Andrew Kaufman: The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller

And I resented even more that he could have put an end to my mother’s abuse, but didn’t. Instead, he chose to look the other way, always immersed in his political career, running here, running there to God-knows-where.

My real dad died when I was barely a year old, and I only knew three things about him. His name was Richard, he had a bad heart—which eventually killed him—and he worked in the textile business. As a kid, it took me a while to figure out what that actually meant. For the longest time I thought he remodeled bathrooms.

Oh, make that four things. He left my mother with the burden of raising me alone, as she reminded me constantly.

When I turned eighteen, I put as much distance between her and me as I could. Warren offered to foot the bill for college, and I ran with it, seeing it as my one-way ticket out of hell. I moved as far away as I could. Odd, though, how distance doesn’t always separate us from the bad memories and associations as much as we’d like. Even now that she was dead, her effects still lingered.

I opened the basement door and turned on the light—or tried. A naked yellow bulb dangling from the ceiling flickered a few times before going dark. I flipped the switch up and down, hoping to give it life, but with no luck: blown.

Found an old flashlight in the kitchen junk drawer, but true to form, she’d let the batteries die. It seemed as if nothing here was meant to survive.

The clock radio on the kitchen windowsill stole my attention, and I froze. Bad memories, everywhere. I couldn’t believe she still had the damned thing. I reached for it, pulled the batteries out, then slammed it into the sink. Felt a note of satisfaction hearing it crack.

Got the flashlight working and headed for the basement steps.

It looked as if nobody had been here in years. Old sewing equipment hugged one wall: an antiquated machine, three tailor’s dummies, and enough spools of thread to mend a small nation. Her sewing hobby never really got off the ground, despite all the supplies she’d picked up at garage sales. The floor was strewn with boxes covered in dust, cobwebs stretched between them, some labeled with marker, some not at all.

I pulled the lids up on a few but found nothing other than a whole lot of junk inside. Dozens of dusty, colored bottles in one; another was filled to the brim with packages of crackers, expiration date: October, 1983.

What on earth was she planning on doing with them?

Finding anything useful here was an exercise in futility. But then as I headed back toward the steps, the flashlight beam connected with an open box, and I could see an old book that looked vaguely familiar. I pulled it out. Gulliver’s Travels, one of my favorites. Curiosity got the best of me, so I examined the rest of the contents. More books from high school, a jumble of papers, and small objects that I couldn’t see clearly in the dim light. I tucked the box under my arm, then headed upstairs.

As I reached the top of the steps, Warren moved into the doorway. I jumped. He stood, staring at me.

“Scared the hell out of me,” I said, feeling my heart thump a few beats ahead.

“Find anything?” he asked, eyeing the box under my arm.

I felt an odd twinge of defensiveness. “Just some old books.”

He nodded slowly as if measuring my words. I broke eye contact by glancing down at the box I was holding, keeping my attention on it as I spoke. “Not much down there except a whole lot of clutter, really.”

“Quite a pack rat, your mother was. She never liked to throw anything away. It drove me crazy when we were kids. I think she got it from our mother. She was like that too, you know.”

Small talk. I offered a dim smile.

“You know,” he continued, staring off into the kitchen, his voice tempered with cautious diplomacy, “I was just thinking I could drive you to the airport if you’d like. Maybe get a bite to eat or something on the way.”

“Appreciate it,” I said, glancing at my watch, “but I don’t have much time. My flight leaves in an hour-and-a-half, and I’ve got a rental car to return.”

He mouthed—but did not say— oh, while nodding, as if suddenly getting the point. “No worries, then,” he said, a little too brightly. “I just thought maybe—”

“Some other time,” I answered back quickly, realizing I was squeezing the box tightly against my thigh. I caught myself eyeing the door, the one I wanted to walk out of for the last time, the one Warren was now blocking.

He stared at the floor and pursed his lips. I knew the move all too well—a mannerism he’d perfected throughout his political career, one he often used to give the impression he was thinking things over. “There’s this matter of the house,” he finally said. “I’m putting it up for sale. I’d like you to have the proceeds.”

I shook my head quickly. “That won’t be necessary, Warren, I—”

“No, really,” he interrupted, “I’d like for you to have the money.”

“No, really ,” I said, feeling my anger swell. “I really don’t want it. Give the money to charity. It’ll be the one good deed that ever came out of her.”

He looked at the floor again, pushed out a heavy sigh. “You know, Patrick…”

You know, Patrick always meant trouble coming.

“I realize you and your mother didn’t always see eye to eye.”

“Never,” I replied.

“What?”

“I said, never. We never did.”

“But she was my sister, and she’s dead now,” he said, his tone climbing the ladder of edginess, “and I’d appreciate it if you’d try and show some respect for her when you’re around me.”

“ Respect?” That was it. I’d had enough. Enough of Warren, enough of her and this house, enough of everything. All I wanted now, was out. “You see, here’s the thing, Warren: you have to give respect to get it, and she never gave one ounce of it. Not one.”

“But she was your mother.”

“Barely,” I said. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” I pushed past him and headed for the door.

“Patrick!” he shouted. “Don’t leave this way. I don’t want bad feelings.”

“You’re about thirty years too late for that, Warren.” As I jerked the door open, the box slipped from under my arm to the floor, and everything inside scattered. I got down on my hands and knees, started hastily shoving items back inside.

Warren hurried over. “Let me help you with that.”

“I don’t need your help!” I said. “I don’t need it at all! You’ve done enough!”

He knelt beside me anyway, and we both grabbed for Gulliver’s Travels at the same time. I gritted my teeth and yanked the book away with force, startling him. He held my gaze for a moment in total silence.

I scrambled to my feet, stood, rubbing my wrist.

“Are you hurt?” Warren asked.

“A scratch. It’s nothing.”

Warren stood up, “Let me take a look.”

“It’s fine.”

He reached for my hand. “Seriously, Patrick, let me—”

I pulled it away. “I said it’s fine. I’m not going to bleed to death. Okay?”

“But you could…you know you could.”

“It’s not that deep,” I said, turning toward the door, anxious to get out of this house and away from Warren.

“Patrick!” he shouted to me, “Wait a minute!”

“No , Warren.”

“But…”

“I said, no . It’s over.”

He started to say something else, but I didn’t hear it; I was already out the door. Walking away. Done.

Finally. Once and for all.

Inside the car, I immediately reached into my shirt pocket, then panicked. I’d left my pen and pad at the hotel.