Chris Lynch - Kill Switch

As that happens, something very different happens between Zeke and me.

“Let me tell you just this one thing, Danny-and I am going to call you Danny because I want to talk to that beautiful kid who always showed respect and decency to this fine man right in front of us. He does talk some crazy. And when he does, you need to encourage him to talk about something else. I love this guy here and that means by extension I love you, too. So with whatever time you have left with your Da, talk about family, talk about sports, talk about girls and food and flying pigs and music and whatever else passes the time. But if he talks about his work, steer him away.”

Zeke gives my neck a small squeeze, both friendly and frightening.

“I am not even supposed to be here,” he says. “I won’t do this again. Understand? I shouldn’t even have come. This is a personal, friend visit. If you see me again, it’s going to be business. I am here out of courtesy, and I shouldn’t even be.”

And the impulse returns, protective, defensive, angry, whatever, but it doesn’t feel exactly smart.

“So, then, go,” I say.

And you know what? He does. He does what I say, and he goes, slipping away in the post-race mayhem, while the Old Boy fusses around the floor for his hat.

Da pops up, hat on head, ticket in hand. He looks around like he knows something is not right, something is missing, but he cannot quite figure out what.

Winners and losers-and there is no mistaking which is which here-begin making their way down the sunny concrete steps, toward the collection windows, the betting windows, the bars, and the bathrooms, all loading up to shoot the same shots again on the next race and then the next one.

“Whatcha win, Da?” I ask, hand on his shoulder as we bump along down.

He hands me over his ticket and I look at it and we both look up at the results board.

My horse beat his horse. And everybody else’s horse beat my horse. My grandfather may realize this, and he may not.

“Will we go for it again, Old Boy?”

“Let us go for it again, Young Man.”

He straightens his flat cap, and we go for it again.

Shut up, Da said.

He never liked to say that, or to hear it. It meant he was furious.

Shut up.

I didn’t even say anything, I said.

It was my fault. I was not supposed to leave him. Alone. I was never supposed to leave him alone.

It gets really hard, though. Sometimes. He was sleeping. He slept pretty regular, and so I knew. Approximately. I could go around the corner, breathe some air, think some thoughts. Get a chicken burger. Just around the corner. Just.

Shut up, he said again.

Why, Da?

Shut up , Darius, is what he said. To me .

Who, Da? Who said shut up to you?

Little puke. That little, little puke.

Who’s the puke, Da?

Largs. Little puke Largs. And Zeke. Me, shut up?

When did they tell you to shut up?

Where were you, Young Man?

I am sorry, Da. Really.

Do I smell chicken?

Da? When did they tell you to shut up?

Right there. Up there. On the landing.

The landing. Halfway up the stairs? That landing? Our landing? In our house?

I got a little lost.

What were you doing on the landing, Da? I left you on the couch.

His face. The crumpled face. The don’t-know face, but knowing that not knowing is really bad. Knowing enough to be humiliated about not knowing. That face.

Were you going up or coming down when they came to you?

That face. That diabolical sad face.

Lots of people did that, though. My own dad did it. Pause on the landing, trying to remember what he is after. Common.

But not knowing whether you were halfway up or halfway down. That is different. That is way-bad different.

I was lost, Young Man.

And they came and found you. Zeke. And Largs the puke. They came and found you.

Where were you, Daniel?

So sorry, Da, so sorry. Will not happen again. I will not leave you again.

And I never did. Until I was told. I never did again. I could say that at least.

So they found you, on the landing, when you were lost.

Just shut up, for crying out loud, Darius. Just keep your mouth shut.

How did they know you were lost?

Because I said so. I said I am lost. And I said, Daniel? I said, Daniel…

I could have cried, I could have. He would have punched me dead in the face, which would have helped.

I am sorry, Da.

You didn’t come.

I am sorry. I am sorry.

So they came.

How did they hear you? How did they know to come?

You mean when you didn’t come?

Yes. Da. I mean that. Yes.

People can hear, Daniel. Don’t be silly. People can hear, easy. Except you, I suppose.

God. I am sorry, Da. I swear, I will never not hear you again. Never.

I love the prerain weather. It is my favorite weather of all. If it were just always on the verge of raining, and then never actually raining, I would be the most contented guy. The roll-in of the clouds is to me an exciting event, that small breeze, the slightly wet smell of the air. I just love it.

My father does not agree.

“Let’s just forget it,” he says, all tense as the signs start pointing that way.

We probably won’t forget it. Because we have an agenda. This summer, we all seem to have an agenda that nobody talks about. It has something to do with me leaving for college. It has unmistakably got something to do with my grandfather as well. There is a last time feeling to almost everything we do now, whether that is true or not.

So Dad has made more family outing plans this summer than all of the previous ten summers combined. Today’s big plan is to go to the antique auto rally, outdoors up at the Governor’s Mansion. The governor doesn’t live there, but one did at one time, and based on the size of the place, and the grounds and the number of classic cars that were his when he was alive, the man governed more operations than were strictly legal, in my view.

But that does not matter. What matters right now is that it looks like rain.

“Why would we want to forget it?” Mom says, standing in the living room doorway with one of the three picnic baskets she has been working on for the last forty-eight hours. She does gold-medal picnic, my mom.

Dad, on the couch, leans straight backward to look through the lacy curtains. “Because, look,” Dad says without even gesturing. He could be asking her to confirm that he has swollen glands. She knows him better.

“Come on, Scott, we are not snowmen, we won’t melt. We can survive the afternoon even if there is a little bit of rain. It’ll be a great day.”

“It won’t be a great day,” Lucy says, swishing into the room with another full basket, plunking down beside Dad, “but it will be pretty all right.”

“Sure, Dad,” I say.

Da is not down the hall yet from his marathon morning grooming, but he would more than agree. He is showering, shaving, sprucing, doing the still thickish regions of his hair up with his beloved “hair tonic,” and whistling his trademark happy tune. For whatever reason, the theme song from The Deer Hunter has always meant high spirits for him.

“Hear that?” Mom says, pointing in Da’s perfumed direction.

“I hear it,” Dad says with resignation.

Dad doesn’t love the cars thing, and to the untrained eye it is not even all that obvious that he loves his father (my guess is he does), but one thing is beyond dispute, his father loves, loves, loves the car thing.