“Dad? Is Harry coming home for Christmas?” I asked, certain then that Dad’s tears were of joy. I had only ever seen my Dad cry once before, and only then for a moment, when I broke his arm playing touch football by cruelly piling on him after he had slipped, so I was not really experienced at the nuances of fatherly tears. But that would explain the phone call, the shoebox, the tears, and the joy at his favorite prodigal son finally returning to the fold. I immediately began devising a plan to ruin the homecoming.
“Yes, Tom. Harry’s coming home.” He didn’t sound overly happy. Parents were such odd creatures.
“That’s great! I’ll tell the others. If you want to take a nap, I’ll wake you later when we have the punch and cookies, okay?”
I had work to do before Harry got home. I got up to leave but Dad grabbed my arm. “Wait,” he rasped. “There’s something I want you to tell everyone and then, yes, I will lie down for a bit.”
“I know, Harry’s coming home; roll out the red carpet. When, anyway? Probably not till after Christmas with this snow and all unless he’s already in town. Harry’s in town, Dad?” My excitement grew and I realized that I, too, might have missed Harry these last four years. He
was
a part of the family whether he wanted to be or not, and that made him a part of me. His leaving had just been a phase in his growing up, a phase which none of the other children fully understood, but one which we all tacitly accepted. I was still going to ruin his homecoming. Something smelly perhaps… “Is he at the train station? If the streetcars are still running, he can be here in a few hours. He can still make it for Christmas.”
“Stop!” Dad didn’t yell often, but when he did it commanded attention and obedience. I’d worked hard on mimicking that technique, but in the end it was easier for me to use deception and cleverness to get my way.
“Harry’s
dead
, Tom. That’s what you have to tell them. He’s
dead
.” He said it as if it were just sinking in for him, too. “They just phoned from school. He had an accident or something at the college and was killed. I… I don’t remember any more except that someone is coming here tomorrow. Please, just tell them. I don’t think I can face them right now.” Dad lay back on the bed, dropping the shoebox to the floor, and rolling onto his side to face the wall.
I left him sobbing in the dark room and walked back down those thirteen interminable steps to the first floor. I didn’t want to be the one to face the others. I didn’t want to be anywhere
near
the others. A part of me, a part of my life, had just been ripped out of my scrapbook, crumpled up and thrown in the trash. I was at once angry and despairing, sad and afraid. How dare you run off like that and die without saying good-bye? Oh God, Harry, I miss you. What will happen to Mom and Dad? You bastard! Do you really think Kate will understand? She’s too young, too vulnerable. Please, God, make it all a lie, an ugly horrible lie, and make Harry come home alive and well.
By the thirteenth step I realized I had been praying. I can’t remember the last time I prayed, or if I ever really
had
prayed and meant it, but I meant it then. And I felt ashamed. All those years of shunning God and religion and now, like some damned hypocrite, I was praying like the kid who had just been told that the world was ending tomorrow unless we all repented. I stopped at the bottom of the steps and cleared my throat, tried to clear my head, and walked quietly into the dining room and took my seat.
Mom took my hand, saying nothing, looking at me quietly. It was
that
look. I remembered it from that time when I was in eighth grade and had been caught throwing snowballs at cars on Connor Road. We had just nailed our second victim when our neighbor Mr. Welty walked up behind us and marched the four of us to his car and, one by one, dropped us off at our homes. I don’t know what he told the other parents but the only thing he said to Mom was, “Hello, Helen. Tom here has something to tell you about what he has been doing.”
Mom took me into the kitchen and sat me down and held my hand in just the way she was now, waiting for me to confess to my crime. Total denial was out of the question — Mr. Welty was too reliable a witness. Coercion by the others? Not a likely tack. Mom would see right through that one. Temporary insanity? I had seen that one in action on a Perry Mason episode, but I was sure she had seen the same show. We all used to watch Perry Mason together, even Harry. No, there was no getting around it. The only safe plan was the truth. I lied most of the time anyway, so maybe she wouldn’t believe the truth and I would then counter with a superbly concocted, believable lie. If she checked with Mr. Welty, I could always then claim that she didn’t believe me when I told the truth, so I resorted to the next best thing.
“Dad got a call from Harry’s school.” I couldn’t get another word out. It was just like the time Nicky Amendola had grabbed me by the throat in the locker room after Saint Catherine’s grade school basketball team had gotten trounced again by Saint Bernard’s. He threatened to stuff me in my gym bag if I ever showed my face anywhere near him. I wanted to protest that I wasn’t the only one who had missed every shot he took, that just because he, Nicky, had made our only four points in our twenty four to four loss didn’t make him the only kid worthy of playing. I wanted to reason with him and explain to the big thug that he couldn’t be a one-man team, but he was crushing my windpipe and all I could do was grunt and nod assent.
Mom saw the tears welling in my eyes and my flushed face. My hands trembled. I fought back a desire to up and quit just like I had quit the grade school basketball team in eighth grade rather than spend the rest of my life in a gym bag. I have absolutely no idea how she knew, but she knew.
All Mom said was, “Oh my Harry, dear God, not my Harry.” She covered her mouth with her hands and began to sob, then cry. My heart broke. For the first time in my life I clearly saw the pain my mother had endured and the heartache, and the deep love she felt for my brother. But, more importantly, when her eyes met mine, I saw that she loved me, too. She’d always loved me. I was just too blockheaded to see it.
Acknowledgements
For Brian and Austin.
About The Author
Ryne Pearson is the author of several novels, including
Cloudburst
,
October’s Ghost
,
Capitol Punishment
,
Simple Simon
,
Top Ten
,
The Donzerly Light
,
All For One
, and
Confessions
. He is also author of the short story collection,
Dark and Darker
. His novel
Simple Simon
was made into the film
Mercury Rising
. As a screenwriter he has worked on numerous films. The film
Knowing
, based on his original script, was released in 2009 and opened #1 at the box office, going on to gross more than $180 million worldwide.
He lives in California with his wife, children, a Doberman Shepherd and a Beagle Vizsla.
Table of Contents
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