the exposed tar glistened like blood. A kiltered mailbox had its flag raised and the name COLE stencilled in black. There was a big window that overlooked the front yard, and on the far side of some cinched curtains a television flickered cerulean blue. I twirled my keys in my hand and ducked under a low branch that meandered like a drunken fist. In the distance the wind hushed among tree leaves and a car whirred along a country road. I climbed two steps to the front door and onto a welcome mat that showed a pug-faced dog in slippers, and then I rang the buzzer and thought about the things I would say to my dad.
The doorbell gonged like a grandfather clock and I heard somebody ease from a creaky chair. What was probably a cat thumped down from a high perch. It felt vaguely like the time I met Darby’s father. The door in front of me had glasswork at nose level. Inside, a figure shambled forward.
The woman who opened the door looked Gramps’ age, had spotty skin tight over her cheeks and wrinkles that curled upward as though she’d spent much of her life smiling. Her hair was tucked inside a net and she wore a nondescript grey dress, an overabundance of rings.
Can I help you?
I looked at the address in my hand and then again at the old woman.
I’m looking for Jack West.
I’m sorry, she said, sounding very uncertain. Jack doesn’t live here.
Do you know where I could find him?
I’m afraid not, the old lady said. She fiddled with a ring on her thumb, twirled it round and round the knuckle. Why?
My name’s Alan West. He’s my dad.
Jesus, she said, and shuffled aside as though to let me through. In that case you should come in. My husband, Archer, is out back. I’m Nora.
I met a man named Archer, years ago. Do you know my grandfather?
We’re old friends, she said.
The house smelled of cooking and though only two incandescent desk lamps glowed, I could see photographs lining the nearby walls. Portraits mostly, people I would never know, some in petticoats and others strung up on monkey bars and not even children. A hallway stretched through the house to what I presumed was the rear porch, where it terminated in a blaze of light. Just through there, Nora said, and placed one skinny hand on my bicep.
In the hallway, too, hung picture frames, great two-by-four charcoal drawings encased in glass, all landscapes. I recognized a couple of mountain peaks, a barrelwood cabin near a riverbed I knew instantly as Gramps’ getaway near Dunbar. A picture toward the end of the hall—the only drawing with people in it—showed a man and a boy, each with a rifle upended in the ground, both garbed like outdoorsmen. The sketches were imperfect, but I could identify Gramps by the hunch in his shoulders and the lean that favoured his right leg. The boy had to be my dad, no more than seventeen, curly haired and with the sideways smile of a man who thinks he has the world by the nutsack. The picture of my mother, on that upturned deadwood, home amid my things, would have matched in every regard save the absent dog.
That rotten grandfather of yours put himself in the grave yet? someone barked from the porch. I pushed through a stormdoor into the light and blinked spots from my vision. Archer sat in a wheelchair, bald and meatless and with a glass of what looked like orange juice at hand. I recognized the slope of his cheeks but his moustache was gone, in its place a mottled lip red from years gone unshaved.
One foot, at least, I said, and Archer hazarded a smile.
I got a call, you know. I’m still his emergency contact. I’d have gone, he said, and turned one shaking, deathly hand outward. But, well.
I’ll let him know.
Archer reached for the juice, gripped it with his thumb and his middle finger, swirled it like whiskey. Heard you ask my warden for your old man, he said. Your grandad wants to see his boy, I’m guessing?
Something like that.
Sent you to do the dirty work.
He’s lazy.
Yeah he is, Archer said, and
The doorbell gonged like a grandfather clock and I heard somebody ease from a creaky chair. What was probably a cat thumped down from a high perch. It felt vaguely like the time I met Darby’s father. The door in front of me had glasswork at nose level. Inside, a figure shambled forward.
The woman who opened the door looked Gramps’ age, had spotty skin tight over her cheeks and wrinkles that curled upward as though she’d spent much of her life smiling. Her hair was tucked inside a net and she wore a nondescript grey dress, an overabundance of rings.
Can I help you?
I looked at the address in my hand and then again at the old woman.
I’m looking for Jack West.
I’m sorry, she said, sounding very uncertain. Jack doesn’t live here.
Do you know where I could find him?
I’m afraid not, the old lady said. She fiddled with a ring on her thumb, twirled it round and round the knuckle. Why?
My name’s Alan West. He’s my dad.
Jesus, she said, and shuffled aside as though to let me through. In that case you should come in. My husband, Archer, is out back. I’m Nora.
I met a man named Archer, years ago. Do you know my grandfather?
We’re old friends, she said.
The house smelled of cooking and though only two incandescent desk lamps glowed, I could see photographs lining the nearby walls. Portraits mostly, people I would never know, some in petticoats and others strung up on monkey bars and not even children. A hallway stretched through the house to what I presumed was the rear porch, where it terminated in a blaze of light. Just through there, Nora said, and placed one skinny hand on my bicep.
In the hallway, too, hung picture frames, great two-by-four charcoal drawings encased in glass, all landscapes. I recognized a couple of mountain peaks, a barrelwood cabin near a riverbed I knew instantly as Gramps’ getaway near Dunbar. A picture toward the end of the hall—the only drawing with people in it—showed a man and a boy, each with a rifle upended in the ground, both garbed like outdoorsmen. The sketches were imperfect, but I could identify Gramps by the hunch in his shoulders and the lean that favoured his right leg. The boy had to be my dad, no more than seventeen, curly haired and with the sideways smile of a man who thinks he has the world by the nutsack. The picture of my mother, on that upturned deadwood, home amid my things, would have matched in every regard save the absent dog.
That rotten grandfather of yours put himself in the grave yet? someone barked from the porch. I pushed through a stormdoor into the light and blinked spots from my vision. Archer sat in a wheelchair, bald and meatless and with a glass of what looked like orange juice at hand. I recognized the slope of his cheeks but his moustache was gone, in its place a mottled lip red from years gone unshaved.
One foot, at least, I said, and Archer hazarded a smile.
I got a call, you know. I’m still his emergency contact. I’d have gone, he said, and turned one shaking, deathly hand outward. But, well.
I’ll let him know.
Archer reached for the juice, gripped it with his thumb and his middle finger, swirled it like whiskey. Heard you ask my warden for your old man, he said. Your grandad wants to see his boy, I’m guessing?
Something like that.
Sent you to do the dirty work.
He’s lazy.
Yeah he is, Archer said, and
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