A police car followed the SUV and the two vehicles pulled into the driveway. Kevin barked and ran to the door. I wondered who he thought was there. Maybe he could smell Officer Brown, who was raising his hand to the bell, who always patted Kevin when he came over. I doubt he was barking for my father, who had no use for dogs.
I went over to the door and waited for the bell to ring, which it did. I swung it open and saw Officer Brown, embarrassed as always, and my father, who was now completely gray-haired, but other than that, exactly the same. Officer Brown was in uniform, of course, and my father looked dressed for golf, which was as casual as he could manage.
“Hello, Katherine,” said my father.
“Hello, Dad,” I said. “I see you’ve contacted the police.”
“Actually,” said my father, “he approached me.”
“Really?” I looked over to Officer Brown and stepped back so they could enter the house.
“Mr. Shea was speeding. I pulled him over, then he said he was your father. He couldn’t find your house, so I thought I’d just bring him over. And I wanted to see how you were doing, Miss Shea.”
I smiled tightly. “I’m doing fine,” I said. I looked back at my father, who as usual, betrayed no emotion. “So what made you finally come visit me?”
“I received a phone call. Dr. Parkinson from the University of Arizona is anxious to track you down.”
“As are many people,” I said.
“Although they may not be aware of it,” my father added. He looked pointedly at Officer Brown, who was beginning to be very uncomfortable.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“Black,” said my father, which I already knew.
Officer Brown shook his head then stepping back, upset a lamp, which he quickly righted.
I brought my father his coffee and he nodded a polite thank-you.
“So, what made Barry contact you?”
“Barry?”
“Barry Buster Parkinson.”
“He still had our home phone number from when you were in college. He had it in his records. I don’t know why he needed your home phone number.”
“You don’t want to know,” I said. Barry and I had rendezvoused a couple of times over vacations. I remembered one rainy spring break weekend in his house on Martha’s Vineyard. “So the bones are new.”
“It seems your mother had an interesting hobby.”
“What was her hobby?” asked Officer Brown.
“Her hobby,” I said, staring my father down, “is Native American culture.”
“Certain cultures, not what most women go for.”
“And what do most women go for?” I asked my father.
“Maybe I should leave,” said Officer Brown.
“No,” said my father. “I want you here.”
Officer Brown was both confused and surprised by this. He crouched down and began scratching Kevin’s ears.
“My dog really likes you,” I said.
“Actually,” said Officer Brown, “he’s my dog. Someone stole him off my back porch three months ago.”
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry about that.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Officer Brown got up. “Can I use your bathroom?” he said.
“No,” I said. “I’m afraid not.”
“Why not?” asked my father.
“There’s a plumbing problem. The toilet’s backed up.”
“Maybe I could take a look at it for you,” said Officer Brown. He headed for the hallway.
“No. Don’t go down there. It’s all right. I’ll fix it later.”
“I don’t mind, really. I’m good at things like this.”
“No,” I said.
Officer Brown ignored me.
“No!” I shouted. “Don’t go in there!”
Officer Brown stopped and turned. He rested his hand on his gun holster. “Miss Shea, is Mr. Verhoven in the house?” He looked at me with such frankness and sympathy that I felt I had to be honest.
“Yes, he is.”
Officer Brown took his gun from his holster and walked slowly down the hallway.
“Katherine, this is not easy for me,” said my father.
I turned and looked him solidly in eyes. “She’s here too.”
My father looked up at me, not seeming to comprehend what I was saying. We watched each other in tense silence.
The bathroom door creaked open, then there was a moment followed by the thud of Officer Brown’s body hitting the floor. My father looked hesitantly at me, then went down the hallway. I followed a few steps behind. Officer Brown had passed out, his arm flung out to the right, the gun a few inches away on the floor. His shoes had blood on the soles. I saw my father peek into the bathroom, then pull back. He covered his face with his hands and looked away. He stayed frozen like that until I went to him and led him by the elbow back into the living room. I helped him to the chair and he sat down.
We sat in silence for maybe five minutes.
My father looked helpless then. I’d never seen him look like that. I always thought I’d wanted to see him like that, but I’d been wrong. I actually felt sorry for him.
“My neglect is criminal,” he said.
“You did your best,” I said, surprised by the tenderness in my voice.
“Katherine, what are you talking about?”
“There are worse fathers.”
He seemed surprised that this was an issue. “And worse husbands, no doubt,” he said. “I failed you and your mother.”
“She’s here,” I repeated. “Were you looking for her?”
“Looking for her?” My father’s eyebrow’s descended and he pulled his head up sharply. “Your mother’s dead, almost a year now.” I watched him closely. His face hardly moved. “I told that Italian construction worker, your boyfriend.” He looked rattled, more confused then scared, as if he suspected me of playing with him. “Petro.”
“Pietro,” I corrected him.
“I know he told you.”
“That’s right.”
It took me a minute to get up from my chair.
I went down the hall to the bedroom.
I looked in the mirror and saw with mild surprise that I was wearing the dogwood earrings. I was alone and the room was filled with a vacuum of silence, as if someone had been laughing riotously, hysterically, and suddenly stopped.
I packed a few things, without really thinking what they were. My mother was right. I had to escape while I still could.
When I came back to the living room, my father still had not moved.
“I’m leaving now,” I said.
My father looked up at me. “You can’t leave, Katherine. We’ll work something out. Everything will be all right.”
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“You killed him in self-defense. He was a murderer anyway. The police will understand.”
“Arthur didn’t kill Travis,” I said. I imagined Arthur sawing off Travis’s feet and hands, Travis’s head.
My father blew his nose into his handkerchief and I could smell his sweat, I could smell Officer Brown’s deodorant, his toothpaste, his laundry detergent and soap from down the hall. Out in the back field I could smell where the deer had come close, then smelling me, taken off. And I knew that it would rain that night, just a little, although it was nowhere in the forecasts. I knew all of this, just as I knew that Arthur would come back after dumping the suitcase, even though he knew I was responsible. He came back because he wanted me to tell him that it wasn’t true. I don’t know why. Maybe he loved me.
“How did you become this way?” asked my father.
But my father’s ingenuousness failed to fool me. How could he claim not to understand my hunger, a hunger that was everywhere—in art, in literature, at the boundaries of our knowledge, in the dark jungles of our planet—the basic hunger in us all? Our civilization, the “America” that was a source of unending pride for him, was not based on the nurturing of the weak but on their calculated demise. He seemed to find my motivations a mystery, that I, because of my particular appetite, was the “other.” But here he was wrong. His need for control, for money, for power, was based on the foundation of a populace debilitated by the appetites of the strong. This was his history. My history. The history of the world. My father’s horror of me was not one of incomprehension, but fear.