle Harbor, sweetheart, but I’ll be there in June when you graduate, along with Franklin and Catherine.”

 

 

“It woulda’ been nice if you’d visited a few times before then. You could’ve met Carl if you had. He was...he was an important part of my life.”

 

 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to,” was all Mom said. She always knows how to avoid an argument with me, and I have to admit she did a good job of diffusing my surliness.

 

 

“I...I know. I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

 

 

“Take what out on me?”

 

 

I wanted to say, “My guilt,” but instead said, “Nothing. I’m just a little...tired, that’s all.”

 

 

If nothing else, that was the truth. I’d stayed up all night listening for Papa, as well as checking on him several times, and now my lack of sleep was catching up with me.

 

 

“Then maybe you should take a nap this afternoon.”

 

 

“Yeah, maybe I will.”  I shifted the subject. “Did Papa tell you he was hurt, too?”

 

 

“No, he didn’t mention it. What happened to him?”

 

 

I didn’t know what details Papa had given Mom about the accident, but decided I had no desire to discuss them with her. So, instead of telling her how he was injured, I said, “He had a concussion too, along with strained muscles in his back.”

 

 

“Was he hospitalized?”

 

 

“No. Doctor Benson wanted him to stay overnight, but he wouldn’t.”

 

 

“That sounds like your father.”

 

 

“He’s stubborn.”

 

 

“He certainly is. How’s he feeling now?”

 

 

I shrugged, then remembered Mom couldn’t see my body language through the phone line.

 

 

“I’m not sure. He doesn’t say anything about it. I can tell his back is bothering him, and he looks really tired, but I think that’s because he’s got a lot of pressure on him right now at work. Things are up in the air where a...a police chief is concerned, and everyone is looking to Papa to get them through this.”

 

 

“If he’s recovering from a concussion, then he should be resting, not trying to do his own job, plus that of another man.”

 

 

“I know, but since he keeps telling everyone he’s fine, I think they’ve kinda forgotten he was hurt too. This town...Carl...he was a huge part of this town, Mom, and now they’re all looking to Papa to somehow fill that gap.”

 

 

“That’s a wonderful credit to your father, Trevor, but I wish he could see that he won’t be doing anyone a favor if he collapses from exhaustion.”

 

 

“I wish he could see that, too.”

 

 

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

 

 

For the first time since I’d picked up the phone, I laughed. “He won’t listen to you.  He’ll do exactly the opposite of what you advise.”

 

 

Mom sighed, but I could hear the amusement in her voice. 

 

 

“Even after all these years, that’s still the way he gets back at me.”

 

 

I’m not exactly sure what Mom meant by “that’s still the way he gets back at me,” though I think she was referring to her refusal to marry my father, and then her subsequent exit from his life two days after I was born.

 

 

“I guess so,” was all I said. My parents have always been good about not putting me in the middle of their discussions and/or disagreements, and I wasn’t about to be put there now.

 

 

Mom must have decided it was time to change the subject, because she asked, “Are you going to feel up to working on your book after you return to school?”

 

 

“I...I don’t know. Haven’t had much interest in it lately.”

 

 

“I can understand that, but it’s still due on April first, isn’t it?”

 

 

“Yeah. But I’ve...I’ve got time to get it done.”

 

 

Mom still doesn’t know what happened between Papa and me regarding the book, and now there’s no reason for me to tell her, since I don’t want to write the book anyway. If it hadn’t been for that stupid book I wouldn’t have skipped school, and if I hadn’t skipped school I wouldn’t have gone to Gus’s that day and worked on the helicopter. And if I hadn’t of worked on the helicopter...well, all that matters is the book is a thing of the past. I’m not a writer, and never will be. I didn’t want to be one in the first place, and it’s only because of Mrs. St. Clair’s assignment that I even tried writing a book. I told her I was going to be a doctor. I wish she’d listened to me.  It might have saved all of us a lot of heartache if she had.

 

 

Mom’s voice broke into my thoughts. 

 

 

“Send me the next chapter whenever you’re ready to.”

 

 

“Sure...yeah. I’ll do that.”

 

 

Mom told me to take care of myself, told me to tell Papa to take care of himself, told me she loved me, then said goodbye.

 

 

“I love you too, Mom,” I said in return. “Bye.”

 

 

After we hung up, I remained seated on the edge of my father’s bed. I punched in the number I’ve memorized this week for the Bartlett Regional Hospital. When the receptionist answered the phone, I asked for the Intensive Care Unit.  Because I’m not a family member, I can’t get in-depth information on Jake, but if nothing else, I was able to find out from the nurse who picked up the line that he’s in stable condition and improving.

 

 

“What’s improving mean?” I asked.

 

 

I could hear the smile in her voice. “It means just that.  His doctor has seen some improvement in his condition.”

 

 

“Will he be moved to a regular room soon?”

 

 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that question. Would you like to speak with Jake’s mother?  I just saw her arrive.”

 

 

“No!” I stopped abruptly so I wouldn’t shout again. “Ah...no. No thanks.  I’ll...I’ll call her at home later tonight.”

 

 

“Are you certain? I don’t think she’ll mind taking a phone call. She’s spoken with many of Jake’s friends this week. I’m sure she’ll be happy to--”

 

 

“No. No, I don’t wanna bother her right now.  Thanks.”

 

 

I hung up without asking the nurse to transfer me to the floor Dirk is on.  He was moved out of Intensive Care on Wednesday, and has been doing okay, all things considered. At Carl’s wake, Gus told Papa that Dirk would probably be released from the hospital in the next seven to ten days.

 

 

“ ‘Course, he’s not gonna be gettin’ around too good for a while, but Evelyn and me are just thankful he survived.  I don’t know what Susie woulda’ done without him. For her to be left alone to raise three kids all under the age of twelve...”

 

 

Gus hadn’t finished his sentence, but instead, just shook his head as he stared at Carl’s coffin. I could tell he was thinking of how easily the body lying there could have been Dirk’s.  Gus patted me on the arm as he passed by, but he didn’t say anything, which only made my guilt grow.  Even if he’d said, “This is your fault, you know,” it would have been easier to take than his silent incrimination.

 

 

I haven’t spoken to Jake’s family at all, though I saw his parents and younger sister, Amber, at Carl’s wake and funeral. The funeral was so crowded that it was easy to avoid them, and when I saw them coming through the receiving line at the wake, I stepped away from the coffin.  I retreated to a back room where family members could sit down, or cry in private, or eat the snacks Nana Marie and Nana Colette had set out on a table.

 

 

Papa had come looking for me after I did that.

 

 

“Trev, Jake’s parents wanna talk to you.”

 

 

I turned my back on my father and shook my head.

 

 

“Trev, it’s okay. They’re not--”

 

 

“I can’t,” was all I said. “Not right now.”

 

 

And I couldn’t.  It was one thing to be blamed in private for your actions, but another thing to be subjected to that in public. Everyone knows Jake’s dad has a temper. I can handle him yelling at me, but I wasn’t going to let him do it in front of Clarice.  Since Mr. Shipman is Clarice’s nephew, I knew she’d try to step in and put a stop to things, and then Papa would step in, and then who knows what would have happened.  Carl’s wake wasn’t the time or place for a scene that would cause a new round of gossip to travel through Eagle Harbor. If Mr. Shipman wants a piece of me for what happened to Jake, he’s welcome to give me his best shot now that Carl’s funeral is over.

 

 

Papa didn’t pressure me to talk to the Shipmans that night, and I haven’t encountered them since. Amber’s a freshman, so I’ll see her in school on Monday. I don’t know what she’ll say to me, but whatever it is, I deserve it.

    

 

I hung up the phone and had just taken three steps toward the doorway, when it rang again. I thought for sure it was Papa this time.

 

 

Just like I had when my mom called, I said, “I’m fine,” in

place of hello.

 

 

“Your father said that exact same thing to me three times during our conversation this morning when I asked him how he was. I don’t believe you, any more than I believed him.”

 

 

I smiled and sat back down. “Hi, Uncle Roy.”

 

 

“Hi, yourself. You sound tired.”

 

 

“I’m fi...I’m okay.”

 

 

“ ‘Okay’ and ‘fine’ mean pretty much the same thing, and neither one gives me a clue as to what’s gone on.”

 

 

“Papa didn’t tell you?”

 

 

“How much of our conversation did you overhear?”

 

 

“None of it.  Dylan and Dalton came to do chores for us right before you called. I was outside talking to them. I came in just as Papa was telling you goodbye.”

 

 

“Well, he didn’t say much. He never mentioned Carl, so how about if you tell me what happened.”

 

 

“Papa didn’t tell you anything about last Sat...Carl?  Nothing at all?”

 

 

“No. And why’re your friends doing the chores?”

 

 

I wanted to tell Uncle Roy everything that had happened, but if Papa hadn’t told him about any of it...hadn’t even told him that Carl was dead, then I knew Papa was taking this even harder than I’d previously thought. 

 

 

“Um...they’re just helping us out.”

 

 

“Why?”

 

 

“ ‘Cause...well, ‘cause we’ve been busy helping Clarice.” 

 

 

“Trevor, are you okay?”

 

 

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

 

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking.”

 

 

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

 

“Your father sounded worried today when I asked him how you

were doing.”

 

 

 “Why’d you ask him how I’m doing?  You were supposed to be finding out how he’s doing.”

 

 

“You know, Trevor, just like your father, you have an amazing ability to talk in circles.”

 

 

“I’m not talking in circles.”

 

 

“You also have an amazing ability to deny the obvious.”

 

 

“Like my father?”

 

 

“Just like your father.”

 

 

“Guess that’s why they say ‘like father, like son.’”

 

 

“Guess so.  Now to answer your question, I asked Johnny how you were doing because whenever we talk to one another I ask, “How’s Trevor?” and then he usually tells me the latest news about your achievements in school, or about some game you’ve played in for one of your school’s teams, or something along those lines. Today, all he said was, ‘Fine.’”

 

 

“That’s because I am.”

 

 

“Then why did he sound so worried?”

 

 

“I don’t know. Maybe...maybe ‘cause he’s got a lot on his mind about work.”

 

 

“Uh huh,” Uncle Roy acknowledged in a tone that told me he didn’t believe a word I’d said. “Trev, you called me last night because you were worried about your father. I couldn’t get him to talk to me this morning, and now I can’t get you to talk to me.  I’m not sure how I can help if neither one of you’ll tell me what’s going on.”

 

 

My mind flashed back to the storm, the pounding on the back door, Jake rushing into the house all upset about his mom’s car, the two of us leaving on the tractor my father uses to plow our driveway, and then everything that followed.

 

 

“There’s...there’s nothing to tell.”

 

 

“It sounded like there was something to tell last night.”

 

 

“I guess...if Papa didn’t say anything, then I guess I was wrong.”

 

 

“Trev--”

 

 

“I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have a lotta homework ta’ do.”

 

 

“I see. Well, speaking of homework, how’s the book coming along?”

 

 

“It’s not,” I said without thinking. Or maybe I was thinking, and just felt like finally saying it out loud.

 

 

“What’s that mean?”

 

 

"Listen, Uncle Roy, I gotta go. Thanks for calling Papa this morning. I’m sorry I made a big deal over nothing.”

 

 

“Trev...Trevor, wait. Don’t hang up yet. Tell me what I can do to--”

 

 

“You can’t do anything. I guess by not saying anything, that’s what Papa was trying to tell you.  Carl’s dead.  It’s my fault. And no amount of help from anyone can change that fact.”

 

 

I heard Uncle Roy’s, “Trevor,” but I hung up the phone anyway.  I walked away when it rang again.  The answering machine in the kitchen picked up on the sixth ring, and I could vaguely hear Uncle Roy’s voice coming through the speaker, but I didn’t go downstairs. He called back thirty minutes later (after enough time had passed for him to discuss everything with Aunt Joanne, and for her to urge him to try calling again – or at least that’s my guess) and once more I let the answering machine take the call.  Before Papa got home, I deleted the two messages Uncle Roy had left, in which he asked me to pick up the phone and talk to him.

 

 

Papa walked in the door at quarter after five carrying a small pizza. The two of us can easily polish off a medium, so right away I knew my father once again had no appetite.  He faked it though, as he got out paper plates and napkins while saying, “That pizza sure smells great.”

 

 

As we sat down, Papa said, “Kylee was working.”

 

 

I smiled my triumph.  “Told ya’ she would be.”

 

 

“She said to tell you hi.”

 

 

I nodded.

 

 

“I told her you’d call her tomorrow and set something up for the two of you to do in the afternoon.”

 

 

I made a face before I could stop myself.

 

 

“What? Did I do something wrong?”

 

 

“No. No, nothing. That’s fine. I’ll call her.”

 

 

“You said you were going to.”

 

 

“I am!” I dropped my eyes and took a deep, calming breath. “I will. Don’t worry about it. I will.”

 

 

I could feel my father studying my bent head, but I ignored him as I bit into a piece of pizza.

 

 

“Sorry if I interfered.”

 

 

“You didn’t interfere,” I mumbled, and reached for another piece of pizza, even though I didn’t feel like eating it.  I was mad, because I did think Papa was interfering. I felt like he was trying to force me to spend time with Kylee, when I wasn’t in the mood to.

 

 

Papa didn’t say any more about Kylee as we ate. There were six pieces of pizza left when we were finished, and he said, “You need to eat more,” while he wrapped them in foil and put them in the refrigerator.

 

 

“What about you?” I asked.

 

 

“I ate enough.”

 

 

“So did I.”

 

 

Papa glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, but he looked too exhausted to argue. I folded the pizza box in half, then stuffed it in the garbage along with our plates and napkins. Papa wiped off the table, then headed for the great room.

 

 

“Let’s see what’s on TV. If we can’t find anything to watch, you can pick out a movie.”

 

 

“All right,” I agreed, for lack of anything else to do but sit alone in my room. So much has changed since last Saturday, when I took for granted what it was like to want to be with my girlfriend, or to hang out with Jake and the twins, or to have lived for seventeen years without knowing the pain of losing anyone other than my paternal great grandfather when I was five – a man I’d only met a few times. Though I was young, I had a strong understanding that my great grandfather, who lived to be ninety-eight, had enjoyed a full life in a way Carl will never get to now.

 

 

We ended up watching a program on Animal Planet, then put a movie in.  When the movie was over, Papa stood.

 

 

“I’m goin’ to bed.  You gonna stay down here a while?”

 

 

“Yeah. I might watch the sports highlights on ESPN.”

 

 

“Okay. Don’t stay up too late.”

 

 

“I won’t.”

 

 

My father’s right foot was on the first step when I muted the sound on the television.

 

 

“I...I need to let you know that I called Uncle Roy last night.”

 

 

He turned around. “What?”

 

 

“I...I called Uncle Roy after you went to bed. I need to let you know that before you get the phone bill.”

 

 

Papa scowled. “Why’d you do that?”

 

 

“I was worried about you.  I wanted him...I just wanted him to know that you’d been hurt.”

 

 

“So that’s why he called this morning?”

 

 

“Yeah.”

 

 

Papa didn’t get angry, but then, he didn’t show any emotion at all when he nodded and said, “Okay. Thanks for lettin’ me know...about the phone bill, I mean.”

 

 

“I can pay for the call if you want me to.”

 

 

“No, I don’t want ya’ to.”

 

 

When Papa turned to head up the stairs again, I asked, “Why didn’t you tell him about...about Carl?”

 

 

A good thirty seconds passed before he answered me, and even then, he didn’t turn to face me.   He must have figured out that Uncle Roy and I talked that afternoon, because he didn’t ask me how I knew what their conversation involved, and more importantly, what it didn’t involve.

 

 

“Because I don’t feel like talking to him about Car...about it right now.”

 

 

And that’s when I knew it wasn’t nearly as okay to say Carl’s name, as Papa wanted me to think. If he couldn’t talk to his oldest friend about Carl’s death, then I knew that meant he didn’t want to be reminded of it. Or maybe it means he knows exactly what I’m thinking, just like he always seemed to know what I was thinking when I was a kid. Maybe because he’s my father, he can see exactly what I’m guilty of without me having to tell him.  Maybe he didn’t want to have to confess to Uncle Roy, “Carl’s dead, and it’s Trevor’s fault.” 

 

 

I said to Papa what he’d said to me in the kitchen several hours early.

 

 

“I’m sorry for interfering.”

 

 

He nodded, then continued up the stairs.

 

 

If my interference by calling Uncle Roy upset Pops as much as his interference with Kylee upset me, he didn’t let on.  I guess by trying to do one another a favor, we didn’t do each other a favor at all.

 

 

Now I know for certain that it’s best if I don’t talk about Carl, and now I know we’re sweeping my guilt under the rug, too.

 

 

You’d think that would make things easier, but it doesn’t.  I can only imagine the shame my father must feel because of me. Why else wouldn’t he tell Uncle Roy what happened last weekend? Why else wouldn’t he confide in his best friend of close to forty years?

 

 

The elephant in the living room feels like it’s growing even larger, and still, we go on ignoring its presence.

 

 

 

Part 5