'You told me you were going to visit your dad . . . but something about the way you said it . . . I just wanted to be sure you were okay . . .'
I look over at Harry, then back to Nora. Her head's down and she's kicking at a few pebbles in the dirt. She's still hesitating. Afraid to open herself up. Every other time, that's when she's been burned. And with everything going on . . . the way we're tied together . . . she's risking it all just by being here. But she still came.
Even as I move toward her, I know Trey would tell me to walk away. He's wrong. There're some things you have to fight for--even if it means losing it all. No matter what anyone says, there's no easy anything.
Slowly, I lift her chin. 'I'm glad you're here.'
She can't help but smile. 'So you're really going to see your dad?'
I nod.
'Can I meet him?'
'I-I'm not sure that's such a good idea.'
She pauses at my reaction. 'Why not?'
'Because . . . Why would you want to meet him anyway?'
'He's your dad, isn't he?'
She says it so quick, like there's no other answer. But that doesn't mean she's getting in.
'If you don't want me to, I'd understand.'
I'm sure she would--she wrote the book, the prequel, and the sequel on this stuff. And maybe that's part of the problem. Once again, we're back to fear. And loyalty. I can't ask for it if I don't give it. 'So you don't care that he's--'
'He's your father,' she says. 'You don't have to hide him.'
'I'm not hiding him.'
'I want to meet him, Michael.'
It's a hard one to refuse. 'Okay, but only if you--'
'Harry, I'm riding with Michael,' she calls out. Before I can say a word, she dashes for my car and hops inside.
'Sorry about your bumper,' Harry says to me as he heads back to his Suburban. 'I have a budget to pay for that if you want.'
I'm talking to Harry, but still staring at Nora. 'I guess . . . whatever . . . yeah.'
As he opens his door, I ask, 'You don't still have to watch her, do you?'
'I won't come in, Michael, but I do have to follow.'
'That's fine as long as you know one thing. When it comes to my dad, you should steer a little clear. He doesn't like cops.'
* * *
Pulling off at the Ashland exit, it doesn't take long for us to hit horse country. One minute we're tracing the double-yellow lines of Route One; a left turn later we're riding up and down the peaks and valleys of Virginia's most picturesque rolling roads. Traffic lights become green trees and yellow stalks. Parking lots become lush open fields. The sky's still cloudy, but the sweet smell of the outdoors . . . it's suddenly the sunniest of days.
'Not to be an ingrate, but where the hell is this place?' Nora asks.
I don't answer. I want her to see for herself.
Up ahead, the grounds of the facility are located next to a family-owned farm. It wasn't the farmer's first choice for neighbors, but the possibilities for cheap labor quickly changed his mind. When we pass the farm and its corn-stalk-covered fields, I make a sharp left through the gate in an unmarked log fence. The car bounces along a dirt road that weaves its way to the front entrance.
As we pull to a stop, I half expect Nora to race out of the car. Instead, she stays where she is. 'You ready?' I ask.
She nods.
Somewhat satisfied, I get out of the car and slam the door. For perhaps the first time in her life, Nora follows.
The facility is a one-story 1950s ranch house with a propped-open screen door. So much for security. Inside, it's a normal house, except for the walls, where fire escape routes and state licenses are posted right as you walk in. In the kitchen, a heavy, nappy-haired man is leaning forward on the counter, newspaper stretched out in front of him. 'Michael, Michael, Michael,' he sings in his deep Cajun accent.
'The world-famous Marlon.'
'Momma only made but one.' He takes a quick look at Nora, then does an immediate double-take. He's too smart for the baseball cap. Here we go.
'Mmmm-mmm--lookit dat. What you doing this far south?'
'Same thing that Creole accent's doing this far north,' she shoots back with a grin.
Marlon lets out a thundering laugh. 'Good for you, sister. 'Bout time someone didn't say it was Cajun.'
I clear my throat, begging for attention. 'Um . . . about my father . . .'
'Been asking about you all morning,' Marlon says. 'And just so you know, I been lookin' out since you called, but there's nothing to worry about. Whole place hasn't had a visitor since Thursday.'
'Who came on Thur--'
'Let it go,' Nora says, leaning in over my shoulder. 'Just for a few hours.'
She's right. Today's supposed to be for family.
'He's waiting for you,' Marlon adds. 'In his room.'
Nora takes the first step. 'All set?' she asks.
My fists are clenched and I'm frozen. I shouldn't have let her come.
'It's okay,' she says. Prying my fingers open, she takes me by the hand.
'You don't know him. He isn't . . .'
'Stop worrying about it,' she adds as she lifts my chin. 'I'm going to love him. Really.'
Warmed by the confidence in her voice, I hesitantly head for the door.
Chapter 17
Knock, knock,' I announce as I enter the small room. There's a bed on my left and a single dresser on my right. My dad's sitting at a desk along the far wall. 'Anyone here?'
'Mikey!' my dad shouts with a smile that's all teeth. Jumping out of his seat, he knocks a can of Magic Markers from his desk. It doesn't even register. All he sees is me.
He grabs me in a tight bear hug and tries to lift me off the ground.
'Careful, Dad. I'm heavier now.'
'Never too heavy for . . . this!' He picks me up and spins around, planting me in the center of the room. 'You are heavy,' he says with a slight nasal slur. 'Tired-looking too.'
With his back to the door, he doesn't see Nora standing on the threshold. I bend over and start picking up the markers from the floor. Noticing the newspaper on his desk, I ask, 'What're you working on?'
'Crossword puzzle.'
'Really? Let me see.' He picks up the paper and hands it to me. My dad's version of a finished crossword puzzle--he's colored every blank square a different color.
'What d'you think?'
'Great,' I tell him, trying to sound enthusiastic. 'Your best one yet.'
'For real?' he asks, unleashing his smile. It's a bright white grin that lights up the room. With all five fingers extended, he hooks the space between his thumb and pointer finger behind his ear, then folds the top of his ear down and lets it flap up again. When I was little, it reminded me of a cat giving itself a bath. I loved it.
'Will you put in letters?' he asks.
'Not now, Dad,' I interrupt. Patting him on the back, I tuck in the tag of his shirt. Over his shoulder, I read the look on Nora's face. She's finally starting to get the picture. Now she knows where my childhood ends. 'Dad, there's someone I want you to meet.' Pointing to the door, I add, 'This is my friend Nora.'
He turns around and they check each other out. At fifty-seven years old, he's got the permanent smile of a
