F. Paul Wilson - Gateways

“I’ve got your damn shell!” he shouted into the fading light. “Let’s do this!”

Then he waited, not really expecting anything, but hoping. After a moment of listening to frogs and crickets, he turned to go back inside. He noticed a light on at Anya’s. Maybe she’d like to come over for dinner.

His knocks went unanswered, even by Oyv, so Jack stepped around to the side window. There he saw her and Oyv sleeping in front of the TV, in the same positions they’d been in Wednesday night. Again, they looked dead. But he kept watching until he caught Anya taking a breath.

He was halfway back to the house when he saw his rental car pull into the parking area. He angled that way and arrived in time to carry a couple of the grocery sacks.

“I picked up some scallions,” Dad said as they were unpacking. “I figured that would add a little extra flavor.”

“You’ve become a regular Chef Boyardee.”

“Had to learnsome cooking. When you live alone, you can get awful tired of frozen dinners and fast food. And it gives me something to do at night.” He looked at Jack. “Nights are always the hardest.”

Jack wasn’t sure what to say. He wanted to tell him he was sorry about that but sensed his father wasn’t looking for pity. He’d merely been stating a fact.

So Jack ducked it. “Hey, want me to slice those scallions?”

“Sure,” Dad said with a grin. “Think you can slice them nice and fine?”

He washed them off, then handed Jack a slim knife and a cutting board. Jack positioned himself on the other side of the counter and began slicing.

“Hey,” Dad said. “You’re pretty handy with that blade.”

“I’m a super sous chef.” He’d picked up a lot from helping Gia cook.

“While you’re doing that, I’ll open this bottle of Chardonnay I’ve had in the fridge. Been saving it for a special occasion.”

“Omelets are a special occasion?”

“Company is a special occasion, especially when it’s one of my sons.”

Jack realized then with a pang how lonely his father was.

“Can I ask you something, Dad?”

“Sure.” He’d pulled a pale bottle from the refrigerator and was twisting a corkscrew into its top. “Go ahead.”

“Why didn’t you ever remarry?”

“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?

“Youwhat ?”

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.