Dysen lifted the bottle to his lips again, just a sip this time. He didn’t want to be drunk when he dealt with asshole Nate-but he sure as hell didn’t want to be cold sober, either… God, it felt good. Not going down; it never stopped burning going down, but when it hit bottom and spread out like warm fingers, it was as good as coming. Get to come in your pants a dozen times or more for the price of a pint. Can’t beat that.
When he looked, Dyce was trying to steer the car from the dashboard again. Dysen relented. It couldn’t be easy, having no mother, and he had to admit that sometimes he was a little tough on the kid himself. It was good he’d only tapped him on the shoulder, Nate got on his high horse if he found bruises on the boy. Especially on the face-that drove him crazy. As if any normal eight-year-old boy wouldn’t have bruises. He had gotten banged up worse than his son ever had, just running around, getting into fights on the playground, whatever. Still, he couldn’t afford to alienate old Nate any more than normal, not as long as the old bastard still had control of his checkbook.
Dysen rumpled Dyce’s hair. “Old Rodger, old Rodger-Dodger, old Rodger-Codger-Lodger-Dodger.”
The boy tipped his head away from his father’s hand, waited a tactful moment, then smoothed his hair.
The little son of a bitch hates me, Dysen thought, furiously. He wanted to smack him across the face, he wanted to pull the car to the side, get out, and kick his ass properly. He clung to the steering wheel until his fingers hurt, steadying himself before he took another drink, which he deserved as a reward for self-control. The warmth of the whiskey brought with it a wave of sentiment and suddenly Dysen was close to tears. My son hates me, he thought. I love the little shit and he hates me. I took care of him all his life, and he can’t stand to have me touch him. But he loves his goddamned grandfather. That old fart could paw the boy all he wanted, pet him like he was a fucking dog, stroke him until it looked unhealthy to Dysen. The little shit never pulled away from that. Stroking and cuddling and kissing like two women. It didn’t look right for men to carry on like that. And whispering to him about Jesus. Christ, that old fart and his Jesus.
“Never trust a religious man,” he said aloud.
Dyce was silent. The car had to negotiate a series of blind curves, weaving its way through the last of woodland and then they would see the sign that said, “Minnot. Town Limits.” Then through the town with its white, three-story houses and green lawns, through the three stoplights, and out into the country again, but this time startlingly different as the land flattened out and a shallow basin of green corn and yellow wheat replaced the forested hills. Dyce urged the car forward, through the dangerous turns, through the town, and to his grandfather’s huge stone house-and safety.
“Especially if he gives up his religion and finds God,” Dysen said.
“Grandfather has a personal relationship with Christ,” said the boy.
“Which is pretty interesting, considering ‘grandfather ‘ is a Jew.”
“Jesus was a Jew.” said Dyce.
Dysen clenched his jaw. “You don’t have to believe all the shit the old man tells you. You could try some common sense for a change. “
“And I’m a Jew and a friend of Jesus, too.”
“Goddamn it, stop that shit!” Dyce recoiled to avoid the blow, but Dysen merely turned down the windshield visor in front of the boy to reveal the mirror.
“Look at yourself. You‘re a Dysen, you look like me. That means you‘re a Norwegian; you go back to the goddamned Vikings. You’re not a Jew, that’s ridiculous.“
“My mother was a Jew.”
“Your mother is dead. Look at your face, look at yourself. Look!” Dysen squeezed his son’s head in steely fingers and made him stare at his reflection in the mirror.
“See what you see? Those care Dysen bones, that’s a Dysen nose and ears and eyes and mouth. Look at your chin, boy. Look at my chin. Jewish, my ass. You’re a Norwegian, and proud of it, or you better be, or I‘II kick some pride into you.”
When Dysen released his grip they were through the curves and into the town. Dysen was still muttering.
“Jew, my ass. The old bastard is just trying to steal my own son away from me.”
Yes, please, thought Dyce. Please, please, grandfather.
“It’ll take more than a goddamned check every blue moon to get my own flesh and blood off of me. He can’t buy you, Rodger-Dodger, he can’t buy my boy.”
Dysen was close to tears again, swept up with love for his son-until the boy tipped his head, eluding another affectionate ruffle of the hair.
Dysen took one last sip at the final stoplight in town, and to hell with anyone who happened to be watching.
The cultivated basin beyond the town came upon Dyce with all the welcome warmth of an embrace. He could smell his grandfather in the scent of overturned earth, he could see his beard moving with the wheat, sprouting from the ears of corn. When they reached the turnoff for the long drive through fields to his grandfather’s house, Dyce was holding his breath. His heart still raced from the mention of his going to live with grandfather. It was the first time he had heard anyone else mention the possibility. Until now he had thought it was a secret wish held only in his own heart.
Buy me, grandfather, he yearned. Buy me away from him. Let me come to live with you. I’ll pay you back no matter how long it takes or what I have to do for the money.
The house had been built over one hundred fifty years earlier to shelter the owners of the farm against the harshness of the Connecticut winter, and it was built to last from stone wrenched by the plow from the New England soil. The original builders had been clever in the use of stone-they had had to be because the land was covered with them like leaves from a tree after a storm. Stones made the fences separating fields, and stones made the wells, and stones made the houses, rough, uncut stones that still had the shape with which they had been yanked from the soil. The house was stone piled on stone three stories high and laid across by beams cut from the timbers of Connecticut’s forest. There were two chimneys on Nate Cohen’s house, one on either exterior end of the huge building and, like the walls, they too were constructed of stone. It was not a house that wind or storm or fire would defeat.
Much of the original farm was gone, split into parcels and swallowed by the more successful neighbors, but the house and the barn and the outbuildings remained, still intact and maintained scrupulously, just as Nate Cohen maintained all that over which the Lord had given him dominion. Because he was a good husband to the Lord and that which was His, and because he despised all that which was slothful and decayed and fallen to ruin-including his son-in-law.
He waited for them now on the porch of the old farmhouse, having spied them when they turned onto the access road and watching their progress since by the thin trail of dust that followed above and behind their car as it drove through the fields.
The old man was the first thing Dyce saw, before the house, before the barn. Standing on the porch impatiently, his hands on his hips, waiting for his grandson.
He was also the first thing Dysen saw and he muttered under his breath, “king of the assholes, “but Dyce didn’t care now. He was safe now and protected, at least for the length of their stay.
Dyce ran from the car while his father was still slipping the bottle under the seat and chewing on a clove to hide the scent of alcohol. He ran to his grandfather, who came down the porch steps, arms extended. The boy leapt into his arms and was lifted off the earth and pressed against the old man’s neck and beard. Dyce could smell skin and hair and sweat and he thought his heart would burst.
Chapter 13
Lying in Cindi’s arms, Becker heard the low whine of car tires on pavement as the cruiser prowled by. The night was very quiet, otherwise, with the kind of hushed awareness with which nature anticipated a coming storm. The lights of the car ran quickly across the wall, then onto the ceiling before vanishing.
Cindi stirred and rolled away from him, which told him she was ready for sleep in earnest. She liked to make a show of drowsing off while clinging to Becker as if he were some enormous Teddy bear, but finally she
