But, my father said, the truth is, Tad did think it was her fault.
John nodded grimly. And now she thinks it’s her fault. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. It’s been five years, and you look at her now and it’s all you see. It’s in her forever, and nothing’s going to convince her otherwise. She’ll never eat cake or ride a horse or make out with a boy without that guilt sitting on her shoulder. She’ll for sure never go to sleep without thinking about how it’s her fault. Because that’s how it works, right? A kid can’t make an independent judgment about something that devastating, not the way an adult can. Not even a kid as smart as Bea. Kids are absolutists. With kids it’s all or nothing.
Not just kids, my father thought.
The off-duty cop had sauntered over and was leaning against a concrete pillar. You looking for an elderly male? he said.
Albert Caldwell? John said.
The cop had at his disposal a vast arsenal of expressions to convey exhaustion, from existential malaise right up to full physical collapse, and he invoked two distinct efforts then, first a burping sigh, followed by a pinching of eyelids with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, before saying, I can’t confirm. Elderly man, Caucasian.
Yeah, John said.
The cop had a thick brush of a mustache and wild eyebrows, furrows of black hair across the backs of his hands, a shadow of growth along his jawline. He wasn’t near retirement, but he’d been on the beat for a while. The gun and the nightstick weren’t the sources of his authority.
So maybe this is your guy, the cop said. Vehicular theft. Took off in a cab. His. He lifted his chin in the direction of a sleeping hack melted across an orange plastic chair.
I don’t think so, John said. Appreciate the help, but wrong elderly Caucasian. My father couldn’t drive fifteen feet in weather like this without putting the thing onto its roof.
The cop showed signs of life, the briefest inflection of a smile. Definitely the right guy, he said.
What? John said.
He took out a section of retaining wall as he was exiting the property, the cop said, smile widening.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, John said.
The cop was chuckling.
Jesus fucking Christ, John said, setting off more life signs in old whiskers.
You’re the son? the cop said.
Yeah. So where have they got him?
The cop, now fully awakened from his long winter’s slumber, said, Got him? They don’t got him anywhere. Stickshift McGraw there made a clean getaway!
He burst into laughter.
But someone’s gone after him, or what? John said.
He stole a cab in a blizzard. Where’s he gonna go? All the way down to the corner?
He’s just out there, then? Out in all that? He’s not a well man!
Really? Took out of here like he’d made a full recovery. What’s he got?
John looked at my father and said, Everything. Everything that could possibly be wrong with him, is. But I don’t even know what they brought him in for because Ratched over there won’t tell me shit.
Whatever it is, the cop said, didn’t dent the old fighting spirit, did it? He was laughing hard, hat in one hand, dabbing at his eyes with the knuckles of the other. Sweet mother Mary, he said when he regained his composure. So he’s a real wildcat, is he? My pop’s the same. Can’t take your eye off him for a second or he’s pffft, out the door, out the window, down the fire escape, whatever.
He could be halfway to Ohio by now, John said.
Nah, the cop said. Trust me. He’s not going anywhere. GW’s closed, Triborough’s closed, and you can’t even get north of 90th Street, anyway. The plows are all downtown. He made it three whole blocks, I promise. Go out and look for him. The only reason that guy’s not looking for him—he nodded toward the hack—is because he knows exactly the same thing I’m telling you. Tomorrow morning, his cab’s going to be right around the corner with the keys in the ignition, just waiting for him to dig it out.
So you think my father’s out there wandering around in a blizzard? John said.
You sit tight. He’ll aim for home. They always do.
You don’t know my father, John said.
All right, the cop said with a shrug, whatever you say. Gentlemen, have a good night, he said, and drifted back to his original post by reception.
My mother knew how to deal with him, up to a point, John said to my father.
She ever have to post bail?
Who does this sort of thing? This isn’t a mental condition—this is a circus act. It’s a circus act he’s been training his whole life to spring on us.
He’s not in his right mind, my father said.
As ever, John said. Why not just ask for a ride? Why not pay the nice man sitting in the front to drive you to your destination?
Because he’s not in his right mind, my father said. If you don’t mind my saying, whether or not he’s the same man at the core, the fact is, he’s not thinking straight. He’s not operating rationally.
You seem to have a problem accepting the fact that I’ve known my father a little longer than you have, John said. He’s a bully. He’s a bag of TNT. Scares the shit out of people just for fun. You’re sitting there in the den watching TV and the next thing you know, he’s screaming about Pigmeat Markham and how the country’s going to hell in a handbasket. I’ll tell you what it was. He was out for vengeance. My whole life he’s been out to avenge some wrong perpetrated on him by god knows
