They're Calling You Home

Chapter Five

Chapter Five Two days pass, and all I do is buy beer and wine and listen to classic rock stations. Tomorrow, I’m due back at the group home, but for now I crank up the stereo and smoke. The truth is I’m stuck. There were lots of nights like this one when I was working on Leaving Smallwood, nights when Kate was out late after her nursing classes. all I could do was sit numbly and think of all the stupid clues I’d missed, like how he kept that damn closet locked all the time in his study, or how he seemed to be able to lie about almost anything, even if it was of little consequence. Then, instead of writing, I’d be on the Internet, googling voyeurism and measuring him against the stated traits. he was a good dad, too, though, fun sometimes, taking Ike and me to King’s Island to ride the Beast, surprising us one night with walkie-talkies or our own Walkmans. Back before the book came out, Mom and Ike and Kate were mostly still in shock, and they thought I was simply working on a novel, which I was supposed to be doing, but then night after night, I’d get home from a management job at hookum’s home Store and sit down at the computer and write as if my fingers were on fire, then just blank out, start getting drunk and listening to music. Kate thought I was clinically depressed, overwrought with anger and embarrassment at my father’s crimes, but I could never agree with her. It was more like I was empty altogether, not a trace of anything; it was as if he’d also stolen my shame. I finally went to see him in prison in Pendleton, but even then all I could do was examine the lines on his face, the way he still kept his appearance neat and groomed. after I’d visit with him, it was as if his talking on and on behind the bulletproof glass put an electrical surge on my writing, and Kate would comment when I got home, “I’m glad to see you’re happier, but how is that?” I couldn’t tell her I was experiencing the high of a writer who’s tapped into the theme of his work; it would’ve sounded awful, They’re Calling You Home 35 so I lied right to her face and just told her it was because I’d faced my fears by seeing him, which I could tell she knew was bullshit. Pascal wants a walk, his long tongue dripping saliva onto the floor next to the front door. I click on his leash and rub his ears, talk to him. I call him “lacsap.” he barks once. It’s his name spelled backwards, and I only say it to him before a walk or a treat. he loves it. outside, the sun is bright and hot, the trees filled with chattering starlings. as we walk, I picture the riley boy’s empty bed and wonder where his body is. Why did they only take him? I realize I’m already convincing myself that one man couldn’t have done the crimes alone, which is not the point of the book I’m to be writing. after all, there’s been a trial, reams of irrefutable Dna evidence, a confession, even an elderly social worker who had known rodney Finch since he was a child and who testified that he’d told her all about the murders. Still, why wouldn’t he also tell where the riley boy’s body was? he’d blabbed about everything, but not that, the most talked-about part of the murders. I realize my hand is tense on the leash as Pascal trots along, sniffing and hiking , peeing little markers of his love for unknown mates. he’s a good boy, and I findmyselfactuallysayingaprayerofthanksforhavinghim.Butgoingforwalks has always made me anxious. It’s taken me years to accept I’m not deviant, too, thatmygenesdon’thavesomehidden,lasciviousdefect,anaspcoiledarounda chromosome, a stranglehold on my normalcy. Back in Smallwood, even before we all had to accept what Dad was, I had already been cautious about walking or running in the neighborhood, careful not to ever—even casually—glance at a house window. I’d stare straight ahead when we took walks, and sometimes Kate would laugh andsay, “Jeez,loosen up,pal. We’re...