“Good question. Kate always asked me that, always encouraged me to get into a new relationship. But…” He grabbed two glasses and half filled them. “There’s more where this came from, by the way.”
Jack got the feeling he was trying to stall, or maybe even evade an answer. He wasn’t going to let that happen.
“You were saying about not remarrying?”
He sighed. “Having your mother taken away like that—one moment she’s sitting next to me in the car, next moment there’s blood all over her and no one can save her. She’s…gone. You were there. You knew what it was like.”
Jack nodded. His knife picked up speed, slicing the scallions faster, harder, thinner.
Dad shook his head. “I never got over it. Your mother was special, Jack. We were a team. We did everything together. The bond was more than love, it was…” He shook his head. “I don’t know how to describe it. ‘Soul mate’ is such a hackneyed term, but that pretty well describes what she was to me.”
He pulled a carving knife from a drawer and started dicing the thick slice of cured ham he’d bought.
“And let me tell you, Jack, the grief over losing someone that close to you, it doesn’t just go away, you know. At least it didn’t for me. Something like that happens and people pepper you with all sorts of platitudes—it got to the point where I wanted to punch out the next person who said, ‘She’s in a better place.’ I almost committed murder on that one. Then there was, ‘At least you had her for a little while.’ I didn’t want her for a little while. I wanted her forever.”
Jack was moved by the depth of his feeling. This was a side his father kept hidden.
“If I can use an equally hackneyed phrase: She wouldn’t have wanted you to spend the rest of your life alone.”
“I haven’t been completely alone. I’ve allowed myself short-term relationships, and I’ve taken comfort in them. But a long-term relationship…that would be like telling your mother she can be replaced. And she can’t.”
Heavy going here. Jack tossed off the rest of his wine and poured them both some more, all the while trying to think of an adequate response.
His Dad saved him by pointing the carving knife at Jack’s chest.
“Your mother,” he said. “That’s it, isn’t it. I’ve always suspected that it made you a little crazy, but now I want to hear it from you. I remember you at the wake and the funeral. Like a zombie, hardly speaking to anyone. You were never a momma’s boy. Far from it. You were closest to Kate. But to see your mother killed by violence, to have her bleeding and dying in your arms…there’s no shame in having a breakdown after what happened. No one should have to go through that. No one.”
Jack gulped more of his wine. He could feel it hitting him. He’d had nothing to eat since breakfast and the alcohol was jumping directly into his bloodstream. So what? And why not?
“I agree that no one should have to go through that. But it wasn’t Mom’s death that put me on the road.”
“What then? It’s driven me crazy for the past fifteen years. What made you disappear?”
“Not her death. Another death.”
“Whose?”
“I was pissed at everyone back then for not finding the guy who’d dropped that cinder block. The state cops were going on about keeping an eye on the overpasses, but it takes a lot of effort to track down someone who commits a random act of violence. And they had better things to do—like ticketing speeders on the Turnpike. God forbid we drive above the limit. And you, you weren’t doing anything but talking about what should happen to the murdering bastard when they caught him. Only it wasn’t a ‘when,’ it was an ‘if’—an ‘if’ that was never going to happen.”
Jack finished the glass and poured himself some more, killing the bottle.
Dad looked up from the ham. “What the hell was I supposed to do?”
“Something. Anything.”
“Like what? Go out and track him down myself?”
“Why not?” Jack said. “I did.”
Oh, shit, he thought. Did I just say that?
“You what ?”
Jack raced through his options here. Say never mind and stonewall it? Or go ahead and tell all. Abe was the only other person on earth who knew.
But now the wine and a cranky, don’t-give-a-shit mood pushed him to let it roll. He sucked in a deep breath.
Here goes.
“I tracked him down and took care of him.”
Jack thought he saw Dad’s hand tremble as he put down the carving knife. His expression was tight, his eyes bright and wide behind his glasses.
“Just how…I’m not sure I want to hear this but…just how did you take care of him?”
“I saw to it that he never did anything like that again.”
Dad closed his eyes. “Tell me you broke his arms, or smashed his elbows.”
Jack said nothing.
Dad opened his eyes and stared at him. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Jack…Jack, you didn’t…”
Jack nodded.
Dad sidled left to one of the counter stools and slumped on it. He cradled his head in his hands, staring down at the pile of sliced scallions.
“Oh, my God.” His voice was a moan. “Oh, my God.”
Here it comes, Jack thought. The shock, the outrage, the revulsion, the moral repugnance. He wished now he could take it back, but he couldn’t, so…
He walked around the counter, past his father’s bent back, opened the refrigerator, and took out another bottle of wine.
“How did you know it was him?” Dad said. “I mean, how could you be sure?”
Without bothering to remove the black lead foil, Jack wound the screw through it and into the cork.
“He told me. Name was Ed, and he bragged about it.”
“Ed…so, the shit had a name.”
Jack blinked. Other than hell and damn, his father had always been scrupulous about four-letter words. At least when Jack was a kid.
He lifted his head but didn’t look at Jack. “How?” He licked his lips. “How did you do it?”
“Tied him up and dangled him by his feet off the same overpass. Made him a human piñata for the big trucks going by below.”
The cork popped from the bottle as Jack remembered seeing Ed swinging over the road, the meaty thunk! as the first truck hit him, then the second.
Music. Heavy metal.
Dad was finally looking at him. “That’s why you left, isn’t it. Because you’d committed murder. You should have stayed, Jack. You should have come to me. I would have helped you. You didn’t have to spend all those years dealing with that guilt alone.”
“Guilt?” Jack said, pouring more wine for both of them. “No guilt. What did I have to feel guilty about? No guilt, no remorse. Send me back in time to relive that night and I’d do the same thing.”
“Then why on earth did you just take off like that?”
Jack shrugged. “You want an eloquent, thoughtful, soul-searching answer? I don’t have one. It seemed to make sense at the time. From that moment on the world looked different, seemed like another place, and I didn’t belong. Plus I was disgusted with just about everything. I wanted out. So I got out. End of story.”
“And this creep, this Ed…why didn’t you call the police?”
“That’s not the way I work.”
Dad squinted at him. “Work? What does that mean?”
Jack didn’t want to go there.
“Because they’d have carted him off and then let him out on bail, and then let him plead down to a malicious mischief charge.”
“You’re exaggerating. He’d have done hard time.”
“Hard time wouldn’t cut it. He needed killing.”
“So you killed him.”
Jack nodded and sipped his wine.
Dad started waving his arms. “Jack, do you have any idea what could have happened to you? The chance you took? What if somebody saw you? What if you’d been caught?”