But the devil’s in the details, I knew. Tiles slide without grout; houses tumble without nails. There were far too many details I’d read and experienced to condemn him in my heart. Dad’s mysterious restraining order… Henry’s waiting at the house until Papa-Jean arrived… my uncle’s sincerity during our conversation… No, I couldn’t do that, not yet.
He said he was proud of me.
I couldn’t remember the last time my father said that.
I trusted Henry in that unquantifiable, ocean-deep way you trust a parent or a spouse. It felt true.
I pulled up beside an ancient, primer-coated Chevrolet pickup truck. My canvas satchel was in one hand now. My other killed the engine and yanked up the Saturn’s parking brake.
I stepped out into the crisp country air and eyed the sagging one-story wooden house before me. Like Brinkvale and Claytonville, this place was heartbreakingly lonesome, forgotten. A thin trail of smoke puffed from its chimney.
I trudged through the muddy front yard, stepped up to the porch. An overturned garbage can pointed toward the house, undoubtedly the work of raccoons. Fat, sleepy flies buzzed over half-eaten TV dinners and sandwiches. I held my breath, and knocked on the splintered front door.
It trembled in its frame, then bucked open. Daniel Drake stood in the dimness beyond, his pine-green eyes tight with suspicion.
He pulled a smoldering cigarette from his lips and gave a loud, wet, rattling belch.
“Who the fuck are you?” he said.
I smiled and extended my hand. Daniel did not reciprocate; his right hand held a beer can. He brought it to his lips and took a long swig, his eyes never leaving mine. I lowered my hand.
“Mr. Grace, my name’s Zachary Taylor. I’m a therapist at Brinkvale Psychiatric. I’m here about your father. He’s my patient.”
His eyes widened a bit. He was tall like his dad, but far more stocky and muscled. The last ten years had not been kind to Daniel Grace. He was pushing 30 but looked more like 40. He sported the hollow-cheeked appearance of a heavy drinker: worn-down, perpetually nonplussed, run through a meat grinder. His greasy brown hair hung in his face, covering bloodshot eyes.
I was again reminded of my Anti-Zach days, my personal road to ruin and my discovery of the art within me, my personal salvation. I wondered what I’d be like now, had I not turned that corner five years ago.
Daniel belched again, this time blowing the stinky air out of the corner his mouth. His stubbled, sunken cheeks puffed as he did this. I noticed a long, pale scar along his jaw line.
“From where?” he asked.
“Brinkvale Psychiatric.” A fly buzzed between us in a half-assed loop-the-loop. The stench from the garbage was nauseating.
“Brink’s not nearly deep enough for that sonuvafuck,” Daniel said. “But I bet you already knew that. What do you want?”
“Next week, your father will be prosecuted in a homicide case,” I said. “He’s a suspect in a dozen killings, all told. I’ve been assigned to see if he’s mentally competent to stand trial—and, if I can, to learn if he committed the murders. Richard is being—”
“Difficult?”
“Yes, he’s resisting treatment.”
Daniel gave a low chuckle. He raised his eyebrows, telling me to continue.
“I need to know about his past. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Daniel killed the beer in his hand. He sucked down the last of his cigarette and flicked it past me, into the muddy yard.
“Haven’t seen him in a decade. Past is all I got. Why’s he in The Brink and not in county lock-up?”
“He suffers from psychosomatic blindness,” I replied. “He hasn’t seen in two years.”
Daniel turned and stepped inside the house.
“Good. Means the monster can’t hunt any more.”
He glanced back, flashing a brown-toothed grin at my expression.
“You coming or not?” he said.
I followed him inside, shoving the door closed. Its underside scraped against the floor. I watched his gait, looking for an indication of the “burn leg” from which he qualified for disability money. There was none.
Mid-morning sunlight streamed into the living room, past dusty curtains. Despite this, the room was a cold place, oppressive in its gloom. Everything here, from the walls to the worn furniture, seemed old and bruised. Empty beer cans and whiskey bottles rested on a nicked coffee table; more lay on the floor. An open bag of Rold Gold pretzels lay abandoned on the sofa, its remains strewn across a stained cushion. A meek fire crackled in the fireplace.
An old boombox sat on the sooty hearth, surrounded by a dozen presumably dead “D” batteries. I didn’t recognize its brand. Static-filled classical music whispered from its speakers. Beside this was a small stack of hand-chopped wood and a hatchet. The place stank of cigarettes, body odor, beer and vomit.
Several framed family photos smiled from a shelf above the hearth. The pictures behind the glass were awkwardly shaped things. Younger versions of Daniel Drake and his late sister were on display, as was their dead mother. A large hunk of each photo had been cut out. Magazine photos of Kurt Russell were taped over the absent father. This was Daniel’s own attempt to “retcon” his past. I felt a pang of sympathy for him.
A cockeyed slab of wood hung above the shelf. GOD BLESS THIS MESS, its hand-carved letters said.
No kidding.
“Sit,” Daniel Drake said, motioning to a chair near the fireplace. “Beer?”
“No, thanks.”
“Smoke?”
I shook my head. He grunted and left the room. Above the music, I heard the tinny clank of aluminum cans, the click of a lighter, the thunk of the refrigerator door.
He returned with two cans, a lit cigarette in his lips. He plopped onto the sofa. He opened one of the beers with a crack and slurped at its frothy head.
“No lights,” he said, pointing to an oil lantern near the couch. “Didn’t pay the bill. Phone bill, neither. Beer’s warm, tastes like piss. Still does the job.”
He exhaled, and tapped his ash into a nearby empty.
“So. Daddy.”
I nodded. He shrugged.
“Fire away. Memory lane, fuck if I care.”
I marveled as he chugged half of the Coors.
“I’d like to connect with your father, and I think the best way is talking to him about the past,” I said. “But I’ve had a hard time learning about Richard’s early career. From around—”
“Oh, I know,” he said. “From before the big shittin’ change, back when we were the Drakes and not the amazing Graces. When things were normal, whatever the hell ‘normal’ means.”
“What did your father do? Before the ’change’?”
“That’s classified,” Daniel said. He put a finger to his lips and gave a wicked grin. “Back then, Jenny and I thought he was a traveling bank executive or something. Never home.”
He glanced out the window, surrounded in vaporous smoke. In this, Drake’s son and I were alike. Absent fathers.
“But when he was here, it was good,” he said. “He knew just what to say, how to talk to us. He wasn’t hard on us, didn’t need to be. It’s like he knew we were gonna break the rules before we did. Heh. ‘Think about it,’ he’d say, just out of the blue. ‘Do the right thing.’ It was weird, like he was reading our minds.”
He turned back to me. His eyes were glassy, a little angry. He finished off the can, crumpling it in his hand.
“I learned a little more… later,” he said. His stomach lurched, and another burp hissed from his lips. “Mindbender. Fuckin’ sigh… cology. Prisoners.” His eyes squinted cheerfully, as if he’d heard a joke. “Detainees is what they call ’em now.” “I don’t understa—” I began.