When they’d returned to the house after dinner, he hadn't asked Jack what he wanted; he'd simply poured a couple of fingers on the rocks and handed him one. Jack didn't know how many glasses they’d had since the first.
Jack closed his eyes and absorbed the feel of the house. He’d grown up here. He knew every crack in the walls, every squeaky step, every hiding place. This living room had been so big then; now it seemed tiny. He could still remember that man in the next room carrying him around the house on his shoulders when he was five. And when he was older they’d played catch out in the backyard. Jack had been the youngest of the three kids. There’d been something special between his father and him. They used to go everywhere together on weekends, and whenever he had the chance, Dad would float a little propaganda toward him. Not lectures really, but a pitch on getting into a profession when he grew up. He worked on all the kids that way, telling them how much better it was to be your own boss rather than be like him and have to work for somebody else. They’d been close then. Not any more. Now they were like acquaintances...near-friends...almost-relatives.
His father handed him the glass of fresh ice and sour mash, then returned to his seat.
'Why don't you move down here?'
'Dad—'
'Hear me out. I'm doing better than I ever dreamed. I could take you in with me and show you how it's done. You could take some business courses and learn the ropes. And while you're going to school I could manage a portfolio for you to pay your expenses. 'Earn while you learn,' as the saying goes.'
Jack was silent. His body felt leaden, his mind sluggish. Too much Jack Daniel's? Or the weight of all those years of lying? He knew Dad's bottom line: He wanted his youngest to finish college and establish himself in some sort of respectable field. Jack's brother was a judge in Philly, his sister a pediatrician in Trenton. What was Jack? In his father's eyes he was a college drop-out with no drive, no goals, no ambition, no wife, no children; someone who was going to drift through life putting very little in and getting very little out, leaving no trace or evidence that he’d even passed through.
In short: a failure.
That hurt. Like most sons, he wanted his father to be proud of him. Dad's disappointment was like a festering sore that tainted their already attenuated relationship, making Jack want to avoid a man he’d always loved and respected.
He was tempted to lay it out for him—put all the lies aside and tell him what his son really did for a living.
Alarmed at the trend of his thoughts, Jack straightened in his chair and got a grip on himself. That was the Jack Daniel's talking. Leveling with his father would accomplish nothing. First off, he wouldn't believe it; and if he did, he wouldn't understand; and if he believed and understood, he'd be horrified...just like Gia.
'You like what you're doing, don't you, Dad?' he said finally.
'Yes. Very much. And you would, too, if—'
'I don't think so.'
After all, what was his father making besides money? He was buying and selling, but he wasn't producing anything. Jack didn't mention this—it would only start an argument. The guy was happy, and the only thing that kept him from being completely at peace with himself was his youngest son. If Jack could have helped him there he would have. But he couldn't.
'I like what
Dad said nothing.
The phone rang. He went into the kitchen to answer it. A moment later he came out again.
'It's for you. A woman. She sounds upset.'
The lethargy that had been slipping over Jack suddenly dropped away. Only Gia had this number. He pushed himself out of the chair and hurried to the phone.
'Nellie's gone, Jack!'
'Where?”
'Gone! Disappeared! Just like Grace! Remember Grace? She was the one you were supposed to find instead of going to diplomatic receptions with your Indian lady friend.'
'Calm down will you? Did you call the cops?'
'They're on their way.'
'I'll see you after they leave.'
'Don't bother. I just wanted you to know what a good job you've done!'
She hung up.
'Something the matter?' his father asked.
'Yeah. A friend's been hurt.' Another lie. But what was one more added to the mountain he’d told over the years? 'Gotta get back to the city.' They shook hands. 'Thanks. It's been great. Let's do it again soon.'
He had his racquet and was out to his car before Dad could warn him about driving after all those drinks. He was fully alert now. Gia's call had evaporated all effects of the alcohol.
Jack was in a foul mood as he drove up the turnpike. He'd really blown this one. It hadn't even occurred to him that if one sister disappeared, the other might do the same. He wanted to push the car to eighty but didn't dare.
At least the traffic was light. No trucks. The night was clear. The near-full moon hanging over the road was flat on one edge, like a grapefruit someone had dropped and left on the floor too long.
As he passed Exit 6 and approached the spot where his mother had been killed, his thoughts began to flow backward in time. He rarely permitted that. He preferred to keep them focused on the present and the future; the
