They're Calling You Home

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven Ithink of my dad, the last time I saw him. he was behind a wall of bulletproof glass, sitting in the lone chair, pressing the phone against his ear. We’d visited like this for months, and he was always glad to see me. his hair had turned almost completely white, and he’d put on some pounds, but other than that he looked more alert than I could remember. I think of how he asked for forgiveness and how I stupidly wouldn’t give it. as Pascal and I drive to work, I can see my father’s eyes full of tears as I hung up the receiver and theatrically left him there alone with his apology, believing there’d be another time to accept it. The hidden crickets all along the ripe, black ditches sing as I drive the truck down the washboard road, the chassis jostling, Pascal’s big frame under his yellow hide jiggling, too, as he sprawls out on the seat, head in my lap. The bouncingmovementservestowrestmythoughtsfree .Thisdrivetoworkinthenight, close enough to the swamp to feel its murky pull, smell the decay, and hear the faint hoot of owls and the splash of leggy things, is a little vacation each day. getting out of the truck, Pascal beating me to the door, I can see Ike reprimanding me through clenched teeth, “you wrote that piece of filth like you were the only one.” he poked me hard in the chest and repeated, “The only damn one.” The group home is quiet, dark. The computer monitor on the staff desk swirls with a stupid geometric screen saver. I can smell baked beans and some sort of barbecue in the air, onions laced in, too. I put my book bag down gently on the desk and walk soft-footed to the kitchen, where a light over the oven casts a homey aura of yellow on the black burners below. The counters are scrubbed, and the dishwasher hums and clicks, the sound of muffled water spraying. Browder is in bed, and I’m sad not to have him to talk to. 48 D o u g C r a n D e l l It’s10:10p.m.asItrytogetupthecouragetocallmydaughter.Itiptoeback to the living room and sit down at the desk, push the hulking book bag out of the way. It’s late to be calling, but I know from Kate that our daughter stays up too late, and she gets it honestly; both of us are night owls. Back in Smallwood, Kate would purposely sign up for the night shift at ThriveStar hospital. The phone rings twice, then Kate answers. I can’t talk for a moment, my cell phone damp against my ear. I clear my throat. “gabe,” she says, “you know almost all phones have caller ID now. how are you?” “Kate,” I stammer, “I didn’t mean to get you. I mean, I was trying to talk with Wendy.” My ex-wife laughs. “Wow, you should be a writer, you’re so good with words.” Something about her voice sounds liquid, and I imagine Cal has just mixed her a smooth Scotch, ice cubes clear and solid, fake-looking, as if they’re made from polyurethane. “I didn’t mean it that way, Kate.” I can’t think of how to move forward as the dishwasher kicks into a lower, more ominous-sounding cycle, groaning and swatting. “Well, your daughter isn’t here, gabe. I know Cal told you she’s seeing a boy who’s a senior. They were out this evening looking at dresses for the prom.” “Why isn’t she shopping for dresses with you?” I soften my approach, knowing I have no right here. “I mean, girls do that with their mothers, not their boyfriends, right?” I think for sure now I can hear her swirling ice in a glass, her hair over her shoulder, blue eyes inspecting the silver cubes of cold. “Well, this may come as a surprise to you, gabe, but things have changed since 1984. They don’t wear fuzzy class rings anymore, or parachute pants, not to mention mullets.” She laughs in a kind way and adds, “I’m just kidding.” one of the men in the group home, probably Fred, an elderly man with Down syndrome, is up and peeing with the door open; his fizzing stream of urine almost drowns out the dishwasher. “Is there anything else, gabe? I’ll tell her you...