Keep it under control, he reminded himself. These people are just fools—dumb as swamp critters. Save the vengeance for those who deserve it.
And that he did. By discretely grinding his teeth and clenching his fists, he kept control. He passed his GED. Shortly afterward, Stark told him it was time to go home.
NOW
MARTIN’S HEADLAMP CONTINUED to flicker. Something had been knocked loose in the fall.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted upward until his voice was sore. If he wanted to continue on his own, he could choose either of the wide tunnels that exited the chasm from opposite ends. But then he might never find his friends again. He decided instead to wait.
He took off the backpack and sat down. Somebody would come soon, he told himself. It was better to keep the group together. For now, at least. Then his headlamp flickered off for the last time.
THEN
BYRON WAS WAITING for Ethan in the lobby of the hospital when they released him. The reunion was awkward—Byron stood frozen, unsure of whether to hug his son or just shake his hand.
“Hi, Pop,” Ethan said, equally still and too far away to touch.
“How are you feeling?”
Ethan almost answered with a joke about his sanity, but he noticed the nurse at the front desk watching him and reconsidered. “Better.”
Byron nodded. He was wearing a gray suit and looked like he was contemplating something important. “Did you get the letters I sent you?”
“Yeah.”
“All of them?”
“I got a lot of letters.”
“Because I numbered them, just to make sure.”
“I think I got all of them.”
Then Byron crossed the room before he knew what he was doing and wrapped his arms tightly around his son. All the guilt for sending him away, for not calling when he wanted to, welled up into a single tear that he didn’t bother to wipe away. “I missed you so much.”
“I can’t move my arms.”
Byron let go and grabbed the suitcase Ethan had brought out with him. It was filled with clothes and books that his father had mailed to him over the months. He nodded toward the doors and said, “Come on.”
Neither of them spoke again until they were in the car. Byron turned over the ignition, and Ethan asked, “How’s Norma?” Byron hadn’t mentioned her in any of his recent letters, and Ethan was hoping for news of a debilitating illness or something equally tragic.
“She’s getting on all right. She’s taken up working at the frame shop on Barber Road to fill her days. Seems to make her happy. She smiles more, at any rate.”
“How’s she feel about me coming home?”
Byron took a deep breath—the car idling and the parking brake up—and said, “That’s the thing, son. Truth is she wasn’t happy about it all. She’s . . . well, she’s scared.”
She should be.
“There’s nothing I could do to talk her down, either. She said she can’t trust you anymore and that we were going to have to make—” Byron searched for the word. “—arrangements.”
“Arrangements? What’s that mean?”
“I made some calls, son. I got you set up with an apartment. I also got you a job as a teller at National Bank in Atlanta. The apartment’s already furnished and the job will give you some experience in the industry.”
“But why Atlanta? Why not somewhere closer?”
“I know the branch manager there. He used to work for me.”
“You know bankers all over the Southeast, what’s so special about this one?”
“Don’t argue with me,” Byron snapped. “I thought this might make you happy.”
“Why would this make me happy, Pop?”
“Because you’d be out on your own. I know you and Norma don’t get along, and I thought it might be better for you if you kept some distance from her.”
Ethan leaned his head against the passenger window. “Fine. I’ll go to Atlanta.”
He knew the only reason Byron would have found him a job so far away was that Norma had insisted on it. However, if she thought the distance would keep her safe, she was mistaken.
“Also, I want you to know that I’ve already paid for an apartment for the first six months. And there’s a checking account in your name at the bank with five hundred dollars in it. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but it should be enough to get you started.”
“How am I supposed to get to this marvelous apartment?”
“I’ll drive you.”
“Well, how am I supposed to get to and from work?”
“The apartment’s only a block away. You can walk.”
Ethan sighed. “Let’s go.” The surprise, as gentle as Byron had tried to make it, still stung of Norma’s cruelty. But he knew there was nothing he could do to change his father’s mind.
Byron pulled off the parking brake, backed out of the spot, and, without another word, they were on their way to Atlanta.
NOW
“GET BACK HERE!” Ethan demanded.
Cynthia had bitten down with enough force to draw blood, and the blood was now sticking to his jeans. His groin still ached.
Between the two wounds, every step forward was painful.
THEN
THE APARTMENT WAS small but sufficient. Ethan could tell Byron had worked hard to make it feel like home. The bedroom looked identical to the one he’d grown up in—the walls painted a forest green, the framed Monet prints and posters hung in all the same places, even the alarm clock was positioned just as it had been the last time Ethan remembered seeing it.
In the living room and dining room, Byron had placed furniture similar to that in his own house.
Ethan was overwhelmed by his father’s generosity. He knew Byron loved him, but not until now did he know how much.
“Thank you.”
“You like it, then?”
“As much as a pig likes mud.”
Byron chuckled at the colorful expression—one of many Ethan had unconsciously picked up from Norma. “I’m glad.” He looked at his watch. “Unfortunately, I can’t stay. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me, and I need to get home.”
“I understand.” Norma had him on a tight leash.
“I’ll call you soon.”
“And visit?”
“As soon as I can.”
Ethan
