Summoned by a page from the pharmacy, Madeline Wurth hurried away, leaving A.J. restocking the shelves and struggling with his conscience. Yes, he had lied to Madeline; with his mother, it wouldn’t exactly be lying. He was just leaving something out-something she probably didn’t want to know about in the first place. Besides, A.J. reasoned, if there were almost sixteen years between visits, it didn’t seem likely that James Sanders would be showing up again anytime soon.
But that assessment was wrong. A.J.’s father had turned up again the very next week. A.J. came home from work on the day of his birthday, expecting that he and his mother would go out to have pizza, just the two of them. That was how they usually did it. As he rode his bike into the carport, he wondered about the strange car-a silver Camry-parked in the driveway behind his mother’s Passat. On the window of the passenger side was one of those AS IS, NO WARRANTY stickers. Even before he opened the front door and smelled the cigarette smoke, he could hear the sound of raised voices. Quietly, he opened the door and slipped into the entryway, staying just out of sight of the living room, where his mother and James Sanders were arguing.
“After doing nothing for all this time, you’ve got no right to do this now,” Sylvia declared hotly.
“Look,” James was saying, sounding conciliatory. “That’s what I’m trying to do here-make up for lost time.”
“You think that will make up for sixteen years of being an absentee father? You don’t raise a finger in all that time, but now you think you can walk in here and give him a car for his birthday? Just like that?”
“He’s a good kid. He gets good grades. He works hard. He deserves to have a car.”
“I don’t know how you know about his grades or where he works, but A.J. and I have already discussed the car situation. Between insurance and gas, it would be more than we can afford.”
“That’s what this is for,” James said.
A.J. heard the sound of something-an envelope, maybe-landing on the coffee table.
“What’s this?” Sylvia asked.
“The title’s in there, and so is the bill of sale,” James answered. “It’s all in order. I called an insurance guy and found out how much it’ll cost to insure the Camry with an inexperienced driver. There’s enough coin of the realm in there to pay the insurance costs for the next three years, as well as a hundred dollars a month for gas money.”
“You can’t do this,” Sylvia objected. “It’s not fair. Is this even real?”
“The money, you mean?” James replied. “Now who’s not being fair?”
Afraid that his mother might be about to hand the envelope back, A.J. decided it was time to stage an appearance. After quickly opening the door, he slammed it shut. “Hey, Mom,” he shouted from the entryway. “I’m home.” When he entered the living room, he stopped short. “Sorry. I didn’t know we had company.”
He was relieved to see that his mother, seated on the couch, was still holding the envelope. James, standing by the window, wasn’t actively smoking a cigarette, but the room reeked of secondhand smoke.
He turned toward A.J., holding out his hand in greeting. “So this must be A.J.,” he said with an easygoing grin. “Glad to meet you. I’m your dear old dad.”
So that’s how he’s going to play it, A.J. thought-as though he and A.J. had never laid eyes on each other before; as though the conversation in front of Walgreens had never taken place.
A.J. glanced at his mother, staring at the envelope as if mesmerized. At last she raised her head and looked at A.J., giving an almost imperceptible nod. A.J.’s heart skipped a beat because he recognized the look of abject defeat lining Sylvia’s face. The nod implied affirmative answers to both questions-yes, this was his father, and yes, she was going to let A.J. keep the car.
“It’s true,” she said. “A.J., this is your father, James Sanders. He’s offering to give you a car.”
A.J. took the proffered hand and shook it. “Glad to meet you, sir,” he said.
That was the first real lie he ever told his mother, and he knew at once that it wouldn’t be the last.
“I got my first car when I turned sixteen,” James explained. “I thought you should have one, too. Did you see that Camry outside in the driveway? It’s yours, if you want it.”
A.J. turned to his mother. “Are you kidding?” he asked, trying to act as though he hadn’t known it already. “A car of my own? Really?”
Sylvia nodded again. A.J. understood why. His mother was nothing if not practical. The car parked in the driveway and the contents of the envelope had wiped out all her objections to his having a car. The car was paid for; the insurance was paid for; the gas was paid for. End of story. Besides, if A.J. had access to his own transportation, his mother’s life suddenly would be far less complicated.
“Happy birthday, son,” James said with a grin. “Maybe you and your mom would like to take it for a spin.” He tossed a set of keys in A.J.’s direction, and A.J. plucked them out of the air.
“Thank you,” he said. “I can’t believe it.”
Sylvia sighed and got up. “I’ll go get my purse,” she said, heading for her bedroom.
While she was out of the room, A.J. and James stood in a conspiratorial silence. Between that first meeting and now, A.J. had come up with a million questions he wanted to ask his father, but there in the tiny living room, he didn’t give voice to any of them. He didn’t want to make a mistake and say something that would arouse his mother’s suspicions.
“Nice car,” he said. “I was looking at it as I came inside.”
“Only two years old,” James said. “Got a good deal on it. It’s got a couple of dents in the trunk, like maybe somebody backed into a bollard, but other than that, it’s in great shape.”
Sylvia returned with her purse. “Can we drop you someplace?” she asked.
James took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth. “Sure,” he said. “You can take me back up to Indian School. I’ll catch a bus from there.”
Since Indian School ran for miles, east and west, catching a bus there offered no clue about where he was going or where he was staying.
After dropping James off at the corner of Indian School and Seventh, right across the street from Madeline’s drugstore, A.J. drove his mother as far as the nearest Pizza Hut. He was self-conscious about having his own car, and he felt guilty about it, too. It was as though he had helped trick his mother into accepting it.
“Why’d he show up now?” A.J. asked while they waited for their pizza. “Why after all this time?”
Sylvia shook her head. “I have no idea, but one thing you can count on.”
“What’s that?”
“You can’t count on him. He paid for the insurance and gas three years in advance. That probably means you won’t see him again for at least that long.”
“But I thought I could get to know him,” A.J. objected. “Find out about where he’s been all this time; find out what he’s been doing.”
Sylvia shook her head. “I doubt that,” she said sadly. “James isn’t that kind of guy.”
Her words proved prophetic. For over a year after that, A.J. saw and heard nothing from his father, not a single word. Then, the previous afternoon, when he got home from school, there had been a letter addressed to him, with no return address but postmarked Las Vegas, Nevada, waiting in the mailbox. The address on the envelope and the letter inside had been written in a tiny but legible cursive.
Dear A.J.,
Please burn this letter as soon as you read it. I’ll be leaving something for you. You’ll need a shovel to dig it up. Go up I-17. Just south of Camp Verde, take the exit to General Crook Trail. Instead of going east, go west. Just before the dead end, take the first left. It’ll be a dirt road, but the Camry should be fine. Follow that for six tenths of a mile. Exactly. Park there and then walk due north three hundred feet. You’ll see a boulder with a heart painted on it. Dig there, on the back side of it. You should probably make sure no one is following you when you go there.